iles stared at Rory. "Why me?" he asked plaintively.

"Because I trust you."

"What about Sandra?"

Rory snorted derisively. "Would you let Sandra loose on something that needed split-second timing? She'd probably chip her nail varnish or get distracted by some trainee accountant with a cute bum."

Giles smiled in spite of his discomfiture. "I see your point. But really, is this sensible?"

"Of course it's not sensible. But the thing I've realized about Lindsay is that, once she decides she's going to do something, she won't be diverted. And if she tries to do this single-handed it'll never work. I'm doing it purely for business reasons, because I don't want anything bad to happen to her." Rory avoided his eyes, not wanting him to see too much.

"And you're asking me to help because you know I don't want anything bad to happen to you," Giles said, reaching across the table and patting her hand. "Purely for business reasons, of course."

"Hey, where else would you get all the best stories? But the real reason I want you on board is that if it all goes horribly wrong, Julia can use her influence to get us off the hook," Rory said, deflecting his seriousness with flippancy. "So, are you in or are you going to make me ask Sandra?"

Giles shook his head, wondering at his own stupidity. "I'm in."

"Thanks, Giles. I appreciate it. Now, this is what you have to do." She ran through the details of the plan once more, making sure he was clear about his role. "Can you see any flaws in it?"

"Apart from the general insanity of trying to blackmail an IRA capo? No, not a thing. It all makes perfect sense," he said sarcastically.

"Lindsay will pick you up at half past seven. And we'll take it from there." Rory stood up and gathered her things. She took a theatrical look around Caf¨¦ Virginia. "I've loved these days," she said. "Do you think if I don't make it back they'll put a blue plaque on this booth?"

"More likely a health warning. 'Sitting in this booth may provoke the illusion that you are Don Quixote.' "

Rory grinned. "Bring on the windmills."

Lindsay checked over the electronic equipment one last time. "I've put new batteries in everything, so there shouldn't be a problem," she said. She studied Rory carefully, knowing the margin for error was small and needing to be sure of her. "You OK about this?"

Rory nodded. "Let's get on with it before my bottle goes completely."

Lindsay picked up a small radio mike with a crocodile clip and a loose wire dangling from it. "This is the radio mike. Not exactly state of the art, but it does the business. I'll have the receiver in my car, linked up to a tape recorder."

"So where do I wear it?"

Lindsay couldn't resist a wicked grin. "Experience has shown that, for women, the best place is attached to your bra."

"So much for keeping your hands off my body." Rory stood up and unbuttoned her blouse, trying to keep it as matter of fact as she could. "How much do I need from Coughlan, do you think? Is it enough if he acknowledges he's Jack's real father?"

"You have to get him to admit to being involved with Tam's murder. That's the only insurance policy that's worth anything. You get that, then you get clear."

Rory nodded. "Then you phone him and tell him that if anything happens to Jack or Bernie - if a pigeon so much as craps on their car - the tape goes to the police. And the papers." Rory opened her blouse and gave a wry smile. "All yours," she said.

Lindsay picked up the mike and stepped towards Rory. In spite of her best intentions, she couldn't avoid a nostalgic frisson of desire. Trying hard to stay businesslike, she delicately slid the mike inside the bra so it nestled neatly against Rory's left breast. Rory gave an involuntary shiver as Lindsay's hand brushed her skin. "Sorry," she muttered.

"Don't be," Lindsay said softly. She laid her hands on the soft skin stretched over Rory's collarbone. She frowned slightly, her eyes filled with sadness. "I..."

Rory put a finger on her lips. "Don't say it. I know. Me too, for what it's worth."

Lindsay nodded and stood back. "Make yourself decent. We've got work to do, woman."

Rory smiled and buttoned up her blouse then reached for her jacket.

"OK, time to go. Try it out on the way down the stairs." Lindsay said, desperately wanting to give Rory a benedictory kiss but knowing it would only be another source of pain.

Rory waggled her fingers in farewell and winked. "See you in Caf¨¦ Virginia when it's all over."

Lindsay watched her leave, then made some adjustments to the small receiver and tape recorder. Suddenly, Rory's voice emerged clearly from the speaker. "Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to adopt celibacy as the only safe way to live..."

In spite of the seriousness of the moment, Lindsay couldn't help herself. She burst out laughing. "Oh, Rory," she said out loud. "Such bad timing."

Patrick sat in the passenger seat of Michael's hired car, staring at Bernie's house through a pair of binoculars. He let them drop and pulled out his phone. The number was answered on the second ring.

"Are you free and clear now?" he said without preamble.

"They've left," Bernie said.

"Good. Where are we meeting?"

