A dark rumbling voice cut through the background noise. ‘Nichole? ’ Insch. ‘They’re ready for you in makeup, if you’re sure you’re up to it? ’

She nodded, patted Logan on the chest. ‘Thanks again.’ Then turned and marched away, arms swinging at her sides, as if she was on parade.

Insch scowled, dug into his pocket, and came out with a little bag of apple slices. Popped one in his mouth. ‘You should’ve spoken to him yesterday. And I don’t appreciate you chatting up my lead actress.’

‘I wasn’t chatting. . .’ Every bloody time. ‘Is the writer here? ’

‘Mr Hunter is in conference room two. Try not to piss him off, or he’ll spend the rest of the day hitting the gin and we’ll get nothing decent out of him till tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Can’t promise anything. . .’ He craned his neck, scanning the soundstage. ‘Now, have you seen PC Sim? ’

Conference room two was thick with the dark scent of freshly brewed coffee – a percolator gurgling away to itself in one corner of the large rectangular room. A load of desks had been pushed together to make one huge surface, the top nearly invisible beneath piles of different-coloured paper covered in scribbles and highlighter pen. The blinds were down, leaving the room to slump in the unsympathetic glare of fluorescent lighting. One wall was completely plastered in yellow, green, and orange Post-it notes, the opposite one hiding behind what looked like A4 frames from a storyboard.

The room’s only occupant sat in the middle, frowning at the screen of a laptop, a ‘WORLD’S WORST DAD’ mug sitting by his mouse. Mid-forties; curly hair surrounding a high, domed forehead that shone in the overhead lights; goatee beard; glasses obviously bought to look ‘hip’ and ‘with it’, but failing.

Sim grabbed Logan’s sleeve. ‘Eek! That’s him!’

Logan produced his warrant card. ‘Mr Hunter? ’

The man didn’t look up from his screen, just waved a hand at the far corner of the desk. ‘Just put them over there, and tell David I’ve solved his continuity problem with four-fifteen.’

‘Police, Mr Hunter. I’m Detective Inspector McRae, this is PC Sim. We need to ask you a few questions.’

He peered at them over the top of his glasses. ‘You haven’t brought the sandwiches? ’

Logan pulled out a chair and sat. ‘Sim, why don’t you get us all a cup of coffee. I’m sure Mr Hunter would like a refill.’

‘Mmmpnnnn. . .? ’ She fidgeted for a moment, blushed, then scurried off to fiddle with the percolator.

Hunter shifted a stack of scripts to one side, and picked up a copy of the Scottish Sun. ‘Let me guess, you’re here about this? ’ The headline, ‘SICKO SATANIC KILLER COPIES FILM MURDER SCENE’ sat above a photo of the house in Kintore, and an artist’s impression of the Ring Knot from Witchfire.