Whatever had possessed that young man to attend several of her talks? Surely once would have been enough? Maggie recalled his earnest expression, that solemn, unsmiling face, and shuddered. Edwin Ramsay hadn’t been stalking her. He had simply found something special in her book and wanted to pluck up the courage to come and talk to its author. That was what the red-haired bookseller had told her. It wasn’t Maggie Lorimer that had interested him but Gibby, her ghost boy. Biting back a sudden rush of tears, Maggie hastened out of the garden centre and crossed the car park, hugging her coat around her. Poor, poor fellow. Was he a spirit now, somewhere? A ghost hovering like her imaginary character in a place where time meant nothing and they were no longer bound to the earth? Now the story seemed a small, shallow thing compared to the reality of this man’s death. What had once been an exciting adventure into the realm of fantasy fiction palled against this present tragedy.

  Maggie looked around, trying to remember where Ivy’s car was parked, and for a moment she felt a sense of disorientation, the exit from the garden centre further away from where she had last seen her companion. The place was crowded, not unexpected given that this was a school holiday, and she stopped for a moment to let an elderly man pass by, pushing his wife along in a wheelchair. There was a line of trees at the far end of the car park, that was where they had stopped, wasn’t it? Maggie began to hurry across, dodging between the rows of parked cars. Then she stopped, spotting Ivy pacing up and down beneath the trees, cigarette in one hand, mobile phone pressed to her ear. She slowed down, realising that Ivy would have the car keys in her pocket and she would need to wait until after the woman’s fag break to resume their journey. Ivy’s back was turned, her coat collar pulled up against the chill, so she did not see Maggie walking silently towards her and pausing for a moment, reluctant to disturb her conversation in case it was important.

  ‘She has no idea, I promise you,’ Ivy said aloud, flicking ash from her cigarette. ‘No. Not a clue. We’re quite safe.’

  Maggie stood still, holding her breath as she listened to the woman’s side of a conversation. Who had no idea? Why was Ivy safe? What on earth … ?

  The woman turned suddenly and Maggie read the shock in her face as she pulled the mobile from her ear.

  ‘Where on earth have you been?’ Ivy asked, shoving the phone deep into her pocket and retrieving the car keys. ‘You’ve been ages!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘There was a queue,’ Maggie faltered then began to follow Ivy across to where the car was parked, stunned by the woman’s aggressive tone.

  What on earth was all that about? Maggie asked herself as she pulled on the seat belt and listened to the car engine starting up. There was an uncomfortable silence as they set off, Maggie still stunned by Ivy’s change of manner and the expression on her face as she had turned to see her client. Had she known that Maggie had heard her? And, more to the point, was she the subject of Ivy’s conversation?

  Closing her eyes, Maggie feigned sleep but her mind was very much alert, the years of being a policeman’s wife making her look at the facts one by one and piece them all together.

  Ivy had been the one constant presence during the episodes when Maggie had been disturbed by some nasty person. She’d had Maggie’s number at every hotel stop, too. And the woman had been so insistent at exploiting the stalker situation, hadn’t she? What if … ? Maggie’s mind whirled with the possibilities. Had it been her publicity rep faking these calls all along? And was there someone else, the person to whom she had been talking back there? The man whose voice had seized Maggie with terror and disgust?

  Suddenly everything made sense. Had Ivy Thornton been playing her all this time? Ivy had chosen the nicest hotels, taken her for fancy meals, all the while lulling Maggie into a false sense of security as she plotted how to use her for her own personal gain.

  Maggie felt her fists clench in sudden fury. Confronting Ivy with this was pointless, however, and would only lead to an unpleasantness in their relationship, if not worse. She would have to come up with evidence, Maggie thought with dismay, realising for the first time that she really cared about her future as a children’s author and wondering if the steps she might take would end her burgeoning career.

