When Rory walked into the interviewing room, Hamish thought he looked a bit like his boss; heavy-set, well-groomed, paunchy and fleshy, but with thin mousy hair combed over a pink scalp.

Carson started right away. "Sit down, Mr. MacBain. Describe your relations with Crystal French."

"We met at a televison conference in Edinburgh..."

"When?"

"Last year. At the Edinburgh Festival."

"Which hotel?"

"The George." A bright little memory flashed across Rory's frightened brain, that of leading Crystal out of the bar and up to his room. But there had been no staff in the corridor outside. Play it cool.

"Did you have sexual relations with her?"

"How dare you!" shouted Rory. "I'm a married man."

Carson tuned to the pathologist's report. "There are two disturbing things here. It appears she may have been stunned with a blow to the head and then a suicide faked. Secondly, she had sexual intercourse recently. We will be taking DNA samples."

Wasn't him anyway, thought Hamish, watching the flicker of relief in Rory's eyes.

Carson leaned forward. "I urge you to be honest, Mr. MacBain. I ask you again: Did you have sexual relations with Crystal French?"

Rory sat with his head down. Then he said, "If I tell you, can you keep it from my wife?"

"Unless you are guilty of murder, I see no reason why Mrs. MacBain should know."

"I did, then, but that was down in Edinburgh. Just the one night at the George. I'll come clean. I would have resumed the relations when she came up here, but she kept putting me off, saying, wait till I get settled. Then she was a success and could snub me as much as she liked."

"You mean you were prepared to use your position to seduce an employee?"

"Oh, get real," snapped Rory. "She seduced me."

"What was her state of mind recently?"

"I was worried about her," said Rory. Better actor than his boss, thought Hamish. "She was given to emotional tantrums, but, well, in this business, you get used to that." Callum's had a word with him, thought Hamish. Rory was going on. "As a matter of fact, I suggested she might try therapy."

"When was this?" asked Carson.

"Just last week."

"And what did she say?"

"She said she was all right. But you know what they say, if you're mad then you're the last to know."

"Was she depressed?"

"Yes, she was distressed and frightened. You see, we were getting bags of hate mail and death threats."

"Death threats? You didn't report those."

"Oh, television stations always get death threats. Lots of nutters out there. But it was getting to Crystal. I told her to just look at the size of the mail bag. That's what counts. Poor thing. Committing suicide like that."

"As I said, we are not sure it was suicide."

"I don't believe it. I'm telling you, that poor girl's state of mind was a mess."

He was asked several more questions and then allowed to leave.

"I think we should have this Felicity Pearson in," said Carson. "She seems to be a fund of gossip, to judge from what she told Macbeth."

"I'm afraid, sir, that by now she won't have much to tell us," said Hamish.

"Why?"

"I think she'll be told to keep her mouth shut. They might even have offered her her old show back."

Carson consulted his notes again and then raised his eyes and looked at Hamish.

"You think so? So what would you do?"

"The three others were with her when she was talking to me-I mean Harry Jury, Tom Betts, and John Leslie. I would question them all together."

"Right, we'll try it your way."

"Although," said Hamish, "I suppose they've all been warned by now."

The policewoman was sent to fetch the four. They shuffled in together. The policewoman arranged four chairs in front of Carson's desk. Hamish eyed her sympathetically and wondered what she thought about being given all this dogsbody work, from making the coffee to arranging the furniture.

"I'll get right to the point," said Carson, changing tack. "This is now a murder enquiry." Felicity gave a little gasp.

"Now before you all tell me what an emotional mess Crystal was and how she was ripe for suicide, I must urge you to tell the truth."

Before anyone could speak, the door opened and a man popped his head round it. "Just wondered if you wanted to see me."

"And who are you?"

"I'm Alistair Campbell, the producer of Crystal's show."

"We'll get to you later," said Carson.

"Right."

"Wait a minute!" Hamish shouted to the producer's retreating head. Alistair Campbell reappeared. "Did you just get to the office?" asked Hamish.

"Yes, just got in. The girl at reception told me where you were and I thought I'd get any questions over with before I start work."

Hamish turned to Carson and said, "I think Mr. Campbell should answer questions first, as he hasn't had time to see anyone."

Carson studied Hamish for a long moment and said, "Do come in, Mr. Campbell. Another chair please."