"The Charles Rennie Mackintosh multi-storey car park at the bottom of Garnethill. Top floor. Eight o'clock." Bernie's voice was flat and depressed, the voice of a woman who has given up. It gladdened Patrick's heart to hear it.

"Fine. I'll be there. And no tricks, mind, or there'll be a couple more funerals in this city before too long." He stabbed a finger at the phone, ending the call. He allowed himself a satisfied smile and said, "Charles Rennie Mackintosh car park in Garnethill. Half an hour's time. You know what to do, boys. When she comes out the house with the boy, you follow her. If she goes anywhere except this car park, you stay on her tail and call me right away. If the boy comes out with anyone else, Kevin, you follow them. And, Michael, you deal with the bitch. Is that all clear, now?"

"It's clear," Michael said.

"But she's not going to try anything on, is she?" Kevin asked. "Not after that wee warning."

"Of course she's not," Patrick said, confident and dismissive. "But I've always been a believer in contingency plans. That's probably why I'm still alive. I'll see youse later, boys." He opened the door and stepped out into the heavy drizzle, turning up his coat collar as he walked back to his car, parked further up the street. Although he had spent years battening down his emotions in favour of operational activity, Patrick couldn't suppress a surge of excitement that raised his pulse rate. Tonight, finally, he would take his son home. What better feeling could a man have?

Lindsay let herself out of Rory's flat and walked to her car. She put the receiver and tape recorder on the passenger seat, then lifted the narrow bench seat in the back of the MGB. When she'd first bought the car, she'd customized the seat with a set of hinges so the area beneath it could be used for extra storage space. She hadn't quite envisaged stowing one of her father's shotguns there, but it had turned out to be perfect for the job. She deliberately hadn't told Rory about the gun, aware that the knowledge would have made it impossible for Rory to carry out her end of the plan with anything approaching equanimity. But Lindsay didn't trust Patrick Coughlan and she had no intention of leaving Rory exposed and unprotected.

She leaned into the car and broke the gun open, slotting a pair of cartridges into the breech. It had been a long time since she'd handled a gun, years since she'd shot rabbits and pheasants with her father on the hills above Invercross, but she was pleased to find she hadn't lost the knack. Then she slammed it closed and put it on the floor behind the driver's seat, hiding it beneath a tatty tartan rug she'd borrowed from her father's workshop.

Lindsay leaned on the cloth roof of the car and tried to calm herself. It was still painful to breathe, never mind move around freely. But she had to be up to this. She had to forget her physical discomfort and focus on the plan. She reached into her pocket and took out a container of ibuprofen tablets. She swallowed 600mg and hoped for the best.

Lindsay climbed into the car and pulled a ski mask out of the pocket of her waxed jacket. She'd gone back home that afternoon in Sophie's absence and chosen her clothes with care. A black cotton polo neck, the jacket, black fleece trousers, black leather gloves and rubber-soled black shoes. She rolled up the ski mask so that it resembled a watch cap and jammed it over her hair, then started the engine. She wanted some music to psych her up for what lay ahead and slotted Horse's Both Sides into the cassette player. "Never Not Going To" blasted out at her and she sang along with a sense of savage irony as she drove through the rainy streets in the gathering dusk to her rendezvous with Giles.

She pulled up outside the Victorian warehouse where Giles and Julia enjoyed a magnificent view of the river and the Finnieston crane from their converted loft apartment. A tall slim figure detached itself from the shadows of the doorway and crossed to the car. Giles was almost unrecognizable in camouflage trousers, Doc Martens and a parka. "You look like Rambo on a night out," Lindsay observed as he piled into the car, shunting the electronic equipment on to his lap.

Giles raised an eyebrow. "And you don't?" he asked. "I have to wonder what I'm doing here."

"You can't resist playing cowboys and Indians."

"Hmm. Let me tell you, if Rory wasn't certifiably lucky, I wouldn't be here."

Lindsay drove off, cutting up from the quayside on the road that paralleled the motorway as far as Charing Cross, then followed the signs to the Charles Rennie Mackintosh car park.

"Why here?" Giles asked as they approached the entrance.

"Because of the system." Lindsay pointed to a sign that read PAY AT MACHINE BEFORE RETURNING TO VEHICLE. She drove up to the entry barrier, lowered her window and took a ticket. The metal arm rose and she drove through. "There you go," she said, handing the ticket to Giles. They stared at each other for a long moment then he opened the door, unfolded his long legs and climbed out, leaning back into the car to give Lindsay the thumbs-up sign.

"Good luck," he said.

