V. L. McDERMID

Hostage to Murder

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2003

Copyright © V.L. McDermid 2003

Val McDermid asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780007173495

Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2008 ISBN: 9780007301683

Version: 2017-07-25

In memory of Gina Weissand (1946–2001) who was everything a friend should be. You blessed us all, babe, and we miss you.

He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune.

‘Of Marriage and the Single Life’

Francis Bacon

Contents

Title Page Copyright Dedication Part One Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Part Two Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty One Chapter Twenty Two Chapter Twenty Three Chapter Twenty Four Chapter Twenty Five Chapter Twenty Six Epilogue Keep Reading Acknowledgements About the Author By the Same Author About the Publisher

PART ONE

1

A murder of crows swore at each other in the trees that lined the banks of the River Kelvin. A freezing drizzle from a low sky bleached the landscape to grey. Nothing, Lindsay thought, could be further from California. The only thing in common with the home she’d left three months before was the rhythm of her feet as she ran her daily two miles.

On mornings like this, Lindsay found it hard to remember that she’d once loved this city. When she’d come back to Scotland after university and journalism training, she’d thought Glasgow was paradise. She had money in her pocket, she was young, free and single and the city had just begun the process of reinvigoration that had, by the millennium, made it one of the most exciting cities in Britain. Now, fifteen years later, there was no denying it was a good place to live. The cultural life was vibrant. The restaurants were cosmopolitan and covered the whole range from cheap and cheerful to glamorous and gourmet. There were plenty of beautiful places to live, and more green spaces than most cities could boast. Some of the finest countryside in the world was within an hour’s drive.

And all she could think of was how much she wanted to be somewhere else. Seven happy and successful years in California had left her feeling that this long narrow land was no longer full of possibilities for her. Partly, it was the weather, she thought, wiping the cold mixture of sweat and rain from her face. Who wouldn’t long for sunshine and the Pacific surf on a morning like this?

Partly, it was that she missed her dog. Mutton had always accompanied her on her runs, his black tail wagging eagerly whenever she walked downstairs in her jogging clothes. But she couldn’t contemplate putting him in quarantine kennels for six months, so he’d been handed over to some friends in the Bay Area who’d guaranteed him a happy life. He’d probably forgotten her already.

But mostly it was not having anything meaningful to do with her days. Lindsay would never have described herself as someone who was defined by her job, but now that she had none, she had come to realize how much of her identity had been bound up in what she did for a living. Without some sort of employment, she felt cast adrift. When people asked, ‘And what do you do?’ she had no answer. There were few things she hated more than the sense of powerlessness that provoked in her.

In California, Lindsay had had a response, one she felt proud of, one she knew carried a degree of respect. She’d reluctantly abandoned her post lecturing in journalism at Santa Cruz to come back to Scotland because her lover Sophie had been offered the chair of obstetrics at Glasgow University. Lindsay had protested that she didn’t have anything to go back for, but Sophie had managed to convince her she was mistaken. ‘You’ll walk into a teaching job in Scotland,’ she’d said. ‘And if it takes a while, you can always go back to freelance journalism. You know you were one of the best.’

And so she had stifled her doubts for Sophie’s sake. After all, it wasn’t her lover’s fault that Lindsay had reached the age of thirty-nine without a clearly defined career plan. But now she was confronted by the cold reality of unemployment, she wished she’d done more to persuade Sophie to stay in California. She’d looked around for teaching work, but vocational journalism training wasn’t nearly as widespread in Scotland as it was in the US. She’d managed to secure some part-time lecturing at Strathclyde University, filling in for someone on maternity leave, but it was dead-end work with no prospects. And the idea of going back to the overcrowded world of freelance journalism with a contacts book that was years out of date held no appeal.

So her days had shrunk to this. Pounding the walkway by the river. Reading the papers. Shopping for dinner. Arranging to meet old acquaintances for drinks and discovering how much distance there was between them. Waiting for Sophie to come home and bring her despatches from the world of work. Lindsay knew she couldn’t go on like this indefinitely. It was poisoning her soul, and it wasn’t doing her relationship with Sophie much good either.

She reached the point where she had to turn off the walkway and head up the steep hill to the Botanic Gardens, the halfway point on her circuit. Head down, she powered up the slope, too wrapped up in her thoughts to pay heed to her surroundings. As she rounded a blind bend, she realized she was about to cannon into someone walking down the hill. She swerved, but simultaneously the other woman sidestepped in the same direction. They crashed into each other and Lindsay stumbled, smacking into a tree and falling to one knee, her ankle twisting under her. ‘Shit,’ she gasped.

‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ the other woman said.

‘My own fault,’ Lindsay growled, pushing herself upright, then wincing as she tried to take her weight on the damaged ankle. ‘Jesus,’ she hissed, leaning forward to probe the joint with her fingers.

‘You’ve not broken it or anything?’ The woman frowned solicitously.

‘Sprained, I think.’ She drew in her breath sharply when she touched the tender heart of the injury.

‘Have you far to go? Only, I live just the other side of the river. My car’s there. I could drive you?’

It was a tempting offer. Lindsay didn’t fancy hiking a mile on a damaged ankle. She looked up, taking in her nemesis turned Good Samaritan. She saw a woman in her late twenties with an angular face and short blonde hair cut to fashionable effect. Her eyes were slate blue, her eyebrows a pair of dark circumflex accents above them. She was dressed out of Gap and carried a leather knapsack over one shoulder. She didn’t look like an axe murderer. ‘OK,’ Lindsay said. ‘Thanks.’

The response wasn’t what she expected. Instead of the offer of an arm to help her down the hill and across the bridge, the woman looked taken aback, her eyes widening and her lips parting. ‘You’re Lindsay Gordon,’ she said, bemused.

‘Do I know you?’ Lindsay leaned against the tree, wondering if she’d taken a blow to the head she hadn’t registered at the time.

The blonde grinned. ‘We met about ten years ago. You came to the university GaySoc to talk about gays and the media. A bunch of us went out for a drink afterwards.’

Lindsay strained at the locked gates of memory. ‘Edinburgh University?’ she hazarded.

‘That’s right. You remember?’

‘I remember doing the talk.’

The blonde gave a rueful pout. ‘But you don’t remember me. Well, that’s hardly surprising. I was just a gawky wee fresher who was too overawed to open her mouth. But, hey, this is terrible. Me standing here reminiscing while you’re suffering like this.’ Now she extended her arm. ‘Lean on me. I’m Rory, by the way. Rory McLaren.’

Lindsay took the proffered arm and began to limp gingerly down the slope. ‘I’m amazed you recognized me all these years later,’ she said. The least she could do was make conversation, even though she felt more like swearing with every step.

Rory chuckled. ‘Oh, you were pretty impressive. You’re part of the reason I ended up doing what I do.’

‘Which is?’

‘I’m a journo.’

‘Oh well, never mind,’ Lindsay said, attempting a levity she didn’t feel. The last thing she needed right now was some bright and bouncy kid still jam-packed with idealism making her feel even more old and decrepit than she already did.

‘No, I love it,’ Rory assured her.

‘How do you manage that?’ They had reached the bottom of the hill and were making their way across the bridge. Moving on the flat was easier, but Lindsay was glad she’d taken up Rory’s offer, even if the conversation was depressing her.

‘It’s a long story.’

Lindsay looked up at the climb that would take them back to street level. ‘It’s a big hill.’

‘Right enough,’ Rory said. ‘Well, I started off on the local paper in Paisley, which wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs, but at least they trained me. I got a couple of lucky breaks with big stories that I sold on to the nationals, and I ended up with a staff job on the Standard.’

Lindsay snorted. ‘Working on the Standard makes you happy? God, things must have changed since my day.’

‘No, no, I’m not there any more.’

‘So where are you now?’ Even in her state of discomfort, Lindsay noticed that Rory seemed faintly embarrassed.

‘Well, see, that’s the long-story bit.’

‘Take my mind off the pain and cut to the chase.’

‘I came up on the lottery.’

‘Jammy,’ Lindsay said.

‘Aye. But not totally jammy. I didn’t get the whole six numbers, just the five plus the bonus ball. But that was enough. I figured that if I invested the lot, it would earn enough in interest to keep a roof over my head. So I jacked the job in and now I’m freelance.’

‘And that’s your idea of fun? Out there in the dog-eat-dog world?’ Lindsay tried not to sound as sceptical as she felt. She’d been a freelance herself and knew only too well how tough it was to stay ahead of the pack.

‘I figured what I needed was an angle. And I remembered something you said back at that talk at the GaySoc.’

‘This is surreal,’ Lindsay said. The word felt entirely inadequate to encompass the situation.

‘I know. Wild, isn’t it? I can’t believe this is really you.’

‘Me neither. So what did I say that was so significant it came back to you all those years later?’

‘You were talking about the ghetto mentality. How people think gays are completely different, completely separate from them. But we’re not. We’ve got more in common with the straight universe than we have dividing us. And I thought, gays and lesbians don’t just have gay and lesbian lives. They’ve got jobs. They’ve got families. They’ve got stories to tell. But most folk in our world have no reason to trust journalists. So I thought, what if I set myself up as the journalist that the gay community can trust? What a great way to get stories to come to me.’ Rory’s voice was passionate now, her excitement obvious.

‘And that’s what you did?’

‘Right. I’ve been at it over a year now, and I’ve had some fabulous exclusives. I mostly do investigative stuff, but I’ll turn my hand to anything. And I’m making a good living.’

They were almost out of the woods and on to the street. But although she desperately wanted to get the weight off her ankle, Lindsay didn’t want this conversation to end. For the first time since she’d got back from California, she was hearing someone talk about her field with something other than apathy or cynicism. ‘So how did you get started?’

Rory pulled open the gate that led out from the riverbank on to the quiet backwater of Botanic Crescent. ‘That’s my flat, on the corner there. I could fill you in over a coffee.’

‘Are you sure I’m not keeping you from anything?’

‘God, no. Have you any idea how amazing it is for me to be talking to you? It’d have to be a bloody good story to make me miss a chance like this.’

They crossed the road. Rory keyed a number into the security door of a red sandstone tenement and ushered Lindsay into a spotless tiled close. They made their way up one flight of worn stone stairs, then Rory unlocked the tall double doors that led into her first-floor flat. ‘Excuse the mess,’ she said, leading the way into the big dining kitchen at the back of the flat.

There was no false modesty behind Rory’s words. It was, as she had said, a mess. A cat sprawled on a kitchen worktop by the window, while another lay curled on one of several piles of newspapers and magazines stacked on the floor. The tinfoil containers from the previous night’s curry sat on another worktop alongside three empty bottles of Becks, while the sink was piled with dirty plates and mugs. Lindsay grinned. ‘Live alone, do you?’

‘That obvious, is it?’ Rory picked a dressing gown off one of the chairs. ‘Grab a seat. Do you want some ice for that ankle? I’ve got a gel pack in the freezer.’

‘That’d be good.’ Lindsay lowered herself into the chair. In front of her was that morning’s Herald, the cryptic crossword already completed with only a couple of jottings in the margin.

Rory rummaged in a freezer that looked like the Arctic winter, but emerged triumphant with a virulent turquoise oblong. ‘There we go.’ She handed it to Lindsay and crossed to the kettle. ‘Coffee, right?’

‘Is it instant?’

Rory turned, her eyebrows raised in a teasing question. ‘What if it is?’

‘I’ll have tea.’

‘I was only bothering you. It’s proper coffee. I get it from an Italian café in town.’

She busied herself with beans and grinder. When the noise subsided, Lindsay said, ‘You were going to tell me how you got started.’

‘So I was.’ Rory poured the just-boiled water on the grounds she’d spooned into a cafetiere. ‘I decided I needed to be visible. So I had a word with the guy who owns Café Virginia. You know Café Virginia? In the Merchant City, down by the Italian Quarter?’

Lindsay nodded. It hadn’t been a gay venue when she’d lived in the city. It had been a bad pub that sold worse food, called something stupidly suggestive like Pussy Galore. But she was aware that it had been reincarnated as the city’s premiere gay and lesbian café bar, although she hadn’t paid it a visit yet. Sophie hadn’t had much time for hitting the nightlife; she’d been too busy getting her feet under the operating table. Most of the socializing they’d done had been at dinner parties or in restaurants. Another sign of ageing, Lindsay had already decided. ‘I know where you mean,’ she said.

‘I told him my idea, and we did a deal. Three-month trial basis. He’d let me use one of the booths in the back bar as a kind of office. And I’d do bits and pieces of PR for him. So I wander down there most mornings and set up shop in the bar. Pick up the papers on the way, take my laptop and my mobile and get to work.’

