indsay woke from a confused dream of being lost in an African township, searching vainly for Cordelia, to Sophie gently shaking her awake.

"I made you a coffee. I've got to run, but you said you had a lot to do today, so I thought I'd better wake you. You were sleeping like the dead," Sophie greeted her.

Memory of the night before flooded back to Lindsay, and a satisfied grin spread across her face. "You did right," she said. "So the bumper sticker is really true?"

"What bumper sticker?"

'"Gynaecologists do it with their fingers,'" Lindsay teased.

"We do other things with our fingers too," Sophie exclaimed, grabbing Lindsay and tickling her ribs.

"Whoa!" Lindsay yelled. "Mind the coffee!"

Sophie hugged her. "I'll see you later," she said, kissing her smiling mouth.

"I can't wait!"

The stinging needles of the shower chased the last trace of sleep from Lindsay's brain. She wasn't ready yet to examine the new basis of her relationship with Sophie. Her body felt relaxed and comfortable after their love-making, but her head was still spinning with the implications of Sophie's bombshell. Why hadn't she thought of Claire? If Jackie hadn't been the obvious choice, Claire could well have been the next person the police would have looked at.

As she towelled herself dry, Lindsay examined the idea step by step. Claire had carefully presented an image of herself as cool and rational, the woman who had been hurt but who had forgiven. But what if the reality had been different? What if she had known Jackie well enough to realise that she would never be able to rid herself of her obsession while Alison was still alive? She could easily have gone to the block of flats and waited in the rubbish chute cupboard till she saw Jackie leaving, then slipped in to Alison's flat and killed her. But if so, why was she going through the charade of asking Lindsay to help clear Jackie's name?

Sophie's answer to that was the double bluff. What would someone in Claire's position be expected to do? Answer: she'd be expected to do exactly what she had done. Anything else would have looked suspicious. Added to that was Claire's insistence when she'd first briefed Lindsay that she didn't have to uncover the true identity of the murderer, merely cast enough doubt on Jackie's conviction.

And the fact remained that she hadn't actually tracked Lindsay down. What if her involvement with Cordelia had started as a convenient distraction for the one woman who could reasonably be expected to know where to look for Lindsay? Once Claire and Cordelia were lovers, there would be a certain reluctance on Cordelia's part to searching too diligently for Lindsay, after all.

Sophie had also come up with another interesting angle. "Claire may not have intended to frame Jackie, just to kill Alison," she'd mused. "After all, she couldn't have known Jackie was going to sit around on the stairs like a lemon. And Claire could have had no way of knowing that the body would be discovered so soon. The arrival of Alison's mother plus Jackie's bizarre behaviour might have screwed up Claire's plans completely."

"But if she hadn't meant to frame Jackie, why use her scarf?" Lindsay had objected. Thinking it over now, she felt deeply confused. Maybe she was letting herself place more weight on Sophie's suggestion because she instinctively disliked Claire for coming between her and Cordelia. Well, there was one simple way to see if there was anything in the idea. She'd have to check Claire's alibi for the time of the murder. Oh boy, that was going to be a fun question to ask her employer!

Lindsay shivered as she wrapped herself in a bath towel. She'd still not gotten acclimatised to the cold Scottish winter after so long in the warmth of the Adriatic. The thought of the freezing February air outside made her feel like diving back under the duvet and staying there till spring. Instead, she huddled over the gas fire in the living room with the phone and a mug of coffee. This question mark over Claire was going to have to be sorted out, and soon. She fished Claire's card out of her bag and dialled her office.

When she was put through, she said, "Lindsay Gordon here. Can we meet for a talk later today?"

"Have you some progress to report?" Claire asked neutrally. There was no eagerness in her voice, thought Lindsay.

"Sort of," Lindsay stalled. "What time would suit you?"

"I'll be leaving my office around three. I'm taking some paperwork home. Come round any time before six."

"That'll be fine. See you then."

Next, Lindsay rang directory enquiries for the number of Porterhouses' office. After dialling, she was quickly connected to Donald Mottram's secretary. She explained her need for an urgent appointment to discuss her tax problems.

"Could you be at the office in half an hour, Miss Gordon?" the secretary enquired. "One of Mr. Mottram's clients has just rung to cancel his appointment, so he'll be free then. Otherwise, it would be next Thursday before I could fit you in. He has a very full diary just now."

Lindsay couldn't believe her luck. What a good game this was! She could get her year's accounts done at Claire's expense. "I'll be there," she promised. "Where exactly are you?"

After the call, Lindsay checked out her clothes. If Donald Mottram was the ladies' man she took him for, she might just get under his guard with the fluttery female act. Desperately, she searched through her bags. There was nothing there that would remotely fit the bill. Cursing under her breath, she ran through to Sophie's room and opened the wardrobe. They were near enough the same size, though Sophie was taller, and Sophie had always had impeccable taste in clothes. Unlike me, thought Lindsay, choosing a smart red woollen dress with matching shoes. She pulled open the top drawer of the dressing table and hastily applied some eyeshadow and mascara. Thank God she still had the healthy remains of her Italian tan! She surveyed herself in the mirror, far from happy with the overall effect. "Relax, you're looking good," she muttered, trying to convince herself.

