Watters sat at his desk, holding the plaster cast in his hand. The Fletchers’ footprints did not match, but the wig was interesting.
“What’s that you have there, Sergeant?” Scuddamore asked.
“The cast of a footprint,” Watters said. “It didn’t match the one at Vlasov’s murder, though.”
“Who was it?”
“Nobody of any interest.” Watters put the cast away. “I want to sort a few things out, Scuddamore. There are too many loose ends in this case, so I’ll clear some up today, and we can concentrate on the essentials.”
“All right, Sergeant,” Scuddamore said. “What do you want me to do?”
“Find me a woman in Dundee with a Russian connection,” Watters said. “And find me the Captain. I’m running out of ideas.”
“I’ll make a list,” Scuddamore said. “Would that include Jennifer and her mother?” He f
