CHAPTER 6 THE VIADUCT
That morning at Glenfinnan, I was soaked before I even realised the drizzle had started. Scotland is known for this kind of weather trick. Unlike Italy, where rain falls in dramatic bursts and raindrops hit like tiny water balloons, Scottish drizzle sneaks up on you. It's a fine mist that somehow gets through even the best waterproofs in minutes.
My camera stayed safely tucked in its bag. Drizzle makes for terrible photographs, washing out contrasts and dulling colours. The famous viaduct was almost hidden, lost in the damp air that filled the valleys and stuck to the stone. Everything beyond arm's reach dissolved into watercolour smudges of grey.
Perfect murder-hunting weather, I decided, though Brian clearly disagreed. He trudged behind me, his shoulders forming
