t was loathe at first sight. Lindsay hadn't been in Harry Campbell's company for five minutes before she knew for certain they would never be friends. When she arrived at Rosalind's flat, he was sitting at the kitchen table, nervously drumming his fingers while Rosalind waited on him. As Lindsay entered, he half-rose from his chair and offered her his hand.

"Lindsay? I'm glad to meet you. Rosalind has told me so much about you. I understand we're deeply indebted to you for all your hard work in tracking down our burglar. Well, let me say now, we won't forget what we owe you. Coffee? Orange juice? Rosalind, see to our guest, will you?" he smarmed.

Lindsay shook the warm, soft palm he held out, and before Rosalind could do anything, she helped herself to orange juice and coffee. Being with her big brother might reduce Rosalind to the level of obedient schoolgirl, but Lindsay didn't want to be part of it. She sat down and appraised Harry Campbell. Leaving aside the possibility that he was Alison's "political hot potato," if he was going to be by her side on the showdown with Alex McNaught, she wanted to know exactly what she was getting into.

He was in his late thirties, though he looked younger. His pepper and salt hair was neatly barbered, as was the still dark moustache, which Lindsay guessed was there to hide the weakness of his thin mouth. His eyes were dark blue rather than violet like Ros's, but they had the disconcerting habit of sliding away from direct contact. He was, she supposed, fairly handsome in an almost feminine way. But there was nothing arch or camp in his manner or his dress. He wore a crisp white shirt with a tweed tie and tweed trousers. The matching suit jacket was slung over the back of the kitchen chair on which he sat. If he hadn't been a politician, he might have been deputy headmaster at a country primary school. He wasn't a natural number one, Lindsay decided almost immediately.

Before he could launch into his party political broadcast, Lindsay turned to Rosalind and commented on her success in restoring the flat to its previous state of neatness.

"Helen helped me," Rosalind said. "I don't know what I'd have done without her. Actually, once we'd cleared up the mess, it didn't take too long."

Harry was clearly impatient of such domestic chit-chat. "So," he said portentously. "You're the young woman who succeeds where our incompetent police force fails? Tell me, how did you discover the culprit's identity?"

"I'd rather not say," Lindsay replied coldly. "I promised I wouldn't reveal my source. But the information is sound."

"Oh, I'm not doubting that for a moment," Harry said hastily. "I was just curious."

"Lindsay has all sorts of contacts," Rosalind said as she put a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of Harry. The smell made Lindsay feel vaguely nauseous after her overindulgence the night before. "What would you like to eat, Lindsay? We've got eggs, bacon, mushrooms, sliced sausage, black pudding, potato scones..."

"Just toast, please. And some Marmite, if you've got it," Lindsay replied. "Harry, what can you tell me about Alex McNaught?"

Harry flashed an uncertain look at Rosalind, who said reassuringly, as if to a small child, "It's all right, Harry. You can trust Lindsay."

"I'm sorry," he said, forcing a quick, artificial smile which revealed a row of perfect crowns. "I'm not accustomed to being able to trust members of your profession."

"Don't worry about it," Lindsay said wearily. "You're not alone. Now. About Alex McNaught?"

Harry sighed and picked at his breakfast. Finally, he said, "I met Alex about six months ago. I picked him up in the city centre and brought him back here."

"Wasn't that taking a bit of a chance?" Lindsay enquired, buttering a slice of toast and adding a thin coating of Marmite.

"As things turned out, it seems so. But I didn't think it was at the time. He didn't know who I was. I mean, he knew my name was Harry, but he didn't know I was an MP. I mean, I'm not exactly Neil Kinnock, am I? I'm hardly a household name in Kinradie, never mind Glasgow," he said bitterly.

"So you brought him back here. And?"

"Well, we went to bed together. I took some Polaroid photographs of him." Harry looked embarrassed. "Look, this is all a bit awkward, you know."

"Better me than the Special Branch," Lindsay commented, despising him for his lack of bottle.

"I suppose so. Well, I paid him and drove him back to where I'd picked him up. I saw him again a couple of times over the next six weeks or so. And that was that. He was really a rather boring boy. Not someone I'd want to spend a lot of time with."

Lindsay found a moment to wonder just why she was putting herself out for this unpleasant politician. Then she caught sight of Rosalind's worried expression and bit on the bullet. "When you say you saw him, do you mean you brought him back here for sex?" she asked bluntly.

"That's right."

"Fine," she said. "What I suggest we do is this. I think we should go round to his flat now, while there's still a chance that he'll be there. Initially, I want you to wait in the car while I see exactly what the score is. I suspect he'll want money in exchange for your things, since they could earn him a fair amount if he goes to the papers. Once I've persuaded him we can do a deal, I'll bring you in to negotiate the nuts and bolts. Then we'll take it from there. How much money have you got on you?"

