Eye of the Raven by Ken McClure

was going to be welcome on both accounts. He found a seat in the bay window of a hotel restaurant advertising all-day food and ordered scrambled eggs and bacon and a pot of coffee.
    ‘ We don’t do pots,’ the waitress informed him.
    ‘ Well, whatever you do,’ said Steven.
    ‘ Cup or a mug,’ said the waitress.
    ‘ A mug.’
    Steven looked out of the window while he waited and watched little groups of people in waterproof gear wander aimlessly up and down the main street of the village that promoted itself as Scotland’s premier ski resort. The colour of their jackets added brightness to the otherwise grey and depressing scene.
    The food when it came was lukewarm and soggy but when the waitress returned to ask in her automated way if ‘everything was alright’ for him, he simply nodded and said, ‘Fine.’ The truth was that he hadn’t expected any better – although he did wonder what excuse the UK tourist boards would offer this year for falling numbers. He didn’t think that lousy food and bad service would even make it to the starting line.
    Grantown-on-Spey struck Steven as one of these places where it was always Sunday. There were very few people about and it seemed almost as if a respectful silence was being observed. It had the kind of ambience that obliged people to speak in whispers. Yet when he looked more closely, shops and businesses did after all seem to be open. He asked at the post office for directions to Ptarmigan Cottage and was given clear instructions from a friendly woman who thought at first that he might be the Lees’ son. She seemed disappointed when he said that he was just a friend.
    Steven spent much of the two miles on the forest-track road leading to Ptarmigan Cottage hoping that nothing was coming the other way. There were so many twists and blind turns in it as it led up through dense pinewoods that the seeds for disaster seemed to be sown at every corner. He completed the journey without incident however, and found himself admiring the cottage and its environs when he finally got out the car. It was painted white and perched on the edge of a steep cliff with magnificent views down the River Spey in both directions. He could understand the attraction the place must have had for Lee when he’d moved there; the idea of living among so much natural beauty after spending such a large part of his professional life with ugliness and decay must have proved irresistible.
    He supposed that the cottage itself had probably started out as a home for estate workers but, like so many, it had been modernised and prettified – although not to an unacceptable degree – and sold off to incomers. Through the large picture window of the lounge, Steven saw a woman get out of her chair and come to the door.
    ‘ Can I help you?’ she asked in a well-educated voice but in a tone that questioned his being there.
    ‘ Mrs Lee? My name is Dunbar. I hate to intrude like this but I wonder if I might have a word with your husband?’ Steven showed her his ID.
    ‘ The Sci-Med Inspectorate,’ she read aloud. The formal smile faded from her face and suspicion took its place. ‘May I ask what this is about?’
    ‘ I’m looking into some aspects of an old case your husband was involved in, Mrs Lee. There are a few things I must ask him.’
    ‘ Ronnie retired more than eight years ago. That part of his life is over. There’s nothing he can tell you. All that stuff was in the past.’
    ‘ Stuff?’ asked Steven.
    Mrs Lee waved her hands in the air and said, ‘Pathology, dead bodies, police evidence, being called out at all hours, all that . . . unpleasantness.’
    ‘ Mrs Lee, I really would like to speak to your husband,’ said Steven plainly. ‘It is important.’
    ‘ My husband is not a well man, Dr Dunbar and I will not have him being upset. If there’s one thing guaranteed to upset him, it’s any allusion to his former career. He’s still very bitter about the way he was treated by these .