‘And people actually bring you stories?’

Rory poured out the coffee and brought two mugs across to the table. She sat down opposite Lindsay and met her questioning gaze. ‘Amazingly enough, they do. It was a bit slow to start with. Just the odd gossipy wee bit that made a few pars in the tabloids. But then one of the lunchtime regulars who works in the City Chambers dropped me a juicy tale about some very dodgy dealing in the leisure department. I got a splash and spread in the Herald, and I was away. People soon realized I could be trusted to protect my sources, so everybody with an axe to grind came leaping out of the woodwork. Absolute bonanza.’ She grinned. It was hard not to be seduced by her delight.

‘I’m impressed,’ Lindsay said. ‘And it’s not a bad cup of coffee, either.’

‘So what are you doing back in Glasgow? Last I heard about you was when you got involved in Union Jack’s murder at the Journalists’ Union conference. The word was that you were living in California, that you’d given up the game for teaching. How come you’re back in Glasgow?’

Lindsay stared into her coffee. ‘Good question.’

‘Has it got an answer?’ There was a long silence, then Rory continued. ‘Sorry, I can’t help myself. I’m a nosy wee shite.’

‘It’s a good quality in a journalist.’

‘Aye, but it’s not exactly an asset in the social skills department,’ Rory said ruefully. ‘Which would maybe be why, as you rightly pointed out, I live alone.’

‘I came back for love,’ Lindsay said. The kid had worked hard for an answer. It seemed a reasonable exchange for a decent cup of coffee and some pain relief.

Rory ran a hand through her hair. ‘God, what a dyke answer. Why do we ever do anything demented? Love.’

‘You think it’s demented to come back to Glasgow?’

Rory pulled a rueful face. ‘Me and my big mouth. I mean, for all I know, California’s not what it’s cracked up to be. So, what are you doing with yourself now?’

Lindsay shook her head. ‘Not a lot. Mostly waiting for the love object to come home from the high-powered world of obstetrics and gynaecology.’

‘You don’t fancy getting back into deadline city, then?’

Lindsay leaned back in her seat, trying to ease her T-shirt away from her shoulder blades now that the sweat had dried and stuck it to her skin. ‘I’ve no contacts. I’ve not written a news story in seven years. I don’t even know the name of my local MSP, never mind who’s running Celtic and Rangers. It’d be like starting all over again as a trainee reporter on the local weekly.’

Rory gave her a speculative look. ‘Not necessarily,’ she said slowly.

‘Meaning what?’ Lindsay couldn’t even be bothered to be intrigued.

‘Meaning, you could always come and work with me.’

2

Morning rain on the Falls Road, grey sky only half a shade lighter than gunmetal; a comparison that still came too easy to too many people in Belfast. Ceasefires, peace deals, referendums and still it caught people by surprise that the disasters on the news were happening some other place.

A black taxi pulled up outside a betting shop on a street corner. These days, sometimes a black taxi was just a taxi. This one wasn’t. This one was bringing Patrick Coughlan to work. To his official work. When he went about his unofficial work, the last thing he wanted to be seen in was IRA trademark wheels. In the days when he went about his unofficial work rather more frequently than of late, he had always gone under his own steam, in any one of a dozen nondescript vehicles. Of course the security services had almost certainly known Patrick Coughlan was a senior member of the IRA Army Council, but they’d never been able to catch him at it. He was a careful as well as a solid citizen.

The cab idled for a full minute by the kerb while Patrick scrutinized the street. If someone had asked what he was looking for, he’d have been hard pressed to answer. He only knew when it wasn’t there. Satisfied, he stepped out of the cab and across the pavement. A man in his early fifties, obviously once very handsome, his features now blurred with slightly too much weight and high living, his walk betrayed a sense of purpose. His hair was a glossy chestnut, suspiciously so at the temples for a man who had lived his particular life. In spite of the laughter lines that surrounded them, his eyes were dark, shrewd and never still.

He pulled open the door on a gust of stale air and stepped inside. To the uninformed eye, just a busy Belfast betting shop, nothing to differentiate it from any other. Odds were chalked up on whiteboards, sporting papers pinned to the walls, tiled floor pocked with cigarette burns. The clientele looked like the unemployed, the unemployable and the retired. Every one of them was male. The staff were working hard behind metal grilles, but not so hard that they didn’t all glance up at the opening of the door. The smoke of the day’s cigarettes already hung heavy in the air, even though it was barely eleven.

Patrick crossed the room like the lord of the manor, nodding affably, waving a proprietary greeting to several regulars. They returned the greeting deferentially, one actually tugging the greasy brim of a tweed cap. It had never struck anyone as odd that so avowed a Republican should behave quite so much like an English patrician.

Patrick continued across the room towards a door set in the wall by the end of the counter. One of the staff automatically slid a hand beneath the counter and the sound of a buzzer followed. Without breaking stride, Patrick pushed through the door and into a dim corridor with stairs at the far end.

A door in the wall opened and a young woman with hair like a black version of Ronald McDonald and skin the blue white of skimmed milk stuck her head round it. ‘Sammy McGuire was on earlier. He said would you give him a call.’

‘I will, Theresa.’ Patrick continued down the corridor and up the stairs.

It would be hard to imagine how the office he walked into could have been more different from the seediness downstairs. The floor was parquet – the real thing, not those pre-glued packs from the DIY superstore – with a silver grey Bokhara occupying what space wasn’t taken up by a Regency desk that looked almost too much for its slender legs. The chair behind it was padded leather, the filing cabinets that lined the wall old mahogany buffed to a soft sheen. Two paintings on the wall, both copies, one of a Degas and one of a Stubbs, both featuring horses. The only thing that let the room down was the view of the Falls Road.

He’d thought of having the window bricked up and replacing it with another Degas. But it didn’t do to let people think you weren’t keeping an eye on them. Information had always been a commodity in Belfast; and if you didn’t yet have the information, it was almost as important to make it look as if there was no reason why you shouldn’t. So the window stayed.

Patrick lowered himself gingerly into the chair, a martyr to his back as well as his country. Settled, he reached for the phone and pushed a single button on the speed dialler.

‘Sammy?’ Patrick said.

‘Patrick. How’re ye?’

‘Well, Sammy. And yourself?’

‘Ah well, no complaints, you know?’

‘And the family?’ The rituals had to be observed.

‘They’re all doing fine. Geraldine’s got herself a nice wee job with the Housing Corporation.’

‘Good for her. She’ll do well there, so she will. So, Sammy, what can I do for you?’

‘Well, Patrick, it might be that I can do something for you.’

Patrick opened the humidor on his desk and selected a King Edward half-Corona. ‘Is that so, Sammy?’ he said, tucking the phone into his neck while he lit the cigar.

‘Have you still an interest in Bernadette Dooley?’

Patrick clenched the phone in his fist. Only a lifetime of dissimulation allowed him to sound unruffled. ‘Now there’s a name I’ve not heard in years,’ he said genially. But his heart was jittering in his chest, the surge of memory flashing a slideshow of images across his mind’s eye.

‘Only, when she went missing, I seem to remember you were pretty keen to find out where she’d gone.’

‘I’m always concerned about my employees, Sammy. You know that.’

‘Oh aye,’ Sammy said hastily. ‘I know that, Patrick. But I didn’t know if you were still interested?’

He couldn’t maintain the pretence of disinterest any longer. ‘Where is she, Sammy?’

Patrick heard the sound of a cheap lighter clicking. ‘I was in Glasgow last weekend – a cousin of the wife’s wedding. Anyway, I went into a supermarket to get some drinks in, and I saw Bernadette. Not to speak to, like, but it was definitely her, Patrick.’ Sammy spoke rapidly.

‘Was she working there?’

‘No, no, she was walking out with her shopping. I was at the checkout, in the middle of paying, there was nothing I could do …’

‘What supermarket would that be, now?’ Patrick said, as if it were a matter of supreme indifference.

‘I’m not sure of the name of it, like, but it’s right at the top of Byres Road. Behind the Grosvenor Hotel. That’s where the wedding was, you see. I didn’t know if you were still interested, but I thought, no harm in letting your man know.’

‘I appreciate that, Sammy. There’s a twenty-pound bet for you in the shop next time you’re passing.’ It would cost him nothing. Sammy McGuire was one of life’s losers. ‘Take care now.’

Patrick terminated the connection. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the Degas, two frown lines between his eyebrows. Few people had ever touched his heart; Bernadette Dooley had been the only one of those who had ever dared to betray him. Even now, the thought of what he had lost when she had disappeared gave him physical pain. For seven years, he’d dreamed of finding her again, convinced that their paths would have to cross sooner or later. Not a day had passed without consciousness of what had gone when she had vanished from his life. At last, he had a chance to regain the peace of mind she had stolen from him. He flicked the intercom. ‘Theresa, Sammy McGuire’s due a twenty on the house. He’ll be by later on.’

Then he hit the speed dialler again. The other end answered on the second ring, if silence could be called answering. ‘Michael?’ Patrick said softly.

‘No, it’s Kevin.’

Patrick stifled a sigh. The way it worked, you had to find a place for the stupid ones because it was bad politics to turn them away. So you put one thick one on every team and hoped the others would keep him out of trouble. Funny, it always was a him that was the thicko. You could get away with it without too many problems usually, because one dummy in a cell of four or five wasn’t too much of a liability. But in a team of two … it might be a different story. Patrick hoped not, for all sorts of reasons. ‘Put Michael on,’ he said wearily.

A long moment of silence, then Michael’s hard voice cut through the ether. ‘Patrick,’ he said.

‘Come in. I’ve got something for you.’ Patrick put the phone down. Only then did he realize his cigar had gone out.

The headlights turned into the drive. Lindsay checked that it was Sophie’s car and reached for the phone. ‘Carry out, please,’ she said when it was answered. By the time the front door closed, she was listening to the invariable, ‘Twenty-five minutes, Mrs Gordon.’ She twisted round on the window seat so she was half-facing the door. She heard Sophie’s briefcase hit the floor, heard the snick of the cloakroom door shutting, then her partner’s voice.

‘I’m home,’ Sophie called. Her shoes clicked on the wooden flooring as she turned into the kitchen. ‘Lindsay?’ She sounded puzzled.

‘I’m through here.’

Sophie appeared in the doorway, still elegant after a day’s work in a tailored suit and plain silk shirt. She had the grace not to ask why Lindsay wasn’t in the kitchen as usual, putting the finishing touches to dinner. ‘Hi, darling,’ she said, the smile reaching her tired eyes. Then she took in the bandaged ankle propped on a cushion and raised her eyebrows, concern on her face. ‘What on earth have you been doing to yourself?’

‘It’s just a sprain.’

Sophie crossed the room and perched by Lindsay’s foot, her hand drawn irresistibly to the neatly wrapped crepe bandage that swaddled the injured ankle. ‘Suddenly you’re the doctor?’

‘I’m the one with the sports injuries experience.’ Lindsay grinned. ‘Trust me, it’s a sprain.’

‘What happened?’ Sophie tenderly stroked Lindsay’s leg.

‘I wasn’t paying attention. I was running up the hill to the Botanics and I crashed into somebody.’

Sophie shook her head, indulgent amusement on her face. ‘So how much havoc did you create?’

‘None. She was absolutely fine. She ended up driving me home.’

‘Lucky for you her car was there.’

Lindsay shrugged. ‘She lives across the river. It was easier to give in and hobble there than to risk doing myself serious damage by walking all the way home.’

‘Still, it was nice of her to take the trouble.’ Sophie began gently massaging the relaxed curve of Lindsay’s calf.

Lindsay leaned back against the folded wooden shutter. ‘Aye, it was. And then she propositioned me.’

Sophie’s hand froze and her eyes widened. ‘She what?’

Lindsay struggled to maintain a straight face. ‘She made me the kind of offer you’re not supposed to be able to refuse, especially when it comes from a cute blonde baby dyke.’

‘I hope this is your idea of a joke,’ Sophie said, her voice a dark warning.

‘No joke. She asked me if I wanted to come and work with her.’

Sophie cocked her head to one side, not sure how much her lover was playing with her. ‘She offered you a job? On the basis of crashing into you and watching you sprain your ankle? She’s looking for a bull in a china shop?’

‘On the basis that I am still apparently a legend in my own lunchtime and she’s got a very healthy freelance journalism business that could use another pair of hands.’ Lindsay let her face relax, her eyes sparkling with the delight of having wound Sophie up.