"And you." Lindsay waited till she saw Giles walk over to the lifts and attach an OUT OF ORDER sticker to the doors. Then she drove on up, her damp tyres screaming on the cement as she climbed to the penultimate floor, the last covered level below the roof.

Lindsay parked near the "up" ramp and got out. She pocketed the electronic equipment, slipped the shotgun under her waxed jacket and walked cautiously up the ramp to the roof. Here, there were only a couple of other cars, and little scope for hiding. She checked out one of the parked cars, but the lines of sight were terrible. Adrenaline was making her jumpy and she began to panic at her inability to find somewhere to conceal herself. Then she spotted a large concrete bin used for storing grit near the door leading to the lifts. She hurried over there and stood by it, sighting along her arm like a child playing soldiers. This was better, she thought, dry-mouthed and sweating. She could see the ramps clearly, as well as the whole area of the roof level. Lindsay freed the shotgun and squeezed down behind the bin, gasping as her ribs protested.

Meanwhile, nine floors below her, Patrick Coughlan slowed down as he approached the barrier. He looked sharply around him, but missed Giles, who had found a patch of shadow in the lee of the entrance. Patrick leaned out of the driver's window to snatch a ticket then edged forward, aiming for the ramp that would carry him to the meeting he'd dreamed of for years.

Michael hadn't taken his eyes off Bernie's front door since Patrick's departure. He knew his life would be worth nothing if he fucked up now and he was determined not to make a single mistake. Suddenly, he straightened up in his seat. "It's them!"

"The bitch and the boy?" Kevin exclaimed.

"The same." As Bernie ushered Jack towards her scarlet hatchback, Michael fastened his safety belt and dug Kevin in the ribs. "Start her up, Kevin."

Startled by the hard edge in his partner's voice, Kevin turned the key and floored the accelerator. The engine coughed and stalled. On the third try, it finally caught. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"Just don't fucking lose them." It wasn't a command to argue with.

Bernie strapped Jack into the child seat in the back of the car, then walked round to the driver's seat. The car nosed out of its parking place and made its way down Kinghorn Drive to the junction.

"But why won't you tell me where we're going?" Jack asked plaintively.

"Because it's an adventure," Bernie said, glancing in her rear-view mirror, not in the least surprised to see a car pull out behind her.

"I don't want any more adventures. I want Tam." Jack sounded on the point of tears.

"I want Tam too," Bernie said, her voice trembling. "But we have to learn to manage on our own."

Patrick's car edged on to the rooftop level of the car park. He cruised slowly from one end to the other, pausing at each parked car to check it was empty. Lindsay crouched behind the bin, the ski mask pulled over her face so nothing was visible in the gloom except the gleam of her eyes. She could feel sweat trickling down her neck and pooling in the small of her back. "Just park, you bastard," she said under her breath.

As if he heard her, Patrick drew to a halt and reversed neatly into a slot as far away from the other cars as he could get. Perfect, Lindsay thought.

As the sound of his engine died in the damp night air, nine floors down Rory was driving up to the car park barrier. She took a ticket and drove in, then stopped. Giles stepped out of the shadows and gave her the thumbs-up sign. Rory flashed a grin at him and drove upwards, heart thudding in her chest. She urgently wanted to pee, but realized it was purely psychological. Almost the last thing she'd done before she left had been to use the toilet. That knowledge didn't stop her feeling desperate, however.

Giles checked his watch. It showed five minutes to eight. He took a deep breath and crossed to the machine that issued the exit permits. He inserted the ticket Lindsay had given him, fed a handful of coins into the machine and took the exit ticket. He walked briskly across towards the barrier guarding the way out and leaned against the wall, trying to look as if he was waiting for someone.

Which of course he was. Bernie turned into the street and checked the dashboard clock. Two minutes to eight. She was right on time. She drove into the entrance, checking her tail was still in place a discreet distance behind her. She took a ticket from the machine, then, as the arm rose, drove hesitantly forward. While she hovered, apparently uncertain of the direction she should take, a Vauxhall Vectra drove into the entrance lane. The driver's arm appeared, taking a ticket, and the barrier rose again. The car drove through and edged towards Bernie.

The moment the entrance barrier returned to the horizontal, Bernie's car leapt forward in sudden acceleration. She pulled hard on the wheel, swinging round and heading fast for the exit. Giles jumped out of the shadows and inserted the exit ticket as she approached. The metal arm rose and Bernie speeded through, her tyres screeching as she hit the street at thirty miles an hour. Giles took off on foot, running through an alley towards their prearranged rendezvous.

Inside the Vectra, panic was raging. "The fucking bitch," Kevin screamed over and over again.

