indsay could only stare at Alex. But as she evaluated what he'd said, a faint scepticism crept in. "How did you manage that, then?" she demanded.

He gave her the smile and the wide-eyed stare. "I'd been with Harry. I left the flat about six o'clock. I remember the time, because Harry'd just put the radio on for the news. Bor-ring! Anyway, I waited for ages for the lift, then I decided to go down the stairs because I was in a hurry. I had an appointment, see? I was just pushing the door open on to the sixth-floor landing when this woman came tearing out of a flat and ran down the stairs ahead of me. I don't think she noticed me, but I saw her all right. You got any fags?"

Lindsay automatically handed over her packet. "So... why didn't you go to the police when you heard about the murder?"

"Are you kidding?" Alex expostulated. "For a kick off, I'm under age. I'm only seventeen. Soon as they started asking me what I was doing there, I'd be right in the shit. Besides, in my game, you have to be discreet. The word goes round that you blab to the police about where you've been and who with, you might as well be dead. Anyway, think about it. Who's going to take the word of a rent boy?"

What he said made sense, Lindsay thought. Her head was buzzing with the possibility that this was the break she needed. But she had to check that it wasn't Jackie he'd seen leaving the flat. She chose her words carefully. "I suppose you followed the case in the papers?"

"Of course I did."

"So you must have realised that your evidence would have helped the police nail Jackie Mitchell. They'd have been so glad to get someone backing up their version that they wouldn't have probed too closely into what you were doing there."

Alex looked at her as if she were extraordinarily stupid. "Don't you understand? The woman I saw wasn't the one they did for it."

Lindsay's heart lurched. This really was what she'd been waiting for. "What did she look like, then, this other woman?"

"What's it to you?" Alex asked, suddenly suspicious again.

"Just nosy," Lindsay lied.

"Well, she was wearing one of them ski caps so I couldn't see her hair. The weather was hellish that day, I remember I got soaking waiting for the bus. But I'd know her again anywhere, sure I would," he said.

"Well, was she tall or short? Thin or fat?" Lindsay pushed.

"I don't know. I'm not very good at describing people. She was just ordinary, I suppose. But what's the big deal anyway? Oh, wait a minute. You weren't thinking Harry had anything to do with it?" Laughter bubbled in his throat. "Come on! He hasn't got the bottle for that."

Lindsay took a deep breath. Before she could say more, the doorbell rang insistently. "That'll be Harry," she said.

"You go. I'll get his stuff," Alex muttered.

Lindsay returned moments later with an irritated Harry. They entered the room to find Alex pulling a plastic bag out from under his mattress. He turned to face them and gave Harry a grin. "Hiya, Dirty Harry," he said cheekily.

"You little shit!" Harry spat. "You scumbag! How dare you steal my things."

"Now, now, Harry, mind your language. There's a lady present. Don't give me a bad time or the deal might just be off." Alex had clearly begun to enjoy himself.

"You..." Harry trailed off as Alex wagged an admonishing finger.

"All right, boys, let's cut the posturing. Harry, money on the table. Alex, open the bag and let Harry have a look through it."

Both men looked at her, Harry with astonished anger and Alex with amusement. "You heard the lady," Alex said.

"I should have known you were trouble the minute I clapped eyes on you," Harry muttered as he put the bundle of tenners on the table.

Alex's eyes lit up at the sight of the money. It would be cocaine tonight instead of speed, Lindsay thought sadly. He moved towards it, but Lindsay swiftly interposed her body between him and the table. "Aw, c'mon!" he complained.

"All in good time," Lindsay said, keeping half an eye on Harry who was rifling through the bag's contents, an anxious look on his face. "All present and correct, Harry?" she asked.

He nodded doubtfully. "I think so. If you try and double-cross me, you little bastard..."

"You'll what, Harry? Give me a good spanking?" Alex asked sweetly.

Harry flushed purple. "You..." he spluttered.

"I'll see you down at the car, Harry," Lindsay said calmly. "I just want to have a wee word with Alex here."

Harry looked as if he was about to protest, but gave up without a fight. He edged out of the room, swearing under his breath.

"Don't vote, it only encourages them," Alex giggled as Lindsay moved away and let him get to the money. He rifled the bundles of notes gleefully. "Did you see his face? He was really shitting it, wasn't he?"

"Alex. About that other business. I was telling you a wee white lie when I said I was just nosy."

Immediately, the wary look came back into his eyes. "Oh aye?" he said.

Lindsay perched on the chair arm again. "The woman they put away for Alison Maxwell's murder is a good friend of mine. Her girlfriend hired me to see if I could clear Jackie's name. So far, I've come up with plenty of suspects but no hard evidence. Now, what you told me this morning makes a big difference to me. I want you to help me. I want to see if you can identify the woman you saw that day."

"You must be kidding. I told you before, I can't go to the police," Alex objected.

"You won't have to go to the police," Lindsay added, not caring whether it was the truth or not. "You see, once I know who it is, I can easily find other evidence to corroborate it."

"Oh aye. And once I've fingered the killer, what's to stop her killing me?"