Sophie gave Lindsay’s knee a gentle punch. ‘Bastard,’ she said. You had me going for a minute there.’ She ran a hand through her silvered curls. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she sighed. ‘Only you could manage to turn a jogging accident into a job opportunity. But how did she know you were a journalist? Is she someone you used to work with?’

‘No. She was barely in the game by the time we left for California.’ Lindsay quickly ran through the details of the encounter with Rory that she’d been polishing into an anecdote all afternoon. ‘And so,’ she concluded, ‘I said I’d think about it.’

‘What’s to think about?’ Sophie said. ‘It doesn’t have to be forever. If something else you really fancy comes up, you can always move on. Idleness makes you miserable, and it’s not like you’re snowed under with prospects.’

Lindsay pulled a face. ‘Thanks for reminding me,’ she said frostily.

‘I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that it sounds like what Rory’s doing would be right up your street. Chasing the kind of stories that interest you. Working with a community you can feel part of.’

Lindsay drew her leg away from Sophie and swung round to face the living room. ‘Never mind that I’d be working for somebody ten years younger than me. Never mind that she only offered it because she felt sorry for me. Never mind that it feels like back-tracking to where I was fifteen years ago.’

Sophie got to her feet and moved to turn on the lamps. ‘It doesn’t sound like she felt sorry for you. It sounds like she was blown away by the chance of working with one of her heroes. Anyway, from what you’ve said, you wouldn’t be working for Rory, you’d be working with her.’

‘And who do you think is going to get first dibs on the stories? They’d be coming from her contacts, not mine. Coming on the basis of her reputation, not mine. I’d end up with the scraps from the table. The stories that don’t interest her. The down-page dross.’

Sophie leaned on the mantelpiece, casting a speculative look at her lover. ‘It might start off like that. But it wouldn’t be long before the word went out that Lindsay Gordon was back in town. You’d soon be pulling in your own stories. Where’s your fight gone, Lindsay? You’ve always had a good conceit of yourself. It’s not like you to indulge in self-pity.’

For a long moment, Lindsay said nothing. Finally, she took a deep breath. ‘Maybe I’ve been sitting in your shadow for too long.’

Sophie’s face registered shock. But before she could say anything, the doorbell rang.

‘That’ll be the takeaway,’ Lindsay said. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I didn’t feel up to standing around cooking.’

Sophie frowned. ‘Of course I don’t mind. Why would I mind, for God’s sake?’

‘Because you’ll be paying for it. You’d better go and answer the door. If we wait for me to stagger out there, it’ll be cold by the time we get to eat it.’ She pushed herself upright and began to limp towards the kitchen, using whatever furniture was available as a prop.

By the time Sophie returned with a carrier bag full of Indian food, Lindsay had managed to put plates and cutlery on the kitchen table. Sophie dumped the takeaway on the table and headed for the fridge. ‘You want a beer?’

‘Please.’ Lindsay busied herself with unpacking the foil containers and tossing the lids into the empty bag. When Sophie returned with a couple of bottles of Sam Adams Boston Lager, Lindsay looked up. ‘I’m sorry. That was out of order.’

Sophie sat down and helped herself to pilau rice. ‘Is that how you feel? That you’re living in my shadow?’ Her voice betrayed the anxiety Lindsay’s words had provoked.

Lindsay worried at a piece of naan bread. ‘It’s not that. Not exactly. It’s more that I feel I’ve been drifting. No direction of my own. It’s like the teaching job in Santa Cruz. I’d never have moved into teaching journalism if I’d stayed in the UK, but we went to the US for your career, and I had to find something to do.’

‘But I thought you enjoyed it?’

‘I did. But that was pure luck. It wasn’t because I had a burning desire to teach. And if I’d hated it, I’d still have had to stick with it, because there was bugger all else I could do.’ Lindsay reached for the bottle and took a swig of beer. ‘And now, here we are, back in Scotland because of your career, and I’m still no nearer figuring out what I want to be when I grow up.’

Sophie opened her mouth to say something but Lindsay silenced her with a raised finger. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that’s your fault. Nobody is more pleased than me that everything’s going so well for you. I know what it means to you and how hard you’ve worked for it. But it doesn’t make it any easier for me. And you being so keen for me to hitch my wagon to Rory’s star – that feels like you being desperate for me to take up any kind of stopgap that’ll keep me from going out of my head with boredom and frustration. I don’t want another stopgap, Soph, I want to feel passionate about something. The way you do.’

Sophie looked down at her plate and nodded. ‘I understand that,’ she said. ‘But you used to feel passionate about journalism. When I first knew you, ages before we got together, you really cared about what you were doing. You really believed you could make a difference.’

Lindsay gave a bark of ironic laughter. ‘Yeah, well, we all thought we could change the world back then. I soon got that knocked out of me.’

They ate for a few minutes in silence. Then Sophie reached out and covered Lindsay’s hand with her own. ‘Why don’t you give it a try? It sounds as though Rory’s way of working is light years away from the daily grind that turned you into a cynic. It can’t hurt to put your toe in the water. Besides, when the gods drop such an amazing piece of serendipity in your lap, it seems to me it would be tempting fate to thumb your nose at it.’

Lindsay tried to swallow her mouthful of bhuna lamb, but it seemed to have lodged in her throat. She’d never had sufficient defence against Sophie’s kindness. Her partner had never once complained about being the sole breadwinner since they’d returned from California, and Lindsay knew she genuinely harboured no resentment about it. All Sophie wanted was for Lindsay to feel as happy and as fulfilled in whatever she chose to do as she was herself. She hadn’t applied any pressure, simply offered encouragement. The least Lindsay could do was kick her pride into touch and take a chance on Rory McLaren. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Heaven knows, I can’t afford to fly in the face of serendipity. And besides, I’ve got nothing to lose, have I?’

3

Lindsay squirmed around in bed, trying to get comfortable. The weight of the duvet made her ankle ache, distracting her from the Denise Mina novel she was trying to read. ‘Can you bring me a couple of ibuprofen when you come through?’ she called to Sophie, who seemed to be taking forever in the bathroom.

When she finally emerged and slipped into bed beside Lindsay, Sophie seemed unusually quiet. Lindsay swallowed the pills and put her book down. ‘Is something bothering you?’ she said. ‘You’ve hardly said a word since dinner. Are you having second thoughts about me working with Rory?’

Sophie looked surprised. ‘No, not at all. Why should I?’

‘No reason. But I couldn’t think why else you’d gone so quiet.’

Sophie sighed. ‘There’s something we need to talk about. I was going to bring it up earlier, but we were talking about your future and it just didn’t seem like the right moment.’

Lindsay eased herself on to her side and put an arm round Sophie’s waist. ‘That sounds ominous. I’ll never sleep now, you know. You’d better tell me what’s on your mind.’

Sophie lay back and stared at the ceiling, one hand on Lindsay’s encircling arm. ‘It’s the baby thing.’

Lindsay felt a pit opening in her stomach. Sophie’s desire for a child had been an intermittent bone of contention between them for the past couple of years. Whenever Sophie had tried to discuss it, Lindsay had either stonewalled or blanked it. She might not have much of a life plan, but she knew for certain that parenthood wasn’t part of it. So she’d worked on the principle that, if she ignored it, Sophie would eventually get the message and it would all go away. And inevitably, the attrition of time would render it academic. But since they’d come back to Scotland the subject had surfaced more regularly. Every few days, Sophie had raised the topic and Lindsay had tried to sidestep it. ‘You know how I feel about that,’ she said.

‘Yes. I know how you feel about that. But I don’t think you have the faintest idea how I feel about it. Lindsay, it’s all I think about,’ Sophie said, anguish unmistakable in her voice. ‘Everywhere I go, all I seem to see are pregnant women and women pushing babies in prams. I’m so envious it makes me feel violent. I can’t even get away from it at work, because it’s what I deal with all day, every day.’ Sophie blinked hard, and Lindsay couldn’t avoid seeing the sparkle of tears in her eyes. ‘Lindsay, I’m desperate. I’m nearly forty. Time’s running out for me. Already, the chances are that I’m not going to be able to conceive without some sort of clinical intervention. And there isn’t a fertility clinic in the whole of Scotland that will treat lesbian couples. Not even privately. If I’m going to have any possibility of a baby, I need to start doing something about it now.’

‘Look, you’re broody, that’s all. It’ll pass. It always has before,’ Lindsay said wretchedly.

‘No. You’re wrong. It never passed. Sure, I stopped talking about it, but that was only because you were so negative about the whole thing, it felt like pushing a boulder uphill. Just because I stopped talking about it doesn’t mean it wasn’t always there, constantly nagging away at me. If I don’t have a child, there’s going to be a hole in my life that nothing else will fill.’

Lindsay drew her arm away and rolled on to her back. ‘You’re saying I’m not enough for you. That what we have isn’t good enough.’

Sophie shuffled on to her side and reached for Lindsay’s hand. ‘That’s not what I’m saying. I love you like I’ve never loved anyone else. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. But this need in me – it’s different. It’s a kind of desperation. If you’ve never felt it, you can’t know what it’s like. If you could walk for five minutes inside my skin, you’d maybe comprehend how this is consuming me. I need to try, Lindsay. And I need to try now.’

Lindsay squeezed her eyes shut. Please, let this not be happening, she thought. ‘I don’t want a child.’ She spoke slowly and deliberately.

‘You’d make a great parent.’

‘That’s not the issue. The issue is that I don’t want to.’

‘But I need to.’

Lindsay jerked upright, oblivious to the stab of pain in her ankle. ‘So what are you saying? You’re going to go ahead anyway? Regardless of how I feel?’

Sophie turned away. Her voice was shaky with tears. She feared she was driving Lindsay further from her with everything she said, but she couldn’t keep the churn of emotions secret any longer. ‘Lindsay, if I have to lose you to have the chance of a child, then I’ll do it. This is not about choice, it’s about compulsion. This isn’t some whim, some spur of the moment desire for a designer accessory. It feels like life and death to me.’

Her words shook Lindsay like a physical blow. She pulled her knees up to her chest, gripping them tightly with her hands. She knew her lover well enough to realize that this was no empty ultimatum. Sophie didn’t play games like that. And she was sufficiently resolute to carry out her stated intention.

This was the moment Lindsay had always dreaded, ever since the issue of motherhood had first raised its head between them. Her life had been bound to Sophie’s for so long, she couldn’t imagine what it would be without her. She didn’t even want to try. But if she didn’t give in, that would be exactly what she would have to face. ‘I can’t believe you’re making me choose between losing you or having a child with you,’ she choked out.

‘I can’t either,’ Sophie said. Her chest hurt, as if she was being physically rent in two. ‘Surely that alone tells you how powerless I feel? I’m in the grip of something I’ve got no control over, and it’s killing me. But I’ve got to try, Lindsay. I’ve got to.’

‘I’ve got no choice either then, have I?’ Lindsay said bitterly.

There was a long silence. Finally Sophie said, ‘You have got a choice. You can stay with me and try to make a family with me and our child. Or you can choose to walk away.’

Lindsay snorted. ‘Some choice. At least you’ve got a chance of getting something you want out of this. I don’t. Either I lose you, which would break my heart, or I have to be a parent to a child I don’t want. This is emotional blackmail, Sophie.’

‘You think I don’t know that? You think I want to behave like this?’ Sophie turned to face Lindsay, tracks of moisture glistening on her cheeks. ‘You think I like myself like this?’

Lindsay tried to stay resolute, to keep her eyes on the opposite wall. But it was more than she could manage. She slid down the bed and reached for Sophie. ‘You know I can’t leave you,’ she mumbled into Sophie’s hair.

‘And you know I don’t want you to. What would be the point in having a baby without you there to share it with?’

For a long time, they clung to each other, their tears salt against each other’s skin. Then Lindsay leaned back. It was going to be a long night; time they made a start on what had to be said. ‘So. What’s your next step?’ she asked, resignation heavy in her voice.

Café Virginia was suffering its daily identity crisis in the hiatus between the after-work drinkers and the evening players. The music had shifted into more hardcore dance, making conversation difficult, and there was a strange mixture of outfits on display, from business suits to T-shirts that clung to nipples and exposed midriffs.

The quietest place in the bar was the corner booth where Rory McLaren ran her business and held court. Nobody else ever sat in the booth, mostly because of the foot-high scarlet neon sign that said RESERVED. Rory had wanted it to say GONNAE FUCK OFF? but Cathy the bar manager had vetoed it on the grounds that it would be too big for the table. Rory was hammering out the finishing touches to a memo on a story proposal for the Herald feature pages, occasionally pausing to sip at her bottle of Rolling Rock. She looked up, sensing company heading her way, and saw a sharp-suited Asian woman with gleaming hair in a shoulder length bob weaving her way through the tables towards her.

