He made a face as he wrote. It was a shame if she was involved in this stalking business and whether it was true or just a ploy to keep the public’s attention, he felt a little guilty to be the one that drew their attention back to her in this way.

  Martin ran a hand across his head, the scar still there though his hair had long grown over these terrible wounds. He owed Lorimer his life, he thought, the feeling of betrayal rising again. Then he shrugged. If he didn’t write it then someone else would and at least he could rack up the sympathy angle, make her appear like a helpless woman in jeopardy. That was so far from how he remembered her, he told himself, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Margaret Lorimer had been funny, laughing at the daft stories he’d told about other, more pretentious authors and then sharing a few of her own anecdotes about life in the classroom. He’d found her good company and had left the house afterwards envious of the policeman who had such a lovely woman in his life.

  Still, this was a job and he’d make the best of it. The editor would be pleased to have first dibs on the story too, Martin told himself, his jaw hardening as he continued to write the words that would appear in tomorrow’s edition.

  *

  Aberdeen, the Granite City. Maggie looked around her, noticing that even here, on the outskirts, terrace after terrace of residential homes were built from the solid grey stone that gave the city its name. It was somewhere she and Bill had never visited together, their holiday preferences taking them mostly to the west coast. Police Scotland covered the entire country now and so her husband had visited many parts, Aberdeen included. A church spire pierced the pale blue afternoon sky and Maggie let her imagination take her up and up into the cold air where Gibby might be floating, looking down on the grey city below. What would he see? Gulls swooping towards the harbour? The North Sea waves dashing against the rocky shores? She no longer saw the streets narrowing or the traffic slowing them down, her thoughts far away now as the next chapter formed in her mind.

  Ivy glanced at the woman beside her. What was Margaret Lorimer thinking? There was no sign of strain in the woman’s face; instead there was a half smile as though she were deep in thought. Her silence was restful, though, Ivy had to admit. She’d had other authors that never stopped talking, her head aching by the time a journey ended, their event still to come.

  The traffic lights turned to red, forcing her to stop and wait, thinking ahead to where she could park for less than an hour in the city. Perhaps she ought not to have spent so much time shopping back in Elgin, Ivy thought. It was already past the lunchtime rush and they still needed to drive to Dundee before their bookshop closed. At last they were on the move again and she breathed a sigh of relief as Union Street came into view.

  Maggie felt as if she had seen the same high street over and over again, except the voices of people around her were entirely different. There was no sign of the sea though a chilly wind crept under her coat collar as they hurried back to where Ivy had parked her car. It had been a quick in-and-out of the shop, books piled on a counter for her to sign, Ivy refusing the offer of a coffee.

  ‘We’ll have to be quick in the next place, too,’ Ivy told her, taking Maggie’s arm and propelling her along the street. ‘The parking’s a nightmare in Dundee.’

  Maggie just nodded, Ivy’s experience in this job making her compliant. She gave a rueful smile, however, as Ivy dashed her along. The idea of touring city to city had sounded quite glamorous but the reality was turning out to be rather different, with little time to explore each place. Dundee, with its famous new art gallery, was a city she wanted to see, Maggie thought with a pang of regret. There had been so much in the news about the V&A built along by the harbour but she’d be lucky to catch even a glimpse of the celebrated building.

  Aberdeen was soon just a memory of grey walls and a brisk wind along its main street as they headed further south, the road hugging the coastline for a while, Maggie staring out at the choppy waters of the North Sea.

  She even failed to notice the silver car in their wake, oblivious to everything but the view from the passenger window.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  St Andrews was a breath of fresh air after the hours spent on the road. Their first sight of the North Sea was a haze of pale grey, the suggestion of a shimmer as the road dipped towards the coast, a faraway cluster of buildings hugging the land. Maggie lowered the window a little, savouring the rush of cold air with its hint of woodsmoke from a nearby cottage. A look of annoyance from Ivy made her raise it again, though the woman at the wheel could not see her smile as Maggie turned to stare out of the window. The country road rose and fell, several corners making Ivy slow down and then the trees on one side gave way to farmland and the promise of habitations ahead. A sign for the hotel made Ivy give a sigh of relief. ‘Here at last,’ she declared. ‘The best one of the tour,’ she added, a triumphant grin on her face.

  Rufflets was a country house hotel on the outskirts of the town, close enough for them to drive easily to the appointments on the itinerary but tucked away in its own expansive grounds, a haven for those wishing to get away from the bustle of everyday life.

  Maggie looked around as Ivy checked them in. There was a sense of age here, though the carpets were clearly quite new and the décor up-to-date. It felt, Maggie mused, as if it had once been somebody’s home and she almost expected to see the owner stroll into the reception area, one hand outstretched to welcome them. However, it was only a young man in a crisp white shirt and black waistcoat that took their bags and led them upstairs, chatting to Ivy about their journey, fitting the key in Maggie’s room before ushering her inside.

  The room looked on to a large ornamental garden that stretched down into woodland, the pinks and reds of azaleas reminding Maggie of her own garden back home.

