he flat was clearly off limits now for Michael and Kevin. Everybody who lived in Kinghorn Drive would come under suspicion, everyone would be questioned, and it would only be a matter of time before the police got round to finding out about the two Irishmen in the vacant flat. Chances were that the estate agent would already have put two and two together and volunteered the details of his own venal stupidity.

This left Michael with the problem of how to carry out Patrick's orders without taking too many risks. He'd stayed out of jail throughout the Troubles simply because he was good at figuring out the odds and staying on the right side of them. He wasn't about to change his ways now. And so his first move had been to send Kevin back to the B&B to await further instructions.

It had been easy enough for a while after Bernadette had returned. There were plenty of sightseers for him to blend in with. But the gawkers had thinned out now. Probably away home for their tea, like good wee civilians, he thought with contempt. However, their desire to fill their bellies didn't help him one whit. Eventually, he'd called Patrick and made a suggestion.

So when Lindsay was picked out of the pack and shown through a front door he'd become all too familiar with, Michael was standing only yards away from her, a camera round his neck and a camera bag at his feet. He hadn't known the lad who had delivered the equipment to him on the corner of Great Western Road, but he supposed it had cost Patrick a bob or two to kit him up with something good enough to pass muster as a press photographer's gear.

It was the perfect disguise. Nobody gave him a second look. In the clannish world of news journalism, strangers stayed that way until and unless they made themselves one of the crowd. If you wanted to stay aloof, fine. All it meant was that you would be cut out of any sharing the pack decided to do with what meagre pickings they'd got.

He couldn't believe it when Lindsay materialized in front of him, carving a line through the crowd and walking straight in. He knew from what he'd read in the paper that she'd been at the heart of the operation to recover Jack Gourlay from his kidnappers. He didn't think Patrick would be pleased to find her in the thick of it again.

Michael walked a few yards away from the crowd and called Patrick. Quickly, he outlined what he'd just seen.

"Fucking bitch," Patrick grumbled. "We're nearly done here. I don't want outsiders interfering. This isn't the time for playing games."

"So what do you want me to do?"

There was a pause. "Follow her when she comes out. Persuade her to keep her nose out of our business."

"How persuasive would you like me to be?"

"She's a woman. They frighten easily. What happened this morning should be enough to keep her mouth shut, provided you give her a little encouragement."

The phone went dead. Michael allowed himself a small smile. It would be a pleasure.

Sophie locked her office door with a sense of relief. It had felt like the longest day of her life, and all she wanted to do was go home, unplug the phones and try to make up for some of the sleep she'd lost the night before, tossing and turning and crying over someone who simply wasn't worth it.

She'd almost made it to the lift when she heard her secretary call her name. Sophie thought about pretending she hadn't heard, but couldn't bring herself to be so rude. Lucy was hurrying towards her with a hand-tied bouquet of yellow roses. My favourite, damn you, Lindsay. "These have just come, Professor Hartley. I thought you'd want to take them home with you." She thrust the flowers eagerly at her boss.

Sophie's first reaction was to stuff the flowers in the fire bucket. But that would only provoke more departmental gossip than the bouquet itself. She forced a tired smile and accepted the offering. "Thanks, Lucy. See you in the morning." She struggled to press the call button for the lift, but Lucy reached past her and helped out.

"There you go," she said cheerfully. "You're obviously a very lucky lady," she added.

"Sorry?"

"The flowers. Somebody must think a lot of you. A dozen roses. That's special." Lucy sketched a wave and headed back down the corridor.

Not special enough, Sophie thought grimly. She'd half-expected to be showered with phone calls, even to see Lindsay waiting hangdog outside her office when she'd arrived that morning, but there had been nothing. She wasn't sure how to interpret that. On the rare occasions when they rowed, Lindsay always went over the top when it came to mending fences, as enthusiastic for reconciliation as she was for everything else she cared about. Did her silence mean she was secretly relieved to have found a fire escape from parenthood and Sophie? Or was it that she realized that this was one time where she had overstepped the mark so utterly that all normal routes to appeasement were shut off? Or was she simply too busy having fun with Rory?

Sophie ripped open the envelope stapled to the cellophane. Reading Lindsay's words, she couldn't resist either the half-smile or the prickle of tears that accompanied them. "You are an asshole," she said softly.

She wasn't ready to forgive. Not by a very long way. But for the first time since Lindsay's admission had slashed at her heart, Sophie was prepared to consider that forgiveness might be a remote possibility.

Lindsay walked along Great Western Road in the gathering shadows of early evening, oblivious to the traffic flowing past her in a stuttering stream. Her head was whirling with questions and options, trying to process the full implications of what Bernie had told her. She had the vague glimmerings of an idea that might just get them all off the hook, but it was a long way from something that could be graced with the term "plan".

Without thinking, she took the turn that would bring her back home. She was twenty yards down the street when she remembered that this wasn't home any longer. Lindsay groaned out loud and turned on her heel, marching back the way she'd come, crossing over to cut through the Botanic Gardens to Rory's flat. That was another thing she was going to have to deal with. She couldn't keep staying at Rory's. It had been almost possible before she'd found that poem. But knowing the truth about Rory's feelings had changed everything.

