ernie Gourlay took the washing out of the tumble drier and began to fold it. She noticed that one of Jack's school sweatshirts had begun to split at the shoulder seam and put it to one side to sew up later. She often heard mothers complaining about the things they had to do for their kids, but she'd never once felt like that. She knew what a miracle he was, and she counted it a privilege to be able to take care of the details of his life. She'd been conscious ever since he'd been placed in her arms that his dependency on her would wane consistently as he grew older, and she'd determined then that she would enjoy every moment, every phase of his development, but that she'd let go when she had to.

She was, she thought, the luckiest person she knew. She'd escaped from a life that was difficult and anxious, and, although the journey hadn't been without its ups and downs, now she'd achieved something she'd never have believed possible. Happiness. Jack was growing strong and healthy, a cheerful child whose face never seemed crossed with shadows. And she had Tam. Big, daft, lovely Tam who had swept her off her feet and never minded that Jack was another man's son, nor that she was incapable of having more children by him. Tam, who had bought this beautiful big garden flat for them to live in, who saw to it that none of them ever went without, who worked hard to take care of them all but who never let his business interfere with enjoying his family to the full.

Bernie glanced at the clock. Ten minutes before she had to leave and pick up Jack from school. Tam sometimes dropped him off in the mornings, but she always made sure she was there in plenty of time to pick him up. She couldn't bear the thought of him standing at the school gates, worry at her lateness puckering his face and darkening his china-blue eyes. Soon enough, he'd be begging her to let him walk home with his pals, but for now he was still pleased to see her when the bell went.

The electronic chirrup of the phone disturbed her cheerful thoughts. Probably Tam, she thought, reaching for the handset. It was seldom that a day passed without him calling just to say hello. Four years married, and he was still a big soft romantic at heart.

But the voice that insinuated its way into her brain wasn't Tam's. It was a voice she'd often prayed she would never hear again. It was a voice whose very tone was a masquerade, disguising the viciousness behind it with a beguiling softness. Bernie wasn't beguiled. She was terrified. She felt as if a block of ice was dissolving in her stomach, sending cold trickles through her whole body. She clung to the phone, mesmerized, unable to put it down even after the line went dead.

Staggering slightly, she collapsed into a kitchen chair. Tears pricked her eyes and her dry lips trembled. Eventually, she got to her feet, still shaky. Although she had prayed she'd never have to put it into action, she had a contingency plan in place. She took a well-worn leather address book from a kitchen drawer and looked up an unfamiliar number. She keyed it into the phone and waited for the international connection. When the phone was answered, she gave the name of the person she desperately needed to talk to. Another pause. Then Bernie closed her eyes with relief. "It's Bernadette," she said. Please God, let this work.

Late the following afternoon, Lindsay drove out through the south side of the city towards the prosperous suburb of Milngavie. She never failed to be struck by the contrasts in Glasgow, even between areas that superficially seemed to have much in common. The average income in Milngavie was probably only marginally above that in the smart part of the West End where she and Sophie lived. But, culturally, it felt like a different world. The West End had traditionally been more genteel, drawing its residents from the academics at the university and the medical staff at the city's hospitals. Now, it had added media, IT professionals and the arts to the mix, making it a place where Lindsay felt as at home as she was ever going to be.

But Milngavie had always felt more culturally barren. The money here came from retail empires, from accountants, from people who preferred Andrew Lloyd Webber to Mozart or the Manic Street Preachers. The difference was obvious to her even in the architecture. This was the land of bungalows and detached houses, where to inhabit a semi was somehow to have failed. There was nothing here to compare with the grandeur of the red sandstone tenements of Hyndland or the imposing houses of Kelvinside. Lindsay knew she was indulging her prejudices with such facile thoughts, but she didn't care. From everything she'd read about David Keillor, she'd have been astonished to find him living anywhere else.

She turned into the quiet side street where Keillor lived and cruised slowly down till she spotted his house. It was a two-storey detached property in a decent-sized garden, a double garage tacked on to one side. The brilliant white harling that covered the house looked as if it had recently been repainted, and the double glazing was the expensive sort that mimicked traditional sash windows. It didn't look as if Keillor was strapped for cash. She parked a little way past the entrance to his drive and settled back to wait.

She'd borrowed Sophie's car for the afternoon, knowing that the anonymous saloon her lover drove was more appropriate for what she had in mind than the classic MGB roadster she'd bought on her return to the UK. Sophie had teased her about having a mid-life crisis, but Lindsay had pointed out that she had always driven classic cars and because she'd previously owned an MGB she knew enough to carry out her own maintenance. Since she couldn't hope to do that with a modern car crammed with electronics, she was effectively choosing the budget option, she'd argued. Sophie had just laughed and kissed her.

