6

The Lara Hardie case file contained few surprises, Daisy thought. There was a familiar pattern to this kind of disappearance. The initial report, from friends or family; the excluding of the trifecta of usual reasons – running away for love; ditto for escape; depression leading to suicide. Then the attempt to fill in the hours leading to the vanishing, the door-to-door, the questioning of anyone who knew the misper well. Then the absurd false leads thrown out by the internet and seized on by the conspiracy theorists. It wasn’t easy to disappear without trace these days. Not with CCTV and digital footprints. But Lara had managed it. She’d left the flat she shared with two other students one Monday evening almost a year ago, saying she was going to the library. She never arrived.

She wasn’t in a relationship. Her studies were going well. She wasn’t the life and soul of the party, but she wasn’t someone who provoked antagonism. There was no obvious reason for her to leave her life. One of the flatmates had said she thought Lara had an air of suppressed excitement that didn’t fit with a trip to the library.

There was one distinctive element to this particular disappearance. Lara had suffered since childhood with atonic epileptic seizures. Every few months, she’d experience a moment where all her muscles stopped working. If she was standing or walking, she’d hit the deck. If she was sitting down, she’d slump forward. The last time it had happened, she’d been sitting at a desk in the library and her head had smacked into it with such force she’d ended up with a goose egg on her forehead. But suffering such damage had been rare. Usually, Lara recovered fully almost instantaneously, often not even realising she’d had an episode. She made no fuss about her ailment. She took regular medication; the only deprivation she’d ever commented on to her flatmates was she could neither drive nor cycle.

The media, both news and social, speculated that she’d experienced a seizure that had allowed a passing predator to exploit her illness. No matter how often medical experts expressed frustration at this misrepresentation of her illness, the inaccuracies persisted.

There had been a search, of course. Police dogs, volunteers, the usual. Nothing had turned up. There were some printouts from online news outlets, ranging from WHERE IS PRETTY BLONDE LARA? to EDINBURGH STUDENT GOES MISSING. Always the same, Daisy thought. Blonde white lassie = screaming headlines. Anybody else = a few paragraphs. Nevertheless, it hadn’t made any difference. Lara had slid out of sight without a trace.

Finally, the TV appeal. Lara’s mum and dad were joined by her elder sister, stoic at first, then tearful. Have you seen Lara . . . if you’re keeping Lara . . . Lara, we love you . . . Lara come home. Heartbreaking, but this time, as was usually the case, fruitless. Unless you counted the dozens of time-wasting ‘sightings’.

Daisy was close to the end of the Lara Hardie case file when Karen burst through the door, out of breath from hurrying up three flights of stairs. Daisy pushed her notes to one side and stood up expectantly. ‘Did you get it?’

Karen waved the bag, triumphant as a successful bargain hunter at the sales. ‘I did.’ She moved the empty file box to the floor and spread out her spoils. Two disappointingly scant piles of paper and a memory stick. ‘I managed to keep my hands off all the way home.’ She sounded pleased with herself, and Daisy couldn’t blame her. She’d have squatted in the nearest doorway and stolen a quick look if it had been her.

Daisy approached and they each picked up a set of photocopies. ‘Tell me we get to read it now,’ she said.

‘No reason to hold back,’ Karen said, moving to one of the comfortable armchairs that flanked the fireplace. She tucked a pencil behind her ear and began to read.

THE VANISHING OF LAUREL OLIVER

Part One

Prologue

He really believed it was a madcap game. A joke. A dare, played out between old friends. Why would anyone imagine otherwise? Writing twisted scenarios didn’t mean he believed they happened in the real world. Strangers on a Train had the brilliant premise of two unconnected people swapping murders, but he didn’t believe anybody would be daft enough to try it for real. Not even a card-carrying psychopath like the character in Highsmith’s novel.

It had genuinely never crossed his mind that his best friend would actually commit a murder solely to demonstrate that the perfect crime was possible, and that he was capable of committing it. Not until he had to deal with the revelation that there was now a dead body in his garage.

1

Jamie Cobain and Rob Thomas had met in a curry house in Perth. The one in Scotland, not Australia. They were both there for the crime writing festival the city had hosted for the previous decade. Jamie had never quite worked out why Perth ended up as the venue for the festival. As far as he knew, its only real claim to criminal fame was the maximum security prison celebrated in song by the late Dundee bard Michael Marra in his ‘Letter from Perth’. Other than that, the only reason he could think of for choosing Perth was that it was well served by the motorway network, and by direct trains from Edinburgh and Glasgow. And there was the sleeper to and from London, which was always a consideration when it came to persuading the metropolitans to reach escape velocity from their orbital motorway.

Rob had appeared on the last panel of the Saturday afternoon on the thorny subject of Mad or Bad: Dangerous to Know. Alongside a criminal barrister, a former priest and an escaped wife and mother (her words, not Rob’s), he’d explained his views on why people do the terrible things his imagination conjured up. There were a couple of hundred in the audience, several of whom had queued up afterwards to have their books signed. The other authors sloped off before Rob had finished, leaving him at a loose end. He was relatively new to the festival scene; the book he was promoting was only his second, and he hadn’t managed to establish any friendships yet that went beyond an occasional drink in the hotel bar.

He ambled back from the theatre, aiming for nonchalance, and arrived at the hotel just as a group of guys were heading out. Half a dozen of them, early thirties to mid-fifties, full of good-natured swagger and nonsense, the way men get when they’re let loose from their pedestrian lives and feel the need to prove themselves. He recognised most of them as fellow writers but the only one he could actually put a name to was Jamie Cobain. In his early forties, he already had a career to envy. More than a dozen books published, three or four major awards, bestseller status at home and abroad. Rumour had it that his series detective was in development for TV, starring one of the craggy-faced, piercing-eyed heart-throbs of the moment.

Jamie Cobain caught sight of Rob and stopped in mid-stride. ‘It’s Rob, right?’ He turned to the others and said, ‘Guys, this is Rob Thomas. You know? Dereliction. Shortlisted for the Golden Thistle.’

A general rumble of acknowledgement, recognition, greetings. ‘Hi,’ Rob said, gripped by the shyness he always felt when confronted by a bunch of strangers.

‘We’re going for a curry, Rob.’

‘And a few sherbets,’ one of the others chipped in.

‘Are you spoken for, or do you want to join us?’ Jamie Cobain again.