Sandra Singh flopped on to the bench seat opposite Rory, dumping raincoat, handbag and briefcase beside her. ‘That jerk Murray,’ she spat.

‘Thought as much,’ Rory said, giving Sandra the quick once-over. ‘Love the earrings.’

‘A wee shop in Cambridge. I’m going to kill him, I swear to God. Three weeks hammering out the new format and then this morning it’s, “the network disnae like it.” I tell you, some days I wish I’d never left newspapers.’ She raked in her handbag and came out with a packet of Marlboro Red and a matchbook from last night’s restaurant.

‘You don’t mean that.’ Rory leaned out of the booth and waved to the bar, holding up two fingers.

Sandra’s grin was even sharper than her suit. ‘You’re right, I don’t.’ She sighed. ‘I just wish I did. So, any news?’

‘You could say that. Looks like I might have got myself a partner.’

Sandra snorted smoke. ‘As in, you got laid?’

Rory’s attempt at dignity wouldn’t have fooled a drunken child of two. ‘Sandra, there’s more to life than sex.’

Sandra’s laugh attracted every woman in the place. ‘You didn’t get laid, then.’

‘I’m talking business here, fool.’

Sandra nodded acknowledgement to the barmaid, who placed two sweating bottles in front of them. ‘You serious? I thought the whole point of this was being a one-man band?’

‘I thought so, yeah. But this one’s really special.’

Sandra took a long swallow of her beer. ‘So you’re planning on getting laid?’

Rory shook her head in affectionate exasperation. ‘No. Focus your mind above the waist for once, would you? I’m not looking for a shag, I’m looking to build a business. Listen, do you remember me telling you years back about Lindsay Gordon?’

Sandra frowned. ‘Lindsay …? Oh, wait a minute. The great lesbian icon hack. The one that turned you on to the beautiful game. This would be that Lindsay Gordon?’

‘One and the same. Well, you’ll never guess what happened. You couldn’t write this, people would say, “Yeah, right, and then the Pope said abortion was fine by him.” But this is the absolute, no messing, God’s honest truth.’ Rory gave Sandra the full version of her meeting with Lindsay, punctuated by her friend’s regular interruptions.

‘That’s wild,’ Sandra finally said. ‘So she said she’d think about it?’

‘That was just for show. You could tell she’s gagging to get back in harness.’

‘You wish.’ Sandra finished her cigarette and her beer. ‘Sorry, babe. I’m out of here. In fact, I never was in here. Got a date with a beautiful boy from Radio Clyde.’ She stood up, gathering her universe. She leaned across the table and kissed Rory on the cheek. ‘See you, darlin’.’

On her way out, she passed a baby dyke, black leather waistcoat over white T-shirt, black jeans, dyed-black cropped hair, bottle of Rolling Rock in her hand. ‘She’s all yours,’ Sandra told her, patting her on the arm. The baby dyke flushed scarlet and edged towards the booth.

‘I got you a drink, Rory,’ she said, a nervous smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

‘Thanks. You want to sit down?’

The kid squirmed into the seat Sandra had left. ‘You pay folk for stories, eh?’ she scrambled out.

‘Depends. What’s your name?’

‘I’m Kola. Wi’ a K. Ma pal Ginger says you gien her a fifty for something she told you last year.’

Rory nodded. Ginger had tipped her the wink about a candidate for the Scottish parliament with a sideline in cigarette smuggling. She’d got a splash in the Herald and follow-ups in all the dailies the next day. ‘I remember. How’s Ginger doing? I’ve not seen her about the place for a while.’

‘She’s went tae London. She got taken on by BHS. The clothes are shite, and so’s the money, but she’s having a ball. So will you pay me for a story?’

‘Let me hear what you’ve got and I’ll tell you what it’s worth. OK?’

Kola thought about it. It was a bit more complicated than buying a drink or scoring some E, so it took a minute or two. ‘How do I know you won’t just write it anyway?’

‘You don’t. You have to trust me. But you know I didn’t let Ginger down.’ Kola nodded, her face clearing, relieved at having the decision made for her. ‘Right. OK. It’s about Madonna.’

Rory fought to keep her face straight. Whatever was coming, she didn’t think it was going to keep the cats in Whiskas for life. ‘Madonna? We’re talking the singer, not the one with the statues in the cathedral?’

It was beyond Kola, who frowned. ‘Aye, the singer. Her and that Guy Ritchie, they’re gonnae buy a big house out in Drymen.’

Stranger things have happened, Rory thought. 4,6,11, 24, 39 and the bonus ball is 47. At least Drymen was the right sort of territory for someone like Madonna. Big houses, country estates, high walls and gamekeepers with shotguns. ‘In Drymen?’ she echoed.

‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ Kola accused her with the tired hurt of someone used to being taken for a liar.

‘It’s a bit … surprising,’ Rory said. ‘Gonnae tell me where you heard this?’

‘It’s right enough,’ Kola said defensively. ‘The folk that work for her have been on the phone to an estate agent out there.’

‘You’re going to have to tell me how you know that, Kola,’ Rory said, suddenly wondering if the baby dyke might not be as daft as she looked.

Kola sighed in exasperation. ‘I’m shagging his wife.’

4

People would cross the road if they saw Michael Conroy walking towards them. Whether they knew him by sight or by repute or not at all, they instinctively knew better than to block this man’s piece of the pavement. His eyes were the greenish amber of a bird of prey; his narrow face involuntarily called up memories of a wood-axe. He looked precisely what he was. Dangerous and mean. To Patrick Coughlan, this limited his usefulness. He’d never have dreamed of sending Michael undercover unless the aim was to scare the shit out of everybody he came into contact with.

Michael didn’t mind. His idea of being a soldier wasn’t pretending to be a librarian in North London or working on a building site in Derby while other people did the dirty work. He liked what he’d spent the past fifteen years doing. Ceasefire didn’t suit him and he knew it.

He sat in the chair facing Patrick, his eyes calm and watchful. Dressed in an olive green combat jacket and blue jeans, he would have fitted in perfectly with any group of squaddies in a bar anywhere. Entirely self-contained, he cleaned his nails with the blade of a penknife, an absent-minded habit that he was unaware was marked down on the file MI5 had held on him for some years.

Kevin O’Donohue was the gopher. A thin, wiry greyhound, he fetched and carried without the wit to question what or why. Loyal to the point of stupidity, he was reliable only in the sense that he didn’t have enough brains to act on his own initiative. He did what he was told, and mostly he did it well enough. Michael tolerated him for his sister’s sake. Siobhan got Kevin’s share of intelligence in the genetic share-out. It wasn’t imbecility that had got her caught in the aftermath of the Docklands bomb. Just bad luck. Michael hadn’t seen her for three years, but he’d kept his word and made sure Kevin was sorted. Kevin, of course, had no idea of this pact.

Kevin looked like a harmless rodent, which was appropriate enough. Coarse auburn hair badly cut so it emphasized the jut of his forehead, the sort of freckles that looked like a nasty rash and the fashion sense of Man at Millett’s told any casual encounter all they needed to know. He fidgeted in his chair, nervous in the presence of Patrick, who always made him feel like he was about to make his first confession all over again.

‘I’ve a wee job for you,’ Patrick said. ‘It’s what you might call private enterprise. You’ll need to keep your mouths shut, but you’ll be well looked after.’

Michael nodded. ‘Whatever you say, Patrick.’

‘It’s a matter of finding somebody I have an interest in.’ Patrick pushed a photograph across the desk. Michael leaned forward and picked it up. He gave it the hard stare, then off-handed it to Kevin.

‘She used to work downstairs,’ Michael said, his voice as uninterested as if he’d been asked the time.

‘That’s right. She did a disappearing act six, seven years ago with something that belongs to me. I’ve had the word out in a quiet sort of a way, and now I’ve got intelligence that she’s in Glasgow.’

‘And you’d like us to find her for you.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘D’you have an address, then?’ Kevin asked.

Patrick ignored him. ‘She was seen at the weekend in a supermarket at the top of Byers Road. Behind the Grosvenor Hotel. It’s the only lead I’ve got. Obviously she’s not going to be using her own name, so there’s no point in looking in the phone book or the voter’s roll.’

Michael folded his knife shut. ‘We’ll manage,’ he said.

Patrick opened his desk drawer and took out a brown envelope. ‘I don’t want you using any of our people over there, so you’ll need a float. Theresa’s got tickets downstairs for tonight’s ferry.’

‘What about a car?’ Michael asked.

Patrick raised one finger and smiled approvingly. ‘There’s a British driving licence in the envelope. You can use it to hire a car if you need one.’

Michael pocketed the envelope without looking at the contents. ‘Daily calls?’

‘At least. You’ve got a clean mobile, haven’t you?’

Michael’s grin would have put Red Riding Hood’s wolf to shame. ‘Clean, not cloned,’ he said.

‘Any questions?’ Patrick asked, his voice a silky challenge.

‘What are we supposed to do when we find her?’ Kevin asked, oblivious.

‘Whatever Patrick tells us,’ Michael sighed. He got to his feet. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said.

Patrick inclined his head. ‘I can’t wait.’ If they’d seen the look in his eyes, anyone with any sense would have already left town.

Lindsay stared out of the window of the cab, taking in nothing of the late-morning bustle of Great Western Road. Normally, she’d have used the Clockwork Orange, Glasgow’s underground system, to go into the city centre, but her ankle was stiff and swollen and today she cared more about comfort than being environmentally friendly.

It had been a long night. They’d talked for more than an hour after Sophie’s bombshell, and it hadn’t got any better from Lindsay’s point of view. The revelation that had shocked her most of all was that Sophie had already identified a possible donor, had approached him and had secured his agreement. Fraser Tomlinson was a researcher in Sophie’s department, a gay man in a steady relationship. He and his boyfriend Peter had been to the house for dinner, and Lindsay had found them pleasant company. According to Sophie, Fraser was HIV negative, his family medical history gave no grounds for serious concern and he had no desire to play any role in the life of any child that might result from the donation of his sperm. It was so cut and dried, it had left Lindsay lost for words.

‘And when were you thinking of starting?’ she’d managed at last.

‘I’m due to ovulate in a couple of days’ time,’ Sophie had said. ‘The best chance is to bracket the ovulation. I was planning to have the first go tomorrow night, then again two nights later.’

Lindsay swallowed hard. ‘I can see why you wanted to bring it up now.’ Involuntarily, she moved so her body no longer touched Sophie’s.

‘I’m sorry to spring it on you like this. But we’ve talked and talked and got nowhere. I realized that we were never going to get anywhere unless I did something about it. Lindsay …’ Sophie’s voice was a plea. ‘Every time I bleed, it feels like a lost opportunity. I can’t afford to wait. I’ve done the blood tests. So far, my hormone levels are OK. But every month that goes past takes me nearer the point where they’re not going to be OK any longer. I’ve got a donor now, I’m not prepared to hang on until you come round to feeling positive about this.’

‘Fine. So we do it tomorrow night. What’s the drill? Is there an etiquette here? Our place or theirs?’

‘Fraser and Peter will come round here. What I hoped was that you would be here for me.’

‘You want me to do the thing with the turkey baster?’

‘It won’t be a turkey baster, for God’s sake. It’ll be a sterile syringe.’ Sophie reached for Lindsay’s hand. ‘Please, Lindsay. I need you now more than I ever did.’

Lindsay, who had always found it impossible to hold out against Sophie for any length of time, let her hand be held. ‘Fine. Whatever. Now, can I go to sleep?’

The end of the conversation had not led directly to sleep. Lindsay had lain awake long after Sophie’s breathing became deep and regular. There was a hollow feeling in her stomach, a nameless grief that ached insistently. Something had shifted inside her tonight with the knowledge that she could never give Sophie enough to satisfy her. She had thought their life together was good, their relationship solid. Now, it felt as if her house was built on sand. Maybe it was true that she hadn’t been hearing Sophie. But it was equally true that Sophie hadn’t been hearing her.

