‘Plus one who brought in a decent salary and had good prospects,’ Molly added cynically.

  ‘Aye, that as well,’ he agreed. ‘But, so what? Loads of women earn more than their partners nowadays.’

  Molly nodded absently. ‘Might do no harm to talk to some of Jake Richardson’s acting pals. Beginning with that agent.’

  The theatrical agency near St George’s Cross was situated up two flights of stairs in a renovated building that appeared to house a variety of artistic enterprises, including studio spaces. Sounds of voices filtered up the stairwell, punctuated by bursts of an electric guitar. The noise receded as the two detectives reached the dark green door with a brass plaque that proclaimed, D. D. MORGAN THEATRICAL AGENCY.

  There was a single bell push set into the doorframe that buzzed loudly when Davie Giles pressed his finger to it. They waited, listening for the sound of feet approaching, but several minutes passed, Davie pressing the bell repeatedly before Molly shrugged.

  ‘Must be out. We can come back another time, I suppose.’

  She had just turned away when a voice made her jump.

  ‘Looking for me?’ it said softly.

  Molly spun round to see a small, fat man standing in the doorway, his beady eyes fixed on them both as though he were sizing them up for a particular reason.

  ‘Mr Morgan?’

  ‘That’s right,’ the little man agreed with a slight inclination of his head. ‘You wished to see me?’ he glanced from one to the other then added, ‘No appointment, now I wonder why?’

  Molly and Davie’s warrant cards held aloft were answer enough.

  ‘Ah, the boys in blue,’ Morgan chuckled. ‘Well, well. To what do I owe this pleasure?’

  Molly sensed Davie’s questioning glance but did not take her eyes off the agent standing in front of them. He was what her father might have termed dapper, the three-piece tweed suit in a bold check of ochre and brown, polished brogues and lemon yellow shirt topped with a Paisley-pattern bow tie in shades of green and yellow. On any other person this ensemble might have attracted raised eyebrows but it was somehow in keeping with Morgan’s rosy cheeks and wispy white hair.

  ‘We want to talk to you about one of your actors, Jake Richardson,’ Molly replied at last.

  The little man merely blinked at them and nodded, as though he were accustomed to Police Scotland turning up on his doorstep.

  Molly resisted a smile, acknowledging to herself that Mr Morgan was either one very cool customer indeed or himself practised in the dramatic arts.

  ‘Entrez,’ he said with a sweeping gesture of his podgy hand, stepping aside to let the two detectives enter.

  ‘Welcome to my humble abode,’ he continued, closing the door and skipping nimbly ahead of them. ‘This way,’ he declared, pushing open a door and beckoning them forward.

  Molly entered a large room where the walls were completely covered with newspaper cuttings and bill-posters from years gone by. It was impossible not to stare at them as she entered, her eyes catching images of several well-known actors.

  ‘Are they all on your books, Mr Morgan?’ Davie asked, wide-eyed, as he pointed to a famous Scottish actor who had enjoyed a film and television career spanning several decades.

  The agent inclined his head. ‘All mine, dear boy, all mine,’ he told him, the smile on his face broadening as Davie responded with a quiet whistle of admiration.

  The room was certainly a testament to the man’s own success. But was it designed to impress or to intimidate those who entered? As she gazed around, Molly noticed an old chaise longue, upholstered in plum-coloured velvet, an antique desk complete with green shaded lamp and an old-fashioned Bakelite telephone. Floor-to-ceiling curtains in the same dark red material were swept back from the bay windows, fastened by golden tassels. It was like a stage set for a theatrical agent’s premises, Molly decided and silently applauded the man’s taste in décor.

  ‘Please, sit.’ Morgan was gesturing to them both, his shrewd eyes flitting from the rather overawed Davie to Molly, who met his glance with an amused smile. For a moment their eyes met and she perceived that slight nod of recognition as though he had read her thoughts and approved of them.

  ‘Would you like a small refreshment?’ Morgan asked coyly as Molly and Davie sat side by side on the chaise.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Molly answered for them both. ‘We’ll try not to take up too much of your time,’ she added, noticing the man had already pulled his high-backed captain’s chair from the desk and angled it so that he was sitting opposite them.

