ven if you wanted to hide from someone on Hillhead underground station in the middle of the morning, it was too quiet for that to be a serious possibility. Not that Lindsay had any desire to hide from Rory, exactly. She just felt it would be easier to handle their relationship if they kept it within professional parameters. Sharing the same journey into work somehow felt a little outside the boundaries. But she could hardly ignore the familiar figure slouched against one of the pillars, waiting for the train. She walked up and tapped Rory on the shoulder.

Her head snapped round, eyes wide, eyebrows arching in surprise. "Oh, hiya," she said, her face lighting up when she realized she wasn't being assailed by the loony on the train or importuned by a beggar. She gave Lindsay a one-armed hug and a peck on the cheek. "How're you doing, Splash?"

"Good. You?"

Rory groaned. "Sandra turned up with a bottle of vodka and the burning desire to whinge about her boss. So I'm feeling a wee bit frayed round the edges."

"I should have come out with you after all. Saved you from yourself," Lindsay said.

Rory's reply was drowned by the arrival of the bright orange train. With its carriages smaller than most public transport systems, it always made Lindsay feel she was travelling in Toytown. She half-expected Noddy and Big Ears to board at Kelvinbridge, hotly pursued by the golliwogs.

Once they were sitting down, Rory repeated herself. "I said, are you always so uxorious?"

"Is that how you see me?" Lindsay stalled.

"Well, I've only known you a few days, but you always seem to be in a hurry to get home at the end of the day. Which is not a criticism," she added hastily. "It's just... well, it's just unusual, when you've been together as long as you two."

"Yeah, well, that would be because unusual is where we are right now." Lindsay tried to keep her voice light. She failed.

"Hey, I'm sorry if I said the wrong thing," Rory said anxiously.

Lindsay shook her head. "It's OK." She stared at the floor between her feet. "If we're going to work together, I guess I should tell you what's going on in my life. At least then you'll know, if I'm being moody, chances are it's nothing to do with you."

"Listen, you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to." Impulsively, Rory reached across and squeezed Lindsay's hand. She was entirely unprepared for the charge she felt when Lindsay returned the pressure.

"It's entirely selfish, believe me. I need to talk to someone about it before I go mad. And all the friends I would normally offload it on are either in California or London. So you get the short straw."

"Hey, that's cool. I mean, I want us to be friends, you know?"

"I know. But let's wait till we're sitting comfortably, eh? Preferably with a coffee in front of us."

Twenty minutes later, they were ensconced in the back booth. Now the moment was upon her, Lindsay felt a strange reluctance, as if talking about what ailed her was somehow a betrayal of Sophie. But it was too late for that. Rory was staring at her with the patient anticipation of a child who knows it will get the biscuit if it sits still for long enough. It was time to cut to the chase. "Sophie wants a baby," she said flatly.

"Ah," Rory said.

"She's been talking about it for a while. But I kept blanking it. I thought if I just ignored it, she'd get the message and it would go away." A tired smile. "I couldn't have been more wrong."

"Would I be right in thinking you're not exactly enthusiastic about the idea of parenthood?"

Lindsay stirred the froth on her cappuccino. "That would be an understatement. I like my life. And I've never wanted a kid."

"Not easy to argue with the biological imperative, though."

"That's the trump card, isn't it? But it's hard to understand when it's not something you've ever experienced. See, I've never been possessed by anything the way this has got Sophie in her grip. It's obviously not some whim. It consumes her. She's obsessed. It's like I'm not even there in her heart, in her head. There's no room for me any more, just this overwhelming need." Lindsay sighed.

"So you're at an impasse?"

Lindsay shook her head. "No. It's gone past that. A few days ago, she announced that she'd found a donor. She's been inseminating this week."

Rory looked appalled. "You mean, she's gone ahead without your agreement?"

"Well, it's more that she backed me into a corner. The only choices I had were to stay and support her in something that I hate the idea of, or else to walk away. And I love her, Rory. I couldn't leave her. That was the gamble she took. And she won."

