Smart girl, my Primavera, isn’t she. I glanced at my watch, which told me that I had known her now for over twenty-eight hours. A day and a bit. The longest day and a bit of my life, the most memorable, and even if we didn’t come through this whole business intact, the greatest. We were flying, Primavera Phillips and I, high on adrenalin, high on the thrill of the chase. And we were flying too, from a city where danger lived. More than likely we were quarry ourselves, in the eye of someone with the ruthlessness and the physical strength to ram that knife all the way up into wee Willie (or big Willie, if you want to look at it that way) Kane’s head. Now, I guessed, we had what that someone wanted, the key to a bank vault containing a serious amount of hot, and once it was moved on, untraceable money.

  ‘Why’s Dylan after the fiver in the first place?’ I said. ‘The boy Morrow was right. Technically he shouldn’t have let us take anything out of that house, in case it had an essential print on it or a piece of DNA. Maybe he’s embarrassed by that. But if he is, why stir the thing up? The best way for him to cover his tracks is just to forget about it.

  ‘Instead, he has Morrow ask us about the fiver. Yet he’s so keen to get it back that at the same time he takes the chance of breaking into the loft and turning it inside out.’

  She looked at me in astonishment. ‘You think Dylan did that?’

  ‘Aye, of course he did. Policemen know a thousand ways of opening lockfast places as quick as you like without making a mess. And whoever did the loft went through two locked doors, the one to the street and m ...’ I caught myself. ‘... ours,’ She smiled and squeezed my hand at the plural, ‘without leaving a mark. Point one, a real housebreaker would have gone straight through the door with a crowbar, point two, would not have been daft enough to try the street door in the daylight, and point three, would have had no way of knowing that the loft was empty. Last and finally, point four, straight after the break-in Dylan walks into Ali’s, just round the comer, and talks his way through the till. What’s the betting he’d just phoned young Morrow?’

  ‘Aghast’ is another of my favourite words, but I’d never seen anyone looking that way until Prim looked at me in the car. ‘But that’s desperate!’ she gasped. ‘Why would he do all that?’

  ‘Either because someone’s cut him in on the deal, or because someone’s put the fear of God into him over his career prospects if he doesn’t get the fiver back, having broken procedure by letting you take it from the flat.’

  ‘But who could do that?’

  I opened my mouth, the usual smart-arsed ‘Ah, my dear, that is the sixty-four dollar question!’ hanging on the edge of my tongue. And all at once I knew. I saw for certain who could put the fear of God in Mike Dylan. I saw too, that he was not a man to concern himself unduly with a trivial oversight. He didn’t want that fiver back as a point of principle. He wanted it for what it was. Oh no: whatever the incentive, it came to me that the threat that had shaken the creases out of Dylan’s Armani suit had issued straight from the mouth of the man who had killed Willie Kane. ‘Smart bastard, that Blackstone!’ you may be thinking, but I knew him all right, in that very moment, and for the first time since I had walked into Prim’s flat and discovered the befouled corpse on her bed, I was scared. Really scared for me, but absolutely terrified for Prim. Dylan I could cope with. Dylan was a clown, a slightly bent and mentally limited copper, but no threat. But this guy ...

  Prim was looking at me. Her aghastness had changed to expectation. My hands gripping the wheel as I turned towards the M8 junction, I smiled, sideways, the first and last insincere smile I’ve ever given her.

  ‘Ah, my dear,’ I said, ‘that is the sixty-four dollar question!’

  She laughed and punched my arm. ‘Oz, that’s my first disappointment. I thought you had an answer for everything!’

  In which the fourth most famous human on the planet buys us a drink.

  We made a deal that on the journey to Connell Ferry we would forget Dylan, torn fivers and the rest. The amazing thing was that just by being with each other we could do that. We chatted about nothings, funny experiences from our lives. We sketched in the broad facts of our previous love-lives, without either of us feeling any strange pangs.

  I filled Prim in on the basics of my relationship with Jan. She tutted in disapproval when I admitted that my last live-in had left after she found out that under the influence of a few bevvies, I had admitted to Ali that my nickname for her was ‘Tomorrow’. It was a cruel thing and I’m not proud of it. I didn’t have to spell out the punchline for Prim.

