Free Out of control by John Dysart Page A

but he was young enough. He’d get over it.
    Then I thought about that poor girl. Her death was a tragedy but I tended to agree with Inspector Ross that it must have been related to the drug issue, bearing in mind what we had learned about her past and the organised crime ring that was operating out of Romania into France. Still, that was the business of the police. There was no way I was going to get involved in that.
    By this time I was cruising up the A9 and it was approaching coffee- stop time. I decided to peel off the main road and take a small detour round through Dunkeld. I’d stop at the Birnam Hotel for my break for half an hour. That would get me to my destination around six as promised.
    I’d just pulled off the main road, my brain trying to handle two things at once – the decision to stop for a coffee and imagining that poor girl’s body and how she might have ended in the river. Then a flash thought suddenly intervened between the two subjects. I  remembered thinking that there had been something I had missed during our meeting with Inspector Ross – something that had been said and I hadn’t realised its significance.
    Then it hit me.
    I pulled to a halt outside the great granite building that was the Birnam Hotel and went in quickly to order my coffee, taking it over to an isolated seat by the window.
    I thought it through again. I replayed that meeting as well as I could remember it. The more I thought about it the more I was sure I was right.
    It wasn’t something I had heard. It was something that I’d seen.
    I grabbed my phone and called the police in Stirling, asking for Sergeant MacLean. As soon as he came on the line I asked him if he had access to the letter and the envelope that Ross had shown us.
    “I can get it. Hold on a minute.”
    He was back on the line shortly. “I’ve got it here. What do you want to know about it?”
    “It’s the envelope that interests me. It has a French stamp on it. Am I right that the postmark is legible?”
    “Yes. I‘m afraid I can’t make out the date but it was posted from a place called ‘Saumur’. Is that what you wanted to know? I’ve no idea where that is.”
    “That’s exactly what I wanted to know. Thanks very much indeed. Will you be holding onto it?”
    He confirmed that it would remain in the file. Irina’s other belongings had been recuperated by her parents but they hadn’t been interested in the letter.
    I thanked him again and hung up, distinctly concerned. I knew where Saumur was. It was the nearest town to the home of Antoine de Clermont – about three kilometers away.

Chapter 8
    Maggie received me with open arms – and they felt great.
    Our meeting and her part in helping me recover from my ordeal in the mountains during the AIM affair had developed into a warm and loving relationship – but still with a geographical separation. We seemed to have both accepted the comfort of each other’s company but neither of us had yet brought up the thorny topic of ‘Where do we go from here?’ Pierre was right. It would have to be faced some time.
    For me it had been three years since Liz had died, which was about the same length of time since Maggie’s husband had upped and left. I had finally got used to being on my own and adjusting. She had struggled on running the hotel because she needed the income.
    It was a pure accident that had brought us together and I think we were both still just thankful that it had happened.
    When I arrived I was glad to hear that the few guests in the hotel were mostly hikers – bed early and keen to start at the crack of dawn – so we were able to have a quiet supper together and catch up.
    Over our venison and dessert I gave her a brief report on what had happened to Liam but didn’t go into details – nor did I mention the death of the Romanian girl.
    Come coffee time we repaired to the lounge and relaxed into large comfortable armchairs.
    “So, it seems I’m going to have to put up with