Twenty-Eight.

He was. When he walked out of the lift and across the hall into the apartment, five minutes after two-thirty, I almost said "Hello, Bob."

I'd seen him on screen before, and on television, in costume parts, contemporary parts, comedy and tragedy. In all of them he'd looked handsome and slightly patrician, a tall dark-haired man in early middle age.

The Ewan Capperauld who walked into my apartment was tall, okay, around six-two, but that was as far as the comparison went. His hair was steel-grey, flopping loosely over his forehead. His shoulders were wide and he walked loose-limbed, almost like a gunfighter. It was a mild autumn day, yet he wore a long black leather overcoat.

He looked as if he had stepped straight off the front page of Skinner's Rules.

"Hello, Mr. Director," he said, spotting him across the room and extending a hand. His accent had the same rough edges as the rest of him. I took a closer look at his face, and found myself wondering if his nose had always been just a bit off the straight, or if he'd had that done for the part as well.

"Hi, Ewan," Miles responded. He looked him up and down, then smiled.

"I knew you'd put in an appearance." He turned to me. "I cast this guy in Kidnapped and he turned up for the first meeting in highland dress."

He glanced around the room; everyone else had turned up on time and was munching on sandwiches and drinking champagne. The conversation had stopped, though; they were all staring at the newcomer. Scott Steele was standing at my elbow. "Fucking poser," he muttered; he was enough of an actor to make sure that his voice carried, but Capperauld never even twitched.

"Can I have your attention, please?" Miles called out, unnecessarily.

"Dawn, Scott, you've worked with Ewan before, but let me introduce everyone else." He went round all the cast members, one by one; the star greeted us with a nod of the head, held eye-contact for precisely two seconds, then moved on to the next.

When the 'hellos' were over he crossed to Dawn, took her hand and kissed it. "My dear," he murmured, 'how good to see you again."

"I'm pleased you remember me, Ewan," I heard her answer. I guessed she was speaking the truth, for she had told me five minutes earlier that she had never exchanged a word with Capperauld while they were making Kidnapped.

I hadn't been sure how Dawn would greet me, but she'd been okay. "Have you heard from Prim?" I'd asked her.

"I saw her the day before we left."

"Is she happy?"

"She says so; are you?"

"I think "slightly stunned" covers the way I feel. The baby is just great, but I don't have to tell you that."

"And her mother?"

"She's great too."

"That's good; I hope it works out for you. It's best that the pretending's over between you and my sister. Actors do enough of that in their working lives, without having to face it at home too."

That was the most profound thing I'd ever heard Dawn say. When I met her she was just an exceptionally pretty face; now there was a lot more going on behind it.

"Okay," Miles called again, 'attention please, everyone. There's a lot of us here, and I want everyone to know where everyone else fits in.

For a start, there's the author of the book we're filming." He pointed briefly to his left, towards a big, grizzled, middle-aged guy, with a Mediterranean tan, who was leaning against the wall, nursing a glass of champagne, which he waved vaguely, in acknowledgement. "He isn't going to be riding shotgun on the production, but he'll be free to join us on set, any time he likes."

He turned and beckoned towards a corner of the big room. "Now, I want to introduce Mr. Richard Ross; he's our head of security, and he's going to explain a few things to you. He's a former Edinburgh detective; I guess you could say he used to be Bob Skinner in real life."

Ricky liked that one; I could tell as he stepped into the circle.

"Thank you, Mr. Grayson," he began, then looked around the group. He was dressed to impress, but in a different way from Ewan Capperauld. He wore razor-pressed slacks, and a double-breasted blue blazer with gold buttons, embossed with a crest, which I guessed belonged to one of Edinburgh's better golf clubs.

"I'll begin by putting you at your ease; my firm hasn't been hired because of any perceived security threat. We're here as a precaution to guard against one that comes out of the blue. Our remit is to ensure that everything goes smoothly for the production, and for its key people as individuals." Good pitch, Ricky; I was feeling reassured already.