"It's not you she's got to worry about. It's me. If anybody's taking a risk, it's me. I'm not talking about a one-to-one confrontation. I'm talking about a lot of witnesses. Will you help me, Alex?"

"Why should I? What's in it for me?" he demanded shrewdly.

"You won't lose by it. I can't say any more than that now. Think about it. If you come forward at this late stage, the first question the defence is going to ask you is whether you've been paid for giving evidence. Say yes and your evidence isn't worth a penny piece. So no talk about money now, eh? You'd have to take my word for it. But I saw you right this morning, didn't I?"

Reluctantly he nodded. "I don't know, though," he muttered, throwing himself petulantly into the armchair. "I just don't want to get involved."

"But you are involved, like it or not. And now I know, I intend to get you to help me to trap Alison's killer. With or without your cooperation," she added with an edge to her voice.

"How do you mean, with or without my cooperation?" Alex challenged.

Lindsay reached over for her cigarettes and lit one. She'd tried being nice. Now it was time to put the pressure on. And she'd seen Alex under pressure. It shouldn't be too hard, she thought, already making excuses to herself for behaviour she was ashamed of. "Look at it from my point of view for a minute," she said. "Jackie's my mate. I don't want to see her stuck in prison for a crime she didn't commit. But unlike Jackie, I don't owe you a damn thing. You're just a wee rent boy with a fondness for illegal chemicals and blackmail. I like you well enough, Alex, but it wouldn't honestly matter a toss to me if you were alive or dead. All I have to do is tell my suspects all about you, then sit back and wait to see what happens next."

Alex paled. "You wouldn't dare!" he gasped. "You wouldn't set me up like that!"

"I don't want to, Alex. But if that's the only way I'm going to nail Alison Maxwell's killer, I'll do it. Like I said, Jackie matters to me. But you don't. So what's it to be? You going to help me? Or am I going to have to throw you to the wolves?"

"I've got no fucking choice, have I?" he said bitterly. "Okay, okay, you win. I'll point the finger. But I'm not going to the police, is that clear?"

"As crystal, Alex." She got to her feet. "I'll be back here tomorrow to tell you about the arrangements." Swiftly, before he could stop her, she moved to the table and scooped up his money.

"What the hell are you doing?" he shouted as he leapt out of the armchair and threw himself at her.

The struggle was brief, and Lindsay soon threw his slight frame off her. She stuffed the money into the inside pocket of her jacket. "Think of it as insurance," she said. "In case you were tempted to try anything silly like doing a runner. I'll be back tomorrow, with your money."

"You can't do this," he howled, tears in his eyes.

"Who's going to stop me?" she asked calmly. "Going to call the cops, Alex?"

He looked at her with pure hatred in his eyes. "I thought you were okay," he panted. "But you're another bitch like the rest of them."

"Afraid so, Alex. I'll see you tomorrow about twelve. I'll be back. I promise you. Here's my address and phone number, if you don't believe me." She scribbled on her pad and tore off a sheet which she dropped on the bed, then walked out.

An hour later, Lindsay was driving down the motorway towards Stirling, and beyond that, to Dundee and Mrs. Maxwell. The morning's business had left her with a nasty taste in her mouth. She had hated being pressed into service on Harry's account, and she had hated even more having to play the bully to win Alex's co-operation. God alone knew what Claire would say when she told her he'd have to be paid eventually. But then, if Sophie's suspicions were right, it wouldn't be Claire who'd have to pay for her own nemesis.

Thinking of Sophie made Lindsay wish she were with her now. After dropping the still-complaining Harry at Rosalind's, she had driven back to the flat to ask Sophie if she wanted to come to Dundee with her for the ride. But Sophie had reluctantly declined, explaining she was on call. Lindsay thought wistfully that now she knew how Cordelia had felt all those times she'd been denied Lindsay's company because of the vagaries of a journalist's life. Lindsay put a Mathilde Santing tape into the cassette player and turned up the volume. It was all in the past now. Whatever she did to earn a living from now on would give her the freedom to spend time with Sophie. Or whoever, she thought to herself, refusing to count her chickens.

She wasn't entirely certain why she was still going through with her plan to collect Alison's papers, except that once she knew the killer's identity, there might be valuable corroborative evidence there. She still wasn't sure how she was going to persuade Mrs. Maxwell to hand over the boxes that contained what was left of Alison's life. Somehow, she didn't think the truth would be very compelling. If Mrs. Maxwell had convinced herself that Jackie was Alison's killer, it would take more than Lindsay to change her mind.

She had met Alison's widowed mother only once. But that had been enough. She had been staying with her daughter when Lindsay had popped in one afternoon to drop off a book she'd borrowed from Alison. Lindsay remembered a tall, ramrod-straight woman with iron grey hair carefully set like concrete who had peered disapprovingly at Lindsay's jeans through gold-rimmed glasses. Alison had told her how strict her mother had been with her as a child, and Lindsay found it easy to believe, having heard Mrs. Maxwell pontificating about the appalling behaviour of the unions, the need for Mrs. Thatcher's firm hand at the helm, and the desirability of removing communism from the world. Remembering all that, Lindsay had taken time to change out of her jeans and sweatshirt and had borrowed a tweed suit and jade green silk shirt from Sophie. At least she now looked like the kind of woman Mrs. Maxwell might allow across her threshold.

