ndrew Christie ushered the two of them into the living-room of an elegant and expensive flat. It occupied the basement and ground floor of a tall, narrow Victorian house, and the large living-room was exactly what Lindsay imagined a slightly pretentious television producer should inhabit. The furniture was Habitat - inevitably tasteful without exhibiting any taste - three two-seater settees and a plethora of low tables piled with maga¬zines, newspapers, scripts and half-full ashtrays. But the room was dominated by the electronic media. There was a giant television screen and a normal-sized set, two video recorders, an expensive hi-fi system and yards of shelves containing records, cassettes, video tapes and reel-to-reel tapes. Lindsay found it the least relaxing room she'd ever been in. Christie was in his late thirties, with shaggy blond hair, slim and wiry and dressed in tight olive green jeans, an open-necked plaid shirt and a shapeless hairy sweater. He looked the part.

'Sit down, do,' he said in a voice like a radio announcer's. 'I don't quite know how I can help you. Lorna and I had only been seeing each other for about three months and I can't say I was aware of her having enemies of sufficient seriousness to ... well - to do this.' 'We were hoping you'd be able to tell us a bit about her. Her personality, her lifestyle, her friends, that sort of thing,' Lindsay responded gently. She knew she wouldn't be able to press this man as she had done Cartwright. She understood his grief too well. 'The more we know about Lorna, the more chance we have of finding out why she was killed. And by whom. I know it's not easy to talk when it's only just happened and we do appreciate you giving us some time. I know we've got no official standing here, but it's important to us to establish who really did this. If you knew Paddy Callaghan like we do, you'd know that it would have been impossible for her to have committed such a cowardly crime.'

For the first time, emotion flickered across his face. 'I miss Lorna,' he said. 'I know a lot of people didn't care too much for her; she had a very cutting tongue at times. But to me she was always very tender. She used to make me laugh. She could be very funny at other people's expense. I don't think she especially meant to be cruel, but not everyone could see the humour behind what she said.'

There was a pause. 'How did you meet?' asked Cordelia. 'I'd known her slightly for quite a long time - we had some mutual acquaintances and found ourselves at the same parties. Then I was producing a drama-documentary about Elgar and I needed some¬one to play the cello concerto. She seemed the obvious choice. I was very impressed by her attitude as I worked with her. She was the complete professional. I know she put people's backs up by criticising their talent and motivation, but that was simply because she was such a perfectionist herself. But no one gets killed for that. It makes no sense to me at all. I keep thinking about all that beauty gone out of the world just because of some evil bastard's inability to cope with life.'

'Did she say anything about last weekend before she went? I mean, did she mention anyone in particular?' asked Lindsay.

He paused, then said, 'She was looking forward to it. She said it should be good for a laugh, at least. She said there were one or two people she'd take pleasure in showing that she'd arrived and was somebody. She didn't mention any names. She also said it would be good for publicity because of the controversy about the fund locally. She hated talking to the press; she thought they were scum. But she was too good a businesswoman to ignore the value of publicity. Sorry, that's not much help, is it?'

'More than you think,' said Lindsay. 'Now, I'm going to ask you if some names mean anything to you, if you'd ever heard of any of them before the weekend. For example, had she ever mentioned Cordelia here?'

'Yes. At first, she was terribly amused that some people seemed to think that a nasty character in your last novel was based on her. She said it wasn't terribly likely, since you hadn't spent any time together for years. Then a few weeks ago when your novel was nominated for the Booker, it all flared up again and she began to get cross with people for making the same remark over and over again. She decided that if she was going to get all this stick, she should get something in return. So she set the wheels in motion to sue. She was amused that you were going to be at the school. She said - sorry about this - it would be fun to watch you squirm.' 'Did she indeed!' said Cordelia through frozen lips. 'Had you ever heard her speak of Paddy Callaghan?' 'Never.'

'James Cartwright? Or his daughter Sarah?' The mechanical recital of names was helping Lindsay relax into her questioning.

'Definitely not.'

'Jessica Bennett, Dominic Bennett's sister?'