  ‘If there is anything you need, do not hesitate to call us,’ the young man was saying as he left her bag on the luggage stand. ‘Enjoy your stay with us.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Maggie smiled, watching him leave to attend to Ivy whose room was somewhere along the same corridor. She stood at the window, a sudden feeling of happiness that for a little while she would be cossetted here in this delightful place. Her eyes flicked over the room and came to rest on the vast bed, its soft green coverings and matching cushions a taste of luxury. Then she grinned and flopped down, grasping the small teddy bear that had been placed in the middle of the pillows. A gesture of homeliness that made Maggie glad that Ivy had chosen to stay here. She certainly picked the nicest hotels, Maggie thought with gratitude. Ivy had been a little put out by Margaret Lorimer’s insistence that they make a detour to include Tackle and Books in Tobermory, taking a different route from the one Ivy normally preferred. Still, the publicist seemed to have been quite taken with the Hebridean island, perhaps she was paying Maggie back with this lovely country house hotel.

  There was time before dinner to explore and Maggie sprung from the bed, heading for her case and rummaging inside till she found her binoculars. Then, buttoning her thick coat, she slipped out of the room, locking it carefully and thrusting the large key into the bottom of her pocket.

  Outside she saw an older couple strolling back from a walk around the garden. As they drew closer Maggie noted the gentleman’s walking stick and the woman’s gloved hands clutching his arm protectively.

  ‘Lovely day,’ she called out and they nodded and smiled as she watched them pass through the French doors into the house.

  A narrow path took her through the garden and down a few stone steps to a bridge that spanned a swift-moving burn. Looking down into the dark brown water Maggie saw only the constant motion of trailing weeds by its banks, any fish hiding in the shadows. She walked across and suddenly saw that the grass ahead was a swathe of yellow daffodils, their scent catching her breath. Wordsworth’s famous lines came into her mind at the sight,

  Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

  Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

  There was no lake here but there was a sense of movement all right as the flowers swayed together in the wind, dancers all in time with one another.

  Maggie stood stock still, another movement catching her eye. Out from the trees it appeared, walking steadily through the long grass, oblivious as yet to the woman standing there. A small deer, its bright flanks freckled with darker spots, tiny horns protruding from its velvety head. Then it stopped, nose quivering, scenting the unfamiliar presence. Maggie watched, scarcely daring to breathe as the deer turned its head and seemed to stare right at her. For a moment they regarded one another, wild creature in its own habitat, the silent woman the intruder. Maggie saw its ears flicker as it watched her. Then, lowering his head, the deer began to crop the grass, apparently unafraid of the human standing at a distance.

  Maggie slowly raised the binoculars to her eyes and gave a sigh as the deer was brought into focus, its spotted coat russet against the deep grasses, tiny hooves hardly discernible as it moved along.

  Suddenly a blackbird’s warning cry made the creature raise its head and in one bound it was gone, into the safety of the trees.

  She blinked but the place was empty now save for the dancing daffodils and a flock of pigeons wheeling overhead.

  For a moment she shivered, looking into the trees.

  Was that the shadow of a person stood watching her?

  Maggie froze.

  Then the shadow moved and she saw it for what it really was: a sapling moved by the wind. Every little thing was making her jumpy, she thought, thrusting her hands into her coat pockets. A decent drink, that was what she needed, and the comfort of firelight.

  Turning, Maggie made her way back, choosing a different track of beaten earth that led around the perimeter of the grounds then up more steps until she approached the upper gardens with their topiary shrubs lining the stony pathway. Ivy had promised cocktails by the open fire before dinner, Maggie reminded herself, a little reward for their toil. But she knew that the encounter with the deer would be a highlight of this visit, something she would save to take home for Bill.

  Ivy put down the phone with a smile. All her plans were bearing fruit. This weekend there would be an extra feature on Margaret Lorimer’s book, the public more curious than ever about the author whose husband was involved in murder, she herself the possible victim of a stalker. Maggie’s publisher was delighted with the news that the nationals had taken the bait and had promised Ivy that this time next month she would be accompanying a well-known American writer on his British tour, the best hotels for them both. The MD’s praise still rang in Ivy’s ears though his final words had caused her a momentary pause.

  Don’t know how you do it, Ivy, he had remarked, his tone less flattering than curious. If he should ever find out … ? Ivy wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly shivering. No one would know. The deed was done and it just remained for the results to emerge. Margaret Lorimer would always think it was the work of some silly schoolboys and by the time this particular author went back to her day job, Ivy would be far away, leaving no trace to incriminate herself.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The newspapers were always spread out on his desk first thing. Joe Riley, the Press Officer, ensured that the senior officers had a handle on what was being printed in the media, just one more thing to take up the beginning of the detective superintendent’s day. Riley pursed his lips as he fanned out the papers, well aware of the furore that would ensue once Lorimer saw the article. He’d stuck a yellow Post-it note on top of the Gazette so that it would be the first thing the boss turned to and now Joe hovered, uncertainly, wondering if he ought to add sorry to the foot of his handwritten note. He sighed. Lorimer’s wife had embarked on this literary career of hers and, though it was no fault of her own, she was now in the public eye for all to see. Really, there was not a lot he could do to stop this sort of thing.

