These were all questions that were worth asking, but Jarrett knew not to push it too far. Thirty years of working in Glasgow had taught him that even the most ordinary-looking people are capable of the most brutal things. And that the obvious solution to a crime is usually the right one.
He turned to the big uniformed PC standing a few feet away. ‘Bet you’ve never had one like this on your beat before, have you?’
‘Can’t say I have, sir,’ said PC Rory McLean. ‘It scares me, to tell you the truth. My ma lives on her own a couple of miles from here and she’s in her seventies. Frightening to think this could happen on her doorstep.’
‘Anybody else live round here?’
PC McLean shook his head. He was a big man. His thick, pale arms were covered in highly detailed tattoos. Jarrett thought he’d have made a good rugby player, except for the fact that, with his boyish, pudgy features, he looked soft. ‘No. This whole stretch of country’s empty. It’s what attracts the English. The fact that they’re not going to see anyone when they’re up here.’ He looked towards the lodge. ‘So, do you think you’re going to be looking for anyone? Do I need to tell Ma to be on her guard?’
McLean looked genuinely concerned. Jarrett thought it was nice to see a man being so protective of his mother.
The DCI sighed. ‘No,’ he said, thinking about the pretty young woman hanging from the beam in the living room, and wondering what on earth could have been going through her head, ‘I don’t think we’re looking for anyone else.’
McLean smiled. ‘You don’t know how much better that makes me feel.’