It was just after two when Lindsay pulled up in the quiet street where Mrs. Maxwell lived. She'd found the address in the case papers Jim Carstairs had shown her and had luckily taken a note of it at the time. The house was a large bungalow surrounded by a geometrically-neat terraced garden with dramatic views over the Firth of Tay to the Tentsmuir bird sanctuary in Fife. She climbed the steps leading to the bungalow's front door and rang the bell. In the distance, she could hear chimes ringing out.

Almost before the echoes died away, the door opened to reveal Mrs. Maxwell. Grief had changed her outward appearance not one iota. She looked questioningly at Lindsay. "Yes?" she said.

"Hello, Mrs. Maxwell. I'm Lindsay Gordon. I don't know if you remember me, but we met once at Alison's flat."

"I remember you perfectly well, Miss Gordon. I may be old, but I'm not senile yet," she replied crisply. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, I was in the area visiting friends, and I thought I ought to call and say how sorry I was about Alison. I was out of the country when it happened, you see, so I missed the funeral and everything," Lindsay said.

"I see. Well, thank you very much for taking the trouble," Mrs. Maxwell said, showing no inclination to admit Lindsay.

"I also wondered... Well, Ruth Menzies told me you had all Alison's papers and correspondence. Before I went off to Italy, Alison and I had discussed a joint project. We were going to write a book together about Scots who had made their mark in the 1980s. Alison said she would carry out the preliminary research while I was away, then we could finish it together."

"She said nothing about it to me," Mrs. Maxwell said. "You'd better come in, I suppose."

She ushered Lindsay into a lounge that looked as if no one had ever relaxed in it. Even the copies of the Scots Magazine and Woman's Weekly on the rack had their corners aligned. Lindsay sat on the edge of an armchair opposite Alison's mother. "So, Miss Gordon, you and my daughter had planned to write a book together."

"That's right. I thought that if Alison's notes were available, I might be able to complete the project as a sort of memorial to her."

Mrs. Maxwell compressed her lips. "I see," she said eventually. "Judging by the kind of memorial most of her colleagues gave her in the columns of the papers, I'm not at all sure that I want anything more raked over."

"I had nothing to do with that, Mrs. Maxwell," Lindsay remarked apologetically. "I was very fond of Alison. I have no intention of besmirching your memories of her."

"It's too late for that, Miss Gordon. My memories of my daughter have already been damaged beyond repair by the scurrilous lies of your colleagues."

"I'm sorry about that. But what I had in mind was a genuine tribute to her journalistic skills. People should be able to remember her by what she was best at. I'm not interested in rehashing her private life. I'd hoped you'd be willing to help me."

Mrs. Maxwell got to her feet. "My daughter is dead, Miss Gordon. Nothing can bring her back to me. But if her papers can be of any use to you, I suppose there is no harm in letting you go through them. But I insist that I have power of veto over anything you write using my daughter's work."

Lindsay nodded vigorously. "That's no problem, Mrs. Maxwell. I'll happily let you have it in writing if that would make you happier."

"It would," Mrs. Maxwell said. "Have you pen and paper?"

Lindsay fished out her notebook and a pen and dashed off a note promising to give Mrs. Maxwell complete control over the final product of her daughter's notes for the non-existent book.

She handed it to Mrs. Maxwell, who scrutinised it carefully, then said, "If you'll come with me, everything is in Alison's room."

Lindsay followed her down the hall and into a pristine bedroom, a shrine to the teenage years of Alison Maxwell. It made Lindsay shiver inside as she surveyed the neat single bed with its hand-crocheted bedspread, the matching white wardrobe, chest of drawers and dressing table, and the framed photographs of Alison in the sixth form, Alison in Girl Guide uniform and Alison in cap and gown clutching her degree scroll from St. Andrew's University. Mrs. Maxwell opened the wardrobe and pointed to two large cardboard boxes.

"It's all in there," she announced. "I haven't had the heart to go through it."

"Thank you," Lindsay said. "I'll bring it all back as soon as possible."

"You mean you want to take it away?" Mrs. Maxwell demanded, outrage in every line of her face.

"I'll have to. I'll need to be able to go through all her computer discs to see what they contain. And there could be documents in there that are referred to on the discs," Lindsay explained. "I'll be very careful with them, Mrs. Maxwell."

The elderly woman looked worried. "I don't know," she hesitated. "I really don't know."

"That way, I won't be under your feet. There's at least a few days work in there," Lindsay said persuasively.

The thought of having Lindsay in her home for any length of time clearly tipped the balance. "Very well," Mrs. Maxwell said, resuming her normal decisive manner. "But I expect everything to be returned in the state in which you found it. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly," said Lindsay. Half an hour later she was on her way back to Glasgow, feeling utterly triumphant. At last, everything was going her way.