“Nothing’s going to happen to you on my watch, Martin,” Jackson said laconically. Martin thought people said that only in films.

Betty-May read first, too fast and too breathless. The poor woman was stopped three times, twice by members of the audi-ence asking her to “speak up” or “speak more clearly” and once by a mobile phone suddenly playing the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth.

Tarvit, on the other hand, hammed it up like an old pro. His reading introduced the element of dramatic tension to his books that Martin hadn’t found on the flat page. He read for a long time, much longer than his allotted ten minutes, Martin glanced surreptitiously at his watch and found only naked wrist, he still wasn’t accustomed to it not being there. What had Richard Mott felt in the last minutes and seconds left to him? It didn’t bear thinking about. Why had the person who killed Richard Mott phoned him? Was he going to come back and kill him as well? Had he intended to kill him all along and only just realized that he got the wrong person?

Martin’s stomach growled so loudly that he was sure everyone must have heard it. It was a bit much to have to sit there and watch other people eat, especially when he’d had nothing so far today. Betty-May pressed a mint into his hand and gave him an encour-aging yellow-toothed smile.

Tarvit had the audience in thrall so that when he finished there was a collective sigh of deflation as if they wanted him to carry on. Please,no, Martin thought. The gaunt woman came onto the plat-form again and said, “That was wonderful, Dougal, a pretty hard act to follow, but I’m sure Alex Blake will try to live up to the challenge.” Thanks, Martin thought. “If you could cut it a bit short, Alex,” she murmured to him.

When it came to question time, hands shot up everywhere. Young people, student types, ran around with microphones, and Martin braced himself for the usual questions (Do you write with a pen or a computer? Do you have a daily routine?). Of course, he had once been on the other side of the platform, asking just those questions of the writers he admired. “Mr. Faulks, who have been your literary influences?” I was that reader, Martin thought glumly. He was beginning to wish he had never crossed over.

But to his horror there were a barrage of questions aimed at Martin’s newfound notoriety-“What does it feel like to be at the center of a real-life murder investigation?”“Has it put your own work in perspective?” “Was it true that Richard Mott was decapitated?” The gaunt woman stepped in anxiously. “Perhaps these aren’t appro-priate questions, and I really don’t think we should be talking about what is, after all, an ongoing police investigation. Let’s have some questions about the work, shall we? That’s what we’re here for, after all.”All the questions about the work were for Betty-May and Tarvit, not for Martin, except for a stout and insistent woman who wanted to know whether his faith helped his “creativity” or was it the other way round? (“Hard to say,” Martin said.)

The gaunt woman, Martin had no idea what her name was and now never would probably, clapped her hands and said, “Well, I’m sorry. That’s all we have time for, it’s been such a treat, but if you all want to make your way over to the signing tent, you will be able to buy copies of the books by our authors here and have them signed. So if you would just put your hands together, please…”

In the signing tent they sat at three identical tables. Every time an eager reader approached him, Martin felt a little knock of panic to his heart, imagining each newcomer reaching across the table as he signed his name and stabbing him with a knife, shooting him with a gun. Or, indeed, suddenly producing whatever weapon had been used to smash Richard Mott’s skull and bringing it down on top of his own. Of course, most of them were ladies of a certain age, half of them were wearing tweed, for heaven’s sake. Death Wore Tweed, Martin thought gloomily. It would be a good title for a Nina Riley book.

Jackson was standing behind him, in the same bodyguard pose as before, and after a while Martin began to relax into the rhythm of things. “And who shall I sign this to? To you? Or is it for someone else?”“Is that a ‘Clare’with an ‘i’or without an ‘i’?”“To Pam,with all best wishes,Alex Blake.”“And one for your friend Gloria? Certainly.”

When the last of the queue had dribbled away and they were making their way back to the “authors’ yurt,” Betty-May Heller caught his sleeve and said, “How about a crime writer for lunch?” Martin couldn’t help but notice the faint six o’clock shadow on her lip.

“I’m afraid he has to go,” Jackson said, taking hold of Martin’s elbow and steering him firmly away.

“Gosh,” Martin heard Betty-May Heller murmur, “your publi-cist is so strict.”

41

Now this was what you call a murder inquiry. People who were busy, busy, busy. People with a real body and crime-scene photographs pinned up to prove it. A room humming with life because of a death. Louise studied the color photographs of Richard Mott’s corpse pinned up in the major incident room at St. Leonard’s. The police station at Howdenhall was too small to accommodate something this big. Louise had worked out of St. Leonard’s when she was still in uniform. It was like going back to your old school. It felt familiar and alien at the same time.

“Nasty whack to the head, that,” someone said behind her, making her jump. She turned round and found Colin Sutherland standing behind her, smiling for Scotland. If he was in The Bill, he’d be known as something like “Smiler Sutherland,” but this being real life, he was usually referred to as “that tosser Sutherland.”

“Were you looking for me?” he asked, a hopeful expression on his face.

Louise smiled back at him and said conversationally, “What’s this guy Canning like? Is he a suspect?”

“Nah,” Campbell said. “He’s a funny little guy, bit of an old woman, if you ask me, but I doubt he’s the killing kind.”

“So,” Louise said casually, “are you thinking burglary? Is any-thing missing from the house?”

“His phone, we think.”

“Nothing else?”

“Not that we know of.”

She could hardly be blatant and say, “No computer disks or any-thing like that?” Would they notice if a CD was missing? Probably not, but Martin Canning would know, wouldn’t he?

“Where is he? Canning?”

“In a hotel, the Four Clans, I believe.”

She wanted to say, “So you’re not thinking two fourteen-year-old boys might have broken in and beaten the victim to death?” She gazed at a photograph of Richard Mott, he’d made a very messy corpse. Could her son be responsible for that? No, definitely not. Hamish maybe, but not her baby.

“You’re very interested in this case, Louise. Do you want me to find room for you on the team? We’ve lost a couple of people to the ‘flu.’We could bring you over from Corstorphine if you’re not busy over there.” He moved a step closer to her, and she moved a step back. Perfect rhythm, they’d be doing the fox-trot next.

“No, no, just idle curiosity, boss.” Lies came easier than the truth. She pulled out a name from the past. “Actually I was looking for Bob Carstairs.”

“Went upstairs a few months ago, Louise. Didn’t you hear?”

“Upstairs?”

“To meet the big boss.” The man was like a walking riddle. “Dead. Heart attack,” Sutherland said with a huge grin. “One minute here, the next minute gone.” He snapped his fingers like a magician. “Just like that.”

Back at Corstorphine she went looking for Jeff Lennon and found him hiding away in a corner of the open-plan office, sitting at his desk, eating a bar of chocolate. Louise imagined him in retirement, lardy and bored. Or, more likely, on his way upstairs to meet the “big boss.”