'She never mentioned a sister, but I know about Dominic, yes. He was quite a gifted young musician, Lorna said, and she'd encouraged his talent. She told him that one day she might be able to use him in her string quartet. But he wasn't quite up to scratch when a vacancy came up, so of course she had to turn him down. He was more distressed than she realised, and he killed himself soon after. Where does his sister come into this?' 'She's a pupil at the school. Does the name Margaret Macdonald mean anything?' He shook his head. 'Sorry.' 'Caroline Barrington?'

'Barrington? Any relation to Anthony Barrington? He had a relationship with Lorna. She told me about him. Apparently he couldn't accept it when she cooled off, and went to the extent of divorcing his wife to try to force Lorna to marry him. But she wouldn't have it. They split up about six months before we got together. I got the impression that he caused her a lot of grief. But she never tried to make one feel sorry for her, for what she'd suffered in the past. She always said you start relationships with a clean sheet. God, I'm going to miss her,' and he pressed the back of his hands against his eyes in a curiously vulnerable gesture. 'The worst thing is that I can't get peace simply to sit and grieve. The police, the press and now you. Not that I blame you. I like to think that I'd do the same for a friend of mine. But there will be no peace until after the court case. And probably not even then. It makes me so bloody sad. A complete waste.'

'And damage done to the living,' said Cordelia. 'There's been enough of that already and it's not finished yet. One last thing before we go - how many people knew she was going up to Derbyshire last weekend? Is there anyone else you can think of who might have had a motive for wanting to harm her - I mean in the widest sense?'

'Thousands of people knew where she was going. There were a few paragraphs about it in the Daily Argus diary column last week. As for motives - no, I don't know anyone who'd be crazy enough to want to harm her. It's all insane. All of it. It doesn't feel real. I've been working these last few days on the final stages of the Elgar documentary. It's going out in three weeks. It's very weird watching the film and hearing the soundtrack of her playing and knowing that's all that's left. I must have actually been working on that with the editor when she was being killed. It's hell.'

'I know,' said Lindsay. 'I lost someone I loved once. You feel like part of you has been amputated. And nothing anyone says makes the slightest difference.'

Cordelia cleared her throat. 'Well, thanks for your help. We'd better be off now. I'm sorry if we've upset you.'

He saw them to the door. His parting words as they climbed the shallow steps up from his basement entrance were, 'Thanks, I wish you could have known her as I did.'

They got back into the car. Lindsay had found the interview extremely painful. The man's grief had taken her back three years to the death of her lover. It was an experience she thought she had learned how to handle. But now she felt again the vivid pain that had filled her life for months after Frances' death had devastated her world.

'At least one person grieves for her,' said Cordelia. 'I can't decide whether she did a magnificent con job on him or whether he genuinely saw a side to Lorna that was hidden from the rest of us.'

'Who's to say?' Lindsay replied. 'Either way, it's not going to affect his memories. Unfortunately, however. I don't think our little chat has taken us any further forward. If anything, it only widens the field to the entire readership of the Daily Argus. Still, it was edifying to find out what Lorna apparently thought of Dominic Bennett and Anthony Barrington. Now, how do I get to your place?'

Under Cordelia's careful guidance, Lindsay drove them to a quiet cul-de-sac of tall Victorian terraced houses overlooking Highbury Fields. Feeling somewhat overawed by the fact that Cordelia's home was obviously one of the few three-storey houses that was not converted into flats, Lindsay followed Cordelia up the steps to the door. Cordelia caught sight of Lindsay's expression and grinned.

'Don't worry,' she said, 'it's not as grand as it looks. My accountant told me that property was the best investment, so I lashed out on this with the proceeds of my early successes in the mass media.'

They stepped into the narrow hall. Cordelia flicked on the subdued lighting that revealed watercolour sketches of Italian landscapes. 'In here,' she said, opening one of the doors leading off the hall. Lindsay stepped through into an L-shaped living-room that was twice the size of her own in Glasgow. Four wooden-shuttered windows stretched from ceiling to floor. There was an enormous grey leather Chesterfield on one side of the fireplace and two matching wing chairs on the other side. On the polished wooden floor a couple of good Oriental rugs provided the only splashes of colour. Round the corner was the dining area, furnished with an oval mahogany dining-table and six matching balloon-backed chairs.

