PRAGMATIC ISSUES

C.M Clark 

 

 

The village awoke beneath a blanket of low cloud.

Mist rolled in from the North Sea, swallowing the harbour until only the tops of the fishing boats remained visible. The abandoned lighthouse stood high above it all, little more than a dark silhouette against the morning sky.

By breakfast, no one was speaking about the weather.

Everyone was speaking about Agnes MacLeod.

The bakery opened late.

The butcher served customers in near silence.

Outside the village shop, neighbours clustered together, their conversations stopping the moment Detective Inspector Callum Fraser walked past.

He wasn’t surprised.

Small villages didn’t simply lose one of their own.

They carried the loss together.

Rosie MacLeod answered the door before Callum had a chance to knock twice.

She looked exhausted.

Her eyes were swollen from crying, but the wild panic he’d witnessed yesterday had settled into something quieter.

Something heavier.

‘Inspector.’

‘Mrs MacLeod.’

She stepped aside.

‘Please… come in.’

The cottage felt exactly as it had the day before.

Agnes’s knitting still rested beside her favourite chair.

An unfinished crossword lay open on the coffee table.

Reading glasses perched neatly on top of it.

The kettle sat cold on the stove.

It felt less like a home and more like time had simply… stopped.

Rosie noticed Callum looking around.

‘I still haven’t moved anything.’

‘I wouldn’t expect you to.’

She gave a faint nod before leading him into the kitchen.

Once they were seated, Callum closed his notebook.

‘I want to thank you for agreeing to speak with me again.’

Rosie managed a tired smile.

‘I don’t know that I’ll be much more help today.’

‘Actually,’ he said gently, ‘you may be.’

She looked at him curiously.

‘Yesterday you were in shock. Anyone would have been. The first conversation after something like that is rarely the clearest one.’

He paused.

‘Sometimes people remember small things after they’ve had a little time. Things that didn’t seem important yesterday.’

Rosie folded her hands together.

‘I’ll try.’

‘That’s all I can ask.’

‘Let’s start with yesterday morning.’

Rosie closed her eyes for a moment.

‘Mum was making raspberry jam.’

‘As she often did?’

‘Every summer.’

‘Did anything seem different about her?’

Rosie thought carefully.

‘No…’

She stopped.

‘Actually… maybe.’

Callum didn’t interrupt.

‘She kept looking out the kitchen window.’

‘Watching for someone?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did she say anything?’

Rosie frowned.

‘She asked what day it was.’

‘Is that unusual?’

‘Not really.’

‘Anything else?’

Rosie hesitated.

‘She asked if I’d locked the back door the night before.’

‘Did that concern you?’

‘At the time? No.’

‘Now?’

Rosie looked down at the table.

‘Yes.’

‘Did anyone visit the house yesterday morning?’

‘No.’

‘Any telephone calls?’

‘Not while I was there.’

‘Letters? Deliveries?’

‘Nothing.’

Callum made a note.

‘Did your mother leave carrying anything?’

Rosie’s brow furrowed.

‘I… don’t think so.’

‘Her handbag?’

‘It was still hanging beside the front door.’

‘Her walking stick?’

‘Also here.’

Callum looked up.

‘Your mother rarely walked anywhere without it?’

‘Never.’

He wrote another note.

‘What about a coat?’

Rosie blinked.

‘That’s odd…’

‘What is?’

‘Her blue raincoat is gone.’

Callum glanced toward the hallway.

‘May I see?’

Rosie led him to a small wooden coat rack.

Three jackets hung neatly in place.

A gardening coat.

A thick winter coat.

A light cardigan.

An empty hook remained between them.

‘That’s where it always hung,’ Rosie said quietly.

Callum nodded.

‘Did she wear it often?’

‘Whenever she left the house.’

He studied the empty hook for several seconds.

One missing coat.

One handbag left behind.

One walking stick never used.

None of it fit together.

He turned another page in his notebook.

‘Yesterday, you told me your mother would never have gone to the lighthouse.’

Rosie’s expression changed immediately.

