The Comforts of Home_A Simon Serrailler Mystery_Chief Superintendent Simon Serrailler Mystery by Susan Hill

Author:Susan Hill [Hill, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781468301465
Amazon: 1468301462
Publisher: The Overlook Press
Published: 2018-11-20T00:00:00+00:00

Thirty

‘Simon?’

‘It is.’

‘My God, you have a signal – or have you left the island?’

‘Who is this? You’re very faint – the line isn’t good.’

‘Kieron.’

‘That’s better. Sorry. Morning, Chief.’

‘I think you can drop that, we’re not on duty. How are you?’

‘OK. In the thick of something, which started off by being just sad but probably routine and turns out to be sadder and definitely not routine. Interesting.’

‘I’m calling to ask how you’re getting on with the Kimberley Still files. It’s warmed up a bit on that front.’

‘I’m afraid I’ve not done much … this other thing has got in the way and I’ve had Sam staying with me, as you probably know.’

‘Isn’t he there now?’

‘No. Went two days ago.’

‘Went where?’

‘I thought to you. No?’

‘Not as of this morning.’

‘Oh Christ. Well, don’t say anything to my sister.’

‘As if. He’s probably just taking the scenic route. Any chance of getting into the files soon? It would be good to know what your thoughts are, see if anything comes up that looks wrong.’

‘I will. Not a lot more I can do here. I’ve talked to everyone on the island and drawn a blank.’

He cooked himself a fresh mackerel with mashed potatoes and tinned peas, fresh vegetables being in short supply now. While the fish was baking, he sat at the kitchen table with a glass of Malbec and went over everything he could remember about Sandy. That she had in fact been ‘he’, and a completely unaltered ‘he’ at that, had surprised him, as it seemed to have surprised Iain at the pub. Sandy had never dressed up much, but when there had been a ceilidh she had danced as a woman, and looked and dressed as a woman entirely convincingly. He tried to picture her now. She had never worn make-up but that was true of most of the island women. Her hair had been a slightly dry-looking blonde, not apparently dyed. She had been tall but not exceptionally so, and she had had no mannerisms that he recalled that pinned her especially to either sex. But then, you saw what you expected to see. What had her features been like? The only image he could call to mind was of her dead, on the beach, and then when he had seen her on the pathologist’s table.

He had looked down at her and seen the Sandy he had remembered. Yes. Her. The features had been … what? Neutral? There had been no noticeable facial or bodily hair, unusual for a female, but when he’d mentioned it, the pathologist had said there were traces of oestrogen in the blood, which indicated that Sandy had been taking female hormones. Nothing else.

All he had was a name. Sandy Murdoch. For Alexander? Alexandra? The whole name could have been a fake. She had had a slight Scots accent but had that been as a result of living on the island or of being Scottish?

He had absolutely nothing to go on.

He took the potatoes off the boil. Any day now, Police Scotland CID would arrive and take over the case.

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