He took refuge from his embarrassment in the room through the open door, a large study

Miss Adamson’s apartment was smaller than McReadie’s but still large enough. She stepped lightly round a stainless steel counter that separated her kitchen from the bulk of the living space, busying herself with beans and grinder. Soon the air filled with a powerful aroma.

“So what’s Fergus done then, inspector? I always thought there was something slightly creepy about him.”

McLean settled himself on one of the tall stools that were arranged along the length of the counter. Behind him he could sense Constable MacBride’s unease.

“I can’t exactly say, not until he’s been charged. But we caught him red-handed, Miss Adamson.”

“Vanessa, please. Only my agent calls me Miss Adamson.”

“Vanessa, then. Tell me. Have you known Fergus McReadie long?”

“He was there when I moved in about, what, two years ago? I’d see him in the elevator, we’d say hello. You know how it is.”

She plunged the coffee then poured it into three mugs, turning to pull a large carton of fat-free milk from the enormous fridge behind her.

Glamorous

McLean couldn’t help noticing that, apart from a couple of bottles of Champagne, it was pretty much empty.

“He tried to hit on me a couple of times. But he wasn’t my type. Too geeky, and that accent just used to get on my nerves.”

Her own voice was soft, with the faintest trace of American mixed in with the Edinburgh.

“Do you know what he does for a living, then?” McLean accepted the proffered drink, unsure quite why MacBride was so reluctant to come forward and claim his.

“He’s some sort of computer security expert, I think. He tried to explain it to me once. My mistake for inviting him to the party, I guess.

“He made it sound glamorous, like he spent his life trying to break into banks and stuff. You know, so he could show them where their weaknesses were?

“I got the impression most of it involved sitting in front of a computer watching numbers scroll past.”

There was a light tapping at the door. McLean looked round to see Constable Kydd framed in the doorway. Her gaze shifted from him to Vanessa and her eyebrows shot up. He looked back at his hostess, wondering what he was missing.

“Oh, do come in, officer. There’s plenty more coffee in the pot here.”

Miss Adamson stooped for another cup and McLean averted his eyes as the dressing gown parted to reveal perhaps more than was intended.

“That’s very kind, ma’am,” the constable said, not moving from the doorway. “But I think the inspector should come see what we’ve found.”

“No rest for the wicked, eh?” McLean levered himself off the stool.

“Constable MacBride, stay here and get as much detail as you can about our burglar.

“Vanessa, thank you for your help. I’ll be back for the rest of that coffee if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, inspector. It’s quite the most exciting thing that’s happened to me all summer.

“And who knows when I might have to play the part of a policewoman. This is a wonderful opportunity for research.”

Familiar

As he turned to leave, McLean was almost certain he saw Constable Kydd mouth a silent, questioning “Vanessa?” to MacBride, but her expression dropped back to its normal not-quite-angry self before he could be sure.

He followed her out, across the hall and back into McReadie’s apartment. One of the two doors at the far end stood open.

“Am I missing something, constable?” McLean asked as they crossed the huge space.

“You didn’t recognise her, sir? Vanessa Adamson? Won a Bafta last year for her role in that BBC period drama? Oscar-nominated for that Johnny Depp movie?”

He hadn’t seen either, but he’d seen her on the news, now that he thought about it.

McLean felt the tips of his ears heat up. No wonder she’d looked a bit familiar.

“Really? I thought she was taller.”

He took refuge from his embarrassment in the room through the open door, a large study, lit by a single floor-to-ceiling window.

A wide, glass-topped desk supported a laptop computer and a phone, but nothing else.

Grumpy Bob sat in the black leather executive chair, spinning it from side to side.

“Found something, Bob?”

“I think you’ll like this, sir.”

He stood up and reached for a book on the top shelf behind him. When he pulled it out, the whole shelving unit clicked, moved forward and slid sideways on silent runners.

Behind it, there was another set of shelves, glass this time and lit from above and below.

They were stacked with a bewildering collection of jewellery.

“How on earth did you find that?” McLean walked around the desk, peering into the hoard.

“I was looking at the titles, sir. Saw one that McReadie’d written himself.

“Thought I’d have a look at it, see if there was a biography in it.

“Only he hadn’t written it, had he. It was his little joke.”

“Well, ten out of ten for observation. Eleven out of ten for jammy luck.”

“It gets better, sir. I found these too.”

Bob reached down and pulled a couple of newspapers out of the bin beneath the desk. Copies of the Scotsman from the previous week.

He unfolded them both and spread them out. One had been left open at the announcements page, the other at the obituaries.

Both had circles of black biro on them. McLean recognised the grainy black and white photograph of his grandmother, taken 40 years earlier.

Grumpy Bob beamed the smile that had earned him his nickname so many years before.

“I think this just might be our obituary man, sir.”

Struggled

“McLean! Where the hell were you yesterday morning? Why weren’t you answering your phone?”

Chief Inspector Duguid marched down the corridor towards him, face livid red, hands clenched into ugly fists.

McLean struggled for a moment to remember what he had been doing, so much had happened since.

Then it all clicked back into place.

“I had the day off, sir,” he replied evenly. “I was burying my grandmother.

“If you’d spoken to Chief Superintendent McIntyre she’d doubtless have told you.

“She might also have let you know that I came in early anyway to finish up the report on your uncle’s death and his killer’s suicide.”

More tomorrow.