‘Were you ever there?’ Lorimer asked.

  Richardson shook his head. ‘No, but she was one of the few who did have a place to go back to, a family, I mean. There were one or two others from London who still stayed at home, but most of us came from outside.’

  Lorimer noted his emphasis on the word. Had Richardson found it hard to fit in with his southern counterparts? Had he resented the Scottish girl’s ability to make friends and become popular?

  ‘Did you like her?’

  Richardson glared suddenly. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just that. Did you like the person she was back then?’

  Richardson nodded. ‘Everyone did,’ he said at last. ‘Okay, she was a bit flash, but she worked as hard as the rest of us even if she wasn’t ever going to make the headlines … Oh, God.’ He put his head into his hands. ‘I didn’t mean that … what a crass thing to say … ’

  ‘I think it is pretty well known that Patricia Donovan’s acting skills were average rather than exceptional,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘So, you remember her as a hard-working drama student who made friends easily?’

  Richardson nodded again. ‘That’s about it. You know she dropped out after the first year?’

  ‘We do,’ Lorimer acknowledged. ‘And did you ever meet up with her after that?’

  ‘What are you asking me?’ Richardson scowled. ‘Did we date, that sort of thing? Not then and not after she’d left, I can assure you.’

  ‘You liked dating pretty girls, though, surely?’

  Richardson narrowed his eyes but said nothing in reply.

  ‘A good-looking young man, enjoying the capital, lots of keen students around … I imagine you had loads of opportunities for romantic encounters?’

  ‘You can imagine what you like,’ Richardson growled. ‘Only time I ever saw Trish again was at a party. She was with some big shot or other. If she saw me there she never looked my way.’ He shook his head, the muscles on his face tightening.

  ‘How did that make you feel?’ A voice from the corner made Richardson start as though he had forgotten the presence of the professor.

  Richardson shrugged. ‘I was with a girl, can’t remember her name, and we were dancing. Trish wandered past with this fellow and I remember staring at her, willing her to turn round and say hello. So … ’ He made a face. ‘I suppose I was a bit miffed that she didn’t. Too hoity-toity by then to remember a mere actor.’

  He looked from Lorimer to Solly and then nodded as though understanding something for the first time.

  ‘You’re not just trying to see what Trish was like back then, are you? This is to see if I had any motive for her murder. Dear God! What are you people like?’ He half rose from his seat, raking his hair again.

  ‘It was a long time to hold a grudge.’ Lorimer smiled. ‘I very much doubt that you were nursing your wrath to keep it warm for all those years,’ he added, quoting the famous phrase from ‘Tam o’ Shanter’.

  Richardson sat down again. ‘Well, why are you here?’ he asked, a whine in his voice.

  ‘Any link between Carolyn and Patricia has to be investigated thoroughly,’ Lorimer said calmly. ‘And this was one such link.’

  Richardson took a deep breath. ‘I see.’ He nodded then lowered his gaze. ‘Well, I’m sorry that I can’t help you any more. I never saw Trish Donovan again except on the TV and in the papers. Can’t say I really felt much about her life.’ He sighed. ‘But I was sorry that she’d died in such a horrible way,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t suppose I’ll ever get over losing Carolyn like that and I guess Trish has left family and friends behind who are going through it all like I did.’

  ‘Some of what he’s telling us is the truth,’ Solly murmured when they were back in the car.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘He’s certainly good at acting the part of the bereaved fiancé, if that is an act, but he wasn’t so good at playing the outraged citizen, was he?’ he chuckled.

  ‘His memory of Patricia was interesting. He called her Trish. Do you suppose that was how she was known back then? To her friends and fellow students?’

  ‘Could be. It’s Patricia Donovan on her Equity card,’ Lorimer told him. ‘Her parents refer to her as Tricia or Patricia. Most parents use their children’s full names; it’s their chums who shorten them at school, usually.’

  ‘Were you ever called Billy?’ Solly ventured.

  ‘Never. It was always William or Bill. Don’t know why. Mum and Dad always called me William then kids at school shortened it to Bill. Nowadays it would be Will, I think.’