If she has a baby, I'll have to ditch the MGB, Lindsay thought sourly. She knew Sophie well enough to realize that no child of hers would be allowed on the narrow bench seat in the rear of the 1974 sports car lest it fly into the air and disappear from the rear-view mirror, bouncing down the motorway. Her life would have to change in far more profound ways, she knew that. But today what rankled was the potential loss of her car. She knew she was being childish, but she was the only person who knew that, so it didn't count.

Lindsay forced herself to stop thinking about the baby and concentrate instead on what she had to do. She dug into her jacket pocket and took out the small black leather wallet with the Strathclyde Police crest on it. A couple of years before, she'd been instrumental in saving an American friend, Meredith Miller, from facing a murder charge. A few weeks later, the fake warrant card had arrived in the post, along with a brief note: "You're better than the real thing. I thought this might amuse you. Thanks, Meredith." She'd never imagined using it; but then she'd never imagined being a journalist again, particularly not in Scotland.

She adjusted her rear-view mirror so she could see approaching traffic and settled down for a wait. She didn't expect it to be too long. Officials like David Keillor left the office on time. It was only their minions who had to stay late to deal with their workloads. With luck, he'd be home very soon. She wanted to hit him as soon as he got out of the car, catch him on the back foot before he could settle in to his normal evening routine.

Lindsay had guessed right. A mere twenty minutes after she'd arrived, a black 4x4 BMW rolled into sight. As the electronically operated gates opened to allow the car to enter, she was on the pavement, walking briskly on to the herring-bone brick of Keillor's driveway. His face swung towards her, a look of suspicious surprise narrowing his eyes.

Lindsay smiled disarmingly and walked right up to the driver's door. The window sank down a few inches. "What are you doing? This is private property," Keillor snapped. He had the well-groomed appearance of a man who knows the importance of first impressions. His dark hair was cut short, the shape sharp and well-defined. His skin was lightly bronzed, his eyebrows neatly trimmed. He smelled of mint.

Lindsay produced the warrant card and held it open long enough for him to see her photograph but not much else. "DC Lindsay, Strathclyde Police. You're Mr Keillor? Mr David Keillor?"

His frown deepened. "Of course I am. Who else would be driving my car into my drive? What's this about?" He began to open the door, forcing Lindsay to step backwards.

"I wanted to ask you a few questions regarding an inquiry we're conducting."

Keillor tutted as he climbed out of the car. He was surprisingly short, making his exit from the high vehicle comically awkward. "You'd better come in, then."

Lindsay followed him round to the front door and into the hallway. "In here," he said, ushering her into the dining room. A gleaming oval table was surrounded by six matching chairs. An antique sideboard stood against one wall, crystal glassware and silver sparkling in the late afternoon light from the bay window. Keillor gestured to a chair but remained standing as Lindsay sat down. "So what's this all about?" he demanded again.

Lindsay found his arrogance surprising. Most people, confronted by a police officer, were at the very least apprehensive, in her experience. Everybody felt a twinge of guilt about something; either that or a twinge of fear that something terrible had happened to someone they loved. But Keillor's self-confidence seemed impossible to dent. This was a man who was very sure he was untouchable. It would be a pleasure to rock that self-satisfaction to its foundations.

"We're investigating a serious incident that happened late last night in Giffnock. A hit and run. The elderly gentleman who was knocked down is quite poorly in hospital. We have a witness who saw the vehicle. The description he gave us corresponds to your car, as do a couple of the letters of the registration. So, I've come along to ask you one or two questions and have a wee look at your vehicle. If you don't mind."

Keillor shook his head. "Look all you like. But this is a waste of time. I was at home yesterday evening. We had friends round for dinner. They left around half past eleven then my wife and I went to bed. The car wasn't out of the garage all night. So, whoever your witness saw, it wasn't me. Or my car."

Lindsay nodded, taking her notebook out of her bag.

"Then you won't mind giving me the names of your dinner guests?"

Keillor sighed impatiently. "For Christ's sake."

"We do have to take these things seriously, sir. If it had been you or your wife who'd been run over, you'd want us to do our job. The names?"

"Charles Wayne and his wife Sarah."

"And where might I contact Mr and Mrs Wayne?"

