‘. . .expect the sunshine to continue all the way through till Tuesday morning, when an area of high pressure from the east’s going to bring rain with it. . .’

He blinked and yawned, scratched, then flopped back in the bed. ‘Come on, you lazy sod: up.’

Maybe in a minute.

Logan dug his knife into the jar. ‘Tea and toast, tea and toast, la-la-la-la tea and toast. . .’ There was only just enough Marmite in the jar to leave a thin skid mark across the melted butter. Better than nothing. He slouched through to the living room, taking breakfast with him.

A permatanned face on the TV grinned out at the piles of books and cardboard boxes littering the room. ‘. . .February next year. I went to see two of the film’s stars on the set. . .’

The little red light on the answering machine blinked at him. Four messages. Probably all from Steel, moaning at him.

Two women appeared on the telly, sitting in director’s chairs in front of a poster for Witchfire. They smiled and waved at the camera. Pretty, in a superficial, Hollywood, FHM-calendar-girl kind of way. One with natural-looking ginger hair, the other with full-on post-box scarlet like Samantha’s. The words ‘NICHOLE FYFE’ and ‘MORGAN MITCHELL’ appeared across a banner at the bottom of the screen.

Logan pressed the button on the answering machine and the electronic voice droned into the untidy room, ‘Message One:’ It was replaced by DCI Steel’s familiar, gravelly tones. ‘Laz? You there? Pick up.’ Pause. ‘I’m no’ kidding, get your arse—’

Delete.

On the TV, Mr Fake-Tan simpered. ‘And you’re a redhead now!’

The one called Nichole laughed. There was a slight trans-Atlantic twang to her accent, but the Aberdonian was still there underneath: ‘I know, isn’t it great? We both had to do it for the film, but I really like it, it’s so liberating. And absolutely no one recognizes me: it’s like being a completely different person!’

Morgan twirled a lock of her screaming red hair, smiling at the camera as if she was about to rip its clothes off and make it do unspeakably kinky things right there on the studio floor. Her accent was pure New York, ‘Everyone should try it at least once. Unleash the naughty, people!’

‘Message Two:’ was followed by, ‘Laz, I’m serious—’

Delete.

‘Nichole, what’s it like starring in something as big as Witchfire? ’

‘It’s immense. My first really meaty dramatic role, and—’

‘Message Three:’ A man’s voice, sounding depressed. ‘Hello? This is a message for Logan McRae. Logan, it’s Preston’s the architects, it’s been two years since we got the roof on the flat. . .’ Sigh. ‘And I wondered if you’re any nearer making a decision about going ahead with the build? ’

Should really call him back.

Delete.

‘—was such a shock: I’d actually auditioned for Mrs Shepherd.’