Harry looked confused and pulled his wallet out of his jacket pocket. He took a quick look inside and said, "About £50."

Lindsay shook her head. "That's not going to be nearly enough. Have you got any cash cards?"

Harry nodded reluctantly. "I've got a couple of those gold cards that let you draw £500 at a time."

"Let's hope that'll be enough," Lindsay said.

Harry looked dismayed. "You mean he might want more than £1,000?"

"Harry, if I had what he's got in his possession, and if you weren't Ros's brother, I could be ten grand richer by teatime. Get away with £1,000 and you'll be doing very well. Now, when you've finished tucking in, I think we should get round to Springburn."

As she followed Ostler's directions, Lindsay broke the heavy silence in the car. "By the way Harry, did you know Alison Maxwell?"

He frowned as if trying to recall where he'd heard the name. "Maxwell? Oh yes, the woman who was murdered in Caird House. No, we'd never met."

His response seemed so natural that Lindsay was tempted to believe him. Then she remembered the necessity for all politicians, especially the ones with skeletons in the closet, to learn how to lie expertly, and reserved judgment. If there was a connection between Harry and Alison, straight questioning wasn't going to bring it to light.

She pulled up outside a three-storey detached Victorian house slotted incongruously among blocks of council flats. Its grey stucco was peeling off, giving the building a scabby, down-at-heel look. The door, once painted royal blue, was now overlaid with a layer of city grime. Leaving Harry in the car, Lindsay walked up the path and studied the house. Most of the curtains were closed, but a few were drawn back to provide unappetising glimpses of typical bed-sit land. On the door jamb were a dozen bell pushes, only a few of which had names scrawled on their labels. Lindsay scrutinised them carefully, but the name McNaught was nowhere to be seen. Undeterred, she pressed the bell marked Flat 1. There was no response, so she worked her way methodically down the bells. Eventually, Flat 5 produced a response.

The door inched open to reveal a sleepy-looking young woman in a grubby dressing gown. "What is it?" she demanded grumpily.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," Lindsay said. "But I was looking for Alex McNaught, and I didn't know which flat was his."

"Flat 9," the girl muttered crossly. "I wish they'd all put their bloody names on the bells," she added as she moved to close the door.

"I'll just come in, then," Lindsay said, moving forward forcefully. "It'll save Alex coming all the way down to open the door."

"Please yourself," the girl said with a shrug, moving back to allow Lindsay in. Before Lindsay could thank her, she retreated down the dim hallway and disappeared through a door at the far end.

Lindsay looked around her. The only light in the hall came from the dirty fan light above the door. Several doors opened off the hall, with cheap plastic numbers screwed to them. To her right was a rickety table with a scatter of mail in brown envelopes lying on it. She checked the letters and soon spotted an unemployment benefit cheque addressed to McNaught. G-day, she thought happily. If he was expecting his Giro, he might well be in a reasonably good mood.

Ahead of her was a flight of stairs, surprisingly elegant in spite of its shabby carpet. Obviously a remnant of the house's former glory, Lindsay thought as she climbed. On the first landing, there were three numbered doors, from six to eight, and two other doors labelled "toilet" and "bathroom." The whole place was seedy and smelled of unidentifiable cooking odours, strongly reminiscent of her student days. She took a deep breath and climbed the second flight, narrower than the first. Five doors opened off the landing, four of which were numbered. Lindsay stepped up to the door of Flat 9 and knocked loudly.

For a moment there was silence, then she heard soft footsteps cross the room. "Who is it?" a voice nervously demanded.

"A friend," Lindsay said, feeling foolishly like a player in a bad TV show.

"What friend?" came the suspicious response.

"I've got a proposition for you, Alex. A nice little earner. Barry Ostler sent me," Lindsay tried, feeling no less foolish. She heard the lock turn, then the door opened on a chain.

A thin, frightened face appeared in the crack. "Who are you? What do you want with me?"

Obviously not the usual, Lindsay thought wryly. "I need to talk to you, Alex. Can we do it privately, or do you want the whole house to know your business?" she said with a smile.

Alex looked her up and down, then, deciding she represented no threat, slipped the chain off the door and let it swing open. He stepped back and Lindsay entered his home. It was a large, square room, containing a three-quarter bed, a rather dilapidated wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a table with two kitchen chairs, and two old-fashioned armchairs. In one corner was a sink and a Baby Belling cooker. A gas fire on full was blasting out dry heat. The room was surprisingly clean, and the walls had been painted magnolia in an attempt to brighten the place up. There was a poster-sized photographic reproduction of a naked body-builder opposite the bed.