Hamish crossed the room and said to the policewoman, "I'll do that."

She flashed him a grateful smile and returned to her position by the door.

"So, Mr. Campbell," said Carson. "I'll start with you." Hamish noticed Felicity's hand reaching out to tug Alistair's jacket and said sharply, "Miss Pearson!"

She flushed and put her hands on her lap.

"What was your impression of Crystal French?" asked Carson.

The producer was a tall, thin man in his mid-thirties with a long mobile face and horn-rimmed glasses. He leaned back in his chair and grinned. "Can I talk ill of the dead?"

"As long as it is the truth."

"I don't believe it was suicide," said Alistair. "She was a downright bitch and one of the worst people I've worked with. She had an ego the size of Mount Everest. She made everyone's life a misery."

"Would you say she was depressed?"

"Anything but. She seemed to think her role in life was to make other people depressed."

"That is interesting. Your managing director and your head of features claimed she had gone mad, that she was nervous and strung out."

"They did? Well, they knew her better than I did." He winked. "Know what I mean?"

Felicity could contain herself no longer. "You should not talk about your bosses."

"I can say what I like," said Alistair easily. "I'm finished here. I've got a job with the BBC in Glasgow."

Carson stared at Felicity. "You said to Constable Macbeth that Crystal French was depressed."

"All I meant," said Felicity shrilly, "was that the letters she got were getting her down."

"And you said," Carson ploughed on, "that she was having affairs with Callum Bissett and Rory MacBain."

Felicity turned white. "I didn't mean that. I was upset by her death." She clasped her hands together. "Oh, don't tell Callum I said so."

She stared at them, stricken. Callum had called her in an hour ago and promised her the Countryside show back again. He had said that he relied on her loyalty to him and everyone else in the station.

Carson turned his attention to Tom Betts. Felicity's heart sank.

Tom confirmed that what Hamish had reported them all saying, including Felicity, was correct. He stated that he hadn't started work with Crystal yet and didn't know her.

Carson asked more and more questions. When he had finished, Hamish spoke up. "Miss Pearson, you were doing research for Miss French. As she was about to interview me, I am sure you were told to go about the village and try to find something against me."

"Yes, but I couldn't get anything. I wish we had done the village one first, you know, what goes on behind the lace curtains. But Crystal was furious about her speeding case and meant to get even with the police."

"Who was doing the research on the village one?" asked Hamish.

"Amy Cornwall."

Hamish said to Carson, "I think we should see her."

"Why?"

"There may be someone somewhere in the Highlands who didn't want an old scandal raked up again."

"Good point," said Carson. He looked at the policewoman. "Get this Amy Cornwall in here."

"And I would keep these people here until she arrives," said Hamish.

Carson looked at him with a flash of irritation. He knew Hamish meant that Felicity would tip off Amy as to what to say, but he didn't like the way Hamish was taking over the course of the interview.

"Very well," he said.

They waited in silence for Amy Cornwall. When she arrived, the others were told to leave. Amy sat down and smiled saucily all around. She was a contrast to Felicity. She was in her twenties and had a mop of golden curls over a cheeky face.

"I gather your job was to dig up some dirt on villagers for Miss French's show," said Carson.

"Yes, that's right. I hated doing it, but success is all that counts in the television business."

"And how did you go about it?"

"Newspaper cuttings. Old scandals."

"Like what?"

"I hadn't got around to many people. Just made a few phone calls, setting up interviews."

"I'll need a list of the people you were going to see."

"Right."

"How soon?"

"Have it right here." She opened her handbag and produced a grubby list. Carson eyed it with disfavour. "What happened to computerised reports?"

"I have it on my computer. You can have my written notes for now."

"Now, my detectives have already taken statements from some of the television people about where they were on the day of Miss French's death." He didn't ask, thought Hamish, and then realised that Jimmy Anderson and others would have already done preliminary interviews. "Where were you on Monday?"

"I was doing research for the motor show. Nice easy stuff. I was down in Inverness at the Rover dealer arranging for our presenter to test drive the new car. I left early in the morning and didn't get back till six in the evening."

"A long day to set up one interview."

"Well, I went shopping. I was in no mood to hurry back. You see, I didn't know of Crystal's death."

"Meaning you didn't like her," said Hamish suddenly.