"That's a helluva gamble."

Lindsay shook her head. "Not really. Deep down, she knows how committed I am to her, to this relationship. At some level, she knew I'd have to give in to the emotional blackmail."

"I'm sorry, I know you love her, and I don't know the woman, but I think that's a terrible thing to do. It's really selfish, really calculating." Rory's face revealed disgust and contempt in equal measure.

"The thing is, Rory, Sophie isn't selfish. And she isn't some hard, calculating bitch out for number one. She's actually the most generous and kind person I know. She's a lot nicer than me, trust me on that. It's a measure of how much this need has hold of her that she's behaving like this, and I don't think she's proud of it. In a funny kind of way, I suspect she feels as trapped by this as I do."

Rory looked bemused. "You're being a lot more generous than I would be in your shoes. I mean, the bottom line is, she's going for the thing she wants regardless of what it means to you, to your relationship."

Lindsay took a sip of her coffee and met Rory's eye with a rueful smile. "Looks like it."

"You deserve better than that," Rory said fiercely.

Lindsay laughed. "You really don't know me very well, do you? Mostly, I feel like I don't deserve someone as honest, as loyal or as supportive as Sophie. So," she continued, her tone becoming businesslike, "now you know what it is that's doing my head in. If I lose the plot, it's probably because I'm panicking about parenthood. OK?"

"Thanks for telling me." Rory reached across the table and laid her fingers on Lindsay's wrist. This time, she wasn't the only one who felt the electricity. "Any time you want to dump, feel free."

Looking startled, Lindsay dipped her head in acknowledgement. "Duly noted. But, for now, I need to crack on with the tug-of-love kid." She switched on her laptop, connected to the internet and a few minutes later, jotted down the number of the Italian Embassy in Belgrade.

Rory, who was flicking through the morning papers, looked up in surprise as Lindsay launched into fluent Italian. She waited till the call was over, then said, "How come you speak Italian so well?" she asked.

"I lived in Italy for six months a few years back."

"You were a journalist in Italy?"

Lindsay grinned. "No. I was the winter caretaker on a campsite."

Rory looked puzzled. "How come?"

"It's a long story. Some other time. The main thing is, Bruno Cavadino isn't at work and he's not due back for another three days. I'm going to have to see if I can track down any family he's got in Italy." She frowned, trying to come up with a solution to her problem. "What are you up to today?" she asked absently.

"I'm taking a contact out to lunch. He thinks he's got a story about backhanders at the submarine base at Faslane. Probably the usual load of rumour and gossip, but you never know." She looked at her watch. "In fact, I better make tracks if I'm going to get to Helensburgh in time."

Lindsay nodded. "See you when I see you, then." She waited till Rory had left, then dug her electronic organizer out of her bag and checked a number. Although she hadn't worked as a reporter in Italy, her boss had a cousin who worked for one of the dailies there. They'd met at a New Year party and bonded via their common experience at the sharp end. "Buongiorno" she said when she was connected. "Vorrei parlare con Giulia Garrafo, per piacere ... Si, va bene... Giulia? C'e Lindsay Gordon... Yes, I know, it's been far too long. But I'm back living in Glasgow now, so coming to Italy isn't going to be such a big deal in future." The two women caught up with each other, then, the demands of friendship satisfied, Lindsay said, "Listen, I need your help with a story I'm working on."

She outlined the background to Jack Gourlay's disappearance. "Cavadino isn't back in the office in Belgrade for another three days, so I reckon he's probably getting the boy settled in with his family. But all I know is that he grew up in the Val d'Eisa area. Any chance you can find out if he still has family there?"

"It's a long shot. But I know a good stringer near there, and I have a couple of contacts in the Foreign Ministry," Giulia said. "If I have to use the stringer, you'll pay freelance rates, yes?"