She’d mooched around the house after Sophie had left for work, unable to settle to anything. She couldn’t be bothered answering the morning’s e-mails. She was impatient with the newspapers and their flood of irrelevancies. Finally, stir crazy, she’d decided to pay a visit to Café Virginia. Perhaps Rory McLaren had something to offer that would make her feel better about herself. But first, she had a couple of phone calls to make. Lindsay might have been out of the game for a long time. But she still knew one or two of the faces that counted. She wasn’t going to hitch her wagon to Rory McLaren’s star until she had confirmed that the world’s estimate of the young freelance bore some relationship to Rory’s own pitch. In her early years as a national newspaper journalist, she’d wasted too much time chasing the fantasies of freelances keen to make an easy buck to take any of the breed at their word.

On the other side of the city centre, Rory was swanning into the offices of the Scottish Daily Standard. The security men didn’t care that she’d stopped working there six months before. They figured she’d had a better motive to blow the place up when she was on the staff than she ever could have as a freelance. She took the lift up to the editorial floor and walked into one of the side offices off the features area.

Giles Graham, lifestyle editor and secretly agony aunt of the Standard, was stretched out on his sofa, reading the pained letters of his correspondents and eating very low-fat cottage cheese and chives from the tub with a plastic spoon. Rory could never figure out how a man who managed such fastidious elegance in every other area of his life that he could be taken for a gay man still managed such disgusting eating habits.

‘That’s revolting,’ she said, crossing the room to sit in the swivel chair behind a worryingly tidy desk.

‘I know. You’d think people would have the good sense not to go exploring their gay side with their brother-in-law, but they never learn,’ he drawled in the English-accented speech of the privately educated Scot. He put his lunch down on the coffee table and carefully gathered the letters together before sitting up and brushing down his immaculate navy linen shirt for invisible crumbs. ‘How delightful to see you, Rory. Are we having social intercourse or is there a sordid financial motive behind your visit?’

‘You want social intercourse? OK. How’s Julia?’

Giles smiled fondly. His wife was the Member of the European Parliament for Central West Scotland. Julia’s frequent absences, he maintained, were what rendered her capable of putting up with him. ‘She’s on a jolly in Oslo.’

‘That’s a contradiction in terms,’ Rory observed. ‘Give her my love next time you pass in the night.’ She leaned back in the chair and hitched her Gap-clad legs on to the desk. ‘I’ve got a very good tip for you, babe.’

Giles groaned. ‘Why not copy? Why do I have to do all the work?’

‘Because it’s not my kind of story. I do investigative journalism, remember? Stories like this are the reason I quit working for the newsdesk.’

‘That and the thick end of a hundred and fifty grand,’ Giles said cynically.

‘The lottery was the means, not the reason, as well you know. Now, do you want this story, or do you want me to toddle round to the Sun?’

Giles stretched his arms along the back of the sofa, languid as a trout stream on an August afternoon. ‘As if,’ he said. ‘So tell me what you know.’

‘Madonna’s people are having hush-hush talks with estate agents about her buying a property on Loch Lomond. In the Drymen area.’

Giles raised one eyebrow.

‘Don’t do that, you look like Roger Moore in a bad Bond movie,’ Rory complained. ‘It’s straight up. I got it from the horse’s mouth. Well, the groom’s best mate’s mouth. But I know for a fact that Struther Wilson have been approached, and if they’ve had the word, so have other people.’

‘If it’s true, it’s not a bad little tale,’ Giles said cautiously.

‘It’s me you’re talking to, Giles. When you stand it up, it’s a guaranteed splash and you know it.’

His smile conceded. ‘How much are you looking for?’

‘A generous tip fee. I’ve got to split it with my source. I’ll leave the details to your sense of propriety.’

Giles pushed his dark blond hair back from his forehead. ‘Very trusting.’

‘Hey, I know you’re the only person under this roof who knows the meaning of the word.’ Rory dropped her feet to the floor and stood up. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Some of us have got work to do.’

He snorted. ‘Cappuccinos to drink, more like. By the way, Sandra tells me you think you’re in with a chance with some woman you bumped into in the Botanics.’

Rory shook her head. ‘If you guys worked as hard at getting stories as you do at spreading gossip, I’d be out of a job. Let me know how you get on with Madonna.’

Before he could reply, Rory was out the door. She had more than cappuccino on her mind, but that was none of Giles’s business. She still couldn’t quite believe in her encounter with Lindsay; it felt too good to be true. Her freelance business had begun to generate more work than she could handle alone, but she hadn’t wanted to share with just anyone. She’d always been a loner, hiding her self-sufficiency behind a mask of easy charm, letting few people see the vulnerability and damage behind the façade. Sandra was one of a handful who had been allowed past the barrier of her public face, but Sandra was too much in love with the buzz of television to consider giving it up for the slog of freelancing. And there was nobody else that Rory had ever seriously considered working with.

But something had sparked between her and Lindsay Gordon, and it was something more than hero worship. They’d made an instant connection, and Rory still felt faintly baffled by the speed with which she’d offered Lindsay a share in her closely guarded world. She had no conviction that Lindsay would take up the invitation without more work on her part; her self-belief couldn’t quite carry her that far. So somehow Rory was going to have to figure out how to entice her in.

Lindsay dipped another crispy chip into the bowl of relish and turned another page of the paper. She’d been waiting over an hour for Rory, but it hadn’t been a problem. Somehow, the restlessness that had afflicted her earlier had dissipated in the congenial atmosphere of Café Virginia. And besides, she’d made good use of the time.

She’d limped in, her eyes roving round the bar area, taking in the décor that somehow managed to be stylish without being impersonal. Trance music played, not loud enough to make conversation uncomfortable. A handful of patrons sat on high stools at tables built on to the square pillars that supported the ceiling. A few glanced up as she walked in, but nobody gave her a second look as she made her way to the zinc-topped counter. Behind the bar, a woman with cropped black hair was stocking cold cabinets with bottled beers. As Lindsay approached, she turned and stood up. ‘What can I get you?’ she asked.

‘I’ll take a cappuccino.’

The barmaid nodded and moved to the gleaming coffee machine. While she fiddled purposefully with taps and spigots, Lindsay continued to scan the place. The bar area occupied the front of the café, but beyond she could see a bigger room. Wooden booths lined the back wall, but the rest of the space was occupied with round metal tables and Italian-style chairs with slender chrome legs. At two of the tables, lone women sat with coffee cups, cigarettes and newspapers.

Lindsay paid for her drink, then said, ‘I’m looking for Rory McLaren.’

The barmaid smiled. ‘The Scarlet Pimpernel of the Merchant City.’ It came out with the smoothness of a familiar line. ‘She’s no’ been in yet.’

‘She’s got a regular table, right?’

The barmaid leaned on the counter and pointed through to the back room. ‘Furthest booth at the end. She expecting you?’

Lindsay shrugged. ‘I suppose that depends on how confident she is of her pulling power.’

The smile widened to a grin. ‘She’ll be expecting you, then. Go away through. Mind you, there’s no telling when she’ll show up. If she’s not in first thing, it could be quite a while.’

‘That’s OK, I’m not in any hurry.’

‘Aye well, all good things come to those who wait.’

‘Will you have one with me while I’m waiting?’

The barmaid raised her eyebrows. ‘Aye, all right. I’ll have a Diet Irn-Bru, if it’s all right with you.’ She reached into the chill cabinet and pulled out a can, popping the top and taking a swig.

‘Do you mind telling me your name? Only, I reckon there’s a fair chance I’m going to be in here quite a bit, and, “Hey, you,” isn’t really my style.’

‘Oh God, not another smooth operator,’ the barmaid sighed, raising her eyes to the ceiling.

Lindsay grinned. ‘Truly, that wasn’t a line. I might be doing a bit of work with Rory and, from what she’s told me, this is where it all happens.’ She shrugged. ‘I prefer to be on friendly terms, that’s all.’

‘What sort of work?’

‘I used to be a journalist. And Rory seems to think I could be again.’ Lindsay’s self-deprecating shrug was perfectly calculated.

‘She can be very persuasive.’

‘So I’ve heard. But you need to be in this game. So humour me that I can still cut the mustard and tell me your name.’

The barmaid grinned. She had a tiny diamond inlaid in her left canine. It added shock value to the smile. ‘I’m Annie,’ she said.

‘And I’m Lindsay.’ She looked around. ‘Rory tells me she keeps pretty busy. Plenty stories coming in all the time.’

Annie nodded. ‘Everybody knows her in here. You’d be amazed the things she picks up just hanging out. It was slow at the start, but these days she’s always got something on the go. Mind you, I’m surprised she’s thinking about working with somebody else.’

‘How so?’

‘No disrespect, but Rory’s no’ exactly what you’d call a team player. She likes her own company too much. Half the baby dykes in here are in love with her, but she never takes advantage. See Rory? She figures out what she wants and goes for it, and hell mend the hindmost. And people see that, and they trust her because of it.’

‘So you’d recommend working with her?’

‘You could do a lot worse.’ Annie took a long swallow of her drink and put the can down behind the counter as another customer approached.

‘I’ll let you get on,’ Lindsay said, sliding off her bar stool and making her way through to Rory’s booth. She smiled at the ‘Reserved’ sign on the table, eased herself on to the padded bench seat and stared at the pile of morning papers neatly stacked against the wall. Her morning’s research had been productive, and Annie’s responses had confirmed her half-made decision.

The first journalist she’d spoken to had been a former colleague on the Standard. Gus was now news editor for BBC Radio Scotland and, although their relationship had been closer to that of sparring partners than friends, he’d seemed pleased enough to hear from her.

Gus didn’t like Rory. He thought she was a chancer who pushed the very limits with her stories and who didn’t care whose toes she trampled on when she was on the chase. But then, Gus had never liked women, least of all dykes. If that was the worst he could find to say about Rory, Lindsay reckoned her potential workmate was probably almost as good as she’d said she was.

Lindsay’s second call was to Mary Salmond. They’d both been active in the Journalists’ Union at the same time, and Mary was now Women’s Editor of the Reporter. She’d sounded positively delighted to hear Lindsay’s voice and immediately insisted they have lunch together to catch up. Lindsay reluctantly agreed; she’d always found Mary far too Edinburgh earnest for her taste. But she wanted information, and she’d have to pay for it.

Mary had gushed at the mention of Rory’s name. ‘She’s done awfully well since she went freelance,’ she said. ‘Awfully well indeed. She’s done the odd piece for me, always her own ideas, and her copy’s a joy. She writes to length, she pitches it at the right level for my readers and she’s got the knack of getting doors to open for her.’

‘What’s she like personally?’

‘I wouldn’t say I knew her that well. She seems very private, never really gives much away. She’s not one of those freelances who’s always trying to freeload in the pub, you know the kind?’

Lindsay knew the kind. ‘But you like her?’

‘Oh yes, I like her fine. She’s very pally with Giles Graham. You know Giles? Such a sweetie. If Giles likes her, she must have something going for her; I’ve always thought he’s an awfully good judge of character. I’ve seen her about with Sandra Singh as well. You won’t know Sandra, she’s a factual programmes producer at STV, after your time. Does that help?’

It had helped. Lindsay had instinctively liked Rory, but she was too shrewd an operator herself to trust her future to someone she knew nothing about. Now she knew enough to take a chance. She picked the top paper off the pile and began browsing. After an hour, she ordered a burger and fries. The burger turned out to be a very poor relation of what she was accustomed to in California, but the chips were glorious – fat chunks of real potato, golden brown and crunchy, the way she liked them and had seldom found them in America. That would be how I stayed so slim over there, she thought. She decided she’d give Rory till she’d finished her lunch, then she’d leave her a note and go. It really didn’t do to seem too keen, after all.

A shadow crossed the page she was reading and Lindsay looked up to see Rory standing before her, laptop slung over one shoulder, a delighted grin on her face. ‘Couldn’t stay away, huh?’ Rory asked, sliding into the seat opposite Lindsay.

‘Well, I could hardly go running, could I?’

Rory winced. ‘How is the ankle?’

‘Sore. But not as swollen as it was. A week or so and it’ll be back to normal.’

‘That’s the official clinical view from the resident medic?’

Lindsay snorted. ‘Given Sophie’s area of expertise, she’d take one look at a swollen ankle and probably tell me I was suffering from pre-eclampsia.’

Annie arrived carrying a couple of cappuccinos. ‘There youse go. You want something to eat, Rory?’

‘I’ll take a plate of stovies, Annie.’

The barmaid nodded and left them to it.

‘Three cappuccinos in one day. I’ll be jazzed till bedtime at this rate,’ Lindsay said.

‘Would you rather have something else? Only, Annie said that’s what you were on.’ Rory looked momentarily anxious.

She’s trying to make an impression, Lindsay thought wryly. ‘No, that’s fine. I suspect I’m going to have to have my wits about me to deal with you anyway.’