She became almost defensive.

‘She wouldn’t.’

‘Can you help me understand why you’re so certain?’

Rosie stared out of the kitchen window toward the sea.

‘When I was little, Mum refused to let me play anywhere near those cliffs.’

‘Did she say why?’

‘She’d only ever say one thing.’

Callum waited.

‘Some places take more than they give.’

The words hung in the room.

‘Did she ever explain what she meant?’

Rosie slowly shook her head.

‘Whenever I asked, she’d change the subject.’

‘Did something happen there?’

‘I don’t know.’

She looked genuinely frustrated.

‘She hated even talking about the lighthouse.’

By midday, Callum had interviewed nearly everyone who had spoken with Agnes during the previous week.

Each conversation painted the same picture.

Kind.

Patient.

Stubborn.

Beloved.

No enemies.

No arguments.

No financial worries.

Nothing that explained why an eighty-two-year-old widow had somehow ended up beneath an abandoned lighthouse she refused to visit.

Then he met Malcolm Kerr.

The old fisherman had known Agnes for more than sixty years.

Unlike the others, he didn’t smile when speaking about her.

He looked troubled.

‘Something was bothering her.’

Callum leaned forward.

‘You’re certain?’

‘Aye.’

‘Why didn’t you mention it yesterday?’

‘I wasn’t sure it mattered.’

‘Everything matters.’

Malcolm nodded slowly.

‘She kept looking over her shoulder.’

‘As though someone was following her?’

‘Aye.’

‘Did she ever tell you why?’

‘No.’

‘Did she say anything unusual?’

The old fisherman rubbed his weathered hands together.

‘She asked me a question.’

‘What was it?’

Malcolm looked down at the floor.

‘Have you ever wished you’d forgotten something?’

Silence filled the room.

‘And what did you say?’

‘I laughed.’

His voice cracked.

‘I thought she was talking nonsense.’

That afternoon, Detective Sergeant Isla Murray spread the crime scene photographs across the incident room table.

Callum studied them carefully.

Then he noticed something.

‘Or rather… the absence of something.’

He pointed to the muddy footpath leading toward the lighthouse.

‘Where are Agnes’s footprints?’

Isla nodded.

‘Exactly.’

He looked again.

The responding officers’ boot prints covered the path.

Forensic markers dotted the ground.

But beneath them…

Nothing.

No small shoe prints.

No walking stick impressions.

No drag marks.

Nothing.

‘She never walked up that hill,’ Callum said quietly.

‘That’s our conclusion as well.’

‘Then someone brought her there.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Perhaps?’

Isla slid another photograph across the table.

‘If they did… they somehow managed to leave no trace.’

Callum stared at the image.

Impossible.

Wet ground always told a story.

This ground was telling none.

As evening approached, Callum drove back to the abandoned lighthouse alone.

The wind had picked up, carrying the sharp scent of salt and seaweed.

He stood where Agnes’s body had been found.

From there, he looked back toward the village.

The climb alone would have exhausted an elderly woman.

Especially one without her walking stick.

He turned toward the lighthouse.

The rusted door creaked open with a low groan.

Dust coated the floor inside.

Broken machinery sat untouched.

Collapsed timber littered the corners.

Nothing looked disturbed.

Until he reached the spiral staircase.

Halfway up, something caught the beam of his torch.

A tiny piece of blue fabric.

Fresh.

Clean.

Recently torn.

He carefully placed it into an evidence bag.

Then he shone the light higher.

The dust covering the steps had been disturbed.

Not by dozens of visitors.

By one careful set of footprints.

Leading only upward.

None coming back down.

Callum’s eyes slowly followed the staircase into darkness.

Someone had been here recently.

Someone who wanted investigators to believe Agnes MacLeod had come to the lighthouse of her own accord.

But the evidence was beginning to suggest something else entirely.

Someone had brought her there.

And someone had been waiting for the police to discover her.

Far above, beyond the lighthouse windows, a solitary figure stood motionless on the opposite cliff, watching the detective’s torch flicker through the darkness.

