And who better to give him information than the murdered boy's brother? The utmost tact would be called for, but he was a past master at conducting such revealing interviews without a hint that there was anything like murder involved. 'Tell them there's been a murder or a serious crime and at once they'll close up like coffin lids,' he once warned his colleagues at Edinburgh's Central Office. To Inga he said, 'Yes, I should like to pay my condolences.' The tiny garden attached to the smithy was neat and tidy, much more feminine than he had imagined, until he realised it had been cherished by Inga's green fingers for some years past. Bees hummed over the herb garden and the perfume of sweet-smelling herbs threw him into a confusion of memories. Thyme he recognised from his childhood, green sage and basil. Closing the gate, Inga broke off a strand of rosemary and handed it to him. A gesture from a summer long past, and twenty years slipped into oblivion as if they had never been apart. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the herb's heady fragrance, twirling it between his fingers.
