There was another pause.

'I think my sister was murdered.'

Anna frowned.

'In which case I think you should be talking to the police,' she said.

'Oh, I've done all that she died seven months ago, you see but they don't seem to be interested any more.'

'In that case I don't see-'

'It was the inquest into her death last week,' said the girl quickly. 'The coroner didn't say it, of course, but I know she was murdered and I want I need to prove it.'

Anna took a sip of coffee. 'I'm afraid I don't understand why you are calling me.'

'You deal with celebrities, don't you? My sister's death made the newspapers when it happened so I thought someone might look into it a bit more, especially after the inquest. But now there's this big story about Sam Charles having an affair everywhere and it's as if my sister never even existed.'

Despite herself, Anna was intrigued.

'Who was your sister?'

'Amy Hart.'

Anna wrote it down, but it didn't ring any immediate bells.

'I still don't understand why you think I can help you,' she said.

'I called you because you know about the law and you know about celebrities. Someone famous killed my sister and they're trying to cover it up. Even the newspapers are in their pocket.'

Anna felt her heart beating faster.

'Look, I can prove that my sister was killed. Can't you meet me? Please.'

Anna knew she shouldn't touch this with a bargepole, but the pleading in the girl's voice did make her feel sorry for her. She sounded lonely, desperate, alone. It was no fun facing anything traumatic on your own; the last three days had taught her that. The girl's words rang around her head: Even the newspapers are Even the newspapers are in their pocket in their pocket. Was it possible? Anything was possible if you had connections and money.

'What do you think happened to Amy?' said Anna softly. 'Who did this to her?'

'We should meet.'

The rational side of Anna's brain told her that this was a crazy, mixed-up kid who needed expert advice of the pastoral rather than legal variety.

'I can't help you unless you tell me what you think.'

'I need to see you in person.'

She finally relented. She was too curious.

'I suppose I could do coffee tomorrow.'

'I've got a summer job in Pizza Hut. I've got the day off on Wednesday.'

'Let's grab a sandwich. How about we meet in Green Park? By the fountain.' She didn't want this to be taking up office time. 'What's your name?'

'My name's Ruby. I've seen your photo, so I know what you look like.'

'Okay, Ruby. I'll see you then,' she said, grabbing her jacket and heading out of the door. Helen Pierce might have written her off, but there was fight in Anna Kennedy yet.

14

The beach was two and a half miles long, that was what Mike had told him. Sam looked back along the long white stretch of sand and wondered why he hadn't been here before. Eigan island, ten miles from the Scottish mainland, was so heart-stoppingly beautiful, with the pale sun glinting off the ripples of wet sand, the heather-fringed cliffs, even the sea eagles wheeling effortlessly above him scanning the waves for their dinner.

Sam kicked a piece of driftwood with his foot, but remembering that it made the best kindling, he stopped dead and stooped to pick it up. As he bent over, he noticed that the bottom of his two-thousand-dollar Tom Ford trousers had white rings left by the salt water. For a split second he wondered if anywhere on the tiny island offered a dry-cleaning service as it didn't even have a shop, he very much doubted it but as the sunshine shimmered like a spray of tiny diamonds over the clear Atlantic waters, he felt a surge of rebellion and ran to the edge of the sh.o.r.e, splashing through the tide until the fabric was truly soaked.

Laughing, he rolled the trousers up to his calves, realising that although he'd only left the pampered celebrity world two days ago, it already felt like a fading dream. Eli had suggested that Sam hide out in Mexico or at a director friend's ranch in Idaho at least until the scandal had died down and the vultures had stopped circling. But Sam didn't want to be surrounded by strangers, he wanted to be among friends.

'Not many of those around at the moment, kiddo,' Eli had said. That was certainly true. Sam hadn't exactly been inundated with messages of support from his so-called buddies, the various actors and film people he hung around with in Hollywood. When you were dead, you were dead. They didn't want any of Sam's black marks rubbing off on them. So he had rung his old university friend Mike McKenzie, reasoning that he was one of the few people who would understand what he was going through. And Mike's oyster farm on Eigan was perfect when you were seeking blissful isolation.

Eli had driven Sam straight from Jess's Cape Cod hideout back to the airport. The jet had flown him to the tiny airport at Oban, where he had jumped into a four-seater prop plane, and he was skimming down for a juddery landing on Eigan's north beach before most people had even had their morning papers delivered.