  A daft thought came to me as I drove along, casting off the shackles of prehistory. ‘All my past life now,’ I said grandly, ‘I’ll call BP, Before Primavera.’

  She laughed spontaneously, brightly, joyously, doubling over in the driver’s seat and holding her sides. ‘You can’t do that,’ she spluttered, ‘or all of mine will have been BO!’

  It wasn’t that funny, but tension made us laugh so hard, that I had to pull the car into a parking place. We sat there, our chests heaving from our mirth ... heaving very provocatively in Prim’s case, I have to say. Occasionally one of us would look at the other, and we would break out again. Eventually, I reached across and held her shoulders, and as I did a feeling came over me, as yet another emotional height was scaled. ‘In that case, my love, since acronyms are out, all my life till now has been Winter. I’ve spent it waiting for my Springtime, and now she’s here.’ I was only slightly surprised when I realised that Mr Lump was back in my throat.

  She looked at me and smiled. ‘You’re really laying it on the line, aren’t you,’ she whispered. ‘Just give me time. That’s all I ask.’

  After a while we drove on, heading towards the West, watching as the leafy countryside gave way to moorland, and as the surrounding hills grew into mountains. Eventually a salty tang came into the air and flooded the car through Prim’s open window.

  ‘God, but you don’t know how good the taste of this is, my dear, daft Oz, after twelve months of Africa. The heat, the poverty, the cruelty, the blood. I never ever want to go back to that place again.’

  ‘What, not even to minister to the sick?’ The old Oz was disappearing. There wasn’t a trace of irony in my question.

  I glanced across at her. She was sitting with her legs pulled up on the squab, grasping her neat ankles. She shook her head slowly and deliberately. ‘No way on Earth. I’ve hit the compassion wall too, just like my late pal. I left the hospice for a different world, and what I found was far, far worse. I can’t take it any more. Sister Phillips has hung up her starched bunnet for good and all.

  ‘Although I haven’t a clue what I’m going to do next!’

  ‘Don’t do anything, then. I can look after us both.’

  She flashed me a glance, suddenly sharp and serious. ‘Don’t even think that, far less say it. I’ll consider living with the right man, although that’s something I’ve never done before. But I’ll always want my identity, and working is part of it. What if you and I got together, and it wore off, or something? Where would I be?’

  ‘Primavera,’ I said, ‘when it wears off for me it’ll be because your zimmer keeps on blocking the stair up to the loft; and even then I’ll just rig up a pulley and haul you straight up to the balcony.’

  She took a hand from her ankles and rubbed it, gentle as silk over the back of my hand on the steering wheel. We drove on for a while, safe in our island away from the action, and the danger.

  ‘Where are we going to stay tonight?’ asked Prim.

  ‘That kind of depends on whether or not we find your sister, doesn’t it. Let’s play it by ear.’

  Connell Ferry’s a bit of a misnomer, because there’s a bridge there, a big iron single-track thing that was built in the days when, even north of Oban, the prospect of today’s traffic volumes would have looked like visions from one of H. G. Wells’ wilder efforts. We saw it well before we reached the village, and slowed up, looking for the Falls of Lora Hotel.

  It wasn’t hard to find. It’s a big building on the left, as you come into the village; once it was someone’s grand house, no doubt, but extended now, in a totally uncomplementary style. The car park looked as if it might have been a cowshed once, but now it was empty, save for a Land Rover with the Falls of Lora logo on its spare-wheel cover.

  I parked the Nissan under the curving roof, and jumped out. Prim took my arm, as we crunched along the gravel towards the entrance.

  The reception area was small, and empty. There was nothing fancy about it, just a dark-varnished counter in the shadow of the staircase, with a doorway leading off. Prim pushed the service bell, and after a few minutes a girl appeared, fresh-faced and not far out of her teens, wearing what looked like a waitress’s uniform.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, in a lovely island lilt. ‘Can I help you?’