  ‘Let’s find out if her friends called her Trish,’ Solly murmured thoughtfully. ‘Or if that was a term of endearment Jake Richardson used. Maybe they were more than just friends back then, eh?’

  ‘One thing we mustn’t lose sight of,’ Lorimer reminded Solly as he fastened his seat belt, ‘Richardson’s fiancée bore a startling resemblance to Patricia Donovan.’

  ‘You think he chose Carolyn because she reminded him of a former lover?’

  Lorimer raised his eyebrows and gave Solly a meaningful look. ‘It’s something to consider, isn’t it?’

  Jake Richardson watched as the big silver car eased out of the parking space and stopped by the entrance to Pollokshaws Road. His eyes followed it when a break in traffic allowed it to merge into the stream and head back towards the city centre. He swallowed hard, feeling the dryness in his mouth. It had been like all those times he had walked on to a lonely stage, sweat pouring beneath a costume, nerves stretched to breaking point as he’d uttered lines rehearsed over and over again.

  When the car was finally out of sight, he strode back into the room and bent down to open a sideboard door. The bottle of whisky was cold against his clammy fist and his hand shook as he poured a measure into the glass that had been pushed to one side as he’d shown the two policemen into his front room. The amber liquid burned his throat but he tilted the glass until he’d swallowed the lot. A huge sigh escaped as he stood there. If Carolyn had been alive, she would have been there to hold him, tell him he’d done well …

  A renegade tear escaped from his eye and Richardson dashed at it fiercely with one knuckled fist. For a moment he tried to conjure up the memory of the gentle girl he’d tried to hold in his arms that final evening.

  But all that came to mind was the image of Trish Donovan’s laughing face as he’d bent to fold her in his embrace.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘That was a super night,’ Ivy remarked as they turned the corner and headed uphill out of Oban. ‘Yes, and a lovely meal too,’ Maggie agreed. Duncan had invited them both for dinner at his home on the outskirts of Tobermory before a crowd of locals had arrived there for their monthly book group meeting, chaired by Duncan’s wife, a cheerful rosy-cheeked woman.

  ‘What did you say that fish was?’ Ivy asked.

  ‘Tobermory trout. Smoked trout. It’s from their own shop. Mrs Swinbanks runs that part of the family business. You should look out for it in London,’ Maggie told her, ‘I’m told all the best restaurants order it from her.’

  Ivy nodded. ‘You sold every one of the books, too,’ she added. ‘Everyone back down south is going to be very pleased about that. Sales are doing brilliantly for a first week, by the way.’ She threw Maggie a sidelong smile.

  ‘I can still hardly believe it,’ Maggie murmured. ‘It doesn’t seem real. Margaret Lorimer, author, and Mrs Lorimer from Muirpark Secondary School. It’s like we’re two different people.’

  ‘You said that to the press bloke from the Gazette,’ Ivy recalled. ‘But I bet this time next year you’ll be so used to it that you won’t give it a second thought.’

  Maggie pushed her hair behind her ears and sighed happily. ‘I need to find time to finish the next book,’ she said. ‘I’d planned to write most of it over the summer. Bill just takes a couple of weeks off. When he can,’ she said, making a face. ‘Sometimes work really interferes with our plans. Crime never takes a holiday,’ she added quietly.

  ‘Don’t you find that hard? Being married to a senior policeman, I mean?’

  ‘Oh, it’s had its ups and downs,’ Maggie replied vaguely, turning to stare out of the window, a clear hint that she was not going to be drawn on any details of her married life. She was content with her man and, if there had been times in the past when life had proved difficult, well, didn’t all couples have rough patches? Being childless was probably one of their lasting regrets but in the Lorimers’ case it had only drawn the couple closer over the years.

  Maggie twisted her hair and tucked it into a knot.

  ‘Why d’you do that?’ Ivy asked sharply.

  ‘Oh, just to get it off my face. I wear it up at school most days. But sometimes I wonder if I should get it cut short. After all, I’m not exactly a spring chicken any more.’