  Martin Enderby. Joe frowned. The name was familiar but try as he might, he could not recall anything negative about the journalist. A quick Google search would bring it up, he decided, heading out of Lorimer’s room before the head of the MIT arrived to begin another morning’s work.

  ‘What the—’ Lorimer stopped himself uttering another word, too astounded to take in what he was reading.

  Police Chief’s Wife in Stalking Case

  A debut author might expect to garner plenty of new fans after the book launch but one thing Margaret Lorimer did not count on was being the victim of a stalking campaign. Sources close to the writer suggest that several anonymous calls and letters have been sent recently, intimidating Mrs Lorimer during her tour of Scottish bookshops with her publicist. However, the main threat to this popular English teacher appears to be her resemblance to the victims of recent killings, namely Patricia Donovan, daughter of high court judge, Lord Donovan, and accountant, Carolyn Kane.

  The sub-editor had inserted three small photographs at the side of the column and, though most readers would take a quick glance at this point in the narrative, Lorimer’s eyes had already feasted on them, dismay written clearly on his darkening features.

  So far we have been unable to speak to Mrs Lorimer but her publishers issued a statement to the effect that Police Scotland were aware of the problem and that the tour would continue as planned.

  Martin Enderby

  Lorimer opened his mouth then closed it again. Martin Enderby! His mind flew back in time to a chase across the grounds of Bellahouston Park, the police helicopter’s beaming spotlight catching the man that had slashed Enderby’s head and left him for dead. The journalist had disappeared from the radar ever since, though a quick internet search showed Lorimer that he had been freelancing for some time now. Lorimer picked up the paper again, letting a single sheet fall out where the press officer had placed it. Maggie’s face smiled out at him from the author interview that the Gazette had covered several weeks back and, sure enough, the journalist’s name was there for all to see: Martin Enderby. Why hadn’t he noticed that at the time? Maggie had read it aloud, excited by the article, and he had failed to reread it for himself, more pleased with the photograph and Maggie’s obvious delight than anything else.

  A sigh escaped him now. Had he been too busy to notice the byline on something featuring his own wife? A wave of shame warmed his face and neck. Yet, what was he supposed to do? He’d taken her out for a champagne dinner, bought her flowers and made a fuss. But you didn’t read the article carefully enough, did you? Lorimer told himself. Anyway, the fact that Enderby had been in their home had passed him by at the time. Should he be worried? If anything, Enderby ought to remember the name Lorimer with gratitude. But journos were all cut from the same cloth, he thought bitterly. They could be very helpful during a major case if it suited them but equally obstructive if it didn’t.

  First things first, Lorimer decided, picking up his mobile then laying it down again with a sigh as he glanced at the clock. She’d promised to call him at seven a.m. from their hotel in St Andrews and there were still a few minutes to wait. Keep the phone switched off, he’d warned her. Not that he needed to; Maggie was well aware of the need to limit calls to her mobile after what had happened.

  He picked up the double-page spread once more, rereading the fulsome words from Enderby, saying how lovely his wife was and quoting several phrases from Maggie herself. Anybody would have written the same: Maggie’s generosity and good humour were undeniable. It was a good feature, he thought grudgingly, no wonder if it had attracted unwanted attention. Lorimer’s mouth drew into a thin line, thinking about Martin Enderby, the man he’d saved from that killer so many years ago. To turn around now and write this second piece, linking Maggie to a stalker. It felt a bit like a betrayal.

  He read it again, putting himself in the mindset of a person who wanted to find a woman who looked just like Maggie, a woman who resembled two others that were already dead.

  ‘We don’t have the manpower to hedge her about with security,’ Lorimer told Niall Cameron. ‘Besides, it’s the school holidays and Maggie reckons it’s probably kids having a laugh. We’d look like fools if we made too much of this,’ he added. Not to mention seeming to favour my own wife, the thought remaining unspoken between them.

  ‘You might like to see this,’ Cameron said at last, handing his boss a printout. ‘Missing women and girls over the past two years. Prof. Brightman’s suggestion.’

  Lorimer raised his eyebrows. ‘Been doing a spot of overtime?’

  Cameron grinned. ‘Eilidh’s on nights just now so I stayed on late and this is what I came up with.’

  Lorimer screwed up his eyes as he looked down the list of missing women and their most recent photographs.

  ‘That one, there.’ Cameron pointed at the black-and-white image of a dark-haired woman that looked as if it had been taken in a photo booth, possibly for a passport as there was no smile and the subject was facing directly towards the camera.

  ‘Mother reported her missing a week after she failed to turn up at work.’

  ‘What did she do?’

  ‘School kitchen assistant,’ Cameron replied. ‘Seems she had an erratic work attendance there so nobody was very surprised when she didn’t turn up after the school holidays. Mother hadn’t been used to seeing her too often. Thought she might have headed down to London since she had friends there but apparently nobody had seen her there either.’