But that would make it all the more special when the opportunity came to have her on his own, something he planned to happen very soon.

  ‘Thank you so much, you were wonderful!’ Maggie exclaimed as the two women stepped off the stage amidst enthusiastic applause. It was dim backstage after the strong lights of the auditorium, everything dark against the black drapes, the smell of dust reminding Maggie what an old theatre this was. The older woman turned and smiled, tapping Maggie affectionately on the shoulder.

  ‘My dear, thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s a while since I heard such a rapturous reception from a local audience. They’ve seen me too often to turn out in force these days.’ She gave a short self-deprecating laugh. ‘That was all for you, Margaret.’

  Maggie blushed a little, unsure whether or not to accept the compliment.

  ‘I love your book,’ the woman added, moving aside to let the sound engineer removed her lapel microphone. ‘You’re a real talent, you know.’

  However, before Maggie had time to reply, her own microphone was unclipped, the grinning engineer coiling it up expertly and she was ushered towards a signing table where a queue of readers was already snaking around the theatre foyer.

  It was only natural that she should scan these faces, just in case. Maggie breathed a sigh of relief and turned to the first child in her queue, pushed forward by a smiling grandmother. Christopher Stevenson wouldn’t be so stupid as to show up at any more of her events, Bill had assured her. In fact, he’d be foolish to show his face anywhere near her ever again. Yet, despite these thoughts, Maggie gave a shudder, still wary about the man who had posed as her protector.

  He watched her as each new person stood ready, the book open in front of them. She hadn’t noticed him standing beside an older lady and her grandson, the proximity affording him the best form of disguise. He blended into this crowd well, the tweeds and hat the sort of gear one would expect to see in this part of the world.

  It wouldn’t be long now until he brought her home for good, this book nonsense over and done with. Then they could begin a life together, the way it was surely meant to be.

  ‘I’m sorry, too,’ Lorimer said, trying hard not to let the disappointment sound in his voice. ‘But it’s hardly unexpected.’

  ‘Take a few days off,’ the Deputy Chief Constable suggested. ‘Maybe you could catch up with that clever wife of yours,’ she added.

  Was that a chuckle he heard? Or was he imagining the woman’s expression as she spoke?

  ‘Right,’ he agreed. ‘We would normally be up in Mull at this time of year. Thanks for calling.’

  Lorimer put down the telephone, looking at it intently. Few people had their ex-directory landline number, mainly Police Scotland personnel and close friends. DCC Caroline Flint was fast becoming a good friend, however, he decided. And her tone suggested that he might not sit on his hands while DCI Cameron took over the murder case, didn’t it? He gave a wintry smile. She was no fool, the woman who had been promoted from down south to Police Scotland’s second most senior post. And she knew him well enough by now to guess that he would be doing his bit behind the scenes, if only to protect Maggie from any more unwanted attention.

  Still, expected or not, it was a blow to be taken off the investigation, but a conflict of interest like this could jeopardise the entire case. Legal loopholes sought by any cunning defence lawyer (and there were a few of those in Scotland) might result in the perpetrator getting away with his heinous crimes.

  He sighed and sat back on the stairs, pondering what to do with his time. Maggie was in Dumfries tonight and tomorrow would be heading back up through Ayrshire before her final event in Newton Mearns. He’d get there early, Lorimer decided, and listen to her reading from the book. Then they could go out for a meal and a celebratory drink, perhaps.

  He stood up and headed into the long open-plan room that began as a study area then doubled as a dining room with a few comfy chairs arranged around the fireplace. The kitchen beyond was separated by a long breakfast bar and Lorimer stopped there to fish a tumbler out of a wall cupboard. The Laphroaig was already on the counter and he poured a good measure into the glass, topping it up with a mere splash of water. Well, he wasn’t going anywhere tonight, he sighed, leaning against the angle of the counter and staring into the darkness. Outside the sky was inky blue, clouds covering any trace of moon or stars. Was the frost past, then? Would tomorrow bring a warmer day, letting him stroll around the garden? The thought reminded him that Flynn, their gardener, was due tomorrow and Lorimer gave a crooked smile, thinking of the former drug addict whose life had been so changed by his involvement in a murder case. Joseph Alexander Flynn had been a good friend since those days, always happy to housesit and care for Chancer when the Lorimers took off on holiday.

