Skinner's ghosts

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The woman walked, at a steady unhurried pace, down the middle of the village road.

She was wearing the wig and gown of one of Her Majesty's Counsel, a formal, enveloping uniform which served to emphasise, rather than mask, her advanced years. She was smal, and birdlike in her features, with a few grey whiskers sprouting among her wrinkles; clearly, she was very old.

Yet for all that, she walked straight-backed and steadily in front of the hearse, and its burden, as she led it down the main street, down the short distance from the great grey castellated house toAberlady's churchyard, and to the grave which awaited. As she approached, in the doorway of the church a lone piper played a lament.

'Who is she?' asked Pamela Masters.

Beside her, at the wheel of the white BMW as they sat at the head of the queue of waiting traffic, Deputy Chief Constable Bob Skinner smiled.

'Don't you know, Sergeant?' He paused. 'But then I don't suppose you would. It's been a long time since even I've seen her in action.

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