‘So, you’ve decided to take me up on my suggestion?’ Rory kept her eyes on her coffee, but Lindsay could sense the eagerness underlying the question.

‘I’m giving it serious consideration. But if it’s going to stand any chance of working, we’ve got to be up front with each other.’ Rory’s head came up as she registered the seriousness of Lindsay’s tone. The banter was over, and it was time to get down to business.

‘Point taken. So, what do you want to know?’

Lindsay sucked some foam off her cappuccino and wiped her top lip clean. ‘My big reservation is that, initially, stories would only be coming my way on the basis of your reputation. Which obviously means you get first pick of whatever lands on the table. I have no idea what that means for me. If I’m just going to be running around doing the dross that doesn’t interest you or that you think isn’t worth your time and attention, then, frankly, I’m not interested.’

Rory looked wounded. ‘No, that’s not how I see it at all. See, the thing is, I already get more stuff coming to me than I can deal with. I end up selling stuff on as tips that I’d rather work myself, but if I’m in the middle of something big and I get a lead on a story that’s time-sensitive, I have to let it go. The way I see it, when a story comes in, whichever one of us is free to take it runs with it. Anyway, the reputation you’ve got, you’ll be pulling stories in yourself in no time.’

Lindsay’s eyebrows shot up. ‘The reputation I’ve got? Come on, Rory, I’m hardly a household name.’

‘I’ve just been in at the Standard, passing a tip on to Giles Graham. He remembers exactly who you are. And you didn’t even work together. Your by-line will sell stories that I’d struggle to place. Lindsay, I’m not handing out charity here. You’d be doing me a favour by coming in with me.’

Lindsay gave Rory a long, considering look. Sure, the kid was probably a bit starry-eyed about her, imagining a past crammed with glory days and 22-point by-lines. But surely that had to be better than trying single-handed to carve out a niche among the sceptical new faces that were running the newsdesks and magazine supplements these days?

It wasn’t the hardest decision of her life. ‘OK. Let’s give it a go. A month’s trial, and at the end of it, either of us can walk away if it’s not working out.’

Rory punched the air. ‘Yes! That’s brilliant, Lindsay. Hey, you won’t regret this, you know.’

I sincerely hope not, Lindsay thought. But she stifled her remaining reservations and extended a hand across the table. ‘Nor will you,’ she said.

‘So, when do we start?’

5

Kevin followed Michael out into the street and sniffed the air like a dog in a new wood. ‘So this is Glasgow,’ he said. ‘It’s not that different, is it?’ There was a note of disappointment in his voice.

Michael said nothing. He simply turned left and set off towards the bus stop he’d been told he’d find a couple of streets away. He carried his heavy hold-all as lightly as if it held nothing more substantial than an evening newspaper. At the bus stop, he came to a halt, dropped his bag at his feet and lit a cigarette.

‘Where is it we’re going again?’ Kevin asked.

‘A bed and breakfast,’ Michael said. ‘Argyle Street.’

‘So what’s the plan?’

‘We’ll take a wee look round the pubs near where she was spotted.’

Kevin’s face lit up at the prospect. ‘Sounds good to me, Michael.’

A bus drew up and the two men boarded. It was almost empty and they had the rear area to themselves.

‘We won’t be drinking, Kevin. This is an operation, not a holiday,’ Michael said. His tone of voice would have signalled to anyone else that this wasn’t a subject for debate.

Not to Kevin. He gave the cunning smile of the truly stupid. ‘But we’ll need to fit in, Michael. We’ll stick out like a sore thumb if we go in and just order a couple of cokes.’

‘That’s why we won’t be going in and ordering any cokes, Kevin,’ Michael snarled. ‘You’ll be going up to the bar and asking for change for the cigarette machine. Or a box of matches. Meanwhile, I’ll be taking a good look around. If I see her, we’ll be stopping for a glass of stout. And we’ll be making it last.’

Crestfallen, Kevin slumped in his seat, watching the unfamiliar city roll past the windows. He knew he was supposed to like Michael, for his sister’s sake, but he was a moody bastard to work with and no mistake.

By closing time, Michael’s mood had blackened to a pitch where even Kevin realized silence was the best option. They’d explored pubs ranging from raucous student bars with loud insistent music to more traditional pubs where old men nursed their pints with the tenderness of new mothers. Michael had cast an apparently negligent but actually sharp look over hundreds of women, none of them Bernadette Dooley.

They walked back through streets shared with drinkers heading home, the air aromatic with curry and fish suppers, to the scruffy B&B where they were inconspicuous among the transient workers and DSS claimants who made it their home. All the way back, a scowl deepened the crease between Michael’s eyebrows. Kevin had lost count of the number of pubs they’d scouted out, but his pockets were bulging with boxes of matches and loose change. And not so much as a glass of stout had passed his lips.

Michael broke the silence as they turned on to Argyle Street. ‘We’ll do a school in the morning.’

‘Eh?’

‘Patrick says she has a child. A child has to go to school. We’ll stake out the nearest primary to the supermarket.’

‘I don’t remember anything being said about a child,’ Kevin complained.

‘I checked in when we got here. You were in the toilet. Patrick said he’d forgotten to mention she has a child.’

‘I never knew that. From before, like. When she was working in the shop.’

Michael made a kissing sound of exasperation. ‘She didn’t have it then. Whoever it was who spotted her in the supermarket told Patrick she had a child with her.’

‘Maybe it’s not old enough to be at the school,’ Kevin pointed out, proud of himself for coming up with the argument. ‘I mean, it’s not seven years since she left.’

Michael flashed a look of surprise at Kevin. It was always a shock when he said something that wouldn’t be self-evident to a three-year-old. ‘Maybe not. But apart from hanging around the supermarket, we’ve got nothing else to go at. Like Patrick said, she’ll not be on the voter’s roll or in the phone book, not if she’s got any sense. So we’ll check out the primary schools on the map and we’ll be there first thing.’

Kevin saw the prospect of a decent night’s sleep rapidly receding. ‘Right you are,’ he sighed. ‘The school it is.’

Kevin wasn’t the only one who reckoned sleep might be elusive. Lindsay had had one of the worst evenings in living memory, and the turmoil of emotions raging through her didn’t feel as if they were going to subside any time soon. Part of her wished she’d taken Rory up on her suggestion of a celebratory meal out to cement their new partnership and to hell with the consequences. But she knew that, being who she was, that would always have been impossible. She couldn’t be sure whether it was cowardice, love, good manners or fear that meant she had to go home and participate in the insemination she dreaded; all she knew was that she couldn’t bring herself to do otherwise.

She’d returned via the greengrocer in Hyndland who seemed somehow always to have the freshest vegetables in town. Sprue asparagus, a selection of wild mushrooms, fresh strawberries, peaches and raspberries. She’d remembered Fraser’s boyfriend was vegetarian, and while deep down she longed to serve them all congealed Kentucky Fried Chicken, her need to see the world well fed wouldn’t allow it. It was a mark of pride to Lindsay that when people ate in her kitchen, they ate memorably and well. So she’d take the time and trouble to produce grilled asparagus, wild mushroom risotto garnished with parmesan and rocket, and a fresh fruit salad. If she’d liked them better, she’d have made a meringue shell for a pavlova, but her soul wasn’t feeling that generous.

She’d thought that Sophie would be home early for once, but her lover only just made it through the door ahead of their guests. ‘Trying to avoid talking about it?’ Lindsay had said sourly when Sophie finally walked into the kitchen and came up behind her to kiss her on the neck.

‘No,’ Sophie replied evenly, refusing to be drawn. ‘I was called in on an emergency consult at the Western. You’ll be pleased to hear we saved the baby and the mother, though it was touch and go with the mum.’

Guilt-tripped, Lindsay said nothing, taking out her spleen on the parmesan, producing a pile of extravagant curls.

The rest of the evening hadn’t gone any better. Fraser and Peter had clearly already been to the pub before they arrived, drowning their apprehensions in whisky, to judge by the smell on their breath as they leaned forward in turn to plant air kisses on Lindsay’s cheeks. ‘So, what’s the drill?’ Fraser had demanded with an air of forced gaiety. ‘Is there some ceremony to the Goddess, or do we run straight through to the spare room and have a wank?’

Lindsay closed her eyes momentarily, biting down hard to keep her mouth firmly shut. ‘Don’t be daft,’ Sophie said, her voice more affectionate than Lindsay could ever have managed in the circumstances. ‘We’ll eat first. Lindsay’s cooked us a lovely meal. And then …’

‘He can provide his specimen, eh?’ Peter chipped in, his ferret smile disturbingly predatory. Lindsay was glad Sophie had asked Fraser to be their donor; at least he looked like a human being, not an escapee from a vivisection lab. Sophie’s chosen donor would be a good match for her, Lindsay thought dispassionately as she poured wine for everyone. Like her lover, Fraser was above average height, especially for a Scot, and he had the same trim build. His hair and eye colour were close to Sophie’s and, like her, he had good facial bone structure.

Lindsay supposed it made sense to have a donor who resembled Sophie so closely. It increased the chances of any baby that resulted resembling its mother. But she couldn’t help feeling an irrational pang of exclusion that Sophie had never even bothered to ask if she’d like them to find a donor who was a match for her, so that there would be at least a chance that any child would look like an amalgam of both of them, rather than be so clearly Sophie’s child.

The dinner conversation had been gruesome. When the two men had eaten with them previously it had been an easy and comfortable evening. But what lay ahead sat like a ponderous elephant in the middle of the dinner table, impossible to ignore yet equally unfit for discussion according to any rules of decorum.

Fed up of the dismal attempts at small talk that kept running aground, Lindsay finally said, ‘You don’t want to be a parent, then, Fraser?’

Fraser looked startled. ‘Well, not in the sense of day-to-day involvement, no. Though I like the idea that my genetic material will continue after I’ve gone.’

Selfish bastard, Lindsay thought. She wondered why he thought his genes were so special they deserved to be preserved, but realized this wasn’t a line of conversation that would endear her to Sophie. ‘So you’re not going to be popping round to take the wean to the football? Or the Scottish country dancing,’ she added as an afterthought, remembering that Peter had revealed that he and Fraser had first met at a gay and lesbian ceilidh – the sort of event she would have slit her throat rather than attend. Lindsay had grown up in the Highlands and knew what ceilidhs were supposed to be like. She thought Peter and Fraser would last about ten minutes, tops, at any village dance she’d ever attended.

Fraser smiled uncertainly, unsure if he was really hearing hostility. ‘I’m happy to let you and Sophie bring up the child without any interference from me,’ he said cautiously. ‘I don’t mind it knowing I’m the other half of its genetic make-up when it’s older, but I’m not planning on being a father in any active way.’

Lindsay smiled. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Sophie suddenly look apprehensive. ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t decide when he’s thirteen that he’d rather live with the other half of his genetic make-up, then,’ she said.

‘Lindsay, do stop trying to frighten Fraser,’ Sophie said. Her voice was light, but the look she gave Lindsay would have melted the snows of Kilimanjaro. ‘Now, would anyone like any more fruit salad?’

Fraser and Peter exchanged a swift glance ‘Maybe we should just cut to the chase, Sophie,’ Fraser said.

‘I’ll show you to the spare room,’ Sophie said, ushering them out of the dining room and throwing a warning look over her shoulder at Lindsay. When she returned a few minutes later, she found Lindsay clattering the dirty plates into the dishwasher.

‘Are you deliberately trying to fuck this up for me? Or are you behaving inappropriately because you’re nervous?’ Sophie demanded.

‘Neither. I was simply trying to make sure we all knew what the ground rules were.’ Lindsay closed the machine forcefully.

‘But I told you that last night. You knew I’d already been through it all with Fraser.’

Lindsay tipped the remains of the fruit salad into a plastic container and headed for the fridge. ‘I wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth.’ She leaned against the worktop, her arms folded across her chest. ‘I’m sorry, Sophie, but it’s hard for me to take your word for things when I know how desperately you want this. You’d tell me black was white if you thought it would prevent me standing in the way of you chasing this particular dream. So I don’t think it was out of order for me to ask Fraser what I did.’

Sophie’s grey eyes blazed anger. ‘I don’t suppose you stopped to think that it made us look like anything but the close and confiding couple?’

Lindsay shrugged. ‘Maybe Fraser will just figure that I’m cautious. Which is a sensible thing to be.’

Sophie ran her hands through her hair. ‘Jesus. I’m supposed to be in a relaxed and receptive state for insemination and look at me. Wound up like a fucking spring, thanks to you.’