  Lorimer was glad to see a light on in the main building of Bankbrae Primary School, its blue double doors still wide open. He crossed the playground and stepped into the reception vestibule. The glass partition where the school secretary probably had her office was closed over and the doors leading to the rest of the building were firmly shut. All schools had these safety features nowadays, Lorimer thought sadly, remembering his own schooldays when no fearful figures stalked their corridors armed with guns. The Dunblane massacre, though, had changed things for ever. He pressed a buzzer, hoping that might alert any staff to his presence. Sure enough, a figure dressed in a navy boiler suit came around the corner and stood, hands on hips, regarding him with a frown.

  ‘Hello, can I help you?’ the man asked.

  Lorimer saw an older man standing on the bottom step, looking up at him. His grizzled grey hair was slightly windblown and he put up a hand to smooth it across his head.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer,’ he said, bringing out his warrant card to show the man. ‘I was looking for Jack McCormick.’

  ‘Well, you’ve found him,’ the man replied, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. ‘Come on inside, it’s a bit cold out here tonight and I need to check the heating in the classrooms before I go home.’

  McCormick pressed a combination of numbers on the security keypad and the doors opened with a high-pitched tone.

  ‘Through here,’ he said, indicating that Lorimer should follow him.

  The janitor led the way along a maze of corridors and down two flights of stairs. He had a nice voice, Lorimer thought, instantly recalling Maggie’s remarks about her so-called guardian angel. McCormick was not far off the age or the description of the man who’d conned his wife.

  ‘Suppose you don’t get so many holidays as the teaching staff?’ Lorimer ventured.

  ‘Oh, I don’t do so badly,’ McCormick chuckled. ‘Took a few days away here and there. Like to drive about the country, you know. You can keep your Benidorms and all that. Scotland’s the best country in the world as far as I’m concerned.’

  He ushered Lorimer into a tiny room where there was a small table and two chairs with a kettle plugged into the wall, a shelf above lined with mismatched mugs.

  ‘Cuppa?’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do, thanks. Just a black coffee, no sugar,’ Lorimer replied, noticing a jar of instant beside a packet of tea bags.

  He watched the janitor busying himself with their drinks, remembering Maggie’s advice to keep on the side of a school janitor.

  ‘I’m here about Celia Gemmell,’ Lorimer told him.

  ‘Celia? Hm, that’s a name from the past I won’t forget in a hurry!’ McCormick exclaimed. ‘A right lot of trouble that one, if you ask me,’ he added. ‘What’s she done?’

  Lorimer did not answer at once. ‘Strikes me that everyone we’ve spoken to about Ms Gemmell expected her to have committed some crime. Why is that, do you think?’

  Jack McCormick scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘Well, sorry to say but Celia was a pushy sort of woman. Always making eyes at the fellas. Not my cup of tea at all,’ he added hastily.

  Too hastily? Lorimer wondered. Was this seemingly nice man hiding a secret? Did that pleasant voice and disarming smile conceal a different personality? He stifled a sigh as he accepted the mug of coffee, wondering for a moment if his judgement was being impaired by anxiety for his wife. McCormick seemed a decent chap though, Lorimer reminded himself, people were not always what they appeared. At the very least perhaps he could shed some light on the woman who had disappeared so suddenly the year before.

  It was becoming dark as Lorimer drove home, no wiser about Celia Gemmell than before. Like Gary, the janitor had been frank about the kitchen assistant and her flighty manner but by all accounts there wasn’t anyone at the school with whom she had been especially close. Unless, of course, one of them was lying.

  Solly laid his baby son gently into his cot, the little boy now asleep at last. Rosie had gone to bed early, exhausted, leaving him to read Abby’s story and tuck her in, something that he enjoyed each evening. Ben had taken longer to settle, however, and Solly had walked up and down, humming songs under his breath as the baby had fought against sleep. He tiptoed quietly away from the darkened bedroom, closing the door behind him then sighing deeply. Fatherhood was a marvellous thing but, oh, how tiring it could be! He sank into the worn leather chair by his desk, closing his eyes for a grateful moment. All quiet, he thought, smiling.

  The sudden ring of his mobile made him sit up abruptly and grab the phone to stop its intrusive sound.