Rob swallowed. ‘That’d be great, thanks.’ He tacked on to the edge of the crew and they hustled down the street, past the concrete monolith of Police Scotland, ending up in a time-warped Indian restaurant. Paper tablecloths, flock wallpaper, a list of different curries each with the option of chicken, lamb, beef or prawn. They could have been anywhere from Plymouth to Pitlochry, Rob thought. But definitely not the Punjab.

Not that it mattered. They were there for the beer and the chat. The curry was an incidental. Rob found himself sitting next to Jamie, surprised to be engaged in lively conversation with his new acquaintance. The table talk was mostly publishing gossip, lurid tales of bad behaviour among the crime writing community, gossip about who had fallen out with editor or agent, unlikely speculation about who might be shagging whom. A lot of laughter and anecdotage. But every now and then it would splinter into separate conversations. During one of those, Rob and Jamie discovered they lived not far from each other; Rob in his tiny flat in Leith, Jamie in the large detached house that his authorial success had brought him.

More to the point, they shared a common passion for chess. They’d both learned to play as schoolboys, Jamie at one of those Edinburgh private schools that trains its pupils to sound English, Rob at the local comprehensive in Dundee. But they’d both played at county level. Jamie was the elder by five years, otherwise they might have faced each other across the board as acned teenagers with bad haircuts. ‘Come round sometime, we’ll have a game,’ Jamie offered warmly as the waiter cleared the dishes and the writers ordered another round.

Rob didn’t think he meant it. He thought it was the kind of throwaway line that fills a space in the conversation. When they all staggered back to the hotel, genial and fuzzy with drink, Jamie was immediately swallowed up in a bigger crowd that included his agent and his editor. Forsaken now, Rob drifted to the fringes of the room, where a couple of intense readers collared him and insisted on a battery of detailed questions about his books and the earlier panel discussion. He didn’t see Jamie again all weekend until he was driving off in one of those ugly SUVs that rumbled through the cobbled streets of Edinburgh like an invading army. In spite of his enjoyment of their dinner encounter, Rob felt Jamie drop a little in his estimation at the sight.

But Jamie rose again a few days later when he emailed Rob via his website. ‘Mate, when are we going to get together over a board or two? I don’t know about you, but it’s a bitch to find a half-decent opponent.’

It was a friendly gesture, but at the same time, Rob recognised it was a gauntlet thrown down. Did he fancy his chances? Was he up to Jamie’s standards? Would it be a humiliating one-off, or would it be enough of a mutual challenge to occupy a regular slot in their lives?

There was only one way to find out.

2

The house impressed Rob. He’d assumed Jamie was making a good enough living, but he hadn’t expected it to provide a detached half-timbered monster that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the leafy lanes of the Home Counties. Its double gables looked out on the woodland of Ravelston Dykes like a pair of sarcastically raised eyebrows disdaining Rob’s approach.

The doorbell pealed the first four notes of the Westminster chimes. Through the stained-glass panels flanking the door he could see an indistinct figure approaching. The door swung open silently and Jamie Cobain broke into a grin. ‘Hey, you came, mate. I was afraid you might bottle it.’ He gestured expansively. ‘Welcome to the humble abode.’

Humble it certainly wasn’t, Rob thought. He followed Jamie down the tiled hallway and into a room towards the back of the house. He reckoned if a set designer had been told to produce a gentleman’s study, it would have resembled Jamie’s den. Bookshelves, a couple of dramatic Highland landscapes, a leather-topped desk and a pair of club chairs facing each other over a table with a marquetry chessboard, its dark squares black as ebony. The only object out of place was the silver MacBook Air folded shut on the desk.

‘Let me take your coat.’ Jamie fussed around, helping Rob out of his budget down jacket and disappearing with it. He returned with a tray – two decanters, two whisky tumblers, a jug of water. ‘Speyside or Islay?’ he said, putting the tray on the desk with a flourish.

‘Islay, with a splash.’

Jamie chuckled as he poured a dark whisky whose phenolic fumes Rob could smell across the room. ‘I expected as much. You don’t strike me as a man who likes a breakfast whisky at this time of day.’ It was a pitch-perfect performance; Rob recognised it as the very goal he was working towards. In Jamie’s case, though, it was the real thing. Being a writer wasn’t improbable for someone from his background. But Rob and Jamie both knew that people like him weren’t supposed to become writers, never mind successful ones.

Jamie handed him a generous measure and they toasted each other. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this,’ he said. ‘A worthy opponent who moves in the same world as me.’

Rob pulled a wry smile. ‘Maybe not quite on the same plane.’

‘Only a matter of time.’ He waved Rob towards a chair and settled himself opposite. ‘You’re a class act, Rob.’

‘Kind of you to say so, but there are no certainties in our game.’

Neither of them had any way of knowing how prescient Rob’s words were. He sat watching Jamie set out the pieces, both unaware that their lives were at a tipping point. They had not the faintest notion that Rob’s impending stratospheric rise would be mirrored by Jamie’s tragic fall.

All they were thinking about that first evening was what lay immediately ahead. Jamie was confident in his ability; he’d often been surprised by his knack of stringing together a winning sequence of moves from apparently beleaguered positions. But he’d already decided that if need be, he’d go easy on Rob, at least for tonight. He enjoyed being looked up to by the newbie on the scene – who wouldn’t? – and he genuinely appreciated the joy of finding a fresh opponent who might just give him a battle worth winning.

Rob was apprehensive about the game, obviously anxious about what this encounter could mean for him. But both were hoping they’d be evenly matched. If Jamie outstripped him easily, Rob reckoned he’d probably never be asked back. He didn’t think Jamie was the kind of man who’d favour the delivery of humiliation over the pleasure of challenge. On the other hand, if Rob commanded the board and made Jamie feel small, he definitely wouldn’t be asked back. And right then, he wanted to be part of Jamie Cobain’s charmed life. Being his friend was an entrée into the easy camaraderie of publishing’s big dogs.

Because the big dogs still ran the game. Readers believed that the books that garnered the golden reviews, the pole positions in the bookshops, the eye-catching ads in the tube and on train stations were there by virtue of their quality. Rob knew the truth. They were there because an editor had sold them at the marketing meeting, hooked them up with the best publicist, put them in front of the best cover designer. Sometimes that was because the book genuinely was the real deal. But just as often, it was because the author had a great smile, connected well on social media, and knew how to walk the fine line between attractively surprising and grotesquely shocking interviews. To get those plum slots, the big dogs had to know you. You had to be in it to win it.

