historical mysteries featuring Flora Macdonald’s younger sister, Fiona had a soft spot for Mary Helen, not least because of her acerbic tongue. ‘What drags you away from the Highlands?’
‘Oh, I had to come down to talk to some dreadful wee man at the BBC who’s making a TV series out of the Morag Macdonald books.’
‘But that’s good news, isn’t it?’
Mary Helen’s face puckered as if she’d bitten a sour apple. ‘You wouldn’t say that if you knew who they’ve cast as Morag.’
‘Tell me the worst.’ Fiona had spent enough time around writers to know exactly what was required.
‘Rachel Trilling.’ Mary Helen’s voice was fat with disapproval.
‘Isn’t she…?’ Fiona struggled to make sense of the name. ‘She’s the lead singer with Dead Souls, isn’t she?’
Mary Helen’s eyebrows rose. ‘My God!’ she exclaimed. ‘At last I’ve found somebody who’s heard of her. But then, what can you expect from a producer who thinks a white cockade is a tropical bird?’
‘Oh, Mary Helen, I am sorry,’ Fiona said.
‘I’ll just have to follow Kit’s perennial advice and take the money and crawl,’ Mary Helen said with a grim little smile.
‘Apart from that, how’s life treating you?’
‘It would be infinitely better if you’d pass me another glass of wine,’ Mary Helen said. Fiona obliged, but before they could say more, the shop manager began his introduction to Adam Chester. Adam spoke briefly and wittily about his new book, then read a fifteen-minute extract. A few questions from the floor followed, then it was time for the signing.
As the purchasers formed a queue by Adam’s chair, Kit glanced across the room. ‘Uh-oh,’ he said to Nigel Southern, the twenty-something writer of comic noir short stories he’d been talking to. ‘I better go and rescue Fiona from the clutches of Mad Mary Helen.’
Nigel raised his perfectly groomed eyebrows. ‘I’d have thought your lady was more than a match for the Highland Harpie. What’s it like, anyway, living with somebody who spends her days poking around the perverted fantasies of psychopaths?’
‘Funnily enough, we don’t talk about it that much. We’ve got a life,’ Kit said. ‘Anyway, that’s not what she does. She uses computer analysis, not psychoanalysis.’
Nigel shook his head pityingly. ‘I couldn’t be doing with that. I mean, it must be like living with the control freaks’ control freak. Isn’t she always telling you you’ve got it wrong?’
Kit gave him a good-humoured punch on the shoulder. ‘You haven’t got a fucking clue how the grown-ups live, have you? Listen, Nigel, if you are ever lucky enough to meet a woman with half the brains, the wit and the looks of Fiona, do yourself a favour. Go on a training course before you ask her out.’ Without waiting for a reply, Kit squeezed through the crowd and enveloped Mary Helen in a bear hug. ‘How’s the queen of the glens?’ he demanded, landing a resounding kiss on her cheek.
‘All the better for seeing you and Fiona. If I’m honest, the main reason I came to this do tonight was in the hope of seeing a few cheerful faces. This business with Drew Shand has cast a terrible pall over the Scottish crime-writing community. We’ve all been phoning each other every day for the last two weeks, making sure we’re still alive.’
‘You’re such a drama queen, Mary Helen,’ Kit teased her.
‘I’m serious, Kit,’ Mary Helen protested. ‘It came as a terrible shock to all of us.’
‘But surely there’s no threat to any of the rest of you?’ Fiona asked. ‘I thought the police were pretty much convinced he’d been killed by somebody he picked up that night in the gay bar, what’s it called?’
‘The Barbary Coast,’ Kit supplied. ‘So unless you’ve got a secret life in sadomasochistic society that we know nothing about, the chances are you’re safe,’ he continued, putting a reassuring arm round Mary Helen’s shoulders.
‘Would that I could lay claim to anything so exciting,’ Mary Helen said dryly. ‘But it’s not that straightforward, is it? I mean, Drew was killed in the precise manner in which he’d murdered one of his fictional victims. It’s hard to avoid the conclusion that whoever killed him had some sort of morbid fascination with the genre. You know about these things, Fiona. Wouldn’t you agree with me?’
Put on the spot by Mary Helen’s sharp blue stare, Fiona shrugged. ‘Hard to say. I know no more about the case than anybody else who’s read the papers and surfed the Net.’
‘You must have some sort of theory,’ Mary Helen pressed her. ‘After all, this is your field. Come on, don’t be shy, you’re among friends here.’
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