Warily, they eyed each other. He was wrapped in a sheet which did nothing to hide the fact that he was slim to the point of emaciation. Probably using speed, thought Lindsay as she caught a whiff of his rancid breath. But she could see his appeal for the men who frequented the meat-racks. He was waif-like, with tousled blonde hair and wide, hazel eyes. He had an air of corrupted innocence which Lindsay guessed would attract a man like Harry.

"What do you want, then?" he asked in a parody of aggression.

"My name's Lindsay Gordon," she said. "You've got something a friend of mine wants very badly."

"I don't know what you mean," he replied so quickly it had to be an automatic reflex.

"We're willing to pay you for it, Alex. Nobody's trying to rip you off. Whatever deal you had lined up with Barry Ostler, I'll make sure you don't lose out," Lindsay said.

"I still don't know what you're on about," he said stubbornly.

"I think you do, Alex. How much did he pay you for Rosalind Campbell's Scottish Office papers? Not much, I bet."

He looked startled and flashed a glance at his rumpled bed. "You've got the wrong guy," he stammered.

Lindsay shook her head. "No way. Look Alex, stop pussyfooting. There's no problem. All I want is to arrange the purchase of certain items in your possession. You're not going to get into trouble. Unless of course, we can't come to some sort of arrangement. Then you are going to be in so much trouble your head won't stop spinning for a week," she added pleasantly.

Alex looked scared. He retreated to the table and picked up a packet of cigarettes. He lit up, never taking his eyes off Lindsay, who followed his example. She exhaled smoke slowly and perched on the arm of one of the chairs. "It's very simple, Alex. You stole Harry Campbell's papers and photographs. He wants them back. He's sitting in my car downstairs, waiting to hear your terms. I promise you, whatever Barry Ostler said he'd give you, we'll match. But Harry's very upset. He doesn't want any publicity. So if we can't do a deal, he's going to shop you to the police for the burglary. Not to mention the fact that you're earning while signing on as unemployed. None of us wants to go down that road, do we? Now, can we talk properly?" Lindsay urged. She really didn't want to give him a bad time, but she suspected it wouldn't be necessary.

Alex nodded uncertainly. "Just suppose you're right. How much is it worth?" he said, trying to sound defiant.

"How much did Barry pay you for the Scottish Office stuff?" Lindsay asked.

"None of your business," he retorted.

Lindsay smiled. "Alex, I used to be in the newspaper business myself. I know exactly how much Barry got for that story. And I bet you didn't get more than £100 of his £500." The expression of surprise on his face told Lindsay all she needed to know. If she knew Barry, Alex would have been lucky to see £50. And now she'd sown a seed of doubt in his mind about Barry's trustworthiness.

"He said the other stuff would be worth a lot more," Alex said.

"How much more? Come on, Alex, the sooner we get this settled, the sooner I can get back to my girlfriend. This is not my idea of a fun Saturday morning."

He scowled. "Barry said he'd pay me £500," he said, obviously naming a figure off the top of his head. Lindsay almost felt sorry for him. Ostler was using him, and it was clearly a position Alex was so accustomed to it no longer surprised him.

"We're prepared to equal that, and add a little bit more on top for your trouble," Lindsay said. "How does £750 sound to you?"

"I suppose so," he replied grudgingly. "But I'm not handing anything over till I get the money."

"That seems perfectly reasonable to me. What I suggest we do is this. I'll go down and tell Harry to go and fetch the cash. Then he can bring it back here, and the two of you can make your swap. That way, Harry can check he's getting everything back. Is that okay with you?"

"I don't want to see him," Alex blurted out. "Can't you handle it all?"

"Afraid not. You see, I don't know the details of every single item you removed from his desk, but Harry does. It's okay. He's not going to give you a bad time. I'll be back in a minute, okay?"

He nodded reluctantly. Lindsay left him and ran down the stairs. He was pathetic, she thought to herself as she walked down the path towards her car. She'd be happy to bet that he hadn't even had the nous to make copies of the stuff he'd stolen. But then, in his favour, she'd seen no sign that he planned to blackmail Harry, merely to cash in on his secret.

Harry was cowering in the seat of the car, a newspaper hiding his face. When Lindsay pulled the door open, he nearly jumped out of his skin. "Well?" he demanded. "Have you sorted him out?"

"£750. You go and get the money and come up to Flat 9. Alex will hand over the stuff so you can check it." And that will be the end of this whole sordid business, she thought wearily to herself.

"£750? Couldn't you get him any cheaper than that? I'm not made of money, you know," Harry protested.

"I told you before, if you get change out of a grand, it's cheap at the price. Just be grateful I'm not charging you for my time on top of what you're paying Alex," Lindsay snapped, furious at his pettiness. She handed him the car keys. "Be very careful with the car. I'll see you back here as soon as you can make it."