Rob, at the start of his career, was determined to do whatever it took to be in it. Jamie understood that too, and if Rob turned out to be a worthy opponent, he’d do all he could to bring him into the club. It wasn’t altruism; Rob would owe him and he’d use his rising position to big-up his benefactor. That was the way it worked.

They sipped their whisky and exchanged a few desultory comments about the Perth festival. But Rob could tell Jamie’s heart wasn’t in it. He sensed a suppressed excitement in the other man. They were each as eager as the other to get on with the game. Jamie kept glancing at a wooden box sitting on the side table next to him. It was a simple piece, its only decoration a half-moon indentation to facilitate the removal of the lid. But the wood had a beautiful grain. Rob couldn’t name it then; he’d since learned it was bird’s-eye maple.

‘I’ve been looking forward to this,’ he said.

Jamie’s smile was impish. ‘The game or the blether?’

Rob didn’t have to pause for reflection. ‘The game. Always the game.’

It was the entry point Jamie had been angling for. He grabbed the box, slid open the lid and tipped the contents out. Both men stared at the tumble of pieces for a moment before Jamie swiftly shifted them to their places on the board. Rob was pleased to see he’d avoided the cheesy temptation of a novelty set. Whether it was Lord of the Rings, Star Wars or even a resin replica of the Lewis chessmen, nothing screamed ‘time-waster’ more when it came to a game of chess, in Rob’s opinion. Jamie’s pieces were as plain as the box they came in, though the traditional shapes had been carved from wood with as fine a grain.

‘Nice set,’ he said as Jamie laid them out with a care that matched his speed.

He gave Rob a quick look, sizing him up. ‘They were a second-hand gift,’ he said. ‘My wife bought them for me. She still thinks I’m worth spending a lot of my money on. They were supposedly given to Garry Kasparov by an admirer to celebrate his twenty years as world ranking number one.’ He snorted. ‘I wish my game merited them.’

Jamie palmed two pawns, lowered his hands beneath the level of the table, then offered his closed fists. Rob ended up with black; to his surprise, Jamie kicked off with the English Defence. The tempo of the game was slow; both were feeling their way against an unfamiliar opponent. Rob answered with the Hedgehog Defence, a cramped set-up but one with plenty of possibilities for his pawns. He thought he had Jamie on the run a couple of times, but his host was shrewd and smart, and he outwitted Rob each time. In the end, Jamie caught him in a pincer between a knight and a rook and forced him to resign.

Jamie leaned back in his chair, arms spread expansively in an empty embrace. ‘I haven’t had to work that hard in a very long time. You really pushed me, Rob.’

‘Same for me.’ Rob let out a long breath and caught sight of his watch as he flexed his fingers. ‘My God, we’ve been at it for nearly three hours.’

Jamie reached for the decanter. ‘Fastest three hours I’ve had for quite a while. We definitely have to do this again. I love feeling my brain working overtime.’

Rob put a hand over his glass. ‘No more for me. I’ve got the car.’

Jamie grimaced. ‘Fair enough. Next time, get a cab so we can celebrate a victory properly.’

Rob grinned. ‘What if it’s a draw?’

A single eyebrow rose. Rob wondered how long Jamie had practised that in the mirror. ‘Half-measures, then,’ his host said. ‘But I warn you, I’ve never been a man for half-measures.’

Daisy looked up from the bundle of pages she was reading. ‘If it wasn’t for the prologue, you wouldn’t know it was supposed to be a crime novel.’

‘I don’t read enough crime fiction to know what to expect.’ Karen flicked back through what she’d already read. ‘And I haven’t read any Jake Stein, so I don’t know whether this is his usual style.’

‘I’ve read a few of his. I went through a mini-binge a few years ago. I read three on the bounce but then I took a scunner to them. You know how you eat a whole box of Tunnock’s teacakes, then you feel kind of queasy and you swear you’ll never eat another one?’

Karen shook her head. ’You scare me, Daisy. How come you’re not the size of a house?’

‘Lucky genes. Anyway, I felt like that about Jake Stein. He takes his time setting up the scene, then eases you into sudden violence. So far, this is spot on with the scene-setting.’

‘Do you think there’s any chance this has autobiographical elements?’

‘Authors always deny that when readers ask them. But I had a quick look at some of the online interviews with Stein while you were out, and there seemed to be a lot of similarities between Stein and Cobain. And I did read one piece that talked about Stein being a bit of a chess child prodigy.’

‘So is Jamie Cobain a straightforward stand-in for Jake Stein? And who is “Rob Thomas” supposed to be, do you think? Do they really sail that close to the wind, these authors?’

Daisy shrugged. ‘I’m not an expert on the lives and careers of Scottish crime writers. But it sounds a bit like what I know of Ross McEwen. His books are all one-word titles that start with “Re-”. And Rob Thomas’s book in the first chapter has a one-word title that starts with “De-”. But that might just be a quirk that Stein seized on for a bit of verisimilitude.’

Karen frowned. Time for a little push? ‘Or it might be more. Let’s make the giant assumption that it’s him, for now at least. What do you think the point of this is? I mean, I get that Meera made the connection to Lara Hardie because of the epilepsy thing, which I presume is going to show up in the novel at some point. And I get that crime writers sometimes piggy-back off real cases. But why bring this so close to home? Why would you write something that points a finger right at you?’

‘Maybe Jake Stein has a theory about Lara Hardie’s disappearance? Maybe the idea is that Jamie will become the intrepid investigator who solves the case that baffled the police?’

Karen tapped the small pile of papers. ‘Let’s hope he gets to the point before we run out of pages. Because as things stand we don’t even know if the fictional body in the garage is a Lara Hardie lookalike or a chess-playing crime writer.’

3

The chess games became a fixture in the two men’s diaries. Not exactly regular, because they both had to participate in book promotion events, to attend meetings with agents and editors, to endure foreign tours, to extend festivals for as long as possible to escape the humdrum. But once or twice a month, Jamie would lay out the pieces on his magnificent board and pour two generous Islay malts. And battle would commence.

Getting on for a year after that first encounter, honours were more or less even. Jamie had taken a narrow lead first, then Rob had overtaken him. There had been a series of draws, then Jamie had crept back ahead. For both men, their chess matches had found a place at the heart of their lives. It was as if the mental stimulus of the game gave an added fillip to their imaginations. Each in his own way was energised by the encounters; the chess engaged a different part of the brain to the writing process and somehow provoked a more active creativity.