By the time Callum reached the top of the stairs…

The watcher had already disappeared.

—————-

The Black Water

Chapter Four: What Agnes Knew

By Thursday morning, someone had left flowers outside Agnes MacLeod’s cottage.

Not one bunch.

Dozens.

They lay against the low stone wall in damp layers, wrapped in supermarket cellophane and brown paper gone translucent with rain. Daffodils. Carnations. Roses already bowing under the weight of the weather. Someone had tucked a handwritten card beneath a jar of heather.

For Agnes, who remembered everybody.

Detective Inspector Callum Fraser stood across the road beneath the awning of the village chemist and read the words twice.

That, he was beginning to think, might have been the problem.

Agnes remembered everybody.

She remembered birthdays and funerals. Who had married whom and who should never have married anyone. Which child belonged to which family even when the family preferred another version. She remembered bankruptcies, affairs, pregnancies, grudges, accidents and things the village had agreed, without ever formally discussing it, to stop mentioning.

For eighty-two years Agnes MacLeod had lived in Blackwater Bay.

For most of those years, Blackwater Bay had been talking to her.

Callum crossed the road.

Constable Ewan Kerr waited by Agnes’s front door, shoulders hunched against the drizzle.

‘SOCO finished twenty minutes ago.’

‘Anything?’

‘Nothing dramatic.’

‘That usually means something irritating.’

Ewan gave a tired smile. ‘No sign of forced entry. Nothing missing that Rosie can identify. Purse is there. Jewellery. Cash in the kitchen drawer.’

‘Phone?’

‘Still missing.’

Callum stopped.

‘Still?’

‘We’ve searched the house twice.’

Agnes’s mobile had not been found at the lighthouse either.

That mattered.

Callum looked back towards the harbour. Beyond the roofs, the North Sea was the colour of old steel.

‘Get the provider records moving.’

‘Already requested.’

‘Good.’

Inside, Agnes’s cottage smelled faintly of lavender polish and yesterday’s cold fireplace.

It was a home built from repetition.

A cardigan folded over the back of one chair. Two porcelain dogs on the mantelpiece. Three framed photographs of Fiona at different ages. A chipped blue mug beside the sink. Letters stacked neatly beneath an elastic band.

Nothing looked disturbed.

Nothing looked frightened.

That bothered Callum more than a broken window would have.

If Agnes had left her home willingly that night, then someone had given her a reason.

He walked through the sitting room again.

The room had already been photographed, catalogued and searched, but Callum had always believed there was a difference between looking for evidence and looking at how a person lived.

The police had searched for fingerprints.

He was searching for Agnes.

Books occupied a narrow shelf beside the fire. Crime novels. Gardening books. Two battered histories of the north-east coast.

On the lowest shelf sat six old notebooks.

Callum crouched.

‘These been checked?’

Ewan nodded. ‘Recipes mostly. Shopping lists.’

Callum pulled one free.

The cover read 2019 in Agnes’s careful handwriting.

Bread.

Milk.

Margaret – hospital Tuesday.

Phone Fiona.

David still owes £14.

Callum turned a page.

Apple crumble.

Prescription Friday.

Ask Ian why he lied about boat.

He stopped.

Turned another page.

Nothing.

Another.

Mrs Bell – church flowers.

Rosie birthday.

Tom saw them behind hall.

Callum stared at the sentence.

‘Ewan.’

The constable came over.

Callum handed him the notebook.

‘That look like a recipe to you?’

Ewan read it.

‘Who’s Tom?’

‘No idea.’

‘And who did he see?’

‘No idea.’

Callum pulled down another notebook.

1. 2020.

Then 2021.

At first the entries remained mundane.

Appointments. Grocery lists. Reminders.

Then, scattered amongst them, were fragments.

Names.

Initials.

Sentences without explanations.

Alec – money again.

Maggie knows about Harbour House.

D.F. asked me not to tell Rosie.

Peter drinking at work. Dangerous.

Moira says girl was crying. Ask why.

