Raven Black

breathing was easy and regular again.

The next morning Cassie showed no sign that the nightmare had upset her. When Fran mentioned it casually she seemed not to know what she was talking about. But some clue to its cause came on the way to school when they passed Hillhead.

'That's where the monster lived,' Cassie said. 'What do you mean?'

'The monster who likes to kill little girls.'

'Who told you about that?'

'Everyone. Everyone's talking about it at school.'

'Magnus lived there. You remember Magnus. He gave you sweeties (sometimes. The police think he killed Catherine. And a little girl called Catriona. He's an old man who's done terrible things. But he isn't a monster.'

Cassie seemed slightly confused. 'The police think Magnus killed Catherine?'

'Yes.'

'But Catherine wasn't a little girl.'

Fran was starting to feel out of her depth. 'You mustn't think about it.'

'But-'

'Really, you shouldn't worry about it. Magnus has been locked up. He can't hurt anyone any more!

In the schoolyard Fran wondered if she should have a word with Mrs Henry, explain about the nightmare, the stories which were being passed around. But she suspected that the teacher already had her down as an over- anxious and neurotic parent. It was probably best not to make a fuss, she thought. She'd be able to help Cassie deal with it herself. Besides, she was looking forward to a day of uninterrupted work. The image of the ravens in the snow was still potent, perhaps because of the tragedy with which it was now linked in her head. The fire of the rising sun, the brilliant white snow and the black ravens, had haunted her since she'd first seen it. The picture contained the elements of traditional fairy story and primitive sacrifice. She hoped she'd make it as strong on canvas as it was in her imagination.

As she turned to walk back up the hill, she saw Euan through the big glass window at the front of his house. He was standing, looking out. He was wearing his spectacles, and had a dishevelled look which gave him the air of an absent-minded professor from a children's book. She thought he was too preoccupied to notice her, but she must have penetrated his thoughts, because suddenly he waved wildly at her. She climbed the path to his door.

'Come in: he said. 'I was just taking a break. You'll have some coffee with me! His depression seemed to have lifted. Now he seemed overtaken by a sort of manic need for activity. Close to she saw his face was drawn and his eyes were red. He hadn't shaved. Perhaps he hadn't slept all night.

'Taking a break? Are you working?'

'I'm going through Catherine's things! 'Oh Euan, do you need to do that now?'

'Absolutely,' he said. 'It's vital. I've only stopped because I felt I was losing concentration. Besides, I promised Inspector Perez that I would. Come along. I'll pour you some coffee, then we'll go upstairs!

He led Fran along a corridor at the top of the house to the room where Catherine must have slept. It was square, unnaturally tidy, except for files arranged in heaps on the bed. One of the drawers of a small filing cabinet was open and empty. A plain white blind covered the window and he was working in the light of an anglepoise desk lamp. Fran felt uncomfortable there. It made her think of a room in a private hospital. A mental hospital perhaps, where the doors would be locked.

'Do you mind?' She pulled up the blind and let in the cold morning light. There was a view down to the school and beyond to the bay. She could make out Mrs Henry through the schoolroom window, but the children were out of her line of sight.

She'd expected that he'd be going through the girl's clothes. This systematic search of her papers made no sense.

What did her school work matter now?

'What are you looking for?'

'The script to Catherine's film. At least, that was what I started looking for. It soon became clear that was missing too. She would have kept it with the disk, I think. She was a very organized young woman. Perhaps that was something I was able to teach her. The need for order. So anyone stealing the film would have taken the script too.

But there might have been notes, the scrap of an idea or a theme. Something which would point us in the right direction:

'I'm sorry,' Fran said. 'I don't quite understand: 'Catherine was making a film, a sort of project for school, a documentary:

'And you've lost the film?'

'No. Not lost. Definitely not that. The film has gone missing certainly. But it has been stolen. Not mislaid: 'How can you be sure?'

He looked up. 'I explained. She was an organized young woman. She never lost things. Certainly nothing as important to her as this. And the film has been wiped from her computer:

'Is it important?'

'Of course it's important. It provides a motive for her murder. It gives some sense to her death:

'You think Magnus Tait stole it?'

'Ah,' he said. 'Now you realize how important this is. It seems unlikely doesn't it? Possible perhaps that he stole the hard copy and the script. But I really can't see a man of his age and education wiping the material from her PC: Already his eyes had strayed back to the mound of paper arranged on the bed. She could tell that he was itching to get back to it. She thought if he was left here to go through it alone, he would lose all sense of perspective. And if she abandoned him, she would think about him all morning. It would be impossible to concentrate on the painting.

'Would you like me to help?'

'Would you?' He put his mug on the window sill and looked down at the bed. 'The police have just rung. The Bruces would like to visit. I suppose they’ll hope to catch some sense of their daughter here.

Especially if they've looked at her body, they'll need to be reminded of the girl she really was. I can understand that. But I don't want to be still working on this when they arrive.

You do understand? They think they know what happened to their child. Perhaps they're right. At least it must give them some peace. I'm planning to work through the files one drawer at a time.

I'm fairly sure the script isn't here. I looked for that last night. But I thought there might be something. Her original notes perhaps, something which might give us some sort of clue!

.

'Didn't she talk to you about it?'

'Not really in any detail. Not that I remember. I don't think I was a very good listener. Not after Liz died!

There was a silence broken by gulls calling outside. 'I think I'll sort the files out here,' he said, suddenly brisk and matter of fact. 'The project was only set in the second half of last term. Any work written earlier than that won't be relevant. The rest we can take downstairs and work on in more detail. Does that seem sensible?'

'Yes, very!

So they sat together on the narrow bed and went through the essays and the lesson notes, returning the early ones to the filing cabinet. It helped that Catherine had been meticulous. Every piece of work was dated. The rest they piled into a yellow plastic box, which Euan brought from a spare room and which might once have held her toys.

They were about to take it downstairs when the bell went in the school. Fran stood at the window for a moment and watched the children run out into the yard. She could see Cassie in her pink anorak. She seemed to stand alone, looking around her, then chased up to a pair of girls who were holding hands, and began to join in their game.

Chapter Thirty-Five

The yellow box stood in the centre of the kitchen table. Euan was filling the kettle, waiting for her to join him