Lindsay thought for a moment. Unlike private eyes, who got paid for their work regardless of results, freelances like her and Rory only earned once they'd achieved success. Paying an Italian journalist to make inquiries on her behalf could leave them out of pocket if she couldn't make a story stand up. But she also understood the need at this point in her career of speculating to accumulate. "Yes, of course," she said, hoping it wouldn't be a long job.

"Great. Give me your number, I'll get back to you."

Lindsay ended the call feeling slightly hopeful. It was good to know she hadn't completely lost her touch. Time, she thought, for another wee chat with Tam Gourlay.

Gourlay's Garage occupied a corner site on Maryhill Road. The cars were a typical mix of sales reps' saloons and dinky hatchbacks for school and supermarket runs. "Tam's Temptation of the Week" was a three-year-old Ford Mondeo with sports wheels and a wood veneer dashboard. Lindsay wasn't tempted.

The office was a Portakabin that managed to exude an air of homely comfort. No girlie calendars or car advertising posters here, just a series of dramatic photographic prints of Highland scenery and the smell of lavender pot pourri. Lindsay suspected the ambience had more to do with the woman answering the phone than Tam. The woman, a motherly fifty-something, smiled as Lindsay entered and held up a finger, indicating she was almost finished. She put down the phone with a cheery farewell and swivelled in her chair to face Lindsay. "Good afternoon, and welcome to Gourlay's Garage. How can I help you?"

"Is Tam in?"

"Mr Gourlay? Yes, he's here. Who shall I say is calling?"

The door behind her opened and Tam's head appeared in the gap. "Oh, it's you," he said, sounding faintly disconcerted. "I thought we had a customer. Come away through." He stood back and held the door open for her.

The inner office was a tidy, businesslike domain that reeked of cigarette smoke. Tam dropped into a leather executive chair and waved Lindsay to one of the less comfortable client seats on the opposite side of a cheap metal desk. "Any news? Made any progress?" he asked.

"I've got some inquiries on the go. But I wanted to have a chat with you, clear up a few details. To be honest, your wife wasn't exactly one hundred per cent co-operative last night."

Tam looked embarrassed. "Aye. I'm sorry about that. She's kind of close to the edge the now, know what I mean?"

"She's bound to be upset. But when I've done stories like this in the past, I've always found the parents were desperate to grasp at any straw that might help to get their kid back."

Tam reached for an open packet of cigarettes and took one out. "Sure. But, take it from me, Bernie's desperate, right enough. Having said that, she's scared of what Bruno might do if the pressure goes on."

"Like what?"

"She says he might do a runner with the boy. Walk away from his job, disappear into the wide blue yonder."

Lindsay looked sceptical. "It's not very likely, is it? What would he do for money?"

"Bernie seems to think his family would see him right. And she's the one that knows the guy, right?"

If Bernie genuinely believed that too much publicity might drive her ex-husband underground, it went a long way towards explaining her hostility the previous evening, Lindsay thought. Writing a story with an unwilling interviewee wasn't a recipe for success. And it certainly didn't make for a good follow-up if it turned out to have a happy ending. Maybe she should think about a more proactive approach to the problem of Jack Gourlay's kidnapping. "Tell me something, Tam. Supposing I find out where Jack is, what were you thinking of doing about it?"

Through the haze of smoke, she thought she detected a moment's shiftiness. "Well, obviously, we'd have to go through the legal channels in whatever country he's got him in."

"So you weren't thinking about snatching him back?"

There was a long silence that Lindsay was determined not to break. "What if I was?" Tam said eventually.

"Well, it would be a bloody sight more interesting as a story than some long-drawn-out court battle," Lindsay said casually.

Tam looked at her shrewdly. "Are you saying you'd help?"

Lindsay held her hands up, palms facing him. "I never said that. But obviously you'd need help. And obviously, if you asked for help from somebody who also had something to gain from a successful operation... well, that would be a way of making it more secure, wouldn't it?"