And then:

Graham saw Robert at lighthouse. Says it was after midnight.

Callum read it again.

The entry was dated nearly nine years earlier.

‘Robert who?’

Ewan had already taken out his phone.

‘There are twenty-three Roberts on the electoral register in the wider postcode.’

‘Excellent.’

‘Small villages are efficient like that.’

Callum kept reading.

The notebooks changed the room.

Twenty minutes earlier it had belonged to a harmless elderly widow.

Now every drawer seemed capable of containing a grenade.

Agnes MacLeod had been keeping notes.

Not a diary exactly.

Something stranger.

Observations.

Things people had told her.

Things she had witnessed.

Things she apparently intended to remember.

Callum opened the 2025 notebook.

Halfway through, one page had been torn out.

Not accidentally.

The paper had been removed close to the spine.

He held it towards the window.

‘Bag this.’

Ewan looked at the gap.

‘Could have been Agnes.’

‘Could have.’

‘You don’t think so.’

‘I think somebody murdered an eighty-two-year-old woman and her phone is missing.’

Callum closed the book.

‘I’m finished believing in coincidences for today.’

By lunchtime, half the station knew about the notebooks.

By one o’clock, Callum regretted telling any of them.

The incident room whiteboard had begun filling with names.

Some meant nothing.

Others meant considerably more.

Alec Robertson owned the chandlery beside the harbour and had nearly lost the business four years earlier.

Peter Hume worked maintenance at the primary school.

Maggie Bell had chaired the parish council for eleven years.

David Findlay ran Blackwater House, the small care home on the edge of the village.

Robert Sinclair had been dead for three years.

And Harbour House had burned down in 2008.

‘So,’ Ewan said, staring at the board, ‘either Agnes knew every crime committed in Blackwater Bay since the invention of electricity, or she liked writing cryptic nonsense.’

Callum sat with a coffee he had forgotten to drink.

‘People tell elderly women things.’

‘Why?’

‘Because nobody notices them.’

Ewan glanced towards him.

Callum tapped Agnes’s notebook.

‘You walk into a pub, everybody knows you’re listening. Agnes walks into the post office and people have an argument beside her because she’s eighty-two and buying stamps.’

‘That’s bleak.’

‘That’s policing.’

Detective Sergeant Isla Murray came through the door carrying another notebook.

‘Found something.’

Callum straightened.

Isla placed the book on his desk.

‘2023. November.’

A sentence had been underlined twice.

Malcolm came again. Told him no. He was angry this time.

Callum looked up.

‘Malcolm who?’

‘There’s only one Malcolm mentioned anywhere else.’

She turned back three pages.

Malcolm Reid – church roof money. £6,800 doesn’t make sense.

Ewan whistled quietly.

Callum knew the name.

Everyone did.

Malcolm Reid owned Reid & Sons Builders.

He employed nearly thirty people between Blackwater Bay and Peterhead. Sponsored the youth football strips. Donated money to the lifeboat fund every Christmas.

His photograph appeared in the local paper approximately every six months, usually holding an oversized cheque.

‘Church roof?’ Callum asked.

Isla nodded.

‘St Andrew’s raised nearly sixty thousand for repairs in 2023. Reid & Sons did the work.’

‘And Agnes?’

‘Church treasurer for nineteen years.’

There it was.

Not murder.

Not yet.

But motive had finally walked through the door.

Malcolm Reid arrived at the station voluntarily at three fourteen that afternoon.

He made sure everyone knew it.

‘I came the moment your officer rang.’

He was fifty-seven, broad through the chest, expensive watch beneath the cuff of a waxed jacket. His greying hair was cut close and his face carried the ruddy permanence of someone who spent weekends on golf courses pretending Scotland had better weather than it did.

Callum sat opposite him in Interview Room Two.

No solicitor.

Malcolm had declined one.

That interested Callum.

Innocent people sometimes refused solicitors because they believed having one made them look guilty.

Guilty people sometimes refused them because they believed they were smarter than the police.