"She's set him up," Michael raged, throwing open the passenger door. "Get after the fucking cow. Don't fucking lose her." As Kevin accelerated, he dived out of the car and rolled to the ground, twisting his ankle badly as he fell. He got to his feet, cursing and wincing as arrows of pain shot up his leg. As he stood, he realized he'd also done something to his left collarbone. He could hardly move his arm and every step he took provoked a painful grinding along his shoulder.

Kevin had the engine at screaming point, lifting his foot off the clutch and launching the car at the barrier. He hurtled forward, straight into the metal pole, expecting it to snap under the impact. Not for the first time in his life, Kevin had misjudged the situation completely. The barrier, more solid than it looked, rocked and bent slightly. The car was more vulnerable. The windscreen starred as the glass shattered and the car roof crumpled. "Jesus fuck!" Kevin wailed.

He threw the car into reverse then attacked the barrier again. This time, the pillar at the end of the windscreen bent under the impact, but the car's momentum carried it forward, only brought to a halt by the strength of the barrier. The car was comprehensively trapped. It could move neither forward nor back. Kevin struggled to open the driver's door, but it was stuck too. He couldn't squeeze over to the passenger door because the roof was crushed too low on that side. Nor could he stretch far enough to reach the mobile phone which had fallen into the footwell on the passenger side. As the magnitude of the disaster slowly began to penetrate, Kevin started to shake. "Ah, shit," he groaned.

Meanwhile, Michael had limped across to the lifts, only to discover the OUT OF ORDER sign that Giles had stuck there. He didn't even bother to try the call button, settling instead for kicking the door with his uninjured foot. Breathing heavily, one arm hanging useless at his side, he turned towards the stairwell. His good arm reached inside his jacket and reappeared clutching a Glock automatic. "Fucking bitch," he swore as he began the long ascent to the roof.

Rory had climbed the levels as fast as she safely could, swerving once to avoid a woman loading her boot with shopping. The red digital display read 7:59 as she turned on to the final ramp. It was still drizzling and visibility was poor on the roof level. But she could make out Patrick Coughlan standing in the shadows by his car. She parked about twenty feet away from him and got out, keeping her hands in sight and well away from her body. Her whole body was tense with apprehension, her blood pounding in her ears like a mad Burundi drummer. She took a few steps towards him.

Patrick remained motionless, his eyes watchful, his hands in his overcoat pockets. He said nothing until Rory was about six feet away from him. Then he spoke. "Who are you?" he said.

"I'm Lindsay Gordon's business partner."

Patrick's lip curled in a sneer. "Lindsay Gordon. The woman who can't take a telling."

Rory licked her dry lips, "Bernie asked me to come. You know she can't let you have the boy."

It felt like a long silence, but it was only a matter of seconds. "I wish you hadn't said that," Patrick said.

"Why? Because you'll have to deal with her the same way you dealt with Tam? And then me? And then Lindsay?" Rory's voice sounded far more defiant to her than she would have believed possible.

"You don't know me well enough to heed my warnings. Bernadette should know better, though."

"What Bernie knows is how her son would end up if she handed him over to you. A cold-blooded killer, fighting a pointless war, just like his daddy."

"A boy should know who his father is. I have a right to my son."

"And Tam? Didn't he have any rights?" Rory stood her ground, her eyes never leaving his face.

"He had no right to my son."

"He risked going to prison to get your son back to his mother," she pointed out.

"I've risked at least that much to put the boy where he belongs. In my house."

"Oh yeah, I forgot. Murder." It was, she knew, the key moment. She had to get the admission on tape, had to forge a weapon strong enough to keep this man at bay forever.

Patrick shook his head. "It wasn't murder. It was punishment. For taking what wasn't his."

"She won't let you have Jack. Not after what you did to Tam."

A cold smile, his teeth gleaming in the dim light. " "Dead women don't have choices."

Rory started at the sound of a door smacking open against a concrete wall. She whirled round to see a figure silhouetted against the harsh fluorescence of the stairwell. An unfamiliar voice shouted, "Patrick! She's set you up! She's got away with the boy. We lost them!"

Rory's hand instinctively flew up to protect the microphone in an ambiguous gesture. Assuming she was going for a weapon, Michael's gun hand came up and he moved into the firing position. But before he could shoot, from behind the grit bin came the flash of gunfire and the backfire boom of a shotgun. Michael, blasted at point-blank range, crumpled to the ground without a sound. Shocked at what she'd done, Lindsay stood looking down uncomprehendingly at the still form at her feet.