Precisely half an hour later, Lindsay was shown into Donald Mottram's businesslike office. The walls were covered with grey hessian shot with apricot and cream, their sole decoration a moody photograph of a blood-red sun setting over the Glasgow skyline. The yuppies really are here to stay, she thought moodily. As she entered, Donald Mottram rose from a grey leather swivel chair and extended his hand across a wide grey desk. He was quite short, but stocky, with shoulders and chest that looked bulky inside his smart business suit. His short black hair clung to his head in tight black curls shot with grey. His strong-featured face reminded Lindsay of a prize bull. "Miss Gordon," he said. "I'm delighted to meet you. Do have a seat."

Lindsay settled into a deep grey leather armchair, took a deep breath and told a white lie. "I think we've met before, actually," she said. "At one of Ruth Menzies' private views? Alison Maxwell introduced me to you and your wife."

The muscles of his jaw tightened momentarily, but he managed to smile and said, "I'm sorry, I don't remember. One meets so many people at these dos. Now, what can I do for you?"

Lindsay launched into an account of her chaotic finances while Mottram made careful notes on a foolscap pad. At the end of her recital, he put his pen down and smiled. "Well, Miss Gordon, I don't foresee too many problems with this. If you can let me have the necessary paperwork by the end of the week, I'll get your accounts formally prepared."

"Thank you so much," Lindsay said, carefully crossing her legs and swinging her foot in its red stiletto, wishing she had Sophie's long legs. "I don't know what I'd have done without you. It's been preying on my mind. Then I remembered Alison saying you were the best tax accountant in Glasgow, and if I ever needed help I should come to you."

Mottram gave a smug smile. "We aim to please," he said.

"Such a blow, Alison's death. I couldn't believe it when I heard it. We were so close," Lindsay said, trying to look woebegone and unthreatening while feeling like a grade one fool.

"Yes, it was a terrible shock," he replied shortly.

"I didn't even hear in time to get to the funeral," she added. "Were you there?"

Mottram shook his head. "No. Like you, we were out of the country at the time. My wife and I were on holiday in Madeira. We got back the day after the funeral."

Lindsay didn't know whether to be glad or sorry at his response. It looked as if he was out of the running. One suspect fewer. But she wouldn't have minded so much if Donald Mottram had been the killer. She didn't like this smooth accountant whose eyes were fixed greedily on the line of her calf. Hastily, Lindsay uncrossed her legs and got to her feet. "Well, Mr. Mottram, I won't take up any more of your valuable time, and I'll get that paperwork to you as soon as possible."

He moved quickly round his desk to escort her to the door, his hand proprietorially on the small of her back. "If you're going to be in Glasgow for a while, perhaps we could meet for a drink to discuss your future business plans," he said.

"That would be nice," she said sweetly. "I'd like to meet your wife again."

Mottram frowned. "I'm afraid that won't be possible. My wife and I are separated, and she's living in Samoa."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't realise," Lindsay stammered, putting her hand to her mouth to hide her grin.

"I'm not. Sorry, that is," Mottram said with a predatory smile. "We'd been on the rocks for a long time. The holiday in Madeira was something of a last ditch attempt to get back together again. But it didn't work out. So I'm footloose and fancy free."

"I'll give you a ring about that drink," Lindsay lied as she made her thankful escape.

Back at the flat, she cleaned the make-up from her face and climbed back into her own clothes, glad to shed the false skin she'd assumed for the interview. It looked as if Donald Mottram was off her list of suspects, but she wanted to make absolutely sure. She called his office and asked to speak to his secretary again, slipping back into the persona of the dizzy woman. "I'm so sorry to bother you again," she said. "Mr. Mottram was telling me about the wonderful holiday he had in Madeira last year, and I foolishly forgot to write down the name of the hotel he was staying at. It sounded so lovely, I wanted to make a note of it. I don't suppose you know what it was?"

"If you'll just hold the line, I'll look it up for you," the secretary replied. Moments later, she was back. "The Hotel Miramar," she said.

"Thank you so much," Lindsay gushed. "I don't suppose you know if they're open all year round, do you? Only, I was thinking we might go next winter."

"I've no idea, I'm afraid. But Mr. Mottram was there for the first fortnight in October, so they're definitely open then."

"Thank you. Oh, I'm so pleased you were able to help me. So nerve-racking, isn't it, going on holiday when you don't know what the place is like? Thanks again." Gratefully, Lindsay put the phone down.