Her partner’s anguish worked on Lindsay as no rational argument could have done. She put her arms round Sophie and murmured, ‘Oh Christ, I’m sorry. Come on, let’s get you sorted.’

Sophie led the way through to their bedroom. Somehow, she’d found the time to lay out a sterile plastic syringe by the side of the bed. ‘What’s the drill?’ Lindsay asked grimly.

‘Peter will bring the sperm through in a glass. It starts to thicken once it leaves the man’s body, so we have to keep it at blood heat for about ten to fifteen minutes so it’ll liquefy again.’

‘Too much information,’ Lindsay muttered.

‘The best way to do that is to put the glass between your breasts.’

‘My breasts? What’s wrong with yours?’ Lindsay demanded.

‘I’ll be lying on my back with a pillow under my hips, Lindsay,’ Sophie said impatiently as she began to undress.

‘Great,’ Lindsay muttered. ‘Then what?’

‘You take it up into the syringe and inject it as far up my vagina as you can get.’

‘And that’s it?’

Sophie, by now stripped down to her underwear, had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Not quite. There’s strong anecdotal evidence that an orgasm around the time the sperm is introduced increases the chances of success.’

Lindsay looked appalled. ‘You’re not suggesting we …?’ Then she suddenly saw the funny side and burst out laughing. The release of the tension that had them both clenched in its grip brought them together again like a stretched elastic band snapping back into shape. ‘I really don’t think I can do it,’ Lindsay spluttered.

Sophie finished undressing, slipping quickly beneath the duvet. ‘I don’t think I could keep a straight face now. Probably better if I do it myself.’

Lindsay closed her eyes and rubbed her eyelids with thumb and forefinger. ‘I think that might be best,’ she said, shaking her head incredulously, a final snigger escaping her lips.

Before she could say more, there was a tentative tap at the door. ‘All ready, girls,’ Peter sang out from the hall.

Lindsay opened up and stared down in disbelief at the glass being proffered to her. A large gob of off-white mucus clung to the bottom of the Edinburgh crystal, as viscous and slimy as phlegm. Wordlessly, she took it and closed the door. ‘You gave him one of my whisky tumblers,’ she said plaintively. ‘How can I ever drink out of them again?’

Sophie snorted with laughter. ‘That bloody dishwasher’s about as hot as an autoclave. Trust me, you’re not going to catch anything.’

‘It’s not a matter of hygiene, it’s a matter of taste. And I’m not talking flavour,’ Lindsay growled, thrusting the glass down the front of her shirt to nestle in her bra between still firm breasts. ‘Oh God, the smell,’ she moaned as the sharp tang of the sperm invaded her nostrils. ‘It’s like municipal swimming pools. Jesus, I really thought being a dyke meant I’d never have to deal with this gunge again. This is so disgusting, Sophie.’

‘You think I don’t know that? Listen, you’re not the one facing the prospect of having it inside you.’

Lindsay gave a savage grin. ‘It’s not too late to change your mind.’

‘Very funny. Come and give me a cuddle, please?’

Gingerly, careful of her cargo, Lindsay edged alongside Sophie. With her free hand, she stroked Sophie’s hair, letting her lips brush against the top of her head. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever felt less sexual,’ Sophie said, her voice wavering on the edge of tears as she struggled for arousal.

You and me both, Lindsay thought grimly. But she kept her thoughts to herself and dropped her head to Sophie’s breast, gently nuzzling her nipple. She licked it harder, sucking it into her mouth and tonguing it firmly. She was rewarded, as she knew she would be, with a soft moan and the arching of Sophie’s spine.

Then suddenly it was all action. Lindsay had to pull away to draw the sperm into the syringe. Placing her hand over Sophie’s, she slid the barrel into her lover’s vagina as far as it would go, then depressed the plunger. There was a desperation in Sophie’s cries as she came almost simultaneously. When Lindsay dared look up, she saw tears tracking down Sophie’s cheeks. She knew her own eyes were pricking almost to overflowing.

Their reasons, she knew, were dangerously different.

Lindsay leaned against Sophie’s bent legs, her cheek against Sophie’s knee. As soon as was decently possible, she pulled away. ‘I’m going to see if the guys need a drink,’ she said. Anything to get out of there and find a moment to get her face in order.

Now, two hours later, Lindsay was staring out of the living-room window to the moonlit playing fields across the road and the tawdry glitter of the city lights beyond. She had shared a large malt with Fraser and Peter then seen them out. She’d made a cup of herbal tea for Sophie, whose body had overnight become a temple worshipping very different gods from before. She’d climbed into bed as she suspected she was expected to do and had faked sleep. Once she’d been certain that Sophie’s deep and regular breathing wasn’t feigned, she’d slipped out of bed, poured herself another Caol Ila and sat on the window seat wondering how much of her future lay within these walls, and how much within the walls of the Café Virginia.

6

A few miles away, Rory McLaren was also pondering Lindsay’s future, though not in quite the same terms as the subject of her plotting. She swigged greedily from a bottle of water and let herself slide down the wall she was leaning against until she was hunkered down level with Sandra. Sweat streaked their faces and bodies as they grinned inanely at each other in the chilling-out space in the basement of E-scape, their favourite dance club, which occupied a former warehouse where Garnethill merged into Cowcaddens.

They’d split a tab of ecstasy earlier in the evening, they’d danced like dervishes and now they were both starting the gradual descent to the point where sleep might be possible at some time in the not too distant future. But for now they were content to let the gentle throb of the ambient track ease them down gently.

‘What’re you thinking?’ Sandra said after a few minutes.

‘How useful Lindsay’s going to be.’

‘That would be in a work context?’

Rory giggled softly. ‘I was thinking about work. But you never know …’

Sandra groaned. ‘Stick to the work. Useful how?’

‘Well, take Keillor. I’ve got the tip, I’ve hardened it up pretty well, but I need some solid evidence. But Keillor knows me, so I’ve got no chance of scamming him. He’s never seen Lindsay, though. Maybe between us we can figure out how to have him over and she can do the sharp end.’

Sandra’s mouth curled up in a feline smile. ‘Oh yes, I like it. Nail the wee slug to the floor.’

‘I’ll talk to her about it in the morning.’

‘It’s already the morning.’

‘Only technically.’ Rory hugged herself and scrunched her face up in an expression of amused cunning. ‘A couple of real buzzes like creepy Keillor and she’ll be so hooked. Which will be nice.’

Sandra chugged on her own bottle of mineral water. ‘Uh oh.’

‘I mean it’ll be nice to have somebody around to work with. I never thought I’d miss the newsroom – and I don’t, not really. But it does get lonely sometimes. Everybody in the bar is a potential source, so I can’t afford to let them be my friends. I spend most days not really talking to anybody unless you or Giles stop by. Lindsay … now, there’s somebody I can talk to. Nice woman. Very nice woman.’

‘She’s also a happily married woman, Rory. Tell me you’re not going to crash through her life like an express train on speed,’ she sighed.

Rory shook her head vigorously, droplets of moisture scattering from her sweat-darkened hair. ‘Hey, she’s a grown-up. She can make her own choices. I don’t force myself on anyone.’

Sandra snorted. ‘Little Miss Butter-wouldn’t-melt. Rory, just for once, walk away from it. You know you don’t do relationships. You’re the emotional equivalent of a hit-and-run driver. You never get hurt yourself, you just leave a trail of wreckage in your rear-view mirror.’

Rory pulled a face. ‘Yeah, well. When the only relationship you’ve ever seen close up was as fucked as my mum and dad’s was, you’d be mental to think it was as easy as falling in love. Dive in, dive deep and then climb back out and dry off before you catch a cold, that’s what works for me. But if it makes you any happier, I promise not to make a move on Lindsay. OK?’

Sandra put an arm round her friend and hugged her close. ‘It’s not about making me happy. It’s about you making yourself happy.’

‘Which I do, with lots of girlies.’ Rory’s smile was wry. ‘Only, never for very long.’

‘Well, remember that if Lindsay starts looking like Mount Everest.’

‘Eh?’

‘You don’t have to climb it just because it’s there. You’ll have more fun in the long run working with her.’

‘Sandra, are you sure you’re not Jewish?’

Sandra gave her an affectionate punch in the ribs. ‘Fuck off, Rory. C’mon, let’s go and have a last dance and see if I can pick myself up some wee boy who wants to be initiated into the secret world of the older woman.’

Rory chuckled as she got to her feet. ‘And you’ve got the nerve to talk about me.’

Sandra rumpled Rory’s damp hair. ‘Difference is, I can do the serious thing just as well as I do the playing.’ She pushed past and made for the stairs leading to the main dance floor, entirely missing the momentary flash of sadness and longing that crossed Rory’s face.

The raw cold ate into Kevin’s bones. Michael seemed oblivious to the weather, as affected by the penetrating damp as were the concrete and glass of the primary school they were watching. The school was near the Botanic Gardens, in a quiet side street lined with tall sandstone tenements, which posed something of a problem for them. There was no convenient bus shelter or phone box to use as a surveillance point. Nor was there a handy café with windows overlooking the school entrance. And in these days of paedophile paranoia, nothing would provoke a call to the police faster than two men standing on a street corner scrutinizing the children arriving at a primary school.

If it had been up to Kevin, they would have gone back to bed after their preliminary reconnaissance at half past seven had demonstrated how apparently impossible was the task facing them. But this was the school nearest the supermarket where Bernadette Dooley had been spotted, so they had to start here, Michael decreed. And besides, he had spent long enough on the front line to have honed his improvisational skills. As they had walked up Byres Road towards the school, he’d noticed two youths by the Underground entrance handing out copies of a free newspaper to the commuters hurrying into the station. When he realized how exposed the school was from a surveillance point of view, he’d remembered the newspaper distributors.

He’d marched Kevin back down to the station and gone into a huddle with the youths. A threatening look from his amber eyes would probably have been enough to achieve his goal, but Michael didn’t want to be fixed in anyone’s memory as a bad lad. Not just yet, anyway. So a couple of tenners were swapped for two bundles of freesheets and they walked back to the school, where they took up position at either side of the gates, handing out the paper to teachers and parents as they arrived.

Nobody gave them a second look.

‘Won’t she recognize you?’ Kevin had asked as they’d walked back.

In reply, Michael had taken a pair of glasses from his inside pocket. They had thick black frames and lenses tinted blue. He put them on and simultaneously let his shoulders slump. In that instant, the threat disappeared like the sun behind a cloud.

‘No, right, I see what you mean,’ Kevin muttered.

Now, he watched how Michael scrutinized every face that approached. When the electric bell finally sounded on the dot of nine o’clock, he was satisfied that Bernadette Dooley was not among the parents who had delivered their offspring to Botanics Primary.

‘So what do we do now?’ Kevin asked forlornly, clutching the leftover newspapers to his chest.

‘We go and see if that supermarket’s got a café,’ Michael said. ‘And if it hasn’t, we find someplace to watch it from. And this afternoon we find another primary school at chucking-out time.’ He was already striding down the street.

Two hours and forty-three minutes later, Kevin shifted in his plastic chair. ‘She’s giving us funny looks, that woman on the till,’ he muttered.

Michael scowled. ‘You’re too fucking obvious, that’s why.’ He glanced at his watch. Three teas each and a couple of bacon butties. The worst part was not being able to smoke. No, Michael corrected himself. The worst part was having to work with a fucking eejit like Kevin who could no more blend into the background than a naked woman at High Mass.

‘I’m not doing anything,’ Kevin whined.

Michael bit back a vicious response. He sipped his lukewarm tea. ‘Away and get me a fresh cup of tea. And when you’ve done that, you can go into the supermarket and buy me some bananas.’

‘Bananas?’ Kevin frowned in puzzlement.

‘They’re a good source of potassium. Just do it, Kevin.’

Kevin pushed himself up from the table. He strolled over to the counter, his attempt at nonchalance setting the till operator’s antennae jangling. She couldn’t figure out his game at all, but she was mentally rehearsing his description. When he returned with the tea, Michael said, ‘Fine. Now the bananas, there’s a good lad. And take your time about it. Have a browse. See if there’s any new flavours of Pot Noodle to get you excited.’ The sarcasm was wasted on Kevin, who shrugged and walked off to join the milling shoppers.

Left to himself, Michael pulled out his mobile and called Patrick. ‘It’s me,’ he said as soon as they were connected. ‘So far, no joy.’

‘I didn’t expect anything so soon.’ Patrick’s voice was flat, unreadable. ‘Stay on it. Call me tomorrow.’

