What if that man was innocent?
The thought made Hart’s stomach clench. He’d always prided himself on objectivity, on letting the evidence speak for itself. But evidence could be misinterpreted. Science wasn’t infallible, and neither were scientists.
He needed to be sure. Certain before he did anything with this information.
Hart spent the next hour documenting everything. He photographed the photographs, noting the discrepancies. He wrote his observations meticulously, comparing them to his original autopsy report. He cross-referenced with his case notes, the literature and every similar case in his files.
By the time he finished, the grandfather clock was chimingseven. Darkness had fallen completely over Burntisland, the street outside quiet save for the occasional passing car.
The evidence was circumstantial but compelling. The secondary ligature marks suggested something more complex than the simple domestic homicide McGregor had been convicted of. At minimum, it warranted a review. At worst, it represented a catastrophic failure of forensic investigation – his failure.
Hart sat back in his chair, suddenly exhausted. He was retired, and his reputation was built on decades of meticulous work. What would happen if he came forward with this? Would anyone listen to an old man second-guessing himself fifteen years later? Would it make any difference?
The doorbell rang, interrupting his thoughts.
Hart glanced at his watch – quarter past seven. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Perhaps Mrs Donnelly from next door, bringing round another casserole. Or a courier with a parcel too large for the letter box.
He made his way slowly to the front door, his joints stiff from sitting so long. He could make out a tall figure silhouetted against the street light through the frosted glass panel.
Hart opened the door, and recognition sparked immediately.
‘Good evening, professor,’ the man said with a warm smile. ‘I do apologise for calling so late.’
‘Not at all,’ Hart replied, genuinely pleased. ‘What a surprise. Please, come in out of the cold.’
The man stepped inside, stamping his feet politely on the mat. He was well dressed, as always – dark trousers, a quality wool coat, leather gloves. Hart noticed that his hair was greying at the temples now, but he still had that same air of quiet competence that had impressed Hart years ago.
‘Can I offer you something? Tea? I’m afraid the house is a mess – I’ve been sorting through old files all day.’
‘Actually, I brought something with me.’ The man reached into the leather satchel he carried. ‘I thought you might appreciate this.’ He produced a bottle of single malt whisky, an expensive brand Hart recognised but rarely bought for himself. ‘I remembered your preference from the last time we worked together.’
Hart smiled, touched by the thoughtfulness. ‘That’s very kind of you. Come to the sitting room – it’s warmer than the study.’
He led the way, gesturing for his guest to sit in the armchair by the fireplace while he fetched glasses from the kitchen. When he returned, the man had made himself comfortable, the bottle already open on the side table.
‘So,’ Hart said, settling into his own chair with a slight groan, ‘this is a pleasant surprise. How is life treating you?’
‘Pretty well, actually. How’s retirement?’ The man poured generous measures into both glasses.
‘Not the same as working. I miss the people, especially since my wife is gone.’
‘What are you up to these days?’ the visitor said. ‘Golf? Chess?’
Hart laughed. ‘Nothing much. Except looking through old cases I’d worked on. Though I’m not sure my work was always as thorough as it should have been.’ Hart took a sip of the whisky – smooth and peaty, really quite excellent. ‘Actually, I’ve been reviewing some old cases today. The Kirkland murder, 2007. Do you remember it?’
‘Rebecca Kirkland.’ The man’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his dark eyes. ‘Yes, I remember. The boyfriend was convicted.’
‘Thomas McGregor. Twenty-five years.’ Hart took another sip, feeling the warmth spread through his chest. ‘I’ve been looking at the autopsy photographs again. There are some inconsistencies I didn’t notice at the time. Secondary ligature marks that suggest the strangulation might have been more complex than we originally thought.’
‘How interesting.’ The man leaned forward slightly. ‘What sort of inconsistencies?’
Hart found himself explaining, his scientific training taking over despite a growing sense that something wasn’t quite right. The room seemed warmer than it should be, and the edges of his vision had started to blur slightly. Perhaps he was more tired than he’d realised.
‘The angle of the marks,’ he continued, his tongue feeling thick. ‘They suggest two separate applications of force, at different times. Which would mean…’ He paused, struggling to organise his thoughts. ‘Which would mean McGregor might not have killed her. Might have found her dead, just as he claimed.’
‘And what do you plan to do with this information?’ The man’s voice was calm, almost gentle.
‘Report it, of course. Request a review. If I made an error…’ Hart tried to stand but found his legs wouldn’t cooperate. The glass slipped from his fingers, tumbling to the carpet. ‘What…’