Callum had not yet decided which Malcolm Reid was.

‘How well did you know Agnes MacLeod?’

‘Everyone knew Agnes.’

‘That wasn’t my question.’

Malcolm shifted.

‘Fairly well.’

‘She handled the church accounts.’

‘Years ago.’

‘2023 isn’t years ago.’

A beat.

‘She helped.’

Callum opened the photocopy of Agnes’s notebook.

‘Did she ever question one of your invoices?’

Something moved behind Malcolm’s eyes.

Very small.

But there.

‘Probably. Agnes questioned everything.’

‘Specifically six thousand eight hundred pounds.’

Malcolm leaned back.

‘Christ.’

‘You remember it?’

‘I remember the argument.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘There was no argument.’

Callum waited.

Malcolm exhaled.

‘There was an additional charge. Timber damage. Once we opened the roof we found more rot than expected.’

‘And Agnes challenged it.’

‘She challenged every bloody thing.’

‘She wrote that the money didn’t make sense.’

‘I don’t care what she wrote.’

Callum watched him.

The irritation had arrived quickly.

That was useful.

‘She also wrote that you went to her house.’

Malcolm said nothing.

‘More than once.’

Still nothing.

‘Why?’

‘To explain the invoice.’

‘At her home?’

‘She wouldn’t leave it alone.’

‘Did you tell her no?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘She wrote, “Told him no. He was angry this time.”’

Malcolm’s jaw tightened.

‘Agnes had decided I was stealing.’

‘Were you?’

‘No.’

‘Then why were you angry?’

‘Because she was going around telling people I was.’

Callum sat back slightly.

‘Who?’

‘People.’

‘Which people?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You just said she was telling people.’

‘Because suddenly I had parish councillors asking questions. The church committee wanted paperwork from two years earlier. That doesn’t happen because everyone collectively wakes up suspicious.’

Callum wrote nothing down.

‘When did you last see her?’

‘Months ago.’

‘How many months?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Try.’

Malcolm stared at him.

‘Christmas, perhaps.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘As sure as I can be.’

Callum opened another folder.

‘Funny.’

Malcolm’s eyes flicked towards it.

‘What?’

‘You were seen outside Agnes’s house last Monday.’

Silence.

The rain tapped against the narrow interview room window.

Callum continued.

‘Three days before she died.’

Malcolm’s expression changed.

Not fear.

Calculation.

Callum knew that look very well.

‘Who says that?’

‘Were you there?’

‘Who says I was?’

‘Were you?’

Malcolm rubbed his thumb against the edge of the table.

Then ‘Yes.’

Ewan, seated beside the wall, looked up.

Callum kept his voice neutral.

‘Why did you just tell me you hadn’t seen her since Christmas?’

‘Because I didn’t speak to her.’

‘You went to her house but didn’t speak to her?’

‘She wasn’t home.’

‘Why were you there?’

‘I wanted to ask her something.’

‘About?’

Malcolm looked towards the observation glass.

For the first time since entering the station, some of his confidence disappeared.

‘Something private.’

Callum waited.

Malcolm gave a humourless laugh.

‘You lot always do this, don’t you? Somebody dies and suddenly every embarrassing thing anybody’s ever done becomes police business.’

‘Sometimes embarrassing things become motive.’

‘It wasn’t motive.’

‘Then tell me.’

Malcolm stared at the tabletop.

‘My son.’

Callum said nothing.

‘Jamie.’

‘What about him?’

‘He’s got himself into trouble.’

‘What kind?’

‘Gambling.’

Malcolm swallowed.

‘A lot of gambling.’

‘And Agnes knew?’

‘Apparently.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t bloody know. Agnes knew things.’

There it was again.

Callum almost smiled.

‘Why did that matter?’

‘Because Jamie works for the business. If certain people heard what he’d done, they’d start asking questions.’

‘What had he done?’

Malcolm didn’t answer.

Callum leaned forwards.

‘Had Jamie taken money from the company?’

Malcolm’s silence answered first.

‘How much?’

‘Twenty thousand.’