  He drained the glass, enjoying the final swallow, a smooth burning sensation in his throat. The germ of an idea was forming, an idea that included Flynn, if he was willing to cooperate. Perhaps, he told himself, there would be no need to wait another two days to see Maggie after all.

  It was something she had been dreading, Maggie told herself, but it had to be done. The woman had been unusually silent on their way back to the hotel and Maggie wondered if Ivy Thornton had guessed what was coming. She glanced across at the woman, noticing the podgy hands gripping the steering wheel. For a moment she reminded her of one of her fourth-year pupils, a large girl named Morven who had always seemed to be munching on a bag of crisps as she waddled along the corridor at Muirpark. One could pity the girl for being overweight but Morven was a known bully, her size something she used to good effect in playground brawls. Had Ivy been like that as a child? And as an adult had she manipulated other people, intimidating them by the force of her personality and promises of nice hotels and top-class restaurants? She ought to feel disgust for the woman who had deceived her so thoughtlessly, but Maggie suddenly felt something quite different as she took in the woman’s profile.

  She’d talked to Morven often enough, sorry for the pupil and wanting to help, but nothing she’d said had made any apparent difference. She’d watched as the girl looked away, bored by the teacher’s attempts to change her attitude, her jaws working, always chewing on something.

  What was Ivy’s life like back in London? There was no loving husband waiting for her or any significant other, just a job she tried to milk for all it was worth and an expense account she could enjoy at different locations around the country. It seemed such an empty life compared to Maggie’s own and for a moment she wanted to reach out and touch the woman’s hand, expressing the sympathy that welled up in her heart.

  They stepped out of the car into the darkness of the hotel car park, gravel crunching beneath their feet. Maggie shivered, pulling her coat around her neck. It was cold down here in the south of Scotland and there was a bitter wind blowing in from the Atlantic.

  ‘Right,’ Ivy said, locking the car and turning towards the entrance. ‘Off to bed for me.’

  Maggie stepped beside her and, as they approached the front door and the beam of light from within, she caught hold of Ivy’s arm. ‘We need to talk first,’ she said quietly. ‘And I think you know what I want to say,’ she added.

  There was a moment’s silence as Ivy’s eyes met her own and Maggie saw a flicker of uncertainty.

  ‘Your room or mine?’ Maggie persisted.

  The frown she was given confirmed Maggie’s suspicions. Ivy stopped and she could hear a long, drawn-out sigh. ‘Okay. My room,’ Ivy said, refusing now to look Maggie in the eye. ‘I can smoke with the window open,’ she added, a tone of resignation in her gravelly voice.

  Maggie didn’t take her coat off when they entered Ivy’s room but stood with her back to the door, determined to remain standing, instinctively seeking a semblance of authority. How often had she looked down at recalcitrant pupils, giving them advice about their behaviour? This wasn’t so very different, she mused, seeing the smaller woman thrusting her coat on to the bed and immediately fishing in her handbag for the pack of cigarettes.

  ‘I know what you’ve been doing since the start of the tour,’ Maggie began. ‘I have a friend who spoke to his publisher, Simon Haggerty, about you. Simon did some digging and came up with the name Paul Fellows.’

  Ivy froze, the cigarette halfway to her lips. Maggie saw the colour leach from the woman’s cheeks. She opened her mouth to speak but no sound came out.

  ‘Paul told us everything,’ Maggie continued. ‘How he had managed to send these text messages, make that horrible call … all at your request,’ she added sternly. ‘Why? Why did you pretend there was a stalker when a real case was ongoing, Ivy? Didn’t you think that it would be dangerous?’

  The woman turned away, head bent. Maggie watched as she began to cry. Tears had often been shed by kids in a last-ditch attempt to appeal to Maggie’s soft side but she was wise to these tactics and didn’t believe in them any more now than she had on previous occasions.

