Skinner's Round by Quintin Jardine Page B

which had been a talking point for years. Then he began to prepare their evening meal, slicing the vegetables and fresh white fish which were to be the ingredients of their stir-fry. As he worked, he heard a sound outside the back door; looking over his shoulder he saw a familiar visitor: a huge cat, with black coat, white chest and paw, and right ear torn by many territorial disputes. They had christened him Rag, although they knew from his sleek, healthy coat, and his red collar, with its green magnetic key attached, that somewhere he had another name, and another family.
    Bob trimmed the skin from a piece of fish and put it on a plate with some scraps. He opened the door and laid it in front of the purring cat. 'There, fella. I'll bet you smelled that from the other side of the Green. That's your lot for tonight, though. Maybe there'll be fish at home as well.'
    When he closed the door behind him Sarah was in the kitchen, at work with the wok.
    They ate at the glass table in their conservatory, enjoying the last warmth of the evening sun, and washing down their stir-fry and noodles with a bottle of Frascati, complementary to the lemon grass which was an essential ingredient of the dish. Jazz was on the floor between them strapped, nappy-less, into a plastic chair, and gnawing happily on a teething ring. In the garden outside, the black-and-white cat watched them reproachfully through the glass. When they were finished, Bob cleared away the dishes and brought a steaming cafetiere. While Sarah depressed the plunger, Bob left the room once more, returning with the plastic enclosed letter to the editor of the Scotsman.

    `This is Andy's note,' he said, handing it across the table. Sarah took it, and as she read, her forehead wrinkled and a puzzled look came into her eyes.
    `Cranks,' she said, as Jazz began to signal his readiness for his last feed of the day. She handed the letter back across the table, then took the baby from his chair. Cradling him in her right arm, she pulled up her sweatshirt and presented him with the object of his earnest desire.
    Bob looked again at the letter. 'You're probably right. It's just that there's something about it that won't go away.'
    ` By the blade . . .' said Sarah. 'Sounds sort of witchy, doesn't it?'
    He stared out of the window at the red sunset sky. 'Wait a minute,' he said, but to himself.
    When he turned back to face her, the look on his face was one that she had seen before, a look of recollection, but mixed with something else, something which, in anyone else, she would have taken for apprehension. `Back in a minute.'
    When he emerged from the hall Sarah had carried Jazz into the living room. They were seated in a corner of the long sofa, the child still feeding, but cradled now in his mother's left arm. Bob sat down beside them. His expression had changed. It was wistful. Sarah glanced at the dusty folder which he carried and knew the reason at once.
    The cover bore the title, hand-printed, 'East Lothian Project,' and the name, 'Myra Skinner, Primary VI, Longniddry Primary School.'
    Not long before Myra was killed,' he said, softly, 'the school researched a history of East Lothian. It was a project for the Queen's Silver Jubilee, I think. The teachers and kids all pitched in and each class did a different period. Myra's lot drew the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Eventually the whole thing was typed up and published, but these are Myra's notes and tapes. I found them in a cupboard after she died. I was going to give them to the school, but I never got round to it. They've been up in the attic for the last fifteen years.
    Ì remember one tape she played me at the time. It was a wee girl telling a family story, and it was something else. Let me see if I can find it.' He opened the folder. There were two tape cassettes inside in plastic boxes, labelled 'Children's Stories', in a firm hand.
    Bob carried them across to the mini hi-fi unit which had replaced the equipment moved up