McCreadie never flinched. ‘Well, of course I’d be happy to supply an image. As I said, I’ve barely been out of the house. Assuming it’s true that someone is stalking Karen, then that’s a worrying development. There’s no chance it was McLaughlin before his demise?’

‘What do you know about McLaughlin’s demise?’ McNab said.

‘Just what’s been released to the press.’

McNab didn’t believe that, but let it go anyway and asked his final question.

‘Have you read or photographed the contents of Karen’s diary?’

‘I have not,’ was McCreadie’s immediate response.

‘So it won’t turn up on one of your true crime podcasts?’

McCreadie gave a wry smile. ‘Not until after it’s been presented in court and if I have Karen’s permission, Detective Sergeant.’

So that was it. McNab rose to go. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said.

McCreadie came back in then. ‘I was planning to ask Karen to stay here until she’s feeling better?’

‘I think that would be wise,’ Magnus intervened.

McNab okayed this and made to leave. ‘There’s a strategy meeting tomorrow, first thing,’ he told Magnus. ‘We’ll talk there, Professor Pirie.’

Pulling on his waterproofs at the bike, McNab had another quick look at the note Karen had given him along with the diary. A note she’d said had been posted through her letter box.

It said, I know who you are.

When McNab had asked Karen what she thought it meant, she’d said, ‘Someone around here knew that I was Karen Marshall, Mary’s friend.’

Even Marge and the women at the cafe weren’t aware of that until Karen had told them. But . . . perhaps one of her not-so-far-away neighbours had already worked it out. The guy who’d known Karen’s husband, and who’d met Karen on King’s Knot, then miraculously encountered her again as she visited her husband’s grave in the Old Town Cemetery.

Former DI Jimmy McCreadie, now crime writer J. D. Smart.

The rain came on as he left Stirling, reminding McNab just how wet you could get when riding a Harley. And going fast only made it worse.

56

‘Well,’ Chrissy said as she elbowed her way through the crowd, ‘it looks like a good turnout for the lovebirds.’

Rhona, following in Chrissy wake, had to agree. Police officers, she thought, were easy to spot, even out of uniform. Why, she wasn’t sure, but it was true. Paula’s friends and probably co-workers definitely did not look the same. Or maybe it was because the groups were at this moment clearly delineated. Hopefully once the drink flowed, there might be more of a mingling.

‘What does Paula do?’ Rhona said, aware that even if she didn’t know, Chrissy likely would.

‘She’s a GP, I believe,’ Chrissy said, confident as ever with her answer.

Having now got them to the bar, Chrissy asked Rhona what she wanted to drink. ‘Not the white wine,’ she advised.

‘Why not?’

‘Because, take it from me, the white in here is shite. What about a cocktail instead?’