  ‘Now,’ he began, rubbing is hands together, ‘poor Jake Richardson. What can I tell you about the boy?’

  Molly felt her eyebrow begin to rise. Boy? At thirty-two, a similar age as the two victims, Jake Richardson was hardly that. She suppressed the desire to make a comment and pressed on with the main reason for their visit.

  ‘We are investigating the death of his fiancée, as I suppose you know,’ she began.

  ‘Ah, yes, the other girl in the park … ’ Morgan nodded, his clever eyes gleaming.

  He hadn’t needed to say much more, Molly realised, trying to keep her annoyance in check. The facts in the newspapers spoke for themselves: the daughter of a high court judge is murdered in similar circumstances to Carolyn Kane and suddenly the big guns of the MIT were pulled out to investigate both deaths.

  ‘Jake Richardson told us that he was waiting for a telephone call from you on the night that Carolyn died,’ Molly told him.

  ‘Yes, I am aware Jake told this to the police but I have to tell you that his wait was quite in vain. There was nothing I could tell him, you see.’ Morgan spread his hands wide.

  ‘He didn’t get the part he’d been hoping for?’ Davie put in.

  ‘I emailed him the following day. Before I knew about the tragic event,’ Morgan explained. ‘I only call clients when I have some good news for them,’ he added with a sigh. ‘Poor boy. He had so many expectations … ’

  Molly frowned slightly. ‘Expectations? You mean in his career?’

  Morgan paused for a moment, considering. ‘Jake is not as good an actor as he thinks,’ he said slowly. ‘Lovely voice, of course, which is why he makes a modest living from radio work and audio books. But his stage presence … ’ He lifted his hands and dropped them again with a sigh, as if to lament the actor’s deficiencies. ‘Hard to place, especially with so much competition,’ Morgan explained. ‘So much new young talent here. Our Conservatoire nurtures some of the best in the country,’ he added, lifting his chin as though he were somehow responsible for these successes. And, perhaps he was, Molly mused. A good agent would be essential in finding the right parts for actors in order to promote their careers. She glanced up at the walls again, the famous faces staring down at her.

  ‘He must have thought he’d got the part if he waited in for your call?’ Davie persisted.

  ‘That I cannot say.’ Morgan shook his head. ‘I suppose he is claiming that as his alibi?’

  ‘We cannot comment,’ Molly replied stiffly.

  ‘No, of course,’ Morgan nodded. ‘Poor Jake … ’

  ‘Has he gained any further work since Carolyn’s death?’ Molly asked.

  Morgan sat up a little straighter. ‘As a matter of fact, he has. A small but lucrative job. Television advert for a major insurance company,’ he said. ‘Goes out in the autumn. When car registrations change,’ he explained. ‘Catches the market, apparently,’ he added, examining his fingernails as though he were becoming bored by their questions.

  ‘Apart from his acting abilities, what sort of man would you say he is?’ Molly asked.

  Morgan gave her a smile. ‘Oh, vain, like so many of his kind, and desperate for an audience to applaud his sadly limited talents. But a charming boy for all that,’ he conceded. ‘I really don’t think he has much passion for anything other than seeing his name in lights. And,’ he added, his face suddenly serious, ‘I must tell you I have had a lot of experience with people like Jake Richardson. Many actors have passed through this room,’ he declared, waving a podgy hand towards the nearest wall. ‘I’ve seen them come and I’ve seen them go. I know what makes them tick, you see,’ he said, pursing his lips together. ‘However,’ he added, one finger raised aloft as though he were making a final dramatic statement, ‘I could not for one moment imagine that boy capable of murdering his fiancée.’

  ‘I believe him,’ Molly said as they buckled their seat belts and prepared to head back across the city. ‘And I think he’s probably a very good judge of people’s personalities, don’t you?’

  ‘Aye,’ Davie agreed. ‘Some character, though. Surely he’s been in the game himself?’