On a couple of occasions, Rob had met Jamie’s wife, Rachel. The first time, she’d poked her head round the door of the study at the start of the evening and suggested a light supper after they’d finished playing. Jamie had looked up, frowning. ‘I don’t think so, love. Rob’s here for serious business, not the Waitrose snacks.’

Rob had winced inwardly at Jamie’s rudeness, but Rachel’s mouth had quirked in an ironic smile. ‘Please yourselves. Enjoy your evening, Rob.’

The second time, it had been Rachel who had answered the door. ‘Sorry, Rob. Jamie’s flight has been diverted to Glasgow. He’s only just touched down. He said—’

At that moment, his own mobile rang, the screen displaying Jamie’s name. He raised a finger and took the call. ‘Jamie, I hear there’s been a problem.’

‘Bloody fog at Edinburgh,’ Jamie said, curt and cross. ‘I’ll be an hour and a half. If you don’t mind waiting, we could play some speed chess, rather than a proper game? Rachel will feed you while you’re waiting.’

Rachel, who had clearly heard her husband’s clipped words, nodded. ‘I’d like that,’ she said.

It wasn’t quite the response he’d expected, but something to eat followed by the exciting prospect of speed chess was better than a solitary evening in his little flat. ‘Great idea, Jamie. Rachel seems fine with it.’

‘She likes the company of other writers,’ he said. ‘It’s the only way she can find out what I’m up to.’

The line cut out. There had been an edge to Jamie’s voice that made Rob uneasy, but Rachel simply shook her head. ‘Always all about Jamie,’ she said with a tight smile. ‘Come through to the kitchen.’

Rob loved to cook, but his options were limited in his tiny galley kitchen. He’d have killed for the substantial room at the rear of the Cobains’ house. It wasn’t the black and white terrazzo tiles or the granite worktops or the cleverly designed lighting that he envied; those, he barely noticed. What drew his eye were the Aga, the Neff oven and gas rings, the sous-vide and the vacuum packing machine, the Kitchen Aid mixer and blender, the Dualit toaster and kettle and the two knife blocks. What impressed him yet more was that all the equipment looked as if it saw regular use. He gave a low whistle. ‘Someone’s a very lucky cook,’ he said, trying to avoid falling into the easy assumption that it was the woman of the house.

‘That would be me,’ she said. ‘The kitchen is my refuge. I don’t know whether Jamie mentioned it, but I’m a lawyer?’

Rob shook his head. ‘He never said. That’s handy for a crime writer.’

She laughed, a soft sardonic sound. ‘Not really, I do the dull stuff. Wills and probate. Jamie often complains that all my practice ever brings in is money, and he can make plenty of that.’

Rob wondered whether that was supposed to be a joke or a put-down. ‘So you lawyer by day and cook by night?’

‘I only work part-time now,’ she said. ‘More time for stress-busting culinary adventures.’

She didn’t look like a woman who ate many of the products of her adventures. He knew she must be in her early forties, but Rachel Cobain showed no signs of over-indulgence. She was slender and shapely, dressed in tight-fitting yoga pants and a loose shirt tied artfully at the waist to show her off to her best advantage. Her face bore the faintest early traces of lines around the eyes and bracketing a mouth that seemed perpetually on the edge of a smile. Another reason to envy Jamie Cobain, Rob thought. His own recent excursions on the road to romance had led nowhere near the likes of Rachel Cobain.

She opened a vast American-style fridge and peered into the interior. ‘So, there’s a wild mushroom and porcini soup if you want something light. Sourdough or focaccia to go with it. Or I have some delicious venison loin from the game stall at Castle Terrace market. I’ve got roast Roscoff onions and artichoke puree to go with that. It won’t take me ten minutes to cook it. Or—’

‘Stop,’ he said. ‘You had me at “venison loin”.’

While she put dinner together with swift efficiency, she asked Rob about his life before writing. He gave her the version he’d honed for his events, and she gave him a knowing smile. ‘Very good,’ she said. ‘Apparent candour without actually being candid. I bet those audiences love you, Rob Thomas.’

Taken aback, he said, ‘I don’t know what you mean. It’s true.’

‘But very far from the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’ She chuckled as she prodded the venison spitting in the hot pan. ‘I’ve lived with a champion confabulator for fifteen years, Rob. I may not be able to unpick the seams of your story, but I do know there will be seams.’ She lifted the lid on the wide pan where she was heating through the onions and sniffed. ‘All these years with Jamie, I know the whiff of deception.’

Over the past months, his association with Jamie had promoted Rob to one of the lads. Not quite one of the big dogs, but certainly one who ran with them. One who could be trusted. So he knew there were plenty of Jamie’s deceptions for Rachel to sniff out. He had charm, he was not unattractive and he was a bright star in their firmament. Rob knew Jamie had plenty of offers – hell, he even had a few himself, and he was a next-to-nobody. The difference was that Rob didn’t have anyone at home to let down.

He watched Rachel dishing up his dinner with unexpected unease. He liked this woman. Her cooking for him had created an intimacy that hadn’t existed when she was just a head poking round a door. In future, knowledge of Jamie’s infidelities would confer an awkward complicity.

But there was far worse to come than complicity.

4

The first hint of trouble came at what should have been a night of triumph for Rob. His third novel, Desecration, had been published to rave reviews and, even better for sales, an entirely unexpected congruence with an appalling murder in France whose circumstances eerily mirrored those of the novel. Rob, who had only ever been to France under the aegis of his French publishers, clearly had clean hands when it came to accusations of exploitation. Nevertheless his publishers could barely keep up with the demand, as readers devoured the fiction in the hope that it would make the reality explicable.

Hitting the top of the bestseller list would have been enough, he felt, but no sooner had he hit that pinnacle than Desecration was shortlisted for two major awards, one on either side of the Atlantic. And it was chosen as one of the Jackie and Jimmy Summer Reads, a promotion run by a network magazine show and supported by a leading supermarket chain.

The success of Desecration drove readers to his earlier titles, pushing both into the paperback and e-book bestsellers. To celebrate, his publishers did what publishers always did – they threw a party.

The guest list read like a roster of the UK’s leading crime writers. The social media back channels buzzed with resentment from those who hadn’t made the cut. Agents and editors swirled through the chattering groups. There were journalists too, a smattering of MPs, a handful of actors hoping to be cast in the inevitable TV adaptations, and those booksellers deemed useful by the publishers.

