"Thanks, buddy," he said, 'but you need your space, and so will we. You don't want to be living with the director. It's a bad idea."

There were other reasons too, but he didn't need to spell them out.

Instead, he asked me if that was the only reason I had called.

"Wish it was. No, the movie's had another bit of vicarious publicity, and it's my fault again."

I explained what had happened, in detail. Miles didn't say a word until I was finished. "Has our security guy been on our side?" he asked.

I saw no harm in putting in a word for Ricky; sooner or later Miles would remember their past connection. "Very much so; he smoothed the way today at the police station. He still has strong connections in the force."

"That's good. I'll thank him in person when I meet him." He sighed.

"Capperauld's cousin, eh. Could you wind up being a witness?"

"Probably; I found him. But even if the police charge someone quickly it'll take months before the case comes to trial."

"Okay, no worries, then." I heard him grunt. "Well, maybe there's one. I use a PR agency as publicists on all my UK projects. Part of their brief is to let me know whenever anything affecting me, even remotely, hits the press. They should have told me about this story by now, but they haven't.

"This friend of yours; do you think she could do the job?"

I took a deep breath. "I honestly don't know, Miles. Maybe you should take a day or two to think about that. She's just lost her partner; could be she'd struggle with that sort of responsibility."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Hey, you've changed, buddy. In the past you'd have said hire her just because she's female. No harm in sounding her out though."

"I suppose not," I said, noncommittally. Then I thought of something else. "Do you have a contact number for Ewan Capperauld? I want to touch base with him on something."

"Sure. He and his wife are staying with his parents; I've got his number noted somewhere. I'll send you an e-mail before we leave."

"Fine." I hung up the phone.

Ricky Ross had finished his sandwich. "Thanks for putting in the good word with the boss." he said.

"Remember it."

"What do you want to talk to Ewan about?"

"I told Sergeant Morrow about it; a business thing, the reason Alison wanted to see me." I sketched in the part of the story I had left out before, explaining the feud between the Capperauld cousins, and her predicament with James Torrent. When I was finished, Ross frowned. "I didn't know about that," he muttered, as if the omission was a personal affront.

"Thank Christ you don't know everything," I snorted.

"I try to, though, Oz; I do try."

"Why are you so interested in Ewan anyway?"

"I'm handling his personal security while he's in Edinburgh. It's part of the contract; his, Mr. and Mrs. Grayson's, Steele's, Massey's, the Japanese guy's, the Waitrose girl's and yours."

"Mine?" I exclaimed.

"Aye. You're a V.I.P now, son. I've got a team looking after all the principal cast members. Ewan Capperauld's round the clock, and so will the Graysons be when they arrive, and the Japanese guy. The rest of you will have people responsible for you when you're filming on the streets, and you'll be given a number you can call if you're being pestered.

"Everyone will be told about the arrangements at the briefing on Thursday; apart from Mr. Capperauld, that is. He knows already."

7Q.

Something clicked in my brain. "Ricky, how did you get this gig?"

"Through a guy I know from the old days; a bloke called Mark Kravitz.

You'll never have heard of him."

He was wrong there; I know Mark all right. I've seen him in action too. He had worked for Miles on my first film project, when we'd had a bit of trouble. He's a man of mystery, and he has contacts all over the place, both sides of the fence, top to bottom.

If Ricky Ross was involved with him, maybe he deserved a new degree of respect.

"Do you want Mr. Capperauld's contact details?" He took a diary from his pocket, flipped through it, then wrote an Edinburgh address and a phone number on the front page of my script, which was lying on the coffee table.

He drank the last of his beer and stood up. "Better be going," he said. "I've got a lot of irons in the fire just now." He scratched his chin. "I wonder if young Ron's making anything out of the argument between the two Capperaulds? I don't know if it was wise to let that slip," he mused.

"Don't be daft. He's not going to go after Ewan Capperauld."

"I fucking would," Ricky grunted.

He was just about to leave, when the phone rang again. "Yes," I said, as I picked it up. I never give my name these days when I answer a call.

"Mr. Blackstone?" It was a woman's voice, high and twittery, and full of panic.

"Yes."

"This is Mrs. Goodchild, Alison's mother. She's in terrible trouble."

She started to cry, on the other end of the line.

"Okay, okay, okay," I exclaimed. "Now please try to calm down, and tell me what this is about."

I had met Alison's mother a couple of times when we had been going out.

She had been a widow for a couple of years then, and she hadn't been handling it well. Alison had said that she had been flaky at the best of times. Listening to her burble on the phone, it was clear that she hadn't improved.

"Mrs. Goodchild," I said. Ross's eyebrows rose. "Please. Take a couple of deep breaths, and try to control yourself."

Eventually she could speak again. "Alison called me," she said. "She's with the police, and they've arrested her. She phoned me just a crt minute ago and asked me to call you and tell you. She said you'd help her."

"Oh shit," I murmured.

"Pardon?"

"Yes, Mrs. Goodchild," I replied, quickly. "Of course I will. Now you just calm down; take a pill, or have a brandy or whatever, and try not to worry. I'll sort everything out." I sounded like the Wizard of, rather than just Oz.

"I'll call you later."

I hung up and looked at Ricky. "Do me a favour and come with me."