  Molly threw him a sideways smile. ‘Actually, no,’ she said. ‘I looked him up and according to what I read Morgan never trod the boards, though he came from a theatrical background. Both his parents were actors. He took over their management when he was still in his teens and opened the agency after they both retired.’

  ‘Right. So, what do the initials stand for? D. D. Morgan?’

  ‘Desmond Dylan,’ Molly replied with a laugh. ‘The mother played Shakespeare’s Desdemona and the father was famous for his recording of Dylan Thomas’s Under Milk Wood.’

  ‘Oh,’ came the reply and Molly resisted a grin, guessing that Davie Giles was not one for attending the theatre or reading poetry.

  She glanced behind her for a break in the traffic then moved off, knowing that he was probably still bemused by their visit, the agent and his premises a novelty to be shared once they were back in Helen Street. Molly Newton had never aspired to be one of the names on those walls despite her undoubted talents in that direction and the fun with amateur dramatics she had experienced as an undergraduate. She had enjoyed her university years studying English Lit and those same talents had been put to good use during her time as an undercover officer.

  Were they any further forward? She pondered the question as the lights changed to red, making her apply the brakes. Richardson still had no definite alibi for the night of Carolyn Kane’s death, only the suggestion from his agent that he was incapable of murder. But was that necessarily true? Lorimer would be looking for hard facts to substantiate any claims like this and, Molly told herself with clenched teeth, so far they had none to give him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The event might have been one of the smallest on the tour so far but Maggie felt a frisson of excitement nonetheless as she was shown to the seat behind a table, specially set up for her book signing. The day outside was bright and the open door let in wafts of sea air as more and more people trooped in to stand in the queue. If she’d been at home it would have been a perfect day to potter in the garden.

  Thoughts of the usual blitz of weeding that was being left to Flynn, their gardener, melted as Maggie took in the ever-increasing line of people waiting for the event to begin.

  Duncan, the bookshop proprietor, stepped forward and raised a hand.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, ‘please put your hands together for our next author, who is no stranger to Mull. Margaret Lorimer will be here for the next hour, so do take the time to have your books signed and the chance to have a blether with her. Thank you.’

  As Duncan stepped aside, warm applause broke out making Maggie blush with pleasure. It was true that they were frequent visitors, though one particular summer when their holiday had turned into a serious police investigation remained etched in her mind. Now she was here in a very different capacity, not as the wife of a senior investigating officer or as another tourist enjoying the sights but as a budding author!

  The space in Tackle and Books was too small to give any kind of talk, so Maggie lingered over each book that was thrust into her hands, taking time to speak to every child and adult who approached her. She could tell that some were locals, by their distinctive accents, and Maggie was delighted when she recognised a man from the Tobermory garage bringing his grandson to present her with a book.

  What was he? Nine, ten perhaps? A serious face below a thatch of red curls, his jeans tucked into black wellies and a hand-knitted Guernsey giving him the appearance of a small fisherman.

  ‘I like books,’ Calum avowed stoutly. ‘And my wee sister does an’ all,’ he added, shoving a small fair-haired child forward.

  ‘Just make the signature out to them both,’ their grandfather suggested. ‘To Calum and Phaime. Is that all right?’

  Maggie did as requested, checking the spelling of both names, just in case there was something she got wrong. She had already encountered both a Sheilagh and a Sheila at one signing and was on her guard.

  *

  The queue was so slow that at one point he almost lost his nerve and fled from the shop. But that would only make folk stare at him, he reasoned, and drawing attention was something he needed to avoid. The beard he’d bought looked pretty real and the tweed hat covered his own hair adequately enough. A pair of thick-rimmed spectacles completed his disguise, though one day soon he wanted to let her see him as the man he really was. As he waited, the future presented itself in his mind: he would be the quiet man behind her success, the one that was always waiting after these events. The current husband had only shown up for the first night in Glasgow. The man sniffed in disdain. If he were by this woman’s side then there was no way he’d be letting her go all over Scotland on her own. His eyes wandered towards the English woman standing just outside the doorway, phone jammed against her ear as usual. Probably talking business with these book people down south. Not taking any interest in her author right now. Or, he allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction, in the individuals in the queue.