Jamie was there, of course, Rachel at his side, splendid in an aquamarine dress that Rob imagined had come from the sort of shop so discreet he’d never even noticed it. Rob worked his way across the room to where Jamie was holding court. He’d no sooner reached his friend’s side than a woman he vaguely recognised barged past him. She stopped inches from Jamie’s face, her expression unreadable. He seemed disconcerted, but reached for her elbow and tried to steer her out of the group.

She shook herself free and shouted, ‘You fucking bastard,’ so loudly a hush fell on that end of the room. Then she swung her right arm back and delivered an open-handed slap that rocked him back on his feet. The shock was tremendous. People stared with dropped jaws. Rachel seemed utterly confounded. Jamie had a hand to his cheek, his other balled into a fist. He took a half-step towards his attacker, then thought better of it.

Before anyone else could react, Jamie’s publisher stepped forward and wrapped an arm round the woman, who was now weeping noisily, and virtually dragged her away. For a moment, Rob thought Jamie was going to brazen it out, but one look at Rachel’s face told him that wasn’t an option. She was already turning from him, moving through the crowd in the opposite direction to the assailant. Hastily, Jamie followed her. As he passed Rob, he muttered, ‘Fucking cunt.’

Now there was a hubbub of voices. Rob felt like he’d been catapulted back to his high school years, when he was always the one on the outside of the secret. He had no idea who the woman was who had hijacked his moment in the sun. Nor what her particular problem was; though, knowing Jamie, he guessed it was something to do with sex.

He spotted his pal Lucy Brazil nearby and moved towards her. He’d never worked out how she managed it, living up in Manchester, but Lucy was always plugged in to the gossip hotline. Whenever an author had been dropped, or an agent betrayed by a client, whenever a newbie had been suckered into bed by the promises of a bigger name, Lucy always knew the inside story. She cheerfully purveyed her gleanings to her friends, but somehow there was never any malice in it. It puzzled Rob; if he’d been writing such a character, he wouldn’t have known how to avoid making her toxic, yet everybody adored Lucy. They even wore the ‘I love Lucy’ badges she’d handed out for the publication of her last book, her own image an ironic version of the late Lucille Ball.

When he reached her side, he spoke softly. ‘What the actual fuck was that?’

Lucy arched her eyebrows. They were normally hidden behind the thick black circle of her glasses, so raising them created a strange duplicating effect. ‘You don’t know?’

‘No, Lucy, I don’t know.’

‘That was Gala Faraday.’

The name rang faint bells with Rob, but he couldn’t remember why. ‘Should I know her?’

‘She used to be Jamie’s editor’s assistant. She left about six months ago for a plum editorial job at Samson House. One of the hot young editors, everybody agreed. Until the proofs of Jamie’s latest started making the rounds.’

Rob had a horrible presentiment of what was coming next. Needs Killing had landed on his doormat the previous week. It featured a female character who craved sexual humiliation, a craving whose satisfaction was outlined in the kind of gleeful detail that had made Rob feel more than a little queasy. He couldn’t in all conscience call himself a feminist, but he really couldn’t find a word to describe it other than ‘misogynist’. It had ended inevitably in rape, torture and murder. For the first time, he’d found himself skimming a Jamie Cobain novel. ‘You’re not telling me . . . ’

Lucy nodded, her scarlet lips a tight line. ‘Oh yes. Nobody who knows Gala could fail to recognise her. Physical description – well, I assume it’s accurate because the relevant piercings are not on show – and even her verbal tics. “Doomtastic” and “Born to chart”, stuff like that. Darling, surely even Edinburgh’s heard the horror story by now?’

Rob shook his head. ‘Sorry, I’ve not been out and about. I’m on deadline, you know how it is.’

‘But you play chess with Jamie. Did he not boast about it? Apparently, he’d been sniggering to the boys about teaching Gala who was in charge. But then she did the unforgivable and dumped him, you see?’

‘We don’t talk much when we’re playing. It’s all about the chess. He said nothing to me.’ He looked around, rueful. ‘So much for my celebration. The only thing anyone will remember about tonight is Gala Faraday lamping Jamie Cobain.’

Lucy put a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t worry. You’re on the up and up. Not like Jamie.’

‘What do you mean, “not like Jamie”?’

Her smile reminded Rob of a cat contemplating a bowl of tuna. ‘Didn’t you know? His sales are on the slide.’

‘Surely not? His last book went straight in at number two. He only missed the top spot because it came out the same week as Jojo Moyes.’

Lucy shook her head, a pitying look in her eyes. ‘Honestly, Rob, you’ve still got so much to learn. It’s not the chart position that matters, it’s the sales numbers. Jamie went in at number two but he dropped straight out again. His sales have been on a downward curve for the last three books. You’re outselling him now.’

This was news to Rob. ‘Really? Me?’

Lucy tittered. ‘You sound like “The Ugly Duckling” song. “Me? A swan? Ah, go on . . . ” ’

‘I truly didn’t know that, Lucy.’

She nodded portentously. ‘He needs a big hit if he’s going to avoid being yesterday’s man.’

‘Poor bastard.’

She groaned. ‘You’re far too nice, Rob. Think about the way he’s just used Gala to create a storm. Obviously the mainstream media won’t join up the dots, but they’ll make headlines out of the sadism and general nastiness of it all. And the socials won’t hold back. Gala’s basically fucked in this industry now. That’s what happens to women who refuse to play by the rules. So don’t waste your kind heart on feeling sorry for Jamie. He’ll come out the other end of this relatively unscathed. But Gala? This’ll be the first thing everyone ever says about her. “Isn’t that Gala Faraday? The one Jamie Cobain . . . ?” ’

Rob understood the truth of Lucy’s words. But he also understood the power of desperation. He knew how much Jamie valued his standing in their world. It would have hurt him deeply to see that threatened by falling sales. He’d hit on a quick and very dirty way to give them a boost – nothing sold better than scandal. Rob couldn’t help wondering how far he’d go himself to preserve his own lesser but equally treasured status. Hopefully, he’d never have to find out.

Karen stood up and headed for the coffee machine. ‘I need stimulation,’ she said. ‘If this is Jake Stein’s attempt to resurrect his career, it’s not working for me. I can see why he left it unfinished.’

‘I think his natural readership will love the peek behind the curtain.’ Daisy yawned and stretched her arms over her head. ‘They’ll be trying to map his characters on to real people and relishing the inside track on how their favourites really behave. And the slap? That really happened. There was a mention of it in the cuttings I read. No details, just a couple of lines about an incident where an unnamed woman assaulted Stein at a party.’

