Priscilla turned to page five. There was a picture of Hamish Macbeth standing with Towser under the roses outside the Lochdubh police station.
The caption read, “Local businessman, Carl Steinberger, took this photograph of a Highland bobby while on holiday in Scotland. A far cry from
The photograph had been printed in colour.
“He might have told them about the murder,” muttered Priscilla. She unfolded the
“Arrested for insider trading at his Belgravia home, stockbroker socialite, John Burlington,” Priscilla read.
The phone rang and she went to answer it.
The voice of her friend. Sarah James, came shrilly down the line. Wasn’t it just too awful about poor John? As the voice went on and on, Priscilla looked out of the window. The traffic in Lower Sloane Street was belching fumes out in the air. She turned slowly and looked at the newspapers, lying side by side on the kitchen table, at the frantic face of John Burlington and at the happy face of PC Macbeth.