She was brought back to reality by the sound of shots. Suddenly alert, she took in the scene. Patrick was waving a handgun around, shooting wildly in her general direction, his panic the reaction of a man who hasn't seen active service for a very long time and is unaccustomed to taking responsibility for his own protection. Lindsay didn't think he could see her and had no conviction that he would hit her even if he could.

But as she stood motionless in the shadows, she saw Rory whirl back round to face Patrick. As if in slow motion, she saw Patrick's gun hand waver towards Rory. Lindsay roared, "No," and left the shadows at a sprint, the shotgun held at waist height, her finger on the trigger.

Patrick's hand jerked and Rory staggered before crashing to the ground. Lindsay felt her chest constrict as she charged across the roof, screaming unintelligibly.

Patrick turned back towards her but before he could fire again Lindsay's finger tightened implacably.

The blast caught him full in the chest and he collapsed, blood pouring from a hole the size of a football. Lindsay barely paused, knowing he was beyond help and not caring. She dropped the gun and fell to her knees beside Rory. Blood soaked her shirt and jacket, spreading from a wound high on the right side of her chest. Rory's face was parchment in the sodium lights, her eyes closed. Tears spilled from Lindsay's eyes as she checked for a pulse in Rory's neck. It was there, faint and thready, but it was there. She gently touched Rory's face with one hand, while putting pressure on the wound with the other. "Rory? Oh God, Rory, say something. Don't do this to me, don't die on me!" Her voice was agonized, mirroring the desperation she felt as Rory failed to move.

Lindsay pulled out her mobile phone and dialled the emergency services. "Which service do you require?" the anonymous voice asked kindly.

"Ambulance. My pal's been shot," Lindsay gabbled. "On the top floor of the Charles Rennie Mackintosh car park. You've got to hurry, she's bleeding badly. There's two other people hurt as well."

"That's the Mackintosh car park in Garnethill?"

"Yeah, yeah. Get somebody here, please."

"The police and ambulance will be with you shortly. Can you..." Lindsay cut off the call. She didn't have time for anything except Rory. She leaned over her to check she was still breathing. This time, her eyelids fluttered and opened. Rory looked dazed and bewildered.

"Rory?" Lindsay said, hardly able to believe her eyes.

"Lindsay?" It was a croak, but it was her name, unmistakably.

Lindsay suddenly remembered she was wearing the ski mask and yanked it off. "It's me, Rory. Listen, there's an ambulance coming, you're going to be OK. Just hang in there."

"Hurts... Did we get enough?" she groaned.

"It's sorted," Lindsay said.

"You look... You never said... a gun."

"You'd only have worried."

Rory coughed. "Cover your back... you need... cover your back."

"Never mind me." But nevertheless she took heed of Rory's concern. Lindsay slipped her hand inside Rory's bra, made even more fearful by the marble coldness of her skin. She pulled the mike clear and stuffed it into her pocket.

"Please," Rory whispered. "Gun. Get rid."

"OK." Lindsay didn't care about the consequences for herself, but being scared for her wasn't helping Rory. She grabbed the shotgun and stood up. "Fucking carnage. How do you explain fucking carnage?" She raced down a level to her own car and wrenched the door open. She lifted the bench seat and threw in the gun, the spare cartridges and all the electronic equipment. Then she pulled off her waxed jacket and tossed it on top.

Lindsay raced back up to the roof, the sound of distant sirens cutting through the constant hum of the city at night. She threw herself down beside Rory again, leaning over to press down on the wound. Her eyes were closed again and her skin looked even paler than before. "Oh fuck," Lindsay groaned. "Don't die on me, Rory."

Rory's eyelids parted in a narrow slit. "Lindsay..."

"Can you hear me?"

"Yeah..."

"This is really important. Try to remember. We came here in your car. Together. You were meeting Patrick Coughlan. Some IRA story. You were worried and I offered to come along for the ride. OK?"

"My car," Rory murmured.

"And then it all went off. We've got no idea what happened or who was involved. OK?"

Rory's mouth twitched. It was almost a smile. "Not a lie..."

Now the sirens were close, whooping in and out in a Doppler effect as the emergency vehicles climbed through the car park. "You're going to be OK," Lindsay insisted.

"Coughlan...?" Rory said so softly it was almost lost in the background noise.

"He's dead. It's all over Rory. It's all right."

"Tell Bernie." Then her eyes flickered shut again as two police cars and a pair of ambulances screamed up the ramp. Lindsay got to her feet and waved her arms over her head. "Just don't find my fucking car, that's all," she muttered as the headlight beams pinned her like stage spotlights. There would be time enough for her to deal with what she'd done. For now, what mattered was saving Rory. And perhaps, in the process, saving herself.