"I'll have a staff of five attached to the production; they're all ex-police or ex-armed forces, they're all here, and I want to introduce them now. First, Mike Reilly." A stocky man, with light red hair and piercing blue eyes, stepped forward and nodded. "Mike will be responsible for Mr. and Mrs. Grayson's welfare; round the clock.

"Next, Glen Oliver." Big, muscular, fair-haired, late twenties, soft features, hard eyes. "Glen will cover Mr. Capperauld.

"Third, John Takei." Oriental, a small, dark-haired package. "He'll be looking after Mr. Katayama." The Japanese actor, a beaming man in his late fifties, nodded to his minder and bowed.

"Finally, Alan Graham and Mandy O'Farrell." The first, early thirties, sloping shoulders, tired eyes; no obvious threat, but he wouldn't have been there if he didn't possess one. The second, late twenties, around six feet tall, blonde and tanned, angular features, long, hard-edged martial artist's hands. "Alan and Mandy will be responsible for Mr.

Steele, Mr. Massey, Ms Waitrose and Mr. Blackstone." Ricky looked around us all. "They'll never be far away and you'll be given mobile phone numbers you can call if you feel under threat, or you're being harassed by a persistent member of the public'

Rhona Waitrose grabbed my arm and squeezed. "Hey, this is cool," she whispered. "I've never had my body guarded before."

I looked down at her; in the flesh she was much shorter than she appeared on screen, but just as pretty. "You'll have had volunteers, though," I murmured.

"Yes," she chuckled, 'but I find that conscripts are best."

Ricky looked across at Liam Matthews; the wrestler was standing beside Masahi Katayama. Before the briefing had begun they had been speaking in Japanese; Liam spent a few years on their sports entertainment circuit, which can be very bloody indeed. "I hope you don't feel left out, Mr. Matthews," he said. "I'll give you cover while you're here if you'd like it, but I assumed you can handle your own security."

"But, sir," Liam replied, at his most Irish. "Didn't Oz tell you? It's all faked." That got a laugh, but I've seen my friend in real action; I know what he can do.

"When the crew is at work," Ricky continued, 'our people will be there.

We'll work in co-operation with the police of course, and between us we'll see to it that you can work without interruption.

"Any questions?" he asked. I stuck my hand up.

"If we are harassed by a persistent member of the public, what will your people do?"

He looked at me, dead-pan. "Deal with it."

"How?"

"By whatever means is appropriate, within the letter of the law."

"Okay, suppose my sister visits me one day and has a go at me, as she often does; I'm concerned about the form of your reaction. Will you do anything without my say-so?"

"Absolutely not, Oz."

"Thank Christ for that; you don't have enough people here to handle my sister. I wouldn't like to see any of them getting hurt."

Ricky gave me a weak smile; Mandy O'Farrell shot me a look that said, "I could take your sister any time." I doubted that, but I grinned back at her.

"Okay," said Miles, seizing the moment to move on. "That's security; now the rest of the team." He went on to introduce Ben Cain, the production designer, Dario de Luise, the chief cameraman, Phyllis Baxter, the unit publicist, who'd been given a reprieve after the dropped ball over the Scotsman story, and Gail Driver, his and Dawn's personal assistant. I knew all of them from previous projects, and so did most of the cast.

"The rest of the people on the team you'll meet on Sunday." He paused and looked around us. "Yes, folks, Sunday; that's the big day. Filming begins at seven a.m." in Advocates' Close, off the High Street. Those of you who are involved.. . that's Ewan, Dawn, and Oz... who don't know the layout should familia rise yourselves with it before then.

"Tomorrow, we begin rehearsals, scene by scene."

Ewan Capperauld frowned. "Rehearsals?" he boomed .. . without a trace of a Scottish accent. I thought of Dame Edith Evans, and handbags.