"He's the managing director of CCD Scotland." Keillor said, as if this were a fact any child should have known.

Lindsay couldn't believe her luck. Things couldn't have worked out better if she'd planned it. Whatever happened now, she could place the MD of the pharmaceutical company in David Keillor's dining room. She wished she'd bothered to tape the conversation. Time away from the sharp end had definitely laid a layer of rust over her skills. "So I could get him at his work?"

"I imagine so. Now, is that everything?"

"Just for the record, could I check your vehicle documents? Your insurance and your log book? And I'll need to take a look at the car."

"Why? This is nothing to do with me."

Lindsay shrugged. "It's procedure, sir. If you wouldn't mind getting the documents, I can be checking your vehicle. Save time that way." She got to her feet and smiled.

"Oh, all right." Keillor showed her out and returned indoors.

Lindsay made a pretence of studying the front nearside wing of the big BMW, crouching down to peer at the bumper. She was straightening up when Keillor re-emerged with a plastic folder in his hand. "Looks all clear to me, sir," she said.

"Of course it does," he said impatiently. "How many times do I have to tell you? Whoever knocked down your old man in Giffnock, it wasn't me and it wasn't my car." He thrust the folder at her. "There you are."

Lindsay opened the folder. She glanced at the insurance certificate then looked at the vehicle registration. She forced herself not to smile in triumph. There was all the evidence she needed. The previous owner of the BMW was there in black and white: CCD (Scotland). Gotcha, she thought. "That all seems to be in order." She handed the paperwork back to Keillor. "I'm sorry to have troubled you. I'll have to speak to Mr Wayne. Purely a formality, obviously. But we have to go through the motions."

At last, Keillor smiled. "I appreciate that, officer. But I'm a very busy man. I haven't got time to waste."

"In that case, I won't occupy you any longer." Lindsay nodded a farewell and headed back down the drive. She found it hard to keep a spring out of her step. Somehow, she'd managed to forget the galvanizing buzz that hit at the moment when a difficult story suddenly cracked open. If Rory McLaren had done nothing else, she had reminded Lindsay of the sheer delight of using her skills to bring down someone else's nasty little castles in the air.

First thing in the morning, she'd make the innocuous call to Charles Wayne. And this time, she'd tape it. OK, it wasn't strictly speaking her story. And they'd have to put it out under Rory's by-line to protect Lindsay from any comeback on her illegal scam. Probably best to leave it a week or so, just to be on the safe side.

But she'd done it. She'd copper-bottomed the story. Splash Gordon was back. And it felt so good.

The high lasted as far as the Western Infirmary, where she'd arranged to pick up Sophie. Her lover stood by the outpatients entrance, deep in conversation with Fraser. Lindsay closed her eyes momentarily. How could I have forgotten it's the second attempt tonight? she wondered bitterly. How could I have imagined I was going to be allowed to have a life?

A couple of miles away, Bernie Gourlay let herself into the house. She'd walked Jack round to a friend's place for a birthday party, and she had a couple of hours to herself before Tam would pick him up on the way home. Normally, she'd indulge herself in a long bath, heavily scented with essential oils, a gin and tonic and a glossy magazine. But relaxation was beyond her now. Fear gnawed at her, its sharp teeth cutting into her peace of mind and ripping it to shreds.

With a deep sigh, she dropped her handbag on the hall table and walked through to the kitchen. She knew at once that something was wrong, chill damp air hitting her where warmth should have been. Her eyes darted round the room and terror gripped her chest in a physical constriction. The window by the back door was shattered, the glass crunched into fragments on the tiled floor. And on the kitchen table, clear when she had left, was a sheet of paper.

On automatic pilot, Bernie crossed the room. She gazed down and read, in thick black capitals, NO HIDING PLACE, BERNIE. She gave a faint whimper of anguish and crumpled into the nearest chair. Dear God, he could put his hand on her any time he chose. Her breathing was fast and shallow as dread coursed through her. What was she going to do?

"Get a grip," she admonished herself, trying to draw herself upright. Somehow, she had to keep this from Jack and Tam. She had to protect them from what she knew. Numb, Bernie pushed herself to her feet. Things to do. There were things to do. She found the Yellow Pages and looked for emergency glaziers. It didn't matter if the man was still here when Tam got back. She could make up some story about slipping on the floor and losing her grip on a tin which had smashed the glass. First, find a glazier. Then clear up the broken glass. Burn the note. Make everything normal again.

It was, she knew, a losing battle. Nothing was ever going to be normal again. But she had to try.