'My God,' said Lindsay. 'It's like living in a page out of House and Garden.'

Mistaking her contempt for admiration. Cordelia laughed and said, 'As I spend an enormous amount of time in this place, I took a great deal of time and trouble to furnish it. I indulged myself completely. Do you really like it?'

Lindsay looked around her again in amazement. 'To be honest, I don't think I'd ever feel at home in these surroundings, Cordelia. You could buy my whole flat in Glasgow with what you've spent on this one room.'

'But what's wrong with being comfortable, for God's sake?' There's comfort and there's comfort. I feel comfortable in my flat with its tatty chairs that don't match and the threadbare carpet in the spare room. Put it down to my Scottish puritanism or my politics, but I find it a bit over the top.'

'I'm sorry if you find it oppressive - I'll just have to re-educate you to appreciate it,' Cordelia replied acidly.

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound rude, I was just being honest. I get outraged about anyone spending so much money on a place to live. Though I suppose if I had the money I'd lash out a bit myself.' 'But your flat's lovely. All the rooms are so airy. Now take my study. It has practically no light at all; even in summer I have to have the desk lamp on most of the day. My mother keeps telling me it'll make me go blind. I tell her she's getting muddled and my eyesight is in no danger.' They laughed. 'Fancy a drink? I could do with one, and you must be exhausted after all that driving. There's whisky, sherry, gin, vodka, you name it . . .'

Lindsay settled for wine and together they went through to the kitchen. Cordelia said, 'We'll have something to eat. The freezer's full of food. I have a binge every three months-I cook like mad, fill the freezer and live out of it.'

The conspicuous consumerism of the kitchen took Lindsay's breath away. The units were oak, and the worktops bristled with gadgetry. 'I love kitchen machines,' said Cordelia as she tossed the chosen lasagne-for-two into the microwave.

'I never realised writing was so lucrative,' said Lindsay wryly, picturing her own kitchen whose sum total of gadgetry was a liquidiser, a coffee grinder and a cooker, and whose decor consisted of theatre posters begged from friends.

'Well, to be fair, it's not all the proceeds of my sweated labour. My grandmother died three years ago and left me rather a large legacy. That went on the deposit for this place. Most of the rest of the money has come from telly, radio and the film I scripted last year. Crazy, isn't it? The novels are what I really care about, but they wouldn't allow me to live in a bedsit in Hackney, let alone here.'

'You really are one of the obscenely privileged minority, aren't you?' remarked Lindsay. 'I don't know what I'm doing with you at all. In my job, I see so much poverty, so much deprivation, so much exploitation, I can't help feeling that luxury like this is obscene. Don't you want to change things?'

Cordelia laughed and replied lightly. 'But what would you have me do? Give all I've got to the poor?'

Lindsay saw the chasm yawning at her feet. She could leave the argument lying for a future day when there might be a strong enough relationship between them to stand the weight of disagree¬ment. Or she could pursue the subject relentlessly and kill the magic stone dead. She turned away and deliberately picked up a cookery book.

That night, the love-making was more tentative, less urgent than before. The reverberations of their earlier differences had died down as they had explored each other's history during the evening. Cordelia was already in bed by the time Lindsay came through from the kitchen with a tumbler of water. She undressed quickly. As she slid beneath the duvet, Cordelia turned on her side and they embraced. 'All right?' she enquired.

'I feel a bit drained, to be honest. It's been quite a day. Margaret, Cartwright, Paddy in prison. And tonight. I haven't worked so hard for a long time.' She smiled ruefully. 'And then, boring you with my life story. Very exhausting.'

'I wasn't bored. But I know what you mean. I feel pretty done in too.'

'Not so tired that all you want is sleep?' In reply, Cordelia leaned over and kissed her warmly. More than the chaotic coupling of the previous nights it sealed them close. For the first time, neither was trying to prove anything. Lindsay lay awake as Cordelia slept. No matter how much she buried herself in the joyous sensation of making love with Cordelia, the uncomfortable thoughts wouldn't disappear without trace. And now that she'd actually seen for herself the way her new lover lived, those uncomfortable thoughts had a new element.