  ‘Don’t be daft!’ Ivy remonstrated. ‘You look far younger than your years. Anyone looking at your author pic would take you for thirty. Honest,’ she stressed. ‘Besides, think of all those publicity shots our photographer took. Mustn’t let them go to waste!’ she insisted firmly.

  ‘Och, I suppose you’re right. Anyway,’ she smiled a little smile, ‘Bill likes my hair long. Even though it might be a bit old-fashioned.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Ivy said brusquely. ‘Think of the Duchess of Cambridge. She’s kept hers lovely and long. Just like yours!’

  Maggie’s smile broadened. She was becoming used to Ivy’s flattery, though she still didn’t take it too seriously.

  Ivy breathed out a silent sigh of relief. If Margaret Lorimer changed her hairstyle, all her carefully laid plans would come to naught. Hopefully she would let it drop, but if there was any more talk of cutting that hair, Ivy would just have to remind her what it had cost the publishers to have these photographs taken. As a new author, still a bit overawed by the whole thing, she was definitely the type to feel guilty at incurring anybody an unnecessary cost.

  The road was quiet as they drove through the little village of Connel, the foaming river by the roadside making Ivy glance across for a moment. Tonight they would be in another bookshop, further north, where she had a little surprise in wait for her companion.

  She hadn’t come! He stood by the railings of the car ferry, a frown drawing down his brows. All night long he had endured the noise of the ceilidh band, sweaty bodies whirling past him as he drank his pints of beer, his beard itching, one eye always on the open doorway of the hall, in expectation of her arrival. Why had she let him down? Hadn’t she sensed that he would be there waiting for her? After all, as their eyes had met in that bookstore yesterday, there had been a promise of sorts … hadn’t there? He scowled as a gannet flew by, its wings outstretched. All night he had stayed there until the crowd had merged into an untidy circle for ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and he had stumbled out of the hall into the darkness.

  He remembered the water full of lights, dazzling his eyes and making him turn away, staggering a little as he’d made his way to the guest house and a lonely bed. He’d been so sure of her! Yet now, in the blinding daylight, he feared that she was as bad as the rest of them. Untrustworthy, a bitter little voice in his head insisted. An image darkened his thoughts as he stood gripping the handrail: a mound of turf beaten into the earth close to the very spot where he had been betrayed. Yet he must learn to bury that memory as he had buried the body of another treacherous woman. That bitch had only ever wanted money out of him.

  No, an inner voice insisted, she wasn’t like the others at all. Margaret was kind, loving … there must have been a good reason why she had missed the dance … after all, he hadn’t known if she really was going to be there, had he? his own reasonable self argued.

  Just like the others, the words came to his lips and for a moment he looked left and right, wondering if he had spoken them aloud.

  He would find her again easily enough, though. The flyer in his jacket pocket gave details of every stop on her tour. And, somehow, he knew there had to be a way to make her see him for what he was: her lover-to-be, her destiny, her fate …

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘Thank you so much,’ Maggie gave another bow and a wave towards the audience, the applause and cheers making her grin with pleasure.

  Ivy beckoned from the wings and, giving a final wave, Maggie strolled off the platform and was shepherded by the theatre manager down a flight of stairs, along a narrow well-lit corridor and out into the foyer where a table had been set up.

  The signing queue was much longer than any event to date, including the Glasgow launch, and Maggie suspected from the numbers of children that there had been school parties in the audience, not every Scottish council having the same two-week break that she had. Ivy had hinted that feelers were going out to the education authorities to see if they wanted to take the book for their schools, a thought that thrilled her. Maybe some day she might teach children who had read her stories in primary school?

  ‘Just a signature, please,’ a voice requested and Maggie smiled and nodded, her neat hand penning the words, Best wishes, Margaret Lorimer.

  ‘Thanks.’ The man gave a nod and disappeared, but Maggie’s eyes followed him for a moment. Hadn’t she seen him before somewhere? Or did he just remind her of another bearded man who had attended a different event? She frowned then looked up to se the next person in the queue, the incident already forgotten.

