‘And who’s it hurting? The film people aren’t making anything themselves, are they? So it can’t be illegal. Stands to reason. You can’t counterfeit something that doesn’t exist yet.’

‘Ma, you have to stop doing this.’

‘They like getting together and making things. And they do such a good job too, have you seen the quality? ’

‘It – doesn’t – matter!’

Logan plucked a pricking knife from a box. They’d fixed the guard in place, but the pommel was missing and the hilt wasn’t wrapped in leather yet, the words ‘MADE IN ABERDEENSHIRE’ stamped into the metal. Eight-inch blade at one end, tiny half-centimetre blade at the other. ‘How many of these have you made? ’

She smiled. ‘Lovely, aren’t they? There’s a wee engineering works I know that produces the most wonderful metalwork. Between you and me: the manager picks his nose, but you have to overlook that kind of thing in an artiste.’

‘How many? ’

‘Oh, we’ve got about three hundred in the store, don’t we, Charles? ’

The man in the saggy cardigan shrugged. ‘Can’t make any more till we get those blanks in.’

Three hundred. So much for tracking down the murder weapon.

Dildo held up his warrant. ‘Right, I’m confiscating this lot. You know the drill: stop what you’re doing. And if anyone wants to lend a hand loading it all into the van. . .? ’

‘It’s so unfair. . .’ Ma Stewart leaned against the betting shop counter, fanning herself with her gossip mag as Dildo staggered out to the van under the weight of half a dozen cardboard boxes. ‘We’re only trying to give the old folks something productive to do.’

Logan unscrewed the pommel from a counterfeit pricking knife and ran his thumb across the minute triangular blade. Sharp. ‘Where did you get the designs from? ’

‘You don’t want them just mouldering away in a retirement home, do you? They need something to focus on.’

‘Knives, costumes, swords, badges, books. . . They’re all identical to the film props, so someone must be slipping you the plans on how to make them.’

Ma puckered her scarlet lips. ‘I have my sources.’

‘Someone in the props department? ’

‘Surely we could come to some sort of arrangement? If I can’t sell the merchandise, I can’t pay my people. That’s not what you want, is it? Them going home empty-handed after putting in so much work? ’

‘Who – did – you – get – the – designs – from? ’

A big sigh swelled her cleavage again. ‘All right, all right. Since it’s you: I had a contact on the inside. A lovely girl who wanted to help my pensioners. Pretty little thing, and so polite! Shame about her boyfriend. . .’

‘It was Agnes Garfield, wasn’t it? You’re the reason she was stealing stuff from the set.’