  ‘You’ve been using me for your own ends, haven’t you?’ Maggie went on. ‘Fuelling a fake story about me having a stalker just so that you might engender more publicity.’

  Ivy looked up, her tear-stained face suddenly defiant. ‘Well, it worked out all right for you, didn’t it?’ she snapped. ‘You’ve been all over the papers, thanks to me,’ she declared. ‘If I hadn’t worked so hard for you there would be no major coverage in the big weekend supplements or invitations to Edinburgh, would there?’

  Maggie felt indignation rising in her throat. Lucy Jukes had arranged the Edinburgh Festival event, not Ivy, and the reviews for Gibby had come from a variety of children’s authors and reviewers as well as the constant praise from readers. The words of the author who had shared her platform earlier that evening came back to her and Maggie drew herself up before fixing her eyes on Ivy Thornton.

  ‘Don’t you dare try to justify what you’ve done!’ she exclaimed. ‘Not only did you try to frighten the living daylights out of me but you may have hampered a real, ongoing police investigation!’

  Ivy’s jaw dropped at that.

  ‘Yes,’ Maggie continued. ‘You’ve been a very stupid woman, Ivy. And, let me tell you, you’re not the only person who has helped me these past few months. I’ve got a very supportive editor who will be furious to hear what you’ve been up to and my agent will never allow you to represent her authors again.’

  ‘I … ’ Ivy began, but she closed her mouth as Maggie glared at her.

  ‘As for what you think you’ve done to promote me as an author … let’s just see how my book does on its own merit,’ she declared. ‘There will certainly be no need for you to hang about after the tour is finished. In fact, my husband will be at Newton Mearns so you can disappear as soon as you drop me there.’

  Ivy gave Maggie a baleful stare but said nothing.

  ‘I’m off to my own room now,’ Maggie told her. ‘I think we can remain civil to one another for what remains of our association but I doubt very much if our paths will ever cross again after that.’

  Ivy met her gaze then looked away as Maggie left the room and closed the door firmly behind her.

  She sat there on the edge of the bed, trembling with rage. Damn Paul and his big mouth! Hadn’t she paid him sweetly enough for his services? What the hell would happen now? Would she lose all her clients? Would Maggie press charges, even? Ivy’s mind was full of unanswered questions and for a moment she was tempted to rush after Maggie and plead with her not to take things any further. But it was too late for that now, she thought bitterly, crushing the cigarette between her fingers, dry flakes of tobacco spilling on to the floor.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Niall Cameron had no ambition to rise above the level of DCI, a position he enjoyed especially in the MIT, but having been seconded to take over from Lorimer had given Eilidh, his wife, other thoughts.

  ‘You can do the job just as well as he can,’ she enthused, standing on tiptoe to straighten the knot in her husband’s tie. ‘This is just the chance you need to show them.’

  Niall removed her hand gently and encircled her slim waist. ‘I’m happy as I am, Eilidh,’ he murmured. ‘The salary is enough to keep us and more,’ he added with a frown. Was she beginning to yearn for a better lifestyle than the one he had provided for them? Her job as a nurse was fulfilling though sometimes left her pretty exhausted after a twelve-hour shift and recently she had dropped hints about wanting to cut back on her hours. Fine by me, he’d told her and it was true. With no children yet, their joint income gave them a lovely life together in their semi-detached house in Knightswood but perhaps Eilidh was looking to a future where she might give up work altogether? Niall let his hands run across the back of her fleecy dressing gown as he held her for a moment. His salary was easily sufficient to support them both, he reasoned. And, besides, what would he do if promotion came along? Leave the MIT and start again somewhere new? No, he decided, releasing his wife and planting a kiss on her neck. He was content to be doing this job and Eilidh must not hold out hopes he could not share.

  ‘I’ll be late home every night,’ he warned. ‘There’s a wheen of paperwork as well as organising where we go next in the case,’ he told her. ‘Just as well Lorimer and I have been in this together from the start of the whole thing,’ he added, almost to himself.

  Eilidh simply gave him a look and shook her head. ‘Know your trouble, Niall Cameron? You don’t value yourself highly enough,’ she protested.

