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<title>Chapter 13</title>
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<h2>13</h2>
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<p>Edward Tomlin stunned his family to silence when he told them he
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was going to die.</p>
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<p>It happened on the Friday night, one day after Shona Campbell's
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baby had been torn from her arms by something which had leapt down
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at her from the shadows, and only six hours after the girl herself
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died from the terrible injuries. She never regained consciousness
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which was a blow to Jack Fallon who had posted a policewoman to sit
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by her bed in the hope she might, despite the devastating wound on
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her head, have been able to give them some answers.</p>
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<p>Tomlin was sitting at the head of the table in the kitchen in
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the semi-detached house in Eastmains, out on the far edge of town.
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When he sluggishly pushed his plate away from him, the sausage and
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egg was untouched.</p>
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<p>"Are you not hungry?" Margaret Tomlin asked him. Between them,
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their two girls were feeding with obvious relish.</p>
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<p>"I'm going to die," he said. The words came out without a trace
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of emotion. Margaret picked up the tone immediately though the
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girls missed it entirely.</p>
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<p>"We're all going to die," Christine piped up. She was fourteen
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and always in the top three in her class. She spread butter on a
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slice of bread as she spoke. "It's a fact of life."</p>
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<p>"Oh, don't talk like that," Trisha protested. "I hate that."</p>
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<p>Margaret cut across them. "What did you say?"</p>
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<p>"I'm going to die." He looked at her across the table, his face
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completely and utterly blank. Margaret Tomlin, who was a pleasant,
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plump woman with her faded fair hair pulled back in a pony-tail,
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felt a slow coldness in her stomach. For the past week Eddie had
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been very withdrawn. He'd stayed out late, and as soon as he was
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home, he'd gone straight up to the loft where he kept with the
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train set he'd owned since before they were married. The night
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before, it had been well past midnight late and he hadn't said a
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word, though in the morning she'd found his trousers were scuffed a
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scraped and covered in mud from the knee to the ankle. When she'd
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asked him what had happened, he'd given her a blank look and had
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said nothing.</p>
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<p>In all the years she'd known him, since both of them were at the
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school the girls now attended, Edward Tomlin had been a dependable
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man. Even boring, some might have said, and Margaret herself might
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have said it if she'd been pressed. Certainly, they led dull enough
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lives. The girls were quite well behaved and bookish. She worked as
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a clerkess in Castlebank. He patrolled the empty Castlebank
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shipyard. She knew nothing at all of the clothes he'd stolen from
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washing lines at night, the panties and stockings which he kept
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locked in the box behind the toolroom door, and which he wore in
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the hollow silence of the hull-shed.</p>
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<p>He never forgot their anniversary and they always wen out on
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that day for an Italian meal in Glasgow. He belonged to no club and
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rarely went out drinking.</p>
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<p>In the past week or so, he'd been out without saying where he
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was going and when he clambered in to bed beside her, she could
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smell drink on his breath. A couple of times she'd asked him if
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anything was wrong and he'd mumbled that there was nothing on his
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mind.</p>
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<p>She thought about the possibility that he might have another
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woman and hated herself when she'd sniffed at the collar of his
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jacket for traces of perfume. On the Wednesday, when he'd gone out
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at night - <em>Just out, nowhere special</em>, he'd said vaguely -
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she'd gone up to the loft and checked through the desk he had
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there. There was nothing, no letters, no odd little gifts. She'd
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gone through his pockets while he was up with his trains and had
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come up with nothing. There were no receipts, no notes, no
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telephone numbers. Nothing except for the tarot cards. Two of them.
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The six of cups and the king of pentacles, old fashioned cards with
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victorian-style artwork back and front, and the name of each
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scrolled on the bottom. Both of the cards were bent, as if they'd
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been stuffed in the pocket in haste. She knew next to nothing of
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tarot, didn't have a clue where he could have picked them up. She
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had put them back in his pocket and said nothing.</p>
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<p>Now, on the Friday night. Edward turned round and told his
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family he was going to die.</p>
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<p>"I've done something," he said.</p>
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<p>"Done what?" Margaret asked. She could hear the chill in her own
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voice, almost echoing the dead coldness in his. Both girls looked
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from father to mother, like spectators at tennis.</p>
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<p>"Something. I don't know. It's too dark to see."</p>
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<p>"What are you talking about it?" Margaret asked. She could feel
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a little tremor start in her left hand. She put down the fork and
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it rattled against the plate.</p>
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<p>"I took something. I had to."</p>
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<p>"What's wrong daddy?" Trisha piped up plaintively.</p>
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<p>"I took weedkiller. Paraquat. I drank it."</p>
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<p>Margaret opened her mouth, closed it again, fighting the
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giddiness as the blood drained from her face.</p>
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<p>"You did <em>what?</em>"</p>
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<p>"Paraquat," he repeated. "I had to. It said so."</p>
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<p>"Who said so?"</p>
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<p>So far his voice had been dead flat. No inflection, no cadence.
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The words came out and landed like cuts of meat on a butcher's
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board. Eddie Tomlin's eyebrows arched upwards, and a look of
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bewilderment came across his face.</p>
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<p>"I...I don't know. Him. It. It said to."</p>
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<p>"Edward Tomlin. Stop it this minute."</p>
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<p>The puzzled expression faded, and the man's face went blank
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again.</p>
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<p>"Too late. Can't stop it now."</p>
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<p>"I don't believe you," She shot back, clutching at the
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straw.</p>
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<p>He got up slowly and went to the back door. She heard the
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outside door, beyond the pantry, open with a clatter. He went
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outside and came back with a plastic bottle. She'd seen it before.