"I hear what you're saying," he said slowly.

"If he's abroad, it might be difficult. And expensive."

Tam shrugged. "To hell with the expense. I'm not exactly on the breadline. I'll spend whatever it takes to get Jack back."

"That's good to know. But, first, we've got to find out where he is." Lindsay got to her feet. "I'll be in touch as soon as I hear anything."

She walked out of the Portakabin, shaking her head in wonder. What had she just signed up to? Why did she always have to jump in at the deep end? Some people couldn't live without the edge of risk in their lives. Was that what the possibility of parenthood was turning her into? Or was it that she was starting to feel that she might as well be reckless since she didn't have much left to lose? Pushing the uncomfortable thought away, she headed back to her car.

Lindsay polished off the last mouthful of her baked potato with chilli and pushed the plate to one side. Working from the Caf¨¦ Virginia had definite advantages, she reckoned, thinking back without nostalgia to her previous life as a journalist, to canteen meals drenched in saturated fats and sandwiches gobbled on the run. She'd just opened that day's Scotsman when an immaculately dressed and perfectly groomed man slid into the seat opposite her. He wore an expectant expression, but, although he looked familiar, Lindsay couldn't place him at once.

Seeing her confusion, he held out his hand with an accompanying smile. "Giles Graham. Lifestyle editor of the Standard. Our paths crossed briefly in a past life."

"Of course," Lindsay exclaimed. "I'm sorry, it was seeing you out of context, I couldn't make the connections." She shook his hand. "Are you looking for Rory?"

"I am indeed. I was passing, and I thought I'd buy her a coffee. A small thank you for a tip she gave me that seems to be panning out rather nicely. Since she's not here, perhaps you'd let me buy you one instead?"

Lindsay shook her head. "I'm awash with the stuff. But don't let me stop you."

Giles leaned round the corner of the booth and managed to catch Annie's eye. He was, she thought, the kind of man who was accustomed to catching women's eyes, regardless of their sexual orientation. "I hear you and Rory are going to be working together," he said. "About time she had someone with a bit of sense to temper her wilder excursions."

"And you think I'm that person?" She could only think that Giles had somehow managed to avoid some of her more legendary exploits.

"Absolutely. You've been there, done that, sold the T-shirt at a charity auction. Nobody knows better than Splash Gordon the kind of trouble a journalist can get into before she loses her idealism. So it seems to me that there's no better brake on Rory's excesses than someone who understands the dangers they can lead to."

It was, she thought, charmingly put. But before she could respond, her phone rang. "Excuse me," she said, picking it up. "Lindsay Gordon."

"Ciao, bella. It's Giulia."

"Wow, that was quick. I take it that means you have an answer for me?"

"Vero. I don't think it's the one you want to hear, however. The freelance I contacted managed to track down Cavadino's mother. The family owns a caf¨¦ on the road from Colle Val d'Eisa to Grosseto. He got the mother into conversation, and the kid's definitely not there. The old lady was complaining about never seeing her grandchildren, especially the one in England."

"Scotland," Lindsay corrected automatically. She sighed. "Never mind. You did your best."

"I'm not finished," Giulia protested. "My boyfriend's sister-in-law, Lucia, works in the personnel department of the Foreign Ministry. I didn't want to say anything before, in case she couldn't help, but now I can boast about it." She gave her trademark giggle, a breathy sound that always reminded Lindsay uncomfortably of Jennifer Tilly in Bound. "Cavadino has a sister. She is married to another diplomat, a former colleague of her brother's. Apparently, sister and brother are very close."

"And where is the sister based?" Lindsay asked eagerly.

"According to Lucia, Maria Padovani is with her husband. He's the commercial attach¨¦ at the St Petersburg consulate."

"St Petersburg? As in Russia?"

"Vero."

"Why there? Isn't the embassy in Moscow?"

