indsay hadn't expected London temperatures to be nearly as high as California's. She was still dressed for the air-conditioned coolness of the plane, she thought, shrugging her shoulders to unstick shirt from skin. In this heat, jeans and cotton twill were not the ideal outfit for climbing four flights of narrow, dusty stairs with the smell of urine from the entrance still pungent. She wondered how many prospective clients were put off by the approach to Catriona Poison's office. Then she remembered that those climbers would be pre-published authors full of hope. "None," she muttered under her breath as she rounded the curve of the stairs and reached the final landing. In contrast to the understated, brushed-steel plaque on the downstairs wall and the ambience of a stairway which clearly doubled as a hostel for the homeless, the offices of Poison and Firestone indicated that somewhere on their client list there were some major earners. Even when Lindsay had left Britain, before Soho went up-market and sexually ambivalent, office suites in the area had commanded high rents. Now that the district was almost chic, it must take a sizeable bank balance to secure the whole top floor of a building with a view of Soho Square.

The offices lay behind tall double doors of pale grey wood and steel. Lindsay opened the right-hand door and walked into a reception area that was still lurking in the previous decade. The bleached grey wood was the keynote, looking like the ghost of trees. What wasn't wood was leather or steel. Including the receptionist, Lindsay thought grimly. She was glad she'd employed a ruse to ensure Catriona Poison would be in. Looking at hair blue-black as carbon and a jaw with a higher breaking strain than a girder, she knew she was about to be given the brush-off for having the temerity to arrive without an appointment or three chapters and a synopsis. The sweat on her forehead from the sudden transition to air-conditioning didn't make her feel any more confident of success.

Lindsay had felt slightly guilty about ringing up and pretending to be an American publisher's assistant breathlessly booking a noon phone call to Ms. Poison, but not guilty enough to miss making sure she wouldn't have a wasted journey. The receptionist's grim glare gave her immediate absolution. She smiled. Nothing altered. The receptionist continued to stare at the screen of her computer. Lindsay cleared her throat. The receptionist's plum-coloured mouth puckered. Lindsay found herself irresistibly thinking about cat's bottoms. Then the lips parted. "Can I help you?" haughtily, in a little girl voice that would have shattered crystal.

"I'd like to see Ms. Poison. No, I don't have an appointment. I know she's in the building, and I'm absolutely positive she's not in a meeting." Lindsay's smile grew wider as her voice became more honeyed.

The receptionist's whole face tightened, eyeliner and mascara almost meeting in a smudge of black. "I'm sorry," she said smugly. "She's expecting an important phone call."

Lindsay assumed her Southern belle accent. "I know, cher. I was the one booked the call. I just wanted to be good and sure Miz Poison would be here to see me." Then she grinned. "Would you tell her I'm representing Meredith Miller?"

The receptionist did her cat's bottom impression again. But she condescended to pick up the phone. "Name please?" she demanded as she keyed in a number.

Resisting the temptation to respond with her Sean Connery impersonation, Lindsay simply gave her name. The receptionist spoke into the phone. "Catriona? I've got a person here called Lindsay Gordon who says she's representing Meredith Miller. She also says she made a hoax phone call to us earlier, booking your call from New York... She says she wanted to make sure you'd be here..." She flicked an ostentatious glance up and down Lindsay's outfit. "No, she's definitely not from the tabloids..." A malicious smile crept across her face at those final words. She replaced the handset. "Ms. Poison will be right with you."

Lindsay perched on the edge of the desk to irritate the receptionist while she searched her business card wallet for something appropriate. When she found it, she slipped it into her breast pocket for later. Just then, the inner door opened. Now Lindsay realised why all the doors in Poison and Firestone reached right up to the Victorian ceilings. Any lower and Catriona Poison would have been perpetually banging her head. She was one of the tallest women Lindsay had ever seen, and she must have been aware of the effect she had on people meeting her for the first time. Yet there was nothing apologetic or clumsy about the way she carried her six feet plus. Lindsay imagined with relish the effect on some of the more effete males of the publishing world whom she'd met. She wore a swirling skirt of Indian cotton, flat strappy sandals, and a loose embroidered cotton camisole. Flyaway blonde hair was cut in a twenties bob and framed a round face that looked as if its normal expression was cheerful and welcoming. Right now, wariness was the predominant aspect.

She peered down at Lindsay without stooping. "Ms... Gordon, was it?"

Lindsay nodded. "Catriona Poison?"

"That's me. When you say you represent Meredith Miller, in what capacity are we talking here?" Her voice was firm and clipped, her accent straight out of a girls' school story.

Wishing she had a discreet card saying, "Private Investigator," Lindsay said, "I think it would be better if we conducted our business in private."

Catriona frowned. "I'm not at all sure we have any business. All I know about you is that you perpetrated a time-wasting hoax on my company, and you claim to "represent" someone who is not one of our clients and who, as far as I am aware, has nothing to do with publishing."