Sam closed his eyes. He didn't want to think about the papers today, didn't want to ruin a lovely day just spent walking and enjoying the sun on his face, the sounds of the waves and the birds and the wind. There was time for all that later. Much later. Reluctantly he turned to head back towards Mike's place, the squat little crofter's cottage he could see in the distance, white smoke drifting from its chimney. There were worse places to hide out, he thought. In fact he could see himself staying here for a long time. Mike had managed well enough for the past six or so years; it had been his sanctuary, his salvation. Maybe a simpler, less vain life was what Sam needed too.

He walked up the little path to the cottage, smiling at the seash.e.l.ls and pretty stones that had been laid along the flower beds on either side. It was so totally unlike the scruffy, irreverent, disorganised Mike he knew. But then Mike wasn't the same man he'd known at uni, was he? Living out here, how could he be?

'The film star returns,' said Mike as Sam b.u.mped in through the low door. 'I was worried that the seals had got you. What do you fancy for supper? Oysters. Crab. Scallops?'

Sam flopped down in one of the rickety chairs by the old iron range.

'You make it sound like b.l.o.o.d.y n.o.bu.'

'It is, except my stuff is fresher,' winked Mike. 'And I haven't got any chopsticks.'

Sam smiled. It had been years since he had seen his old friend and he had been nervous about calling him. After all, what would he say? 'Listen, Mike old thing, I've a.r.s.ed up my life and my career and I need to hide out somewhere the paparazzi will never find me. I know I've been too important to so much as send you a postcard in the last five years, but can I come and stay?'

In the end, that was pretty much exactly what he had said.

Mike had left a dramatic pause, then said: 'Can you pick up a Snickers on your way through the airport? I'm desperate for one and the boat doesn't come over from the mainland for another week.'

At least he hadn't changed all that that much. In fact, in many ways he was the same c.o.c.ky b.u.g.g.e.r Sam had met on the second day of Freshers Week at Manchester University. Discovering they were on the same drama course, they'd bonded over a shared love of bitter and Seventies comedy. The summer after they'd graduated, they'd taken a two-man show to the Edinburgh Fringe and been a surprise hit. But Sam had always been the Dudley Moore straight man to Mike's Peter Cook comedy genius and they had amicably gone their separate ways six months afterwards: Sam to serious theatre, darhlink, Mike to ma.s.sive acclaim at the vanguard of a new generation of indie comedy, followed by his own chat show, a BAFTA-winning comedy drama and something of a reputation as a h.e.l.l-raiser and a ladies' man. much. In fact, in many ways he was the same c.o.c.ky b.u.g.g.e.r Sam had met on the second day of Freshers Week at Manchester University. Discovering they were on the same drama course, they'd bonded over a shared love of bitter and Seventies comedy. The summer after they'd graduated, they'd taken a two-man show to the Edinburgh Fringe and been a surprise hit. But Sam had always been the Dudley Moore straight man to Mike's Peter Cook comedy genius and they had amicably gone their separate ways six months afterwards: Sam to serious theatre, darhlink, Mike to ma.s.sive acclaim at the vanguard of a new generation of indie comedy, followed by his own chat show, a BAFTA-winning comedy drama and something of a reputation as a h.e.l.l-raiser and a ladies' man.

Sam watched as Mike shovelled more coal into the fire, his dark fringe hanging down. His hair had always been on the Byronic side: Mike always said he used it like a hypnotist's pendulum to lure girls into his bed.

'What are you looking at?' said Mike.

'You, you great jessie. You look like someone from a BBC Thomas Hardy adaptation.'

'b.u.g.g.e.r, I was hoping for more of a David Ess.e.x gypsy troubadour look.'

'More "Come On Eileen" than "Winter's Tale", mate.'

'So says the limp-wristed thesp. I'm not the one getting my back waxed, am I?'

'Hey, if it's in the contract, I have to wax,' laughed Sam.

He loved how they could fall straight back into their banter as if no time had pa.s.sed at all. He just wished he hadn't left it so long; he still felt guilty that he hadn't been there when Mike had needed him the most.

Sam hadn't been entirely surprised at the news that Mike had had a breakdown just when his star was at its highest. He'd always been mercurial and slightly manic, but that was just Mike. He would always be involved in some weird fringe play or organising a huge themed party. He painted and grew cacti and cooked curries for twenty people at a time; he was a powerhouse that never stopped. But Sam knew him well enough to see that he was just running to stand still; Mike once confessed to him that he feared that if he ever stopped, he'd fall into the empty s.p.a.ce at his centre.