‘That makes it look a helluva lot more autobiographical. You’d think Stein would want to sweep that under the carpet, not resurrect it in all its gory detail.’

‘Maybe he thinks there’s no point in trying to hide it when it’s an open secret? We don’t know yet how he’s going to spin it. I’ve heard writers say nothing is ever wasted.’

‘What I’m struggling with is how this relates to Lara Hardie. She was studying English, her family said she wanted to be a writer, but nothing anybody said about her suggested she was the kind of lassie who’d be daft enough to think she could sleep her way to a book deal. I still can’t quite see why Meera’s connecting this to Lara’s disappearance.’

Daisy got to her feet and headed for the fridge. She peered inside and came out with a can of Sugar-Free Irn Bru. ‘What day is it, by the way? I’ve totally lost track.’

‘Thursday? I think it’s Thursday.’ Karen tapped her phone screen. ‘Yeah. Thursday.’

Daisy grinned. ‘We’d better keep an eye on the time. It’s Clap for our Carers at eight o’clock. I had a thought about that. We don’t need to go all the way down to the street, we can just hang out of the windows and bang a pot with a wooden spoon.’

Karen scoffed. ‘Clap for our Carers. It’d be a damn sight more meaningful if the government paid them better.’

Daisy popped the top off her drink and took a swig. ‘Don’t be such a grinch. I think it’s nice. It’s about solidarity. And it’s a way to show people they’re appreciated.’

Karen shook her head. ‘They’re taking their lives into their hands every time they turn in for a shift. You must have seen the footage of them wearing bin bags because they’ve no proper protective gear? They’re heroes, right enough, but some of them can’t even afford to feed their kids. Sure, I’ll bang a pot, though I don’t think there’s many nurses or cleaners or ambulance drivers or care home workers living in this part of town. The best thing we can do for the health service workers is to avoid catching COVID. Wear our masks and follow the rules.’

Not for the first time, Daisy could think of no effective riposte. She was slowly learning that her boss was a woman of strong opinions. And they were opinions it was hard to knock holes in. She picked up the next page and carried on reading about the secret life of crime writers.

5

Six months later

Rob set out the chess pieces and put the two bottles of whisky on the side table. He stepped back to take in the whole scene. He still wasn’t accustomed to his new home, a generous detached villa south of the city centre. Over the years, the area had housed so many authors it had been dubbed ‘Writers’ Block’ by journalists.

He’d been reluctant to move from his cramped one-bedroom flat, scared that his success was a flash in the pan, but his agent had told him he deserved better and his accountant had told him there was no better investment for the money that was flowing in. His father had told him not to get above himself, and that had been the deciding factor. Rob had spent his life hearing he would never make anything of himself; the house on Somerville Place was the perfect riposte.

It seemed as if his agent and accountant had been right. Rob had won the two major awards he’d been shortlisted for; pre-orders for Depredation were rolling in; principal photography for the TV adaptation of Dereliction was scheduled for the following month; if he’d accepted even half of the invitations in his inbox, he’d have had no time to write.

So now they played their chess games in Rob’s book-lined study. His rise had been matched by Jamie Cobain’s fall from grace. Rachel had filed for divorce the day after Rob’s party. They’d been married since before Jamie published his first book; Scots law awarded half their assets to Rachel. Their lavish lifestyle had eaten most of Jamie’s earnings; when the dust had settled, he’d ended up with little more than half the value of the house.

That wouldn’t have been so bad if his earning power had remained undiminished. But the Gala Faraday incident had grown legs and stalked a wider world than publishing. Combined with Jamie’s declining sales, it had made him toxic in a #MeToo world. After he delivered his next manuscript, the final book in his contract, his publisher told him they were done. The news spread schadenfreude throughout the crime fiction community. It turned out Jamie hadn’t had as many friends as he’d thought. Or not ones who were comfortable with having a pint with a man who chained his lover to a radiator then told the world all about it.

Now he was living in a tiny two-bedroomed flat in the no man’s land between Craigentinny and Portobello. He still talked a good game, saying how much he loved being within walking distance of the long prom that ran along Porty beach. There was talk that he’d found a new publisher willing to touch the untouchable, but the word was that it was a Scottish indie with a reputation for opportunism. When comedians were barred by the BBC, when historic racist tweets were excavated, when politicians were caught out, this was the publishing house where they ended up. There was no doubt in Rob’s mind that Jamie still had plenty of potential readers but convincing them this was the book for them might be a trickier proposition than Stramash Press could manage.

But Rob had remained quietly loyal. He thought there were plenty of other men who had behaved as badly as Jamie had. The main difference was that they hadn’t been caught out. And it was clear that Jamie was hurting. He’d tried to reach a rapprochement with Rachel, but she’d simply turned away. He’d grown so accustomed to his charmed life that it came as a bolt from the blue that Rachel had reached her limit and burned it to the ground.

So when the grand house in Ravelston Dykes had been sold, Rob had invited Jamie to continue their chess games at his new house. Over the months, he had watched his friend fray round the edges. Jamie started to go too long between haircuts. Sometimes he turned up unshaven, with the faint smell of badly dried clothes clinging to his hand-made shirts. He lost weight, which was fine to begin with, but then he began to look gaunt. He drank more of Rob’s whisky than had been his habit when it was his own. All in all, it was a swift decline.

But his mind remained sharp as ever across the chessboard. He neither gave nor expected quarter. Sitting at a board, brow furrowed in concentration, was the last remaining place the old Jamie Cobain held sway, Rob thought. It was as if he shed his disgrace with the same disdain he’d show an old raincoat.

Jamie arrived promptly and they started to play with little preamble. Asking Jamie how he was doing felt brutal and awkward to Rob; he imagined the last thing Jamie wanted Rob to know was how he was. Jamie went straight on the attack with the King’s Gambit, the most aggressive of white’s openings. So that was how it was going to be, Rob thought. He took the offered pawn to buy time. Out came the King’s Bishop, and it was game on.

When the struggle was over, leaving Jamie the victor, he said, ‘You see I went straight on the attack tonight?’

Rob poured the whiskies. ‘Hard to miss. I was on the back foot from the word go. I’m amazed I lasted so long with that block of pawns in the middle.’ He handed Jamie his drink. He swallowed half of it in one gulp. Rob tried not to resent the waste of a good whisky.

‘I’ve been thinking, Rob. There’s only one way I’m going to redeem myself. I can’t change the past. But I can make the world forget the damage that bitch Faraday has done to me.’ He finished the drink and held his glass out.