"Aren't you coming with me?"

"For Christ's sake, Harry, surely you don't need a minder to go to a cash machine? I'm going back to make sure Alex doesn't do a runner," Lindsay said over her shoulder as she marched exasperatedly back to the house. Suddenly Alex McNaught's company seemed more appealing than that of Harry Campbell MP.

By the time she returned, Alex had dressed in a tight white teeshirt and shrink-to-fit jeans that hugged his narrow hips and slim legs. He gave Lindsay a nervous grin and asked, "Did he agree?"

"He did," she replied.

"Christ, I bet that hurt," Alex said, pulling a face. "Getting that guy to part with money was like getting blood from a stone. Want a coffee?"

He'd obviously decided she was okay, Lindsay thought. She wondered if it was the line about getting back to Sophie that had swung it. "I'd love one," she said. "Milk, no sugar."

He turned off the kettle he'd already set to boil and made two mugs of instant. "How come you got into this?" he asked, settling down in the chair nearest the fire.

"It's a long story," Lindsay said. "His sister's an old pal of mine. And you?"

He shrugged. "He picked me up one night. He must have liked what he got, because he came back for more. We must have been together half a dozen times or more over the next couple of months." So Harry had been rather economical with the truth, Lindsay thought without surprise. "Then he just stopped seeing me. You know how it is," Alex continued. "Then I saw his picture in the paper and realised he was this respectable MP."

"You mean you hadn't realised before then who he was?" Lindsay demanded sceptically.

Alex scowled. He was used to people not believing him, but he'd never learned to like it. "How could I? Christ, the only time I buy a paper is for the racing. Besides, he's not exactly a hot shot, is he? I mean, who the hell even knows where Kinradie is? It's not as if he was a Glasgow MP, or one of those guys that're always on the telly shouting off about the poll tax. He's a no mark. His picture was only in the paper because they were doing some big thing about marginal seats. Anyway, I figured there must be some money in it for me, so I asked Barry."

"How do you know him?" Lindsay asked, curious to see if his version would tally with Ostler's.

"He did a story a while back, looking for rent boys who'd been with a judge. I couldn't help him, but I kept his number. You never know, do you? Anyway, he said if I could get any proof, it would be worth a few bob."

"So you broke into Ros's flat? Nice one, Alex," Lindsay said cynically.

"I didn't know it was her flat, did I? I thought it was his own place. When I saw the woman's stuff in the bathroom, I just thought he was probably married. A lot of them are. I never met her. I only saw a photo of her once in the kitchen. I never thought I was robbing her. I just waited till I saw her going out, then I nipped in. I lifted everything I could see that looked official, like Barry told me to. I thought all the papers and stuff I took were his. How was I to know she worked for the Scottish Office?"

"So how come you didn't hand Harry's personal stuff over to Barry with all the official papers?" Lindsay enquired.

Alex looked slyly at Lindsay, clearly pleased with his own cleverness. "I figured that if I gave him everything at once he might not pay me what he owed me. And I didn't know if we'd get away with it. If the police had traced the story back to Barry and lifted him, I'd have had to do a runner. This way, I held on to something that was worth a bob or two."

"Quite a profitable wee break-in," Lindsay said wryly.

"Technically, it wasn't a break-in. I just made it look like one. I had keys," he said importantly.

"Handy that Harry gave you the keys to the flat," Lindsay remarked, trying to hide her surprise.

Alex gave her a sideways glance. "He didn't actually give them to me," he muttered.

Lindsay grinned. Another thing Harry had been less than frank about. There had been no mention of missing keys. "You mean you helped yourself?"

"Something like that," he admitted. "In my line of business, you never know what might come in handy. You can sometimes sell things, if you catch my drift."

Lindsay nodded. "Yes, I can see that having the keys to such a nice block of flats could be very profitable. So how come you never sold them?"

"After that woman was murdered there, the place was jumping with police. It wouldn't have been too clever to mess about there, would it? And then I kind of forgot about it again till I saw Harry's picture."

"You knew about the murder?" Lindsay asked, delighted that he'd brought it up himself. "Did you know the woman that was killed?"

"No." Alex looked chagrined at the admission.

"Did Harry ever mention her to you? That she was someone he knew?"

"Harry? No, he never talked about anything like that. Besides, that was the last time I saw him."

"You mean, you were with Harry on the day of the murder? You were actually in the building?" Lindsay fought to keep her excitement under control.

"I was more than there. I saw the murderer," he said self-importantly.

"You what?" Lindsay exploded.

Alex smiled, pleased with himself. "I saw the murderer."