  ‘Brightman!’ he announced, a little cross at the interruption to what had been a rare tranquil moment and anxious lest the noise had woken Ben.

  ‘Maggie? Is everything okay?’ He sat forwards, instantly recognising the anxiety in her voice.

  ‘I didn’t know who else to call. Oh, Solly, I think there’s something rather horrible going on,’ she told him.

  It had been an interesting conversation, Solly thought as he sat back in the chair, hands folded beneath his chin, pondering Maggie’s revelation. She suspected the Thornton woman of conspiring behind her back, setting up a fake stalker. It made sense, of course – he could see where Maggie was coming from – but the very idea of garnering cheap publicity at the expense of terrifying your own client appalled him. There were people the psychologist knew down in London, good reliable folk in the publishing world, who might dig a little deeper on his behalf, which was why Maggie had called him. His own publications had done rather well in recent years and Solly knew that he was a valued author to his publishing house. Children’s books were a far cry from psychology textbooks, of course, but he would call his editor in the morning and see what he could find out.

  *

  The sun had set behind the town square and all the street lights were on as Maggie and Ivy left the building in the centre of Hawick. There had been a good turn-out yet again, the new author’s reputation having preceded her. That was thanks to the extensive publicity, Maggie thought sourly as she followed Ivy to where she had parked the car, nothing to do with the book itself.

  ‘You’re very quiet tonight,’ Ivy remarked as they settled into the car. ‘Everything all right?’

  Maggie caught an anxious glance. Had Ivy cottoned on to her mood? Was she still wondering how much of that telephone conversation Maggie had heard?

  ‘To be honest,’ Maggie began, casting a sideways look and pausing to see what effect her words were having (a worried frown, a lip bitten … interesting …), ‘I’m feeling quite homesick.’ She watched the brow unfurrow, the exhalation of Ivy’s breath showing a sense of relief. Maggie smiled and gave a small laugh that was partly from having read the woman’s body language. ‘Don’t mind me,’ she said. ‘I’m such a home bird. Missing my man and wishing I was back at home. School will soon be on us and the holiday over,’ she said truthfully.

  Ivy nodded and then glanced behind her before moving out into the road and driving back to the hotel where they were to stay the night.

  ‘Thought you might be a bit fed up with my company,’ Ivy said huffily.

  ‘You’ve been great,’ Maggie assured her. ‘Everything so well organised. Lovely places to stay … ’ She sighed. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’ve loved doing this tour but ever since that horrible death in Edinburgh there hasn’t been the same urge to perform for an audience.’ She turned to catch Ivy’s eye. ‘Know what I mean?’

  Ivy nodded. ‘Horrible,’ she echoed, but Maggie thought the woman’s tone sounded a little insincere. Ivy Thornton would have been milking that dreadful incident for all it was worth in terms of publicity. A murder surely trumped a stalker? Maggie thought cynically, wondering just what tomorrow’s newspapers might contain.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  He lay in bed, the clean sheets cool beneath his sweating body. Soon it would be time to make his move, find his perfect woman at last and with her the future he had dreamed of for so long. The black-and-white picture had been cut out neatly and added to the others on his cork pinboard, her face smiling down at him now. With a sigh he blotted out the events of the past few days. Spring was just around the corner, despite the recent snowfalls across the country, and with it surely would come the blossoming of all his hopes?

  ‘Margaret,’ he said, the single word hanging in the air above him like a benediction. His hands would caress these tumbling dark curls one day, her smile widening as she looked back at him.

  He had waited so long to find her, blundering like a blind man in the dark, eliminating those others who had beguiled him with their pretty faces. That was all they had been, though one woman had been much more to him than a wrong choice. Celia had been a real threat to his happiness and so she had been sacrificed and buried far away from prying eyes.

  He gave a groan and turned on his side. He wouldn’t think about Celia any more, though the memory of her hands on his skin made him shiver with a guilty delight.

  ‘No!’ he cried out, hands around the edge of his pillow, pressing harder and harder as though the stuff beneath his fingers was a white neck …

  Gasping for breath he let go of the pillow and rolled on to his back once more. He would never let it happen again. This time he was certain of his choice. This time the woman would return his affection.