Finally, seven years ago, Mike had fallen into that hole. He'd been discovered wandering naked around Loch Ness, mumbling that he was looking for the monster. He had just finished a record-breaking sell-out run of his solo show at Wembley; he should have been basking in the glory. Instead, he was sent to a discreet psychiatric clinic in Wales. When he was released two months later, Sam had offered him a room in his LA home and introductions to his Hollywood contacts, but Mike had other ideas and moved out to Eigan. Since then, whenever Sam was in the news an acting award, a starry premiere Mike would send him mocking postcards reading: 'Heard about the nomination. I spent the day digging up potatoes'; or 'Loved you in the new film, we have foot and mouth here.'

But Sam's packed schedule coupled with the strain of maintaining a relationship with Jessica had meant that he barely remembered to send Mike a Christmas card, let alone come out to visit his old friend.

Mike took two tins of pale ale from the cast-iron fridge and handed one to Sam. 'Tell you what, Mr Bojangles. Let's go for lobster tonight. Then you won't feel so homesick.'

'What about you, Mike? Don't you get lonely out here?'

'How could I get lonely? There are twelve sheep per acre here.' He smiled. 'Plus there are six families; we even have a school eight kids on the register, I believe.'

They ducked through the low-slung doorway to head outside, sitting on a low stone wall facing the sea. Sam tipped his head back, loving the feel of the warm breeze on his face. On a nearby bluff there was the ruin of a small chapel, covered with a colony of nesting seagulls. It was just perfect.

'I can see why you wouldn't want to leave. How did you find it?'

'My cousin Lucy moved to Mull. After the clinic I came up to visit, and one day I was walking past an estate agent's and saw this advert reading "Oyster farm for sale". I wanted some peace and quiet, and oysters aren't known for answering back. Plus I always fancied myself leading the Good Life Good Life. It was just all that fame that got in the way. And the girls, and the cars and the money.'

'Do you miss it?'

'No,' he said bluntly. 'Twice a year I go and do stand-up in Oban in a pub where they serve c.o.c.kles and a pint for three quid. Mostly they just throw the c.o.c.kles at me. But I think secretly they know my stuff is good.'

'I believe you. So you're still writing?'

Mike stepped inside the house and came back out holding a dog-eared notebook.

'This is a script about a priest who goes to work in Hollywood. I've written dozens of 'em. Some of it's the best stuff I've ever done. Must be the sea air.'

He threw it into Sam's lap and Sam flicked through it, feeling a rising excitement.

'Laugh a minute, old son,' said Mike confidently. 'I should know, I've timed it.'

Sam didn't have to read Mike's script to know how brilliant it would be. The word 'genius' was bandied about a lot in LA, but an on-form Mike McKenzie was the real deal. He wasn't just funny, he was sad too; he made the thoughtful seem so throwaway you'd catch your breath and realise the impact of his words long after he'd moved on to something else. Sam had never been able to write anything even close to Mike's output, which was one of the reasons he'd gone off to become an actor. It was hard living in such a tall shadow.

'Why did we split up again?'

Mike gave a wry smile.

'Creative differences. That's what your Wikipedia entry says anyway.'

'The truth is, I just wasn't funny.'

'At least you had the b.a.l.l.s to admit it.'

Sam gave him a sideways glance. 'It was tempting not to.'

Mike shaded his eyes and peered down at him. 'What do you mean?'

'I thought you were my meal ticket.'

Mike snorted and threw a pebble at him. 'The international movie star thought I was his meal ticket?'

'It's true. You were so f.u.c.king funny. I could so easily have tagged along as your Ernie Wise, but ...'

'But you wanted to be the star?'

'Yep,' said Sam, sipping his tea. 'And look where that got me.'

'So do you want to talk about it?'

Sam laughed.

'Jesus, Mike, I know you're casual about things, but I didn't think you'd wait a full two days to bring it up.'

'Well, apparently the whole world's talking about it. I wasn't sure you'd want anyone else chucking their ha'penny's worth in.'

'The difference is you're my friend.'

'Okay, seeing as you ask, I think you've been a right k.n.o.b. Shall we move on?'

Sam chuckled.

'That's what I love about you, you always find me hilarious.'

'Me and about a million other people.'

'Ah, you're talking about the past there.'

'Come on, Mike. You miss it.'

His friend was quiet for a moment and all they could hear was the bleating of a lamb on the hillside behind them.

'I miss making people laugh,' he said finally. 'Mentally I'm better, strong enough to do it again, but I'm wary of stepping back out there. I mean, look what's happened to you. You wanted to act. You've become a circus show.'

'Cheers.'

Mike gave a low, thoughtful laugh.

'They were good, the old days, though, weren't they?'