  ‘Well, maybe that’s not a fault,’ he replied mildly. ‘I’ve seen what can happen to some over-ambitious cops. And not all of them stay happily married to lovely wee wives like you,’ he said, giving her a wink.

  ‘Right, I’m off. See you when I see you.’ And he raised his hand in a wave as Eilidh stood on the doorstep, clutching her dressing gown around her.

  It was early enough for the traffic to be reasonable driving across the city and he reached Helen Street before the end of the six-thirty news bulletin. For once there was no mention of a murder victim and he breathed a sigh of relief as the weather lady began to forecast the rain and sleet that was coming their way. Lord Donovan’s daughter had taken up a lot of air space as well as columns in the papers, then the story of Maggie Lorimer’s involvement with a possible stalker had hit the headlines. However, it was the Edinburgh murder and the man whose DNA had been found linking it to the women in Glasgow that had changed the whole tenor of the case. Niall was certain that they were gaining ground now and that it was simply a matter of time before they located this creature. A pity they were on the right tracks just when Lorimer had been ordered to pull out. He sighed, turning the car into its usual parking space. Still, he’d keep him informed each step of the way as he’d promised.

  Professor Dawson’s expertise had been invaluable, Niall thought as he pointed the key fob at the car and watched the double flash on the headlights. Finding the burial site with Celia Gemmell’s decomposed body had given the team a new impetus and the area was already being investigated by several officers. The woodlands had proved to be a source of interest, the ground a mixture of saplings and garden plants run wild. The remains of a former dwelling house. It had reminded Niall of some of the old hamlets back home, outlines of grey stone and rubble buried in acres of bracken, places where folk had once thrived before those times when economic forces had driven so many of the people away from his island.

  He had a little time to scan the day’s headlines, though the radio had given him the main news en route to the Govan HQ, then DCI Cameron would pick up where his boss and former mentor had left off. Straightening his back, he stepped briskly towards the entrance, a spring in his step that had nothing to do with the earlier conversation with his wife but everything to do with finding the man whose image was now pinned on the walls of every police office in the country. His first decision, Niall realised, was whether to make this public or to follow Lorimer’s advice and not risk driving the fellow further from their grasp.

  Meantime he felt he owed it to the former fiancé of Carolyn Kane to let him know that he was no longer a suspect.

  Jake Richardson sat listening to the gentle tones of the man from the MIT, who was explaining why he no longer needed to fear being a person of interest to the police. They had DNA evidence that eliminated him from any further suspicion, DCI Cameron said.

  Jake Richardson began to weep, real tears silently coursing down his cheeks. ‘I never thought … I … ’ he began. ‘It was so much my fault … ’

  Niall Cameron gave him a frown. ‘What was your fault? Are you still beating yourself up because you didn’t walk Carolyn home? It was hardly pitch dark,’ Cameron said, ‘and she was a grown woman, not a little kid.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ Richardson said and sighed. ‘I never told your lot the whole story.’ He bit his lip. ‘Carolyn broke it off with me that night,’ he whispered. ‘I was devastated, even though I’d seen it coming for weeks. She knew I wasn’t the steadiest of catches,’ he admitted. ‘And she was right. I was too wrapped up in my own career, I suppose. Never took enough time to plan stuff with her, you know. Like moving in together … ’

  Cameron listened to the man’s sighs. It made sense that Richardson had not revealed this lest he become the police’s prime suspect. But had he told other lies, concealed other facts?

  ‘What about Patricia Donovan?’ he asked.

  Richardson shook his head. ‘We had a fling, that was all. Met her one night backstage at the Citizens Theatre. She’d seen my name on the programme and wanted to go for a drink. Old time’s sake, and all that. Guess I was flattered. Anyway, she came back here and … well, one thing led to another. You know how it is,’ he protested, as though such behaviour was normal for any man who’d already made a commitment to another woman. Cameron kept his face impassive. No, he thought, I don’t know. He’d been faithful to Eilidh all through their courtship and could not imagine himself ever lusting after any other woman.