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He'd used it in summer to clear the weeds from the stone chippings
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on the narrow driveway.</p>
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<p>"This is it. I drank it."</p>
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<p>For a moment he sounded like a little boy boasting.</p>
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<p>"And I'm going to die."</p>
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<p>Trisha burst into tears. "Stop it daddy. I <em>hate</em> you
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speaking like that," she bawled.</p>
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<p>He turned to her and looked at her as if he'd never seen her
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before.</p>
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<p>"Can't stop it. Not now. The clock is running," Tomlin said, and
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then he smiled a ghastly smile which only moved his mouth, while
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the rest of his face remained expressionless.</p>
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<p>"Time to go," he added. He got slowly to his feet and turned
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away from the table.</p>
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<p>The three of them watched him as he took four steps and then
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started to slump when he reached the sink. His knees buckled and
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Margaret heard the thud as his ribs caught the rounded edge. He
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gave a little gasp and then she heard him retch violently. Liquid
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splashed into the basin and Trisha was promptly vomited her eggs
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onto her plate.</p>
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<p>"Eddie?" Margaret asked in a voice that was more of a gasp.
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"<em>Eddie</em>? Tell me it's a joke?"</p>
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<p>He retched again. She could see his sides heave with the
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violence of it. This time nothing came jetting out of his mouth. He
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gagged twice then coughed, before bringing his head up. He turned
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and as he did, he began to sink slowly to the floor.</p>
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<p>"No joke," he said breathlessly. "All over. All over now." He
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hiccupped. His face had gone greenish white. "Time to go now."</p>
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<p>He slid down against the cupboard door and sprawled on the
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vinyl. He tried to raise himself up on one elbow but failed. He
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turned to his stricken wife, his eyes now wide and staring. A
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trickle of saliva dribbled down his chin.</p>
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<p>"Got to go now. Only good thing for me."</p>
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<p>Christine was crying in a high-pitched continuous howl. Trisha
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was still trying to get her breath back. There was a hot smell of
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bile in the air.</p>
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<p>Margaret Tomlin got herself up from her knees, her face as white
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as her husband's and almost knocked herself out on the door in her
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rush to get to the phone. Within fifteen minutes an ambulance
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arrived to take Edward Tomlin to Lochend general where Shona
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Campbell's body lay in one of the long, cold drawers.</p>
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<p>A team of doctors began the hopeless fight to save his life. It
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took him six days to die as inch by inch, the poison invaded his
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organs and one by one they began to close themselves down.</p>
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<p>By the time Jack Fallon got home that Friday, it was nearly
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midnight and the cottage was cold. He slung his coat on the hook by
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the front door and poured himself a drink first, before putting the
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coffee on to heat. He was tired, cold and hungry, but didn't think
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he could eat.</p>
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<p>It had not been a good day.</p>
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<p>Shona Campbell had died, as the doctors had predicted, from
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blood-loss, exposure and the massive trauma. She had not regained
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consciousness.</p>
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<p>Jack had spoken to Robbie Cattenach on the phone.</p>
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<p>"A heavy instrument. Not quite blunt. Like a log with nails in
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it," Robbie had told him. "Tremendous damage to the left side of
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her head. It's a wonder she survived as long as she did."</p>
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<p>Jack urged him to go on. He knew he'd get the full report, but
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it wouldn't be until Monday.</p>
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<p>"She put up a fight, that's for sure."</p>
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<p>"It was definitely a man then?"</p>
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<p>"Probably. I'd put money on it. Someone very strong. I gave some
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of the scrapings to your forensic people. She'd had a go alright,
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but that didn't do her any good at all."</p>
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<p>Ralph Slater and his team had gone over the scene for three
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hours and came up with very little.</p>
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<p>"Whoever hit her was a fair size," Ralph conjectured. "It's
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definitely a downward blow. Caved in the side of her face. Not a
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pretty sight. There was a lot under the nails of her left hand.
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That's being analysed just now."</p>
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<p>"Footprints?" Jack asked.</p>
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<p>"Cold night, boss. Freezing. Any prints are two days old."</p>
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<p>"What are the neighbours saying?"</p>
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<p>Ralph handed over a manilla folder.</p>
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<p>"It's all in there and not worth a damn. One old fellow heard
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someone yelling late on, but that's just normal for the area at
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that time of night. In fact, I get the impression it was quieter
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than normal."</p>
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<p>Jack had interviewed Craig Campbell, who had sobered up but made
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just as little sense in the cold light of day. He was no help.</p>
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<p>Blair Bryden had managed to get the snatch on the front page of
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the Gazette and had a wing column devoted to Jock Toner's demise.
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It was quick work. He must, Jack knew, have written it all within
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an hour of leaving by the back door of the station to get it out on
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time. It was a fair enough piece, and Blair had the advantage of
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being a Levenford man born and bred. He knew just about
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everybody.</p>
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<p>The story spilled on to the centre spread where the local editor
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had compiled wrap-up on the action over the past fortnight. Anybody
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could read the question between the lines. Two possible suicides,
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two child snatches. A woman killed. A father and his three children
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dead in a fire. While the Gazette did not say, in so many words
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that there was a connection between all these events, its tone did
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suggest that misfortune had stamped into town and set up home.</p>
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<p>Jack Fallon had to agree. It was a few weeks until the end of
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the year, and already a bad winter had settled on Levenford.</p>
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