  His eyes softened as he looked at her image on the wall and saw that Margaret Lorimer was smiling back at him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  ‘Oh, Ivy. Yes, we know her,’ the man chuckled. ‘What’s she been up to now?’

  The professor stroked his beard and wondered how truthful he ought to be. ‘I think,’ he began slowly, ‘she may have set up a bogus stalker for one of her own authors.’

  There was a silence at the other end of the phone worthy of one of Solly’s own lengthy pauses for deliberation.

  ‘Care to expand on that, Solly? Sounds a little like something out of one of our thrillers, to be honest,’ Solly’s editor exclaimed.

  Solly spoke quietly but firmly, giving the man as much detail as the current police investigation allowed. At last he stopped for breath, allowing his editor to pass comment.

  ‘I can find out who that might be,’ the man said. ‘She has a few of the young guys in her pocket. My money would be on one of them. Let me ask around. Discreetly, of course. But from what you’re saying it seems as if Ms Thornton has been playing nasty little games with your friend. I don’t like it.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ Solly replied. ‘And it really isn’t helpful while a genuine murder investigation is being carried out.’

  ‘Young chap in Edinburgh?’

  ‘Mm,’ Solly replied, not wishing to enlighten the man any further.

  ‘We’ll get back to you, Solly,’ his editor promised. ‘It’s not such a big world down here in publishing, frankly. And I can ask questions of the right people.’

  Solly put down the phone and gazed out of his study window. Clouds were moving swiftly across the grey skies and he shivered, wondering if the snow that had covered The Meadows in Edinburgh was heading towards the west.

  DI Morrison lifted his office telephone and dialled the number for the MIT, his mouth a small, thin line. It was never a pleasant thing to have to hand over an investigation to another officer but in some ways he would be grateful to be shot of the case, he told himself.

  ‘Lorimer,’ the voice said crisply.

  ‘DI Morrison here, sir. I wanted to bring you up to speed with our latest forensic report. I’ve emailed it to you so you can look at it while we talk.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Lorimer replied and there was a short pause while Morrison imagined the detective superintendent scrolling up to his latest email from the Edinburgh office.

  ‘The DNA shows a match for the ones already on your database,’ Morrison said helpfully. He heard the intake of breath and wondered if the Glasgow cop was sitting back, astonished at what the new forensic evidence showed.

  ‘Same killer,’ he heard Lorimer mutter.

  ‘Looks like it,’ Morrison agreed. ‘There was sufficient trace evidence on Ramsay’s body to make a match. Despite the killer wearing gloves, enough sweat and saliva traces were picked up from Ramsay’s neck for analysis.’ He stopped for a moment, glad that the man from Glasgow could not see him draw a hand across his own brow. The image of a killer throttling that poor young man to death would stay in his mind for some time to come.

  ‘I expect you will want us to deliver the victim’s body to Glasgow City Mortuary, sir? The paperwork will all be sent electronically.’

  Another sigh was audible then Lorimer sniffed. ‘Aye, you’ve done the right thing, DI Morrison. And we’re grateful for the head start you’ve made on the case. This complicates our own double murder, of course,’ he added.

  Morrison nodded silently, wondering if part of the complication was that the detective superintendent’s wife was involved in this latest turn of events. But he was too shrewd to voice that thought. Decisions about Mrs Lorimer’s part in all of this would be made much higher up the chain of authority.

  ‘Thanks, again,’ Lorimer said. ‘I’d update you on things at this end, but we’re keeping some things very quiet for now.’

  Morrison put down the phone and leaned back in his chair. What was going on in the Glasgow detective’s mind right now? Lorimer had sounded calm enough but he had to be worried sick. He already had a double murderer who was probably stalking his wife and now Edwin Ramsay had been targeted for simply paying too much attention to her. What sort of monster was this? He gave a sigh. It was natural to be curious about how the officers at the MIT were going to track him down and for a moment he wished he could be part of their team and see it all unfold.