Deadly Cairns

CHAPTER 3 THE FARMER

CHAPTER 3 THE FARMER

Two days after our foggy run-in with the constable, Brian and I were shivering in our Portsoy B&B room, bundled up like Arctic explorers. He'd cocooned himself in a triple-layer of blankets while I watched my breath form tiny clouds in the air. The walls and bed were covered in flowers – roses and daisies everywhere, as if a summery wallpaper could actually warm up the room. But then again, it was summery warm in the room. Just a... North Scotland summer.

"The heating runs for a full hour each morning and evening," our landlady had proudly announced at check-in, beaming as though offering us a free voucher to a luxury resort.

Brian gripped his fourth cup of tea and shot me a look that said this was somehow my fault.

Even though it was cold, the B&B held a distinct charm. From our window, we could see Portsoy's 17th-century harbour, where fishing boats moved gently against their moorings. The village had barely changed since it was built, with its stone cottages, narrow streets, and a harbour made from thick local stone. Portsoy's authenticity is so striking that when the BBC filmed Peaky Blinders here, they hardly had to alter a thing.

"Did you know Portsoy used to be famous for its marble?" I was hoping to distract Brian from his temperature-related lament.

"I only care if it was famous for heated flooring. Which it clearly wasn't."

"It's not really marble," I went on, ignoring him. "It's a green serpentine stone they used for jewellery and fireplaces. They quarried it locally and – "

"I'm going to stop you right there, Jo," Brian cut in. "My brain is in freezer mode. I can't cope with more geological excitement."

I poured another cup of green tea from the thermos we filled at breakfast. The B&B owner had looked mildly offended when I asked for the green version instead of proper Scottish breakfast tea, but she gave me a tight smile and a tin of something that tasted vaguely like grass clippings.

"At least we got some good photos today." I looked through my camera. "The harbour at sunrise was worth it."

"Nothing is worth getting up for at 5 a.m. Nothing." Brian paused his complaint to squint at his phone screen. Then he sat up so suddenly that his blanket fortress collapsed around him. "Jo! JO!"

"I'm literally right here, Brian."

He looked up, eyes suddenly brighter. "They've caught him. The drone killer. Look."

He shoved his phone at me, almost knocking over my tea. The headline said: "Aberdeenshire Farmer Arrested in Connection with Drone Photographer Murders."

I took the phone and read the article. The police had arrested a local sheep farmer after people heard him threaten drone photographers for bothering his sheep. They found drone parts in his barn, and a witness said he shouted at a photographer, "You'll be next if you don't stop scaring my sheep!"

"See? They got him!" Brian drummed his heels against the bed frame. "My drone is safe! I'm safe! We're all safe!"

"Hmm." I handed the phone back, not sharing his enthusiasm.

"What do you mean, 'hmm'? This is brilliant news! I can finally take my drone out again without worrying about getting killed for it."

I nodded at the window, where a patchwork of fields blurred into the drizzle in the far distance. "An angry farmer, Brian? Really? You think he's been moonlighting as a cross-country assassin to murder random drone photographers between Aberdeen and Edinburgh?"

Brian's excitement faded a bit. "The police arrested him. They must have some evidence."

"Keep scrolling," I said. "There's a picture of the investigation team."

He handed the phone over. On the screen, two men stood outside a police station. The first, tall and dark-haired, wore a frown that looked permanent. DCI Fraser, according to the caption. Beside him, a younger officer with ears that stuck out and an expression of startled confusion – caught mid-blink, as if the camera had surprised him. DC Murray.

"DC Murray looks like he was assembled from spare police parts," Brian observed. "But look, they've got the killer. Case closed. Investigation complete. My drone can live to fly another day."

I took the phone again and re-read the article more carefully. "It says they're 'confident they have their man' and that 'charges are forthcoming.' That's just police talk for 'we think it's him, but we're still working on the case.'"

"Why are you being so negative about this? Shouldn't you be happy they caught him?"

I leaned back against the headboard. "It just seems too convenient. An angry farmer who yells at drone people? He seems like the type to grab you and shout some colourful Scottish swear words, not someone who would plan murders all across Scotland."

"Maybe he was really, really angry about his sheep," Brian suggested, but I could tell he was starting to second-guess himself.

"Sheep farmers don't exactly have loads of free time for murder road trips, Brian. They have, you know, sheep to attend to."

"The police must know what they're doing," he insisted, though with less conviction now.

I shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe they needed to reassure the public quickly. I think it is worth taking a closer look at this."

Brian groaned and flopped back on the bed. "Please don't tell me you're thinking what I think you're thinking."

"I just want to do a bit of research."

"Research about what? How to get us in trouble? How to annoy the police? How to attract the attention of a serial killer who might still be at large if your theory is correct?"

I fluttered my eyelashes at him. "I'm just going to poke around a bit. See what turns up."

"You know who else 'pokes around a bit'? Every murder victim in the history of detective stories," Brian threw his hands up. "Right before they end up face-down in a Scottish bog."

"Lucky for us, we're just a couple of photographers with too much time on our hands," I said, my laptop already whirring to life.