  One by one she smiled at them, her head bent to write something in each book, a friendly handshake signalling every goodbye. He saw her smile, the heart-shaped face turned up to greet him as he stepped forward and presented his book, the copy turned to the correct page for signing. Her eyes were the colour of the waters out there on the bay, either blue or grey, he couldn’t be sure as she returned his gaze.

  ‘What would you like me to write?’ she asked him and for a second he was speechless. From Margaret with all my heart, he wanted to tell her, but the words stuck in his throat.

  ‘Just sign your name,’ he answered then gave a cough, hearing the hoarseness in his voice.

  ‘Giving it as a present?’ Maggie asked, her curls tilting to one side as she hazarded a guess from this stranger.

  ‘Aye,’ he replied, relief flooding through him as her suggestion gave him the cue he needed to leave.

  ‘Thank you for coming and buying a book,’ Maggie told him, offering her hand.

  For a tiny moment he hesitated then he took the hand and gave it a little squeeze. Did she understand what he was telling her? Was she feeling anything special from that lingering touch? Her smile gave nothing away, or did it? Could he read something more than friendliness in those sea-grey eyes?

  In seconds he was out of the door and walking briskly along the street, oblivious to any other pedestrians, that magic moment replaying in his mind, the feel of her skin against his, warming his blood.

  ‘Well, that was a success,’ Barbara, the shop assistant told her. ‘Can’t remember when we last had an author selling so many books in one day! Well done.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Maggie grinned, stretching her back and giving a small yawn. ‘I enjoyed that. A lot,’ she added, staring at the last of the folk from her queue disappearing out of the door.

  ‘Will there be a paperback later in the year?’ Barbara asked. ‘Only, we could have you back to sign stock before Christmas. If you had time to visit us again?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Maggie answered slowly. ‘I teach school during term time so it would have to be a weekend or during the October break. Ivy will know,’ she added, standing up and searching the shop for her PR.

  ‘The wee lady who was with you?’ Barbara asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s over the road. On her phone,’ Duncan’s colleague told her, with raised eyebrows and a look that seemed to express the opinion of Barbara’s generation that mobile phones had taken the place of ordinary civility. ‘Now, how about a cup of coffee? I know Duncan would love to have a chat before you leave and there’s just a few copies left … Would you mind signing them too?’

  Ivy had kept one eye on the people leaving the bookstore as she continued her conversation. Anybody watching might have noticed how she chewed her lower lip, as if something was on her mind. The bookshop owner appeared in the doorway gesturing with his hand and mouthing ‘cuppa’. Ivy shook her head, waving his offer away with her free hand. Let Margaret Lorimer linger there for a bit longer, Ivy decided. It gave her all the more time to firm up her plans with the person on the other end of the line, someone who would remain an unknown figure of intrigue while helping both Ivy and her author to sustain the public’s attention.

  ‘It’s not enough, you need to up your game. Are you sure you can do it?’ she snapped, turning towards the waters of Tobermory Bay, oblivious to the ebb and flow of the tide, the clinking sounds from boats at anchor or the sunlight licking the waves.

  Ivy nodded, her thin mouth turning up in an expression of satisfaction.

  ‘It’ll be worth your while,’ she added. ‘Speak to you once it’s done. Okay?’

  Then, not waiting for a reply, she slipped the phone into her pocket and leaned against the white-painted railing, breathing in the fresh sweet scent of the air, and smiling as though she were seeing the view across the harbour for the first time.

  There were flyers at each of their events and he had picked one up at every stop, her picture smiling out at him afresh. Now the latest one was stowed into his pocket, folded neatly so that there was no crease across Margaret Lorimer’s face. The man raised his high-definition field glasses to his eyes and gazed across the bay, his binoculars taking in a lot more than the famous view as he turned slowly from his vantage point at the end of the Old Pier. The PR woman was standing by herself now; he could see her leaning against the railing that separated Main Street from the waters below, the harbour wall reaching up only as far as the roadway. Any moment now, he told himself, concentrating the glasses on the open door of the bookshop.