"Is this the way you usually go about your job?" I asked her.

"Not very often; in fact, hardly ever. Sometimes clients expect it; they think it's part of the service. Those ones really have no chance.

You'd think Arabs might be the worst for that, by the way, but they're not. No, it's the Americans you have to watch out for."

"I'd have thought they'd have to watch out for you." She laughed.

"Those who tried it on, that is."

She ran a hand across my chest. "I'm glad you're one of the nice types," she said. "You're a strong boy; I don't know how I'd handle you if you got rough." My self-esteem was restored.

"Very carefully," I suggested. She took me at my word, and moved across me; I found myself looking up into her smiling eyes. "Mandy," I told her, 'fidelity has never come easy to me, and you're making it more difficult by the second."

"I can feel that," she remarked.

"So please ... and don't be offended, because I'm having trouble asking this ... go and sleep in the spare room."

"No," she said. "I've got my orders."

Thirty-Seven.

I don't know how I did it, but I made it to Advocates' Close at the appointed hour next morning, looking reasonably fresh-faced, and feeling fit and ready for work. When the alarm woke me, at six on the dot, Mandy was up and dressed. She offered to make breakfast while I showered but I knew that the caterers would be taking care of that in the production trailers in Cockburn Street.

The location was so near at hand that I was able to walk there in only a couple of minutes.

The book says that it's dark and raining when they find the body, but Miles had taken a liberty with that as well. If we'd shot in darkness we'd have had to spread it over at least two nights, and the cost would have shot up. As I said, the man knows the value of a pound.

Advocates' Close was blocked off when Mandy and I got there, guarded by policemen, who were actually extras in uniform. The High Street was open to traffic, though, and a small crowd of on-lookers had gathered at the barrier; some, but not all of them, were on the payroll. Once the cameras started rolling, though, all the punters would be cleared away. Continuity is everything in film; if the faces in the background changed from shot to shot, it would stick out like a sore thumb.

Speaking of which, as I eased my way through the crowd, I saw Ricky Ross standing inside the alleyway. I walked up to him, and Mandy strolled off to join the other minders. "She picked you up, then?" he asked, nodding after her.

"She never left my side," I told him, 'as per your orders."

"You should be so lucky," he muttered, sarcastically. "The Ice Maiden's above the likes of you, son. Her job's to collect you from your flat and get you here on time, and that's that, so don't you get any ideas."

"As if I would." I changed the subject, fast; if Mandy's visit had been extra-curricular, I didn't want him to get more of a sniff of it than I'd given him already. "Have your people spotted the guy who was following me?" I asked him.

"Sorry. There hasn't been a trace. You are sure about him, are you?"

"Of course I'm fucking sure!"

"Okay, okay, keep your hair on. You've probably spooked him. Chances are he was just an idiot punter and you'll never see him again, but we'll keep looking, and I'll keep the cover on Susie."

"Thanks."

For the first time, I wondered about his presence there. "Where's Alison?" I asked.

"Still at home. I've got someone watching her too, though."

"Do you really think she's at risk?"

"I'm not taking any chances," he said, curtly.

I caught something in his voice. "Here, Ricky," I challenged, 'are you getting keen on her?"

He glared at me. "I like the girl, okay?"

"Christ, it's thanks to you she could be going to the slammer!"

"I don't need reminding about that, thanks. Anyway, she won't; I've seen who the judge is likely to be. He and I were at school together; if I speak on her behalf she'll get probation, okay."

I laughed loud enough to turn the heads of the minders, who were gathered in a group at the foot of the Close. "Is there anything in this bloody city," I asked him, 'that can't be fixed by the power of the old school tie?"

"Cancer," he said, cheerfully, 'but that's about all."

"You won't be so sure of yourself if the police tie her to Anna Chin."

"They won't. I've had word; they've got a new lead. They haven't given up on the intruder theory, but they're off following the scent of Anna's boyfriend now."

That got my attention. "Her boyfriend? But that'll lead them straight to David Capperauld, and Alison."

He shook his head. "Not him. He must have been on the side. She had an official boyfriend, a corporal in the Parachute Regiment. He's on leave just now; Anna's father told the CID they had a blazing row a few days ago."

"Sure, about Capperauld."

"No. That's not what the father said, and it's not what the soldier's saying. Their story is that he was pressing her to give up her job and go south to live with him, and that she refused, point blank."

"Because she was having it off with David."

"I'm telling you; his name hasn't come up."

"For now," I said, gloomily.

Behind me I heard a buzz among the punters in the crowd of onlookers. I turned, just in time to see them part, as Glen Oliver led Ewan Capperauld on to the set. I checked my watch; dead on time.

"Okay," came a voice from the foot of the Close. "Actors to makeup,"

Miles commanded. "Let's make a movie."

Thirty-Eight.

The wardrobe mistress gave me a brown leather jerkin for my first scene; it fitted pretty well. As far as I'd been able to tell from the book, Andy Martin rarely wore anything else. She handed me a pair of black Levi's as well; they were my size and had been washed several times to give them a worn look. I tried to tell her that the pair I was wearing would do fine, but she pointed out that a middle-ranking Edinburgh detective would be unlikely to turn up at a murder scene wearing Gucci.

The production trailers, great articulated things, stretched halfway up Cockburn Street; two of them were split into reasonably spacious dressing rooms. I had my own on this project; a first for me, since I'd had to share with other cast members before. As Miles had promised, there were no stars on any of the doors, only our names.

Make-up didn't take too long; all they had to do with me was to damp down what was left of my California tan, and replace it with a more authentic Edinburgh pallor. I'll never like wearing slap, but it's a small sacrifice for the money, and the stuff they use now is non-allergenic, unlike the make-up Jan and I wore in our drama club days, which brought me out in spots ... or maybe that was just my age.

By the time we were ready, so was the crew. Miles led Ewan, Dawn and me back up the Close. The truncated dummy and the scary false head were in place, and pretty soon, so were we. The first shot was Ewan, in his Skinner coat, steel-grey hair tousled, expression grim; the camera focused tight on his eyes, then panned out, to take in the rest of the scene. I was crouching by the side of the body, and Dawn was a few feet away.

The first line of the movie was down to me, as I stood to greet him, a tired-sounding, "Morning, boss." It was hardly deathless prose, but I did it in one take. That was it; Miles called "Cut', as directors do, and we moved on to scene two.

As we'd been warned, most of the time was taken up by changing the camera positions; we had a lot of standing around to do, but we did it patiently. Ewan turned out to be a football fan, or at least a Falkirk supporter, the poor sad bastard. He lamented his club's weekend defeat, and its continuing failure to build itself a ground worthy of the name.