Ewan shifted.

Malcolm immediately added, ‘He paid most of it back.’

‘That isn’t usually how theft works.’

‘He’s my son.’

‘Did Agnes threaten to tell someone?’

‘No.’

‘Then why were you at her house?’

‘I wanted to know who she’d told.’

‘And when she wasn’t there?’

‘I left.’

Callum studied him.

‘Where were you Wednesday night between eight and midnight?’

‘Home.’

‘Anyone with you?’

A pause.

Too long.

‘My wife.’

Callum wrote that down.

The interview continued for another forty minutes.

When Malcolm finally left, Callum watched him through the station window.

‘He’s lying,’ Ewan said.

‘Yes.’

‘About what?’

Callum watched Malcolm climb into a black Range Rover.

‘That’s the interesting part.’

They found out before dinner.

Malcolm Reid’s wife had not been home Wednesday night.

She had been in Aberdeen.

Malcolm had been alone.

According to Malcolm.

According to his mobile phone, he had not been.

At 9:17 p.m., his device connected to the mast covering the northern edge of Blackwater Bay.

The lighthouse sat inside that sector.

So did forty houses, two farms, the old quarry road and half a mile of coastline.

It proved almost nothing.

But it was enough to change the temperature of the investigation.

Then came the witness.

Her name was Jean Campbell.

Seventy-six.

Widowed.

Professional observer of other people’s business.

She called the station after the evening news showed Malcolm Reid leaving.

‘I saw his van,’ she told Callum.

‘Where?’

‘Lighthouse road.’

‘When?’

‘That night.’

Callum sat upright.

‘Agnes’s night?’

‘Aye.’

‘What time?’

‘After ten.’

‘How can you be certain?’

‘Because Wednesday’s my bingo night.’

Callum closed his eyes briefly.

Of course it was.

Jean continued.

‘My niece drove me back. We came along the coast road because they’re digging up King Street again. Reid’s van was pulled near the old access gate.’

‘Did you see Malcolm?’

‘No.’

‘Did you see anyone?’

‘Somebody standing beside it.’

‘Man or woman?’

‘Couldn’t tell.’

‘Height?’

‘Normal.’

Callum glanced at Ewan.

Ewan covered his mouth.

Callum ignored him.

‘Clothing?’

‘Dark.’

‘Did you see the person’s face?’

‘No.’

‘Then how did you know it was Reid’s van?’

Jean sounded offended.

‘Because it says REID & SONS BUILDERS across the side in letters the size of my kitchen window.’

Fair enough.

Callum thanked her.

Twenty minutes later, officers were on their way to Malcolm Reid’s house.

Rosie learned about the arrest before Callum could reach her.

Blackwater Bay remained impressively efficient at distributing information despite having terrible mobile reception.

When he pulled up outside Agnes’s cottage, Rosie was standing amongst the flowers.

Fiona was beside her.

‘Is it true?’ Rosie asked.

Callum closed the car door.

‘I can’t discuss—’

‘Don’t.’

Her voice cracked like a branch.

Callum stopped.

Rosie stepped towards him.

‘Please don’t give me that police rubbish. Was Malcolm arrested?’

Callum looked at Fiona, then back at Rosie.

‘He’s been detained.’

Rosie covered her mouth.

Fiona stared towards the harbour.

‘Why?’

Callum hesitated.

‘Did your mother ever mention Malcolm Reid?’

Something passed between them.

Callum saw it.

‘Rosie?’

She looked away.

‘Mum didn’t like him.’

‘Why?’

‘She thought he was dishonest.’

‘About the church roof?’

Rosie’s head snapped towards him.

That was confirmation.

‘You knew?’

‘She mentioned it.’

‘When?’

‘Years ago.’

‘Anything recently?’

‘No.’

Callum watched her carefully.

Rosie folded her arms against herself.

‘She said Malcolm charged the church for work he hadn’t done.’

‘Did she have proof?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did she ever tell you he came to the house?’

Rosie hesitated.

‘Once.’

‘Only once?’