"Sure. But everybody has a consulate in St Petersburg. All that shipping, you know? They have to maintain a presence to look after their commercial interests. Not to mention all those sailors who get into trouble ashore."

"Of course, I wasn't thinking. So, what's the score with Maria Padovani? Is the boy there?"

"Lucia said she was checking visa status for dependants. According to the person she spoke to in the consulate, the Padovanis applied for a multi-entry diplomatic visa for their nephew soon after they arrived in Russia. They were claiming him as a dependant.

Apparently the line was that his father wasn't able to look after him and he had asked them to take charge of the boy. But they don't live in the residence, so nobody really knew if the boy was there or not. Sounds like Cavadino has been planning this for a while, no?"

"He certainly set it all up well in advance," Lindsay said. "I'll have to see what I can find out about the St Petersburg end of things. Thanks a million, Giulia. I owe you."

"You can pay me in Frascati in Rome."

"It's a deal." Lindsay hung up and gave Giles an apologetic look. "Sorry about that. A story I'm working on."

"With a St Petersburg connection?" he asked. "I'm not fishing, just interested," he added hastily, seeing Lindsay's look of suspicion. "I went there last year with Julia, my wife. She's an MEP, had to go there on some fact-finding mission about Russian education and I managed to ride her coat-tails. Marvellous city."

"I've never been."

"You should go, before the Russians get the hang of mass tourism and it gets ruined."

I could end up there sooner than you imagine, she thought wryly. "I don't suppose you've got any contacts there?" she asked without much hope that serendipity would weigh in on her side.

He shook his head. "Not journalists, no. I got quite pally with a chap from the British Council. He does a lot of liaison work with the local schools and colleges, which is why we ended up spending quite a bit of time with him."

A faint glimmer of an idea flickered at the edge of Lindsay's brain. "Do you think he might be up for a bit of intrigue?"

Giles laughed. "Probably. British Council bureaucracy doesn't exactly make for an interesting life. I expect he'd be terribly grateful for a bit of excitement. Do you want me to call him?"

In reply, Lindsay handed him her phone.

"You don't mess about, do you?" he said, amused. He looked up a number on his electronic organizer then dialled it. "Hello? Is that Gareth? Gareth, it's Giles Graham here. Julia's husband. How are things with you?" He listened politely for a minute. "Oh, we're both fine," he continued. "Listen, Gareth, a colleague of mine has a need for a little clandestine information gathering in your fair city. And I wondered if you'd be willing to help her?... I'm not entirely sure, but I suspect it's not the sort of thing she could put through official channels... You would? Hang on, I'll pass you over to her."

He handed the phone to Lindsay with a wink. "I think you'll be OK there."

"Hello? Gareth, my name's Lindsay Gordon. I really appreciate you talking to me."

"No problem," he said, his Geordie accent immediately obvious. "A change is as good as a holiday round here. If I can do anything to help, I will."

"Great. This is all a bit delicate, and I don't want to drop you in it professionally, so it's probably better if I don't go into the reasons why I need this information. Are you OK with that?" Lindsay's voice was warm and persuasive, honed over years of persuading the reluctant to talk.

"I suppose so," he said dubiously. "It's not anything illegal, is it?"

"No, of course not. I just don't want to put you in an embarrassing position."

"So what is it you want to know?"

"I'm trying to track down a six-year-old boy. I think he might be in St Petersburg and, if he is, I'm sure he'll be going to school. He's a native English speaker, which I guess would narrow the options down quite a bit. I wondered if you could maybe let me have a list of places he could possibly be enrolled?"

"That's it? That's all you want to know? No problem. Let me make a couple of calls. Can you ring me back tomorrow on this number? Make it around the same time, if you can."

Lindsay punched the air and gave Giles the thumbs-up. "That's great, Gareth. I really appreciate this."

"Like I said, no problem. You tell Giles, next time he comes, he owes me a bottle of Bowmore."

Lindsay ended the call, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction. "Giles, you are a prince among men. That espresso is on me."