The line went dead. Whatever Bernadette had taken from Patrick, it had clearly pissed the man off more than Michael would have risked lightly. He put the phone back in his pocket and continued his scrutiny of the entrance to the store. Barely taking his eyes off the harassed mothers and the slow-moving pensioners who made up most of the clientele at that time of the morning, he sugared his tea and began to drink it. This was probably a total waste of time, but they had nothing else to chase. As long as Patrick was willing to spend his money, Michael was content to watch and wait.

Time ticked inexorably past and still Kevin didn’t return. He was probably memorizing the Pot Noodle flavours, Michael reckoned. Then suddenly all thoughts of Kevin disappeared. He went immobile as a lizard that knows it’s been spotted and still hopes its camouflage will keep it safe.

It was her. Pushing past an elderly couple, dark hair swinging round her head in a long bob, heavy coat wrapped round her, disguising a figure that Michael remembered had always been worth noticing. Bernadette Dooley was hurrying into the supermarket, making straight for the counter that sold cigarettes, confectionery and lottery tickets.

If he leaned over in his seat, he could see her back view. She was scrabbling in her bag for her purse, pulling it out, opening it, taking out a couple of notes. She handed over the money and received a carton of 100 Silk Cut in return. Then she was turning away, pushing the cigarettes into her bag, head down, making for the door again.

Michael was on his feet. By the time she made it to the street, he was a handful of steps behind her. He glanced quickly over his shoulder. Where the fuck was Kevin? Ah, the hell with it. Bernadette was the important one. Kevin would doubtless sit in the supermarket till it closed. Either that or he’d have the sense to make his way back to where they were staying. Wouldn’t he?

Bernadette turned right out of the store and headed down Byres Road. The pavements were busy enough to give him cover. With the total focus of the hunter whose oblivious prey is well upwind and living on borrowed time, Michael began stalking Bernadette Dooley.

Rory was already settled into her booth at Café Virginia when Lindsay arrived. ‘Hey,’ she greeted her, ‘You look worse than I do, and I was clubbing till gone three.’

Lindsay squeezed out a vague smile. ‘I was up half the night. And not in a good way.’

‘Must have been something you ate, eh?’

‘Must have been. So, what’s doing?’

Rory pushed a manila folder across the table as Lindsay’s cappuccino arrived. ‘Take a look at that.’

Curious, Lindsay studied the contents. The first page was a memo to herself from Rory:

Tip re Keillor/Kilwinning. CCD, the multinational pharmaceutical and agrichemical company, have a small plant on the outskirts of Kilwinning. Just over a year ago, local farmer sells biggish chunk of land to a suit from down south, who says he wants to retire and do rare-breed sheep. Few months later, planning application goes in for change of use from agricultural to light industrial. Turns out land now belongs to CCD; they want to expand in unspecified ways to extend their research. Locals convinced they’re going to be poisoned with chemicals or overrun with cloned sheep. Think the local plan will keep them safe. But Chief Planning Officer David Keillor leans heavy on councillors and the change of use goes through. Source tells me that Keillor is running round in a brand-new BMW 4x4 – costs about a year’s salary new – and his wife has a neat wee Porsche Boxster. Source also tells me that vehicles were originally registered to CCD.

The other documents were reports of the planning committee meetings and transcriptions of Rory’s interviews with the farmer who sold the land and various locals with an axe to grind.

Lindsay digested the material then looked up and said, ‘And?’

‘Well, obviously, we need to get a look at the vehicle registration document for Keillor’s Beamer.’

Lindsay nodded. ‘Obviously. So what’s been keeping you?’

The sarcasm was gentle enough for Rory to grin. ‘Keillor knows me. We had a wee bit of a head to head a few years ago when he was working for the city planning department. Something to do with selling off school playing fields. So there’s no way I can get close enough. I thought maybe you’d have an idea how we could pull it off?’

Lindsay scooped the froth off her coffee and slowly licked it off the spoon. ‘How bent do you want to get?’ she asked thoughtfully.

Rory scratched an eyebrow. ‘Run it past me.’

‘Do you happen to know if Strathclyde Police have changed their warrant cards in the past two years?’

Before Rory could answer, Sandra breezed up to their table. ‘Hiya, girls.’ She inclined her head towards Lindsay. ‘You must be Splash Gordon.’ She thrust a hand out. ‘I’m Sandra Singh. I’m supposed to be this one’s best pal.’ Lindsay took the offered handshake with a nod.

Rory gave an exasperated little smile. ‘Lindsay, meet Sandra. Sandra is a factual programmes producer/director up the road at STV. She hates her boss, she likes boys that are barely old enough to shave and she thinks that, since my mammy’s dead, she should poke her nose into my business all the time.’

Lindsay moved up the bench to make room for Sandra. ‘Good to meet you. It’s nice to know there’s somewhere I can go to get the dirt if I need an edge.’

Sandra shook her head at the available seat. ‘I’m not stopping. I was passing and I thought I’d say hello. You girls plotting?’

Lindsay said, ‘Yes,’ at the precise moment Rory said, ‘No.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes, and leave you to it. Catch you later.’ With a wave of her slender fingers, Sandra was off.

Rory raised her eyes heavenwards. ‘Something else.’

‘Clearly. So, do you have an answer?’

Rory looked momentarily bewildered. ‘An answer?’

‘Warrant cards.’

‘Right. Eh, not as far as I know. Why?’

‘I think this comes into the category of what you don’t know can’t hurt you. Have you got an address for Keillor? There isn’t one in the file.’

Rory dug around in her backpack and produced a battered filofax. She rummaged inside and finally unearthed a torn scrap of paper. She tore a sheet out of the notebook on the table and scribbled down an address in Milngavie. ‘You sure you don’t want to talk it through?’ she said almost wistfully as she handed it over.

‘I’m sure. If it all goes horribly wrong, at least you’ll be able to put your hand on your heart and say it was nothing to do with you.’

‘Well, damn,’ Rory said. ‘Haven’t you figured out yet that I like trouble?’

‘All the more reason not to tell you what I’ve got in mind,’ Lindsay said drily. ‘I can get into enough trouble for both of us, all by myself.’

Rory grinned. ‘Oh good. You know, I think we’re going to be pure dead brilliant together.’

Lindsay’s smile didn’t make it to her eyes. It wasn’t so long ago that she would have said the same thing about her and Sophie. Now, she really wasn’t sure any more.

7

Bernie Gourlay took the washing out of the tumble drier and began to fold it. She noticed that one of Jack’s school sweatshirts had begun to split at the shoulder seam and put it to one side to sew up later. She often heard mothers complaining about the things they had to do for their kids, but she’d never once felt like that. She knew what a miracle he was, and she counted it a privilege to be able to take care of the details of his life. She’d been conscious ever since he’d been placed in her arms that his dependency on her would wane consistently as he grew older, and she’d determined then that she would enjoy every moment, every phase of his development, but that she’d let go when she had to.

She was, she thought, the luckiest person she knew. She’d escaped from a life that was difficult and anxious, and, although the journey hadn’t been without its ups and downs, now she’d achieved something she’d never have believed possible. Happiness. Jack was growing strong and healthy, a cheerful child whose face never seemed crossed with shadows. And she had Tam. Big, daft, lovely Tam who had swept her off her feet and never minded that Jack was another man’s son, nor that she was incapable of having more children by him. Tam, who had bought this beautiful big garden flat for them to live in, who saw to it that none of them ever went without, who worked hard to take care of them all but who never let his business interfere with enjoying his family to the full.

Bernie glanced at the clock. Ten minutes before she had to leave and pick up Jack from school. Tam sometimes dropped him off in the mornings, but she always made sure she was there in plenty of time to pick him up. She couldn’t bear the thought of him standing at the school gates, worry at her lateness puckering his face and darkening his china-blue eyes. Soon enough, he’d be begging her to let him walk home with his pals, but for now he was still pleased to see her when the bell went.

The electronic chirrup of the phone disturbed her cheerful thoughts. Probably Tam, she thought, reaching for the handset. It was seldom that a day passed without him calling just to say hello. Four years married, and he was still a big soft romantic at heart.

But the voice that insinuated its way into her brain wasn’t Tam’s. It was a voice she’d often prayed she would never hear again. It was a voice whose very tone was a masquerade, disguising the viciousness behind it with a beguiling softness. Bernie wasn’t beguiled. She was terrified. She felt as if a block of ice was dissolving in her stomach, sending cold trickles through her whole body. She clung to the phone, mesmerized, unable to put it down even after the line went dead.

Staggering slightly, she collapsed into a kitchen chair. Tears pricked her eyes and her dry lips trembled. Eventually, she got to her feet, still shaky. Although she had prayed she’d never have to put it into action, she had a contingency plan in place. She took a well-worn leather address book from a kitchen drawer and looked up an unfamiliar number. She keyed it into the phone and waited for the international connection. When the phone was answered, she gave the name of the person she desperately needed to talk to. Another pause. Then Bernie closed her eyes with relief. ‘It’s Bernadette,’ she said. Please God, let this work.

Late the following afternoon, Lindsay drove out through the south side of the city towards the prosperous suburb of Milngavie. She never failed to be struck by the contrasts in Glasgow, even between areas that superficially seemed to have much in common. The average income in Milngavie was probably only marginally above that in the smart part of the West End where she and Sophie lived. But, culturally, it felt like a different world. The West End had traditionally been more genteel, drawing its residents from the academics at the university and the medical staff at the city’s hospitals. Now, it had added media, IT professionals and the arts to the mix, making it a place where Lindsay felt as at home as she was ever going to be.

But Milngavie had always felt more culturally barren. The money here came from retail empires, from accountants, from people who preferred Andrew Lloyd Webber to Mozart or the Manic Street Preachers. The difference was obvious to her even in the architecture. This was the land of bungalows and detached houses, where to inhabit a semi was somehow to have failed. There was nothing here to compare with the grandeur of the red sandstone tenements of Hyndland or the imposing houses of Kelvinside. Lindsay knew she was indulging her prejudices with such facile thoughts, but she didn’t care. From everything she’d read about David Keillor, she’d have been astonished to find him living anywhere else.

She turned into the quiet side street where Keillor lived and cruised slowly down till she spotted his house. It was a two-storey detached property in a decent-sized garden, a double garage tacked on to one side. The brilliant white harling that covered the house looked as if it had recently been repainted, and the double glazing was the expensive sort that mimicked traditional sash windows. It didn’t look as if Keillor was strapped for cash. She parked a little way past the entrance to his drive and settled back to wait.

She’d borrowed Sophie’s car for the afternoon, knowing that the anonymous saloon her lover drove was more appropriate for what she had in mind than the classic MGB roadster she’d bought on her return to the UK. Sophie had teased her about having a mid-life crisis, but Lindsay had pointed out that she had always driven classic cars and because she’d previously owned an MGB she knew enough to carry out her own maintenance. Since she couldn’t hope to do that with a modern car crammed with electronics, she was effectively choosing the budget option, she’d argued. Sophie had just laughed and kissed her.

If she has a baby, I’ll have to ditch the MGB, Lindsay thought sourly. She knew Sophie well enough to realize that no child of hers would be allowed on the narrow bench seat in the rear of the 1974 sports car lest it fly into the air and disappear from the rear-view mirror, bouncing down the motorway. Her life would have to change in far more profound ways, she knew that. But today what rankled was the potential loss of her car. She knew she was being childish, but she was the only person who knew that, so it didn’t count.

Lindsay forced herself to stop thinking about the baby and concentrate instead on what she had to do. She dug into her jacket pocket and took out the small black leather wallet with the Strathclyde Police crest on it. A couple of years before, she’d been instrumental in saving an American friend, Meredith Miller, from facing a murder charge. A few weeks later, the fake warrant card had arrived in the post, along with a brief note: ‘You’re better than the real thing. I thought this might amuse you. Thanks, Meredith.’ She’d never imagined using it; but then she’d never imagined being a journalist again, particularly not in Scotland.

She adjusted her rear-view mirror so she could see approaching traffic and settled down for a wait. She didn’t expect it to be too long. Officials like David Keillor left the office on time. It was only their minions who had to stay late to deal with their workloads. With luck, he’d be home very soon. She wanted to hit him as soon as he got out of the car, catch him on the back foot before he could settle in to his normal evening routine.

Lindsay had guessed right. A mere twenty minutes after she’d arrived, a black 4x4 BMW rolled into sight. As the electronically operated gates opened to allow the car to enter, she was on the pavement, walking briskly on to the herringbone brick of Keillor’s driveway. His face swung towards her, a look of suspicious surprise narrowing his eyes.

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