‘I only saw him once.’

‘When?’

‘Last year.’

‘Was he angry?’

‘He was Malcolm.’

Callum waited.

Rosie sighed.

‘Yes. He was angry.’

‘About the money?’

‘I think so.’

Fiona spoke suddenly.

‘Gran wasn’t frightened of him.’

Both Callum and Rosie turned.

Fiona’s face had changed.

Not grief.

Something sharper.

‘What do you mean?’

‘She wasn’t.’

‘Fiona,’ Rosie warned.

‘I heard them once.’

Callum moved his attention fully to her.

‘Heard who?’

‘Gran and Malcolm.’

‘When?’

‘Last autumn.’

‘What did they say?’

‘I couldn’t hear everything.’

‘What did you hear?’

Fiona stared down at the flowers.

‘He told her she didn’t understand what she was interfering with.’

Rosie looked stunned.

‘You never told me that.’

Fiona ignored her.

Callum said, ‘And Agnes?’

For the first time, something almost like amusement touched Fiona’s face.

‘Gran told him she understood perfectly.’

Callum could almost hear Agnes saying it.

‘Anything else?’

Fiona nodded.

‘She said something about people thinking old women were stupid.’

Callum waited.

‘And then?’

Fiona looked towards Agnes’s cottage.

‘Then she told him if he came to the house again, she’d tell everyone.’

The sea wind moved the flowers against the stone wall.

Paper whispered against paper.

Callum felt the investigation tighten.

‘Tell everyone what?’

Fiona shook her head.

‘I don’t know.’

Rosie whispered, ‘Oh, Mum.’

Callum looked at her.

Noticed the exhaustion beneath her eyes.

The shaking hands.

The woman who had collapsed beneath the lighthouse when Agnes’s body was found.

He felt, again, the instinct he’d had that morning.

Rosie MacLeod had lost her mother.

Whatever Agnes had known, Rosie appeared to be discovering it alongside them.

Malcolm Reid was arrested on suspicion of murder at 8:42 p.m.

His solicitor arrived eighteen minutes later.

By ten, the village had convicted him.

The pub stopped serving one of his brothers.

Someone smashed the passenger window of a Reid & Sons van.

A handwritten sign appeared on the company gate.

MURDERER.

Callum hated that part.

Investigations created certainty long before they earned it.

He returned to Agnes’s cottage shortly before midnight.

The house had been released to Rosie, but she had chosen to stay with Fiona.

Callum wanted one more look at the notebooks before they were formally catalogued and removed.

Isla was waiting inside.

‘I found something else.’

‘Please tell me it makes this simpler.’

‘No.’

She handed him the 2026 notebook.

Agnes’s final one.

Isla had placed a yellow evidence tab beside an entry dated twelve days before the murder.

Callum read it.

M.R. frightened. Says he never meant for it to happen.

Malcolm Reid.

Probably.

Callum felt the familiar surge of momentum.

Then Isla turned the page.

Three days later:

R came tonight. Told me Malcolm is lying, but not about what everyone thinks.

Callum frowned.

‘R?’

‘No idea.’

Below it was another entry.

Agnes had pressed the pen hard enough to mark the paper beneath.

Must speak to Rosie before it is too late.

Callum stared at the sentence.

Then the next.

The final full entry Agnes MacLeod had written.

Two nights before she died.

The lighthouse wasn’t the beginning.

Callum looked up.

Outside, beyond Agnes’s darkened windows, the abandoned lighthouse flashed white beneath a burst of distant lightning.

No lamp had worked there for thirty-seven years.

‘Isla.’

‘Yeah?’

He held the notebook towards her.

‘Malcolm Reid is hiding something.’

‘Agreed.’

Callum looked again at Agnes’s final words.

‘But I don’t think it’s Agnes’s murder.’

And for the first time since the old woman’s body had been found beneath the lighthouse, Callum understood something important.

Agnes MacLeod had not stumbled into one person’s secret.

She had been standing in the middle of several.

And somebody had finally decided she knew too much.