Rob refilled it without comment.

‘I’m writing an absolutely stonking book. An irresistible book. With a twist that will leave everybody else in the dust. Something that will make The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and Gone Girl history.’ He was almost feverish, his eyes bright and his cheeks pink.

‘Easier said than done.’ Rob sat down. ‘That’s what we’re all looking for, every time we sit down at the keyboard.’

Jamie smiled, an echo of his former bonhomie. ‘But I’ve cracked it. A perfect murder with a screamer of a twist in the tail.’

Rob shook his head. ‘There’s no such thing as the perfect murder in a crime novel. Because it has to be solved in the end.’

Jamie stood up and helped himself to more whisky. ‘But what if it’s the wrong solution? What if the perfect murderer also puts together the perfect frame?’

Rob frowned. ‘So what’s the twist? He gets away with it?’

‘He gets away with it, yes. But the man he frames is a bigger criminal than him. So where does the justice lie?’

Rob sipped his drink, giving himself a moment to find words that wouldn’t offend Jamie. ‘So you end the book with a moral dilemma that doesn’t get solved?’

‘Exactly. And here’s the twist. We go interactive. We invite the readers to vote on whether they think the killer should be caught or whether the victim of the frame should go to jail instead. We leave the poll up and running for, say, three months. And at the end of it, I write the final chapter based on the public vote.’ The shit-eating grin signalled that in his head, Jamie Cobain was back. ‘Nobody’s ever done anything like that before.’

And with good reason, Rob thought. ‘But how do the paying customers get the last chapter?’

Jamie shrugged, spreading his hands in a careless gesture. ‘That’s for the boffins to work out. Maybe each copy sold has a special one-off code you type into the website. Like in the olden days when you bought a download code for a computer game. I’m sure they can figure it out. I tell you, Rob, I’m writing like a runaway train. I haven’t put words down this fast since the early days. I’m doing twelve-hour days and the ideas are spilling out on the page as fast as I can set them down.’

There was something almost manic in his speech, Rob thought. It wasn’t surprising; few people would have been able to come out of the past year mentally unscathed. But the more he digested Jamie’s words, the more Rob could see a glimmering of possibility in what he was suggesting. It was true, nobody had ever done anything like that before. And the technology could certainly support it. ‘It’s a novel idea, I’ll grant you that. Do you think Stramash can handle something potentially that big?’

‘If they can get the books out there, I’m sure we’ll sell them. Think of the publicity, Rob. And we can milk it online like crazy. I’m telling you, this is the way back for me.’

Rob felt uneasy, but he managed a smile. After all, he needed Jamie to climb back to the top of the tree. That way, maybe he and Rachel wouldn’t have to keep hiding. All it needed was the perfect crime to set the wheels in motion. And who better to come up with it than Jamie?

‘Now we’re starting to get somewhere,’ Karen said. ‘Time to let the dog see the rabbit.’

‘I’ve never understood what that meant,’ Daisy said absently.

‘It means, we’ve been getting all excited about something we know is going on even though we couldn’t see any evidence of it. And now it’s time for the reveal. We’re getting to the bit where we come face to face with the lassie who’s vanished. Laurel Oliver.’

‘That internet vote’s a great idea,’ Daisy said. ‘I never heard about that.’

‘I suspect it never happened. Whatever the endgame was for this book, it never got that far. I’m guessing Jake Stein’s brain probably blew up before he got that far into the story. Don’t you think?’

Daisy frowned. ‘Either that or he gave up on it. He was trying to be really tricksy, and maybe he realised he couldn’t pull it off?’

Karen leaned back in her chair and considered. ‘Or maybe the enormity of what he’d done finally got to him? Killing someone isn’t as straightforward as Stein or his crime writing pals make it seem. Even if you manage it in the moment, if you don’t lose control when what you’ve done hits you . . . it’s got a way of creeping up on you. If he did kill her – and right now that’s a very big if – it could be he woke up one morning and the horror of what he’d done freaked him out.’

‘Would he not have destroyed the manuscript, if that was what happened?’

Karen shrugged. ‘That might have been what he intended. Only his body let him down before he could do that.’ She sighed. ‘Just another one of the great unanswerable questions that plague the cold case investigator.’

‘I don’t suppose there was anything suspicious about his death?’

Karen shook her head. ‘There were no red flags at the time. I don’t think you can actually provoke a brain aneurysm.’ She reached for her phone and googled. Daisy waited patiently, knowing better than to interrupt. Karen looked up, shaking her head. ‘Apparently not. High blood pressure, a shit-ton of cocaine, but even then you’d have to have a natural weakness. And I don’t think he could have afforded a serious coke habit towards the end of his life. Looks like it was just bad timing.’

‘What I find interesting,’ Daisy said slowly, ‘is how self-critical he is. That is, if the character of Jamie is really how Stein saw himself. He’s not going out of his way to make us feel sympathy for him.’

‘Good point. But maybe we’re not meant to like him at this point? He could have been planning to turn Jamie into the hero later on?’

‘I suppose . . . ’ Daisy didn’t sound convinced. ‘More likely, he just lacked insight into how he comes off.’

Karen grimaced. ‘He wouldn’t be the first man to suffer from that. But we might be wrong about this whole set-up. He could have been playing with an idea inspired by Lara’s disappearance. Maybe he was trying it out for size. And it didn’t fit. Let’s not lose sight of that.’

6

‘So, tell me about this perfect crime,’ Rob said two weeks later, pouring a liberal Scotch for Jamie.

Jamie gave him a sly look. ‘What? And give you a solid gold plot for free? Do you think I came up the Firth of Forth on a bike?’

Rob shrugged. ‘We write very different kinds of book, Jamie. Even if I did steal your plot, the end result wouldn’t be anything like yours.’

Jamie, in benevolent mood after beating Rob soundly with a twist on the Scotch Gambit, acknowledged the truth of the comment by raising his glass in a toast. ‘True. So, the bad guy is a poet. The victim is a student who comes to one of his readings and lingers at the end of the signing queue. She confesses she’s struggling with her own poetry. He’s been looking for someone like her for a long time. So he arranges to meet her, he kills her, then he dumps the body in his patsy’s garden. Then he stands back and waits for the right time to betray him.’

‘That doesn’t sound very perfect to me,’ Rob said. ‘There’d be evidence galore, surely?’

Jamie tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’ve worked it all out, Rob. Every last detail.’

‘But why? What’s your killer’s motivation?’

Jamie savoured a mouthful of Scotch. ‘The dish best eaten cold.’