  The man reflected in the window grinned back at him. He’d finally done it! She had looked into his eyes and given him a knowing smile. Surely there had been something behind that look? Something that words alone could not express? His heart sang with a peculiar joy as he clutched the parcel to his chest, the slim volume inside ready to join the others. What would she say when the time came to be together? Would she laugh at seeing all of those copies side by side on his bookshelf? But it would be a laugh of pleasure, not of scorn, not like those others who had sneered at his small offerings, rejecting them with disdain. No, Margaret wasn’t like that. He could tell. And so could the audience who had applauded her talk this afternoon, loving her natural manner and the way she spoke about her story as though the characters were real to her.

  If anyone could understand it would be Margaret.

  He swallowed down the sudden emotion threatening to make him choke. By this time next week they might be together … it only remained to find a way of getting rid of that clinging woman by her side. Somehow, he told himself, looking back over his shoulder, he would send the bitch packing back to London.

  As if she had sensed the venom in his gaze, Ivy looked up and scanned the crowds departing from the foyer, but her eyes did not fall upon the man sliding out of her view, collar up to hide his face. For a moment she frowned, then turned back to her task of opening each new copy of Maggie’s book for signing, a fixed smile on her face that gave nothing away.

  At last the final child had been given her book, the author heaving a sigh as she sank back in her seat.

  ‘Well, done,’ Ivy said briskly. ‘You’ve really got the hang of this so quickly, haven’t you?’

  ‘I’m used to kids,’ Maggie replied. ‘Though not ones quite so young as those.’

  Ivy nodded. She knew most of the English teacher’s life history: married to a senior cop, no kids (though not from want of trying, she’d learned) and a lover of the great outdoors. Perhaps, Ivy thought, as she shifted her bulk uncomfortably on the plastic chair, that was why the woman remained so slender and appeared far younger than her years. Ivy had stopped pretending long ago to be one of the young set that dominated the publishing world down south. Instead, she took what she could in the way of funding for these author trips, spending the publishers’ money on good food and the nicest accommodation she could find. Her petrol costs were probably higher than they should be, but Ivy liked this particular model with its heated front seats and plenty of space for her ample figure. However, all this could stop as easily as it had begun. Everyone was focused on streamlining the business, even Margaret Lorimer’s publisher, Ivy’s most loyal client. After the new CEO took the reins he had announced his intention to cut back on any dead wood (how she hated that phrase), insisting on examining each and every expense sheet and looking at ways to trim the budget. Ivy, who had long considered herself the freelance that everybody wanted (something she had dinned into the previous chair’s ear), was now faced with the possibility of being tossed out unless she could come up with a very good reason to make them keep her on their books.

  She glanced at the woman by her side as Maggie gathered up her dark brown coat and a plaid woollen scarf. If Ivy played her cards right, this woman might well be her passport to a better future. It was just a matter of keeping her head and turning things to her advantage. Okay, the schoolteacher might get a bit frightened in the process but, hey, becoming an overnight sensation with every literary festival in the country clamouring for her appearance would more than make up for that. And Ivy Thornton would be right by her side, indispensable to her for years to come.

  ‘Ready?’ Ivy asked, pausing as Maggie buttoned her coat then reached down for the smart leather bag that had rested by her feet during the signing session.

  ‘Yes, all set.’ Maggie smiled. ‘Where now?’

  Ivy began to walk along the corridor to the main exit, considering. ‘There’s a nice little restaurant I happen to know,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you’d like to go back to the hotel first, though, and freshen up?’ She looked at her watch as though to calculate something. ‘I can book for five-thirty and that would give us plenty of time before the library event,’ she explained. ‘Several book groups attending,’ Ivy added, noting the appreciative glances of the theatre staff as they headed for the main door.

  ‘Thanks for coming. You were great,’ one of the female staff called out.

  ‘She was, wasn’t she?’ Ivy replied, smiling her usual smile as a young man held open the heavy door for them.