kitchen to make tea, leaving me in the high-ceilinged front room of the old Victorian house to talk about the deceased.
'Three weeks,' she says. 'That's terrible. It's just down the road. I was going to be seeing her this Sunday. We were going to church, then back to her place for lunch. John's away sailing. They're bringing the boat in this week.'
'Your husband?'
She nods. John Johnstone? Seriously? Perhaps his first name is Quentin or Ffarquhar and he prefers an abbreviation of his surname.
'Oh God.'
She takes a deep breath. Struggling. Maybe the middle-class upper lip isn't going to be as stiff as I thought. I glance at the door and hope that Grant gets a shift on.
'I was supposed to go on Sunday and I cancelled.' Another shake of the head. Not a lot to say to that one. Just something that's going to live with her. Cancelling what turns out to be the last time you'd ever see your mum. She's not getting that one back.
Keep her talking.
'You spoke to her?'
'Yes, yes.' Well, at least she didn't cancel the church trip by text. That would have been a killer. 'I called on Saturday evening to tell her I couldn't make it. She sounded upset, but then... she quite often... she could be difficult. Demanding.'
'Did you speak to her again?'
'I called her on Sunday evening. We spoke for about an hour. Maybe more.'
'And how did she sound?'
She shakes her head, stares at the ceiling.
'Just the same, you know, the same as always. Banging on about the church. She was a broken record...'
The voice starts to go, just as Constable Grant returns with a pot of tea and some biscuits on a plate. Oh happy day. I wonder why I didn't put up more of a telepathic struggle with Taylor.
'Thank you, Constable,' she says, managing to collect herself. She moves the coffee table a fraction of an inch as Grant sets down the tray. She pours three cups of tea. The liquid filling the mugs is the only sound in the room. Double glazing, nothing getting in from outside.
'What was the problem with the church?' I ask.
'Oh, God,' she says, 'if I start on that we'll be here until the middle of next year.'
She reaches forward and takes the tea. Has a large drink straight away, as if it's brandy. I lift my mug. It's steaming hot. She must have asbestos lips.
'Can you give us a two-minute outline?' I ask.
'I can try, though it'll be like giving a two-minute outline of the history of the Middle East.'
I take a sip of tea. Burn my lips, my tongue and the top of my mouth. Glance at Constable Grant.
*
R eturned to the station and swapped Taylor for Grant. Now the two of us are on our way to see the minister. Driving, although it's not much further than the walk to the park where the body was discovered. Bob was playing when Taylor started up, but he must feel the need to talk as Another Self Portrait was quickly turned off.
Initial report from Balingol's lab threw up nothing new, no new marks on her body, no sign of a struggle. Mrs Johnstone told us enough to imply that her mother was prone to anger and depression and feeling sorry for herself. Not necessarily suicidal, but then she hadn't seen her for three weeks. So, at the moment, given the obvious lack of a struggle, suicide seems more of a favourite than murder.
No explanation for the wings. You could tell from the daughter that she just plain didn't believe it. It was such a bizarre thing that she sat there shaking her head and then moved the conversation on. Didn't know what to think about it, and so therefore didn't even try. Can't blame her.
We're on our way to the deceased's house, but have decided to stop off to see the minister beforehand. The Old Manse is up at the top of the town, about a mile away from where the body was found.
'You heard about the churches?' I asked.
'I know they amalgamated and no one was very happy,' he says. 'Read about it in the Reformer . What's the story? And remember, we'll be there in under a minute.'
'The Church of Scotland told the four churches they had
'Three weeks,' she says. 'That's terrible. It's just down the road. I was going to be seeing her this Sunday. We were going to church, then back to her place for lunch. John's away sailing. They're bringing the boat in this week.'
'Your husband?'
She nods. John Johnstone? Seriously? Perhaps his first name is Quentin or Ffarquhar and he prefers an abbreviation of his surname.
'Oh God.'
She takes a deep breath. Struggling. Maybe the middle-class upper lip isn't going to be as stiff as I thought. I glance at the door and hope that Grant gets a shift on.
'I was supposed to go on Sunday and I cancelled.' Another shake of the head. Not a lot to say to that one. Just something that's going to live with her. Cancelling what turns out to be the last time you'd ever see your mum. She's not getting that one back.
Keep her talking.
'You spoke to her?'
'Yes, yes.' Well, at least she didn't cancel the church trip by text. That would have been a killer. 'I called on Saturday evening to tell her I couldn't make it. She sounded upset, but then... she quite often... she could be difficult. Demanding.'
'Did you speak to her again?'
'I called her on Sunday evening. We spoke for about an hour. Maybe more.'
'And how did she sound?'
She shakes her head, stares at the ceiling.
'Just the same, you know, the same as always. Banging on about the church. She was a broken record...'
The voice starts to go, just as Constable Grant returns with a pot of tea and some biscuits on a plate. Oh happy day. I wonder why I didn't put up more of a telepathic struggle with Taylor.
'Thank you, Constable,' she says, managing to collect herself. She moves the coffee table a fraction of an inch as Grant sets down the tray. She pours three cups of tea. The liquid filling the mugs is the only sound in the room. Double glazing, nothing getting in from outside.
'What was the problem with the church?' I ask.
'Oh, God,' she says, 'if I start on that we'll be here until the middle of next year.'
She reaches forward and takes the tea. Has a large drink straight away, as if it's brandy. I lift my mug. It's steaming hot. She must have asbestos lips.
'Can you give us a two-minute outline?' I ask.
'I can try, though it'll be like giving a two-minute outline of the history of the Middle East.'
I take a sip of tea. Burn my lips, my tongue and the top of my mouth. Glance at Constable Grant.
*
R eturned to the station and swapped Taylor for Grant. Now the two of us are on our way to see the minister. Driving, although it's not much further than the walk to the park where the body was discovered. Bob was playing when Taylor started up, but he must feel the need to talk as Another Self Portrait was quickly turned off.
Initial report from Balingol's lab threw up nothing new, no new marks on her body, no sign of a struggle. Mrs Johnstone told us enough to imply that her mother was prone to anger and depression and feeling sorry for herself. Not necessarily suicidal, but then she hadn't seen her for three weeks. So, at the moment, given the obvious lack of a struggle, suicide seems more of a favourite than murder.
No explanation for the wings. You could tell from the daughter that she just plain didn't believe it. It was such a bizarre thing that she sat there shaking her head and then moved the conversation on. Didn't know what to think about it, and so therefore didn't even try. Can't blame her.
We're on our way to the deceased's house, but have decided to stop off to see the minister beforehand. The Old Manse is up at the top of the town, about a mile away from where the body was found.
'You heard about the churches?' I asked.
'I know they amalgamated and no one was very happy,' he says. 'Read about it in the Reformer . What's the story? And remember, we'll be there in under a minute.'
'The Church of Scotland told the four churches they had
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