Billy shook his head. ‘Unfortunately not. They’re still searching the surrounding area, but there’s nothing like that in the building.’
In the end, it was Joe who said what Holly was thinking. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t see how this takes us much further forward.’
‘Because I’ll bet my pension that there were other prints in the place,’ Vera said. ‘The lass didn’t go there for quiet contemplation and to further her art. And if we can find out who fathered her child, we’ll have a decent idea who killed her.’ She turned back to the CSI. ‘I am right, aren’t I? You did find other prints?’
Billy gave a little bow. ‘Of course you’re right, Vera. We all know you’re always right. There was one other set of prints all over the place. We haven’t got a match yet, though.’
‘Well, in the morning we’ll invite all the men involved in the case to give us their fingerprints. And then we’ll have these murders cracked.’
There was a cheer. Holly couldn’t bring herself to join in. Most of the men in the community could have had reason to go to the cottage over the years. No way would a case based on a flimsy coincidence stand up in court. Vera might well be right that they’d get a suspect from her discovery today, but she’d need more evidence than some fingerprints in a derelict cottage to prove their guilt. And Holly still thought they should keep an open mind about the gender of the killer. This was a community of strong women, and one of them might have been provoked so far that she could contemplate committing murder.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
VERA DROVE SLOWLY INLAND TOWARDS THE hills. She needed time to think and to process her reaction to the news that young Thomas Falstone wasn’t a relation after all. She was alone in the world again, with no blood relations except Juliet, who was an adult and had no need of her. No obligations. She’d never liked kids and she should have been pleased.
Yet there’d been a sudden emptiness when Charlie had passed on the news that Lorna couldn’t have been Crispin’s daughter. Vera had found the idea that she could be a guardian angel for Thomas, at a distance of course, and a mentor as he got older, strangely appealing. She understood the Falstones, liked their reticence and she admired their determination to carry on with their lives without wallowing in self-pity. She’d hoped that they might have become family of a sort too.
She pulled into the track that led to Broom Farm and parked the Land Rover. When she opened the door, the wind was northerly cold. No moon and no stars. Low cloud shut out the lights from Kirkhill. Inside the farmhouse, the couple must be in the kitchen, because there was a bright square marking the uncurtained window. Vera checked the time. It was nearly eight o’clock. Perhaps the bairn would already be in bed and she could talk to the couple without distraction.
Vera knocked at the door and pushed it open without waiting for an answer. Jill and Robert were just finishing a meal at the kitchen table, watching the old television mounted on a shelf in the corner as they ate. A plastic container on the bench showed they were eating a microwaved lasagne. She thought how different they were from the Heslop family. In Home Farm there’d be laughter and silly chat, a home-cooked dinner.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Vera said, ‘but I’ve got some news. I thought you’d want to hear it from me.’
‘You know who killed Lorna?’ Robert reached out for the remote control and turned off the TV.
Vera shook her head. ‘But I don’t think we’ll be long now.’ She paused. ‘This is about your lass.’
They stared at her, waiting. Neither spoke.
Vera looked at Robert. ‘She was your lass. Your daughter. We took DNA from Juliet Stanhope and they weren’t related.’
She wasn’t sure what she was expecting. Tears, perhaps, joy, anger at all the years of uncertainty. She’d have been angry. Lorna might not have starved herself nearly to death if it hadn’t been for the rumours, the cruel jeers from the teenagers who should have been her friends.
But in the end, there was a moment of silence as the couple looked at each other. Robert reached out and took his wife’s hand. ‘She always was my lass. It was other people who had the problem with that.’
Vera waited while Jill cleared the plates and put on the kettle.
‘Did Lorna ever show you her paintings?’ The three were all sitting at the table now, mugs of tea in front of them.
Jill shook her head. ‘I knew Connie Browne persuaded her to go to the class, but I never saw what she did there.’
‘Josh Heslop taught the group. I told you before that, he and Lorna had become good friends. Apparently they’d become very close.’
‘Oh, that’s lovely! I always hoped she’d make friends in the village.’ Jill’s face lit up. ‘Friends of her own age at last. I know she was close to Miss Browne, but that’s not the same, is it?’
Vera thought about that for a moment and had the whisper of an idea. ‘She never talked about Josh to you?’
Jill shook her head. Robert reached out again and took her hand. This time he didn’t let go.
‘She did lots of paintings of one particular building, a little house in the woods not far from the big house at Brockburn. Is it somewhere she might have gone as a child?’
The couple looked blank.
‘I think at one time it might have been part of a mill,’ Vera persisted.
‘I’ve heard of it,’ Robert said. ‘Jinny’s Mill. But I’ve never been there and I don’t remember Lorna talking about it. She didn’t stray much from the farm when she was younger, except for the riding.’
Vera nodded to show she understood. ‘Maybe she took to exploring more when
