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understands all about the draughts here and I think you’re gorgeous anyway.’ He kissed her on the tip of her nose.
    Amused, Sylvia noticed that the smile Jaki gave him as she thanked him and wrapped it more closely round her suggested that she had murder in her heart.
     
    Marcus was peering doubtfully at the cottage pie – it seemed to have sort of black bits round the edges – when the phone rang. It was the landline, not his mobile, which was surprising. Being here so seldom, he never gave anyone this number.
    It must be someone local, a family friend, perhaps. ‘Hello?’ he said tentatively.
    ‘Marcus! A voice from your past! You’ll never guess who it is!’
    It was a loud, over-confident voice, and he did, in fact, recognize it. It belonged to Diane Hodge, and he almost groaned aloud. She was the spoiled only daughter of a Glasgow businessman who had come for years to holiday in Sandhead, over on Luce Bay, and she had horrified her family by marrying the barman from a local hotel. They’d lived there for a few years in the Eighties, but before long Gavin Hodge joined his father-in-law’s building firm and they’d gone off to Glasgow.
    The local grapevine must be working overtime. Before, no one knew if he was popping down for a weekend and he’d been spared this sort of call.
    ‘Diane!’ Marcus said without enthusiasm. ‘This is a surprise.’
    ‘You guessed!’ She sounded disappointed. ‘Well, once seen, never forgotten, as they say! I heard in the baker’s you’re back for a bit – to be honest, the whole place is talking about the great man!’
    Diane laughed. Marcus held the phone away from his ear.
    ‘We retired down here two years ago,’ she went on. ‘Dad died, and we thought, why not sell up and have a good time while we’re young enough to enjoy it? Gav has a yacht to play with, and I’m afraid we’re serial cruisers too – never at home! Still, we got back from the Galapagos a fortnight ago and we’re here at Miramar all week, so you must come over – no excuses! Bring Sylvia Lascelles too, naturally. I hear she’s staying with you.’
    The last thing he wanted was an old pals’ reunion, least of all with Diane and the boorish Gavin, who’d taunted young Marcus Lazansky about his foreign name and called him stuck-up because he’d gone to boarding school. He had no wish to revisit all the unpleasant memories of the time before Marcus Lindsay, actor, was born. He’d shut them off, padlocked away in some dingy attic of his mind, and now Diane was coming, crowbar in hand.
    He spoke firmly. ‘Terribly kind, but I’m going to have to say no. Sylvia’s not awfully mobile so we’re saving her strength for filming next week.’
    He should have known that wouldn’t work. Diane’s attitude to obstacles in her path had always been to stomp them flat.
    ‘What a shame! I’d have loved to show you Miramar – we designed it ourselves, you know. But we’ll pop over instead, cheer you both up. Can’t have you just sitting staring at each other all weekend!’ She laughed again. ‘Anyway, I’m dying to meet Sylvia. I’m her biggest fan! Tonight? Tomorrow?’
    Tomorrow was at least further away. Outmanoeuvred, Marcus agreed to that.
    ‘Brilliant! Sixish?’
    ‘Sixish,’ he agreed gloomily, and set down the phone. He should have said no, flatly, but he wasn’t very good at that. He could only hope the price for his weakness wouldn’t be too high.

3
    No body. No crime scene. No SOCOs to send out to do a detailed search. No sophisticated forensic analysis to provide answers. No computer summary of reports. No eyewitnesses to question. No adrenalin rush.
    Just dusty papers and reports, a box of personal effects and a few photographs of Ailsa Grant, alive and dead, yellowed with the passage of time. Cold case was a good description, though perhaps dead case was better. It would be no more than dry bones that lay in these boxes.
    Fleming had only a hazy memory of the news story