  All at once my mind swam back to a night in the cocktail bar of another hotel, in St Andrews, with my Dad and his sailor pal Archie. The girl there was as fresh-faced as this one, with an accent as soft as mist, and as wild as heather. Archie said to her, ‘Where are you from, then?’

  ‘Tiree,’ the lass replied.

  ‘Ah,’ said the old salt. ‘They’ll have had to lasso you to get you over here, then!’

  Back in the present, Prim said, ‘I hope so. I’m looking for my sister. She’s with the film party, and I understand they’re booked in here. Have they arrived yet?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said the girl. ‘We’re expecting them any time now, though. Why don’t you wait in the bar. It’s just through there.’ She pointed along a narrow hallway to her left.

  ‘Okay.’ Prim took my hand and started off along the corridor, but I held her back, gently. ‘Suppose we wanted to stay tonight,’ I asked, ‘have you any room left?’

  The girl shook her head. ‘Sorry. The film party have booked the whole place.

  ‘But there are plenty of hotels down in Oban,’ she added, doing her best to please. ‘You’ll get booked in there all right.’

  We made our way through to the bar. It was a big room, square but for an alley off one comer, where a dartboard hung on the wall. A big open fireplace was set in its centre, topped by a copper flue which disappeared up into the roof. Prim took a seat in the corner, near the window. ‘What would you like to drink, love?’ I asked her.

  ‘Just a lime and soda. If they have any sandwiches, I wouldn’t mind one. It seems forever since lunch.’

  I pressed the service bell; after only a second or two, a door opened behind the bar, and the young receptionist appeared. ‘Jesus,’ I said, ‘they work you hard.’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Och, I like it. You get to meet all sorts of interesting people.’

  ‘Aye, I can imagine,’ I said. ‘A right wee metropolis Connell Ferry must be.’

  Prim and I sat together in the bar, munching thick crab sandwiches and looking northward out of the window, across the narrow mouth of Loch Etive, with the great Bens rising in the distance. ‘It’s amazing how insular people can be.’ She was speaking a thought aloud. ‘I’ve been to five European countries. I’ve straddled the equator. Yet here I am in Scotland in a place I’ve never seen before, in a different country to the one I thought I knew.’

  ‘You and me both,’ I said, slipping an arm around her waist. ‘You and me and thousands of our country-folk. Most central-belt Jocks get panic attacks as soon as they leave a built-up area. All this “Flower of Scotland” stuff is so much crap, you know. Our nation is like everywhere else in the world, a collection of tribes and villages, each one holding on to its own and living in suspicion and fear of its neighbours.’

  ‘That’s very profound, Osbert.’

  I sipped my Coke and smiled, a touch self-consciously. ‘The mask slips occasionally. Just don’t tell anyone.’

  She smiled and kissed my cheek. ‘I promise. The serious Oz is someone I’ll keep to myself.’

  As she spoke, the door from the corridor creaked open, and in the same moment, the receptionist-barmaid-waitress appeared behind the beer-taps without being summoned by bell.

  We recognised him at once, as soon as he stepped into the room. Miles Grayson was an impressive guy on screen. But I knew he had to be forty-something, and I had a cynical view of what he would look like close-up, once the make-up was stripped away. Come to think of it, I have the same cynical view of all actors and politicians. I was wrong about this bloke.

  My Dad has a great saying, applied most often to our current Head of Government, ‘He seems to make a room bigger just by being in it.’ Miles Grayson was the opposite. He was one of those rare human beings who shrink the space around them. Even as he was then, tired after a long day, the vitality came from him in waves. He wasn’t very tall, around five ten, I guessed, but he carried himself like someone six inches taller. He was wearing black denim and black hiking boots, every inch the New Age Cowboy. He looked across and smiled at us, and automatically Prim and I nodded back, mouths hanging slightly open.

  He turned to the barmaid and melted her with The Smile. ‘Is that Fosters cold, honey?’ She nodded vigorously, speechless. ‘I mean like really cold?’ I thought the lassie’s neck would snap. ‘Okay, then I’ll have a pint, in a straight glass please.’

  Prim tugged my arm and whispered in my ear. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘Seems like a good idea to let the man get outside his pint, then we’ll see.’