Five minutes later, she was talking to the manager of the Hotel Miramar. "We met a couple while we were on the island last year, and we wanted to get in touch with them, but foolishly, I've lost their address. I wondered if you could help me?"

"Certainly, madam," the crisp English voice replied. "Can you tell me their names and when they were staying?"

Within two minutes, she had eliminated Donald Mottram from her enquiries, making a mental note to ask Claire for expenses to cover the damage she was doing to Sophie's phone bill.

Lindsay glanced at her watch. It was still only half past eleven. Maybe she should ring Ruth and set up a meeting with her and Antonis? She'd already cleared with Sophie the possibility of inviting them round to the flat for dinner. She was almost looking forward to putting her chief suspects under the microscope.

Before she could do anything more, the phone rang. "Hello?" she said.

"Can I speak to Lindsay, please?"

"It's me, Blair," Lindsay said, recognising his voice instantly.

"Hi. Listen, I think I've got something for you. I was on the night shift again last night, so I took the opportunity to go through the credits book," he said, referring to the ledger that sat on the newsdesk, where the names of freelances and tipsters to whom the paper owed money for stories or information were entered. "Our blue-eyed chief reporter wasn't giving anything away about his sources, so I thought the book might hold a clue."

"But surely they wouldn't be daft enough to credit anyone for the story? They must have known the police or the Special Branch would be all over them after a leak like that," Lindsay protested.

"You're right. But the guy would have to be paid somehow, wouldn't he? So I looked very carefully through the credits for the last few days, and I think I might have cracked it."

Lindsay felt the adrenalin coursing through her. Good old Blair! He was like a terrier with a rat when he got his teeth into something. "Go on," she said eagerly, grabbing a pen and notepad.

"On the day the story came in, there's a payment of £150 to one particular freelance. On the following day, a payment of £200 to the same guy. And yesterday, another payment of £150. Making a total of £500 so far. All the payments were marked down as being for stories that made page leads. And the payments are about the going rate for strong exclusive page leads. But all the stories appeared in the paper with staff bylines. Now, I don't have to tell you that it's not unusual for us to put a staff byline on a story when all the staff reporter has done is rejig the intro or add a couple of paragraphs. So I thought I'd do a little check to see whether that was what had happened in this case." Blair paused for dramatic effect.

"And?" Lindsay asked impatiently.

"It would have been easy in the old days when we had everything on paper. But nowadays, the computerised news-desk is cleared out of stories on a daily basis. So I couldn't access the material directly. However, over the last few months I've been doing a lot of night shifts, and I've got pally with the night systems editor. So, in exchange for a half-bottle of Grouse, which you owe me, by the way, I got him to give me a complete trail on the copy for those stories."

"Wonderful, Blair, you're a star. So what did you learn?" Lindsay demanded.

"None of the stories in question came from the freelance who has been paid for them. One came from a reader's phone call. One seems to have been brought in by the reporter herself. And the third one came as a tip from a different freelance altogether. Which means that our freelance friend has been paid a total of £500 for stories he had nothing to do with."

"Which means that he's done something that requires payment which they don't want to put through the books," Lindsay breathed. "I think you've got him, Blair."

"I think so too. Want to know who it is?" he teased.

"Of course I do!" Lindsay yelled.

"Barry Ostler."

Blair's words immediately conjured up an image in Lindsay's mind. Barry Ostler. Early fifties, small, running to fat, silvery white hair cut like Elvis. The sort of chauvinist pig who, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, lived inside the illusion that he was irresistible to women. She'd had to work with him a couple of times and had hated every patronising minute of it. "That sleazeball?" she said. "Is he still making a living?"

"He doesn't do much for us these days. But he seems to do all right. He's still driving around in that big American gas-guzzler. "

"Does he still live in Pollokshields?"

"Far as I know. His number in the contacts book is still the same."

"Blair, I owe you one."

"You owe me several after this," he told her. "But I'll settle for dinner at the Koh-i-Noor."

"You're on. Can I add to my debt? Just a simple query this time."

Blair groaned. "Nothing's ever simple with you. Go ahead, what is it this time? Lord Lucan's phone number, maybe?"

"Where can I find Jimmy Mills these days?"

"I don't even want to know why you're asking me this, Lindsay. Jimmy's got a job in Motherwell. He's the sports editor of the local paper. He drinks in the pub opposite the office. You'll usually find him there between half past one and three. That do you?"

"Perfect. Thanks again. I'll give you a ring in a couple of days to fix up that meal. Okay?"

"Okay. And Lindsay... ?"

"Yes?"

"Be careful out there. Don't take chances with Barry Ostler. He's a nasty piece of work. He's obviously taken a lot of care to cover his tracks on this one. He's going to be very twitchy about you turning up and pointing the finger."

"Yeah, I know. Don't worry, Blair. I'll cover my back. And yours. Thanks again."

Lindsay put down the phone with a sigh of satisfaction. Things were starting to move at last.