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sake—’
    ‘What? Don’t swear.’
    ‘It’s Dad’s launch. If you’re not there for him he’s going to—.’
    ‘Going to do what?’ Why was he looking so dismayed? ‘Anyway, I am here now, aren’t I? Where is Dad?’ She glanced at her watch, itching for the reading to start so that it finished on time, because otherwise she’d need to slip out while it was still taking place and that would be embarrassing.
    ‘Round the back somewhere.’ He kicked at the leg of the chair in front of him, scowling. ‘The Maneater’s come.’
    ‘What are you talking about?’
    He nudged her and she looked along the row. Harry and Jane were on Ninian’s left and on the far side of them was Jane’s cousin, Sophie MacAteer, wearing what seemed to be a vintage dress and Fifties-style hat. She was perched on the edge of her chair in a pose of eager anticipation. Ninian’s scowl deepened into a glare.
    ‘Sophie bleep MacAteer,’ he muttered, ‘alias the Maneater.’
    ‘Why do you say that?’ Ninian’s dislike was clear – but what could have sparked such strong antipathy? He could only have met her once, surely?
    There was no time for explanations because Andrew and the interviewer, a local journalist, arrived on stage. The audience settled, eagerly.
    ‘So, Andrew, tell us about Martyne Noreis.’
    Kate had seen Andrew do this dozens of times and she had a speech to prepare. She fumbled in her bag for her notebook. She felt Harry glaring at her, but her fingers sensed the sharp edges of the book, so she slipped it out.  Myth and reality, she scribbled. Why renewable energy is important. NB Joke here.
    Andrew was filling in the background to his medieval detective. ‘Martyne Noreis started life as a ploughboy in Athelstaneford, in East Lothian. It’s AD735.’
    He was a natural-born storyteller and his audience was rapt. Distracted, Kate’s pen hovered. Andrew could be magnetic and tonight he was really on form.
    ‘I’ve always thought there was something magical about Athelstaneford. I dreamed about a ploughboy there who had special skills. Some locals thought he belonged to the occult, but although Martyne runs up against people who want to burn him as a warlock, he always manages to escape.’
    ‘Luckily for us readers,’ the journalist said. ‘So, Andrew, are his skills supernatural?’
    ‘Not at all. He’s very human, with many human frailties. Martyne is just very observant. He’s an eighth-century Sherlock Holmes or Hercule Poirot.’
    ‘There seems to be a lot of murder in Athelstaneford.’
    ‘Fraid so. Fortunately, Martyne always manages to solve it. He looks at little signs, tracks or beaten down grass, or some hair caught in a wooden fence post, puts the clues together and finds the culprit.’
    The journalist cleared her throat and moved things along. ‘Thank you, Andrew, for explaining that. Now, the moment everyone’s been waiting for – a reading from your new novel.’
    There was a ripple of applause and Andrew stood up and moved across to where a lectern had been set up with a microphone. He found a marker in the book and opened it at the page.
    ‘ He caught a faint muffled sound of horses hooves in the distance. Martyne lifted his head to listen. He was no longer a ploughboy. He was married to Ellyn, the chieftain’s daughter, and was a farmer with land of his own. Aye, there it was, three fields away, heading along the track to the kirkyard. He could spy it through the early morning mist, where the pale, low sun loomed through the haze like a forgotten night lantern in the grey sky. The rumble of the cart over the stones reached him now as well. The cart bearing Alys Rolland’s body. There was a mystery there. He could smell it. ’
    There was collective intake of breath and a ripple of applause. Kate glanced surreptitiously at her watch. To her left, Sophie MacAteer was wide-eyed and excited. Her face was shining, the pale skin like some deep-sea creature’s, almost