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know that Morag was pregnant?”
    “I only just heard. And I know what you’re going to ask. No, I didn’t have an affair with her. No, I don’t know who did.”
    “As to that,” said Hamish, “we’ll be taking DNA samples from all the men in the factory.”
    “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
    “What! Why?”
    “The staff are complaining that it’s an infringement of their human rights and so our lawyers have taken the case up with the Court of Human Rights.”
    “Oh, for heffen’s sakes,” howled Hamish. “Don’t the innocent realise that the quicker we find the murderer, the better?”
    “The way they look at it is that their DNA will be on file and they’ll be classed as criminals.”
    “That’s not how it works.”
    “That’s the way they see it.”
    “Morag struck me as highly unlovable,” said Hamish. “I’m surprised you hired her.”
    “Look, I’d have hired a gorilla with her knowledge of spreadsheets and computers. I’m finding it hard to replace her. Anyway, when I interviewed her, she seemed very quiet and modest. It was only when she settled in here that I realised we’d got the bitch from hell. But she was good at her work. Besides, her boss, Gilchrist, never once saw the bad side of her. She could be pretty cunning.”
    “Often if there’s a work affair, it’s between the boss and his secretary.”
    “Gilchrist! He’s an elder of the kirk, member of the Rotary Club, and devoted to his wife.”
    “What is his wife’s name?”
    “Brenda. Why?”
    “I wonder if she ever met Morag.”
    “I doubt it. Madam considers us factory workers all rather vulgar. She’s got expensive tastes.”
    “I might have a word with her.”
    “Good luck. She scares the pants off me.”
    “What about Geordie Fleming?”
    “Sad sack. He and Morag were thick at one time and then she went on as if he didn’t exist.”
    “Any other men she dated?”
    “Not that I know of. Why did they take poor Freda away for questioning?”
    “Because she was Morag’s only friend.”
    Hamish took out his notebook after he had left Pete. For the umpteenth time, he promised himself he would get a smartphone or an iPad. But he had addresses logged in his laptop in the Land Rover as well as in his notebook. He found the Gilchrists’ address and made his way there.
    The Gilchrists lived in a handsome house on a hill above the town. It was a large Victorian villa surrounded by evergreens.
    He rang the doorbell and waited. The day was very still and there was that sort of heavy silence emanating from the house which Hamish knew, from experience, usually meant there was no one at home.
    He drove back to Fergus McQueen’s lodgings but the landlord, Jason Clement, said he had not seen him.
    Hamish phoned Jimmy and asked if Fergus’s parents had seen him, but Jimmy said he wasn’t often in touch with them. Driving back down the main street, Hamish noticed a few reporters and cameramen wandering up and down. Considering the drama of the finding of the dead body, Hamish thought there might have been more of them, and in the back of his mind was a faint hope that Elspeth Grant might be sent north to cover the murder. Although she was a presenter, because of her background in the area, she had been sent north before to cover stories.
    Then he realised that with Geordie at work, he might have a chance to see Hannah on her own.
    Was she really as beautiful as he remembered her to be?
    The sky above had slowly changed to dark grey, and a whisper of wind caressed his cheek as he got out of the Land Rover.
    Hannah Fleming opened the door. Hamish’s heart gave a lurch. She really was beautiful.
    “What is it?” she asked. “Geordie’s at work.”
    Hamish shuffled his boots. “It’s like this,” he said awkwardly, “I wondered whether you had heard any gossip about the factory.”
    “You really need to ask my brother. It’s not long since I arrived here.”
    “But you must have been up here before? Did