It was hard not to feel intimidated by the whole package.

Lindsay struggled to maintain any sense of control over the confrontation. Just then, the outside door opened and a middle-aged man in a leather jacket came in. Shit or bust, she thought, dredging up an ancient memory of an interview with a private eye. "I'm a legal agent acting on Ms. Miller's behalf," she said firmly. "I'm trying to conduct this matter discreetly, but if you prefer to discuss business matters in the lobby, that's fine by me. You are Penny Varnavides' literary executor, and my client is her residuary legatee. My client wants to know what exactly..."

Before Lindsay could say more, Catriona had stepped back and was holding the door open for her. "This way," she said, her voice ten degrees frostier than the air conditioning.

Once she'd ushered Lindsay inside, Catriona stepped in front of her and led the way down a corridor lined with framed book covers. A couple were prize-winning Penny Varnavides Darkliners titles. At the end of the corridor was another steel and wood door which led into a small board room. The table and the chair frames were the now familiar ashen wood. Lindsay began to wonder if they'd taken over the offices from some failed financial consultancy. More book covers lined the walls, interspersed with author photographs. Penny was still there, in the centre of one of the side walls. Catriona walked determinedly to one end of the table and sat down, stretching her long legs in front of her and crossing them neatly at the ankles. "So," she said. "Why are you really here?"

Lindsay pulled out a chair a couple of seats away from her and sat down. "What makes you think I'm not here to talk about your executorship?"

"Pointless before probate's granted," she said dismissively.

"So why march me in here?"

"When people waltz into my office intent on causing trouble, I prefer not to give them the satisfaction of an audience." She dug into a pocket of her skirt and pulled out a packet of the mild cigarettes Lindsay had only ever smoked when she was kidding herself she was about to give up. As she lit one, she kept an eye on Lindsay. "So who are you, and what are you really doing here?"

The best lies, Lindsay knew, were the ones closest to the truth. "I'm an investigator. Meredith Miller is innocent, and she's engaged me to make some inquiries about the death of Penny Varnavides. I'm here to talk to you about Penny," Lindsay said, watching the smoke curling upwards and remembering how the business of smoking had always made her feel much better than the physical sensation.

"What makes you think I've got anything to say?"

"You had plenty to say to the police. And you were quick enough to say it."

Catriona leaned back in her chair and stretched for an ashtray sitting on a sideboard.

"The police are the appropriate people to talk to when one believes a crime has been committed. And given Meredith's status as prime suspect, I'm not at all sure it would be appropriate for me to talk to you. Besides, there's an issue of client confidentiality here. Penny was my client, and I'm not inclined to breach our professional relationship."

"As soon as probate is granted, it'll be Meredith who benefits from your work even more than you will yourself. She will, in effect, be your client. Don't you think it would make life a little easier for everyone if you cooperated with me?" Lindsay tried.

"If Meredith did kill Penny, she won't be earning a shilling from the estate, will she?" Catriona inhaled, then released what was left of the smoke from her nostrils. It was hard not to read self-satisfaction into the gesture.

It was clear that Catriona and Lindsay were never going to become friends. With nothing to lose, Lindsay went on the attack. "But you will, won't you? Ten, twenty percent of what Penny earned must have made you a lot of money while she was alive. Dead, she's going to generate a small fortune, isn't she? Even if it was just an accident, her sales are going to climb. But if it's a particularly gruesome and mysterious murder, using the very method outlined in her next book, her sales figures are going to go through the roof."

Catriona's eyebrows furled together in an angry frown. "That's an outrageous suggestion. You take my breath away, Ms. Gordon."

"You're not the first woman who's said that," Lindsay said suggestively, gambling that Catriona was straight.

"How dare you!" Catriona said with contempt.

"Penny used to say it all the time," Lindsay continued blithely. "I wasn't entirely candid with you, Catriona. I live in California, you see. Penny and Meredith are very old friends of mine. I know a lot more about you than you do about me. I know, for example, how much you'd hate a story in one of the middlebrow newspapers that pointed out how much you stand to gain from your little trip to the police station. And how, when it actually comes down to it, you knew much more than Meredith about the murder method. She'd only heard Penny talk about it, but you'll have read it. And if we're talking cui bono ..."

"My God," Catriona said, voice dripping contempt, "I didn't know private snoopers like you knew cui bono from Sonny Bono. Ms. Gordon, to kill Penny Varnavides for the income generated by one short burst of sales would be akin to killing the goose that laid the golden eggs in the hope of pushing the market price of gold higher. I stood to earn a lot more cash from Penny Varnavides alive than I could ever hope to gain from her death."

"Maybe so. But it would still make a nice tale in the tabloids. I'm not asking you to breach commercial confidentiality. All I want is some answers to a few innocuous questions. I'm not the one who got heavy here."