  Grayson solved our problem. ‘What can I get you?’ he called across the bar.

  ‘I’ll have one of them, thanks.’ I pointed at the Fosters. ‘How about you, love?’

  ‘Lime and soda, thanks,’ said Prim.

  The movie star turned barman, bringing the drinks across on a metal tray. ‘Do you two live here?’ he asked, as he sat down beside us. His accent was strange, a blend of Aussie, American and received pronunciation from drama school.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Edinburgh. How about you?’ Cheeky bastard, Blackstone, but I couldn’t resist it. Grayson’s right eyebrow twitched, and he smiled, not taken aback in the slightest. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Cheers.’ I took a swallow of the Fosters. The girl was right. It was icy.

  I put the glass down and held out my hand. ‘My name’s Oz Blackstone, and this is Prim Phillips.

  ‘You finished work for the day?’

  Grayson ignored my question. Like many celebrities, he had perfected the royal art of acknowledging hundreds, even thousands of people simultaneously, putting out his own presence but absorbing none of theirs. Now it was as if he was looking at Prim for the first time. ‘Phillips,’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes;’ said Prim. ‘You might know my sister, Dawn. I think she’s working on your film.’

  He looked at her, and a smile lit up his face. ‘Yeah, I know Dawn. In fact only three days ago I made wild, abandoned love to her ... but only for the cameras, worse luck. She’s a tough nut to crack, is Dawn.

  ‘So you’re her sister. The one with the great name. She told me about you, but she said you were in Africa.’

  ‘So I was, until Wednesday. I thought it’d be a nice idea for us to surprise Dawn. Is she here?’

  Grayson looked at her, curiously, for a while, as if he was considering his answer. At last he shook his head. ‘No, she isn’t. She has a few days between scenes, and she asked me on Wednesday if she could take some time away. She left that same morning.’ His eyebrows rose, as if in anticipation. ‘She is due back on Monday, though.’

  ‘Dammit,’ said Prim, frowning. ‘She didn’t say where she was going, did she?’

  ‘No. She only said that she had some things to sort out, and needed a few days. I was disappointed, because I thought we’d been getting on pretty well together, but I said okay, because I could tell that she meant it.

  ‘I rate your sister in every respect, Miss Phillips. Quite apart from turning me on every time she walks on set, she’s a damn fine actress. In fact, I’ve told her writers to expand her part. This movie will make her a star. Then maybe she’ll have time for me. Like I said, she’s a hard nut to crack.’

  He caught something in Prim’s eye. ‘Hey, I’m legit, honest. I came out of a relationship about a year back.’

  A thought struck me. ‘I thought you were doing a remake of Kidnapped.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said Grayson. ‘Great story, ain’t it.’

  ‘So who are you playing? With respect, you’re a bit mature for young David Balfour.’

  ‘Just a bit, yeah. No, I’m playing Allan Breck. He’s the real hero, after all. Why d’you ask?’

  ‘No reason, really. It’s just that when I read Kidnapped at school, I don’t remember Allan Breck getting his leg over. I don’t remember there being any sort of a part for an actress, either, far less one that could be expanded.’

  Miles Grayson spread his arms wide, with a grin that was as honest and disarming as the midsummer day was long. ‘Come on, guy, this is Hollywood. We’re out to entertain. The reason Kidnapped hasn’t been a hit before is that it’s been made like the story, a Buddy movie. You want to put bums on seats, like you say over here, you need some love interest.’

  I shook my head. ‘Aye, man, fair enough. But next time you’re in Samoa, make sure you visit Robert Louis Stevenson’s grave. If you put your ear to the ground I’m sure you’ll hear him spinning round in his coffin.

  ‘What’s next? Long John Silver with two legs, so you can work in a tap-dance routine.’

  The actor laughed. ‘Hey, Oz! How did you know I used to be a dancer?’

  We were still laughing when the door behind us creaked once more. A harassed, bald, fat man heaved his bulk into the barroom. ‘Miles,’ he called. ‘There you are! Thanks for commandeering the limo! I had to come back in the bus with the technicians and the rest of the cast.’