‘Revenge? Revenge for what?’

Jamie shrugged. ‘The usual. You know. Betrayal.’

Rob felt the inward shiver of someone walking over his grave. Surely Jamie couldn’t know about him and Rachel? They’d both understood from the very start that there would be consequences for both of them if Jamie found out about their relationship. He had a very clear idea of what belonged to him; he had been genuinely hurt by the divorce and outraged at what he saw as a deeply unjust settlement. He’d raged for months about having to surrender the assets he’d worked so hard for. Rachel was a qualified lawyer; they could have been equal partners in building their life. But she’d chosen to go part-time, to contribute nothing to the household economy except cooking for their dinner guests. Deliveroo could manage that almost as well without demanding half his home.

Falling in love with his chess partner’s wife had been so far off his agenda that Rob didn’t notice it was happening. That first time Rachel had cooked for him had felt special, it was true, but only because it had been so long since anyone had shown him any culinary care. He’d asked for her recipe for the Roscoff onions, and that simple act had apparently sparked a fire in Rachel, accustomed for so long to being taken for granted.

The next time they’d met had been happenstance. He’d walked up to Valvona & Crolla at the top of Leith Walk for some of their exquisite nduja and he’d been diverted by a shelf of cannoli. A voice at his shoulder startled him. ‘You know you want to,’ in low tones. He swivelled to come face to face with Rachel.

He flushed and said, ‘The trouble with cannoli is that one’s never enough.’

‘Like so many of the good things in life.’ Rachel’s tone was rueful but her smile was playful. ‘Have you got time for a coffee? Or are you in one of those short breaks between frantic creativity?’

It was true that the walk up the hill to the Italian grocery had shaken loose a path through a thorny conversational thicket between two of his characters. But that could wait. Even if the idea evaporated before he got back to his keyboard, he knew he wouldn’t care. Ideas were cheap; spending time with a woman like Rachel was not.

This time, they talked about books, about febrile Scottish politics, about what was coming up at the Film House. Jamie barely figured in the conversation. And the next time they’d played chess, Jamie had said nothing about their meeting. Now, thinking about it, Rob had a fleeting moment of unease. Had that been a test? Had Rachel told her husband and was Rob’s silence indicative of guilt? It hadn’t occurred to him at the time; rather, he’d assumed it had been so trivial an encounter that Rachel didn’t consider it worth mentioning.

But now? Now he was being paranoid, he told himself. Because Rachel had felt that same spark that had lit up his day. She’d since told him so. That was why she’d said nothing to Jamie and also why she’d called him a few days later. ‘Jamie has suddenly decided he’s going to New York for that stupid awards ceremony. The one he’s convinced he’s got no chance of winning?’ She sighed. ‘Apparently, he needs to be in the room, to show his face. And I’ve got a lobster in the fridge that needs to be eaten tomorrow. I don’t suppose you feel like sharing it?’

The uptick in his heart rate had nothing to do with the lobster and everything to do with the prospect of seeing Rachel. ‘Hmm,’ he mused. ‘How were you thinking of cooking it?’ They both knew the answer didn’t matter. She could have placed a plate of beans on toast in front of him and they’d still have ended up in bed afterwards. In the spare room, obviously. There was never anything tacky about Rachel.

Rob felt Rachel was who he had been waiting for all his life but had never quite believed he’d find. He’d had girlfriends, but none of them had ever made him feel that he’d want to spend the rest of the year, never mind the rest of his life with them. With Rachel, he felt completed in a way that he thought was only a fiction. The truly astonishing thing was that she claimed she felt the same way about him. That was harder to credit, but he was reluctantly coming round to believing her.

Of course, keeping their relationship under wraps did spice it with risk, giving it a frisson of excitement that might not have persisted so strongly had they been out in the open. But Rachel was adamant, even after the divorce, that they keep it from Jamie. ‘You have no idea how dangerous he is,’ she’d said.

‘But it’s over. You’re divorced. He’s got no claim on you.’

‘He still says he loves me. That he’d get back together in a heartbeat.’

‘He’ll just have to get over it.’

Rachel had turned to face him, her expression grave, her dark eyes troubled. ‘Rob, he will destroy you. Trust me, he’ll make it his life’s work to bring you down.’

‘He can’t do that.’ Rob stroked her tousled hair back from her forehead. ‘He’s got no credit in the bank in the crime writing world. Nobody would take him seriously.’

She shook her head. ‘You underestimate the power of social media. Ripped out of context, a throwaway joke can be turned toxic in the time it takes me to tell you this. Anybody who’s ever begrudged your success can be weaponised. He’ll pretend you’re the reason our marriage went south, even though he had no idea it was happening. He’ll turn his dirty little affairs into a response to my infidelity. Remember the shock of Gala Faraday’s slap? You think you’re beyond provocation, Rob. But you’re not.’

He pushed himself into a sitting position, the pillows scrunched into the small of his back. ‘So, what? We skulk around in the dark forever? We let him win?’

‘Not forever, my love.’ She moved confidently to straddle him. ‘I know the way his mind twists. As soon as he finds another woman he wants to make his property, he’ll lose all interest in me. I’ll be the one who failed, you’ll be the mug who got stuck with her.’ She leaned into him, lips caressing the line of his jaw. ‘And it’s not like we can only be together when he’s out of town,’ she added. ‘We just have to be private.’

All of this flashed across Rob’s mind in seconds. None of it showed on his face, he was certain. He’d perfected his blank face in poker schools at college; it had been one of the ways he’d managed to keep his head above the financial waves. He’d reawakened the old skills at US mystery conventions, where the American top dogs played late-night games for high stakes. He’d never come away from the table with less than he’d started with.

‘Betrayal? Lots of possibilities there,’ he said. ‘Professional double-cross, marital infidelity, sibling rivalry, inheritance that doesn’t go the way everyone expects, plagiarism. You’re spoilt for choice.’

‘Oh, I ‘ve already decided. I told you, it’s going like a train.’ The old Jamie was back – smugly confident and untouchable. ‘I’m all set. All I have to do is the final checks. Run a dress rehearsal.’

‘What do you mean, a dress rehearsal?’

‘The perfect crime. I just need a run-through to make sure it works.’

This time, Rob’s poker face failed him. ‘You’re not going to kill someone, are you?’

Jamie roared with laughter. ‘You are so easy, Rob. What do you take me for?’ He finished his drink and stood up. ‘Wait and see, mate. This will blow them away.’