Head down, preoccupied with enough troublesome thoughts to occupy half a dozen heads, Lindsay turned into the entry for Rory's close. As she opened the door, she suddenly heard running feet behind her. Lindsay swivelled to see what was going on.

Two men emerged from the shadows of the trees that shrouded the street. They were going so fast when they hit her that they barged her into the mouth of the close, the door banging shut behind them. Before she could react, they had crowded her against the inside wall. In the dim light, she could tell them apart. One was small and ferrety, the other looked about as friendly as a peregrine falcon who's just spotted breakfast. The ferret stepped back and brought his fist crashing into her stomach. As she doubled over with the pain, Lindsay felt him grab her hair and yank her head back, cracking it against the cool tiles of the wall.

Lazily, the falcon let her see the blade of his knife before he placed the point in the hollow of her throat. She could feel something trickle, but had no idea if it was sweat or blood. Lindsay knew all about fear. And this, she understood, was one of those times when being scared shitless was the only sensible option. When he spoke, his voice was the nasal drawl of Belfast. "We've got a wee message for ye, bitch."

Terrified as she was, she couldn't bring herself to be craven. "That would be from Patrick?" she managed to croak.

The falcon withdrew the knife and for a split second she thought she'd won some ground. But he nodded to the ferret, who smashed his fist into her stomach again. She felt as if her lungs had shot into her throat and she fell into a spasm of retching and coughing, limp as a sleeping child in the ferret's grasp. Her head swam and she lost track of time for a few seconds. When she tuned in again, the falcon's knife was at her throat once more.

"Like I said, we've got a wee message for you. Keep away from Bernadette and the boy. Or else you'll get what Gourlay got. Only more slowly."

Suddenly, the door behind them opened. Through the groggy haze of pain, Lindsay recognized Rory's familiar silhouette. Before she could shout a warning, Rory dropped her shoulder bag and screamed, "Police officer! Drop the knife!"

Taken by surprise, the falcon's knife hand shifted away from Lindsay's neck. From a standing start, Rory took a flying karate kick at him, screeching like a demented Amazon. She connected mid-thigh and, caught off balance, he tumbled to the ground, his knife clattering into the shadows.

In the confusion, the ferret released Lindsay and turned to make a move on Rory, whose momentum had taken her beyond him. As he moved towards her, she feinted to one side, then dropped into a forward roll, knocking his feet from under him. He crashed to the ground howling as Rory righted herself and landed a kick in his ribs.

Lindsay couldn't stand up any longer and she crumpled to the ground as the falcon tried to get at Rory. His feet tangled in her legs and he crashed into the wall of the close. "Jesus," he swore, spinning round and heading for the door. "Fucking come on," he yelled, yanking the door open and making for the street. The ferret hobbled after him.

"Fucking bitches, the pair of ye," he shouted as he made the safety of the street.

Panting, Rory crouched down beside Lindsay. "Are you all right?"

"No. But I'd be a lot worse if you hadn't turned up." Her final words were swallowed in a paroxysm of retching coughs. Rory cuddled her close, stroking her sweating forehead.

"That wasn't a mugging, was it?" she asked gently.

"No, it was a warning."

Rory tried to keep the jagged edge of fear out of her voice. "Just as well I did the women's self-defence course, eh?"

Lindsay nodded weakly. "Police officer? Smart move."

"I thought so."

"Do you think we could go upstairs?"

Rory thrust her shoulder under Lindsay's armpit and helped her struggle to her feet. "I suppose it would be too much to hope that those two Neanderthals were Sophie's hired muscle?"

In spite of herself, Lindsay choked out a laugh. "Oh God, if only."

Lindsay lay on the sofa, swathed in Rory's fluffy bathrobe, her hair damp from the bath. On the table in front of her stood a bottle of whisky and a jug of water, flanked by two glasses. Lindsay wanted a drink, but she knew it would hurt too much to reach for the glass. She'd been on the receiving end of violence before, but that didn't make it any easier to deal with. Fear kept reverberating through her, as she knew it would for days, maybe weeks to come. A dark street would make her sweat until she managed to replace its connotations with something more powerful, more pleasurable. But that was in the future. For now, she had to cope with the flashbacks and the palpitations that came with them.

"And I still say you've got to walk away from it," Rory said firmly as she returned from the kitchen with a plate of sandwiches.

"And let that murdering bastard get his hands on Jack? It'd be signing Bernie's death warrant. My way is the only way to make sure Patrick doesn't come after the kid. Plus he might just get the idea that he'd be a lot safer if I was off the planet too. So I've got to do it. And I need help."

Rory shook her head. "He wouldn't come after you." There was no conviction in her voice.

"How can you say that after what happened this evening? Rory, this guy blew up Tam Gourlay in the middle of a residential street in the morning rush hour for the sole reason that he was pissed off with the man. If he thought I could finger him, he wouldn't think twice. So are you going to help me or not?"

"Lindsay, I want to help. But I'm a journalist, not an urban guerrilla."

"Have you got any better ideas?"

Rory shook her head.

"Look, forget I asked, OK? I'll work something out. And pass me that whisky, would you?"

Rory picked up Lindsay's glass and perched on the sofa arm next to her. "OK, I'll help. I can't let you do this by yourself."

"Can't let me?" Lindsay was only half-joking.

"The shape you're in, I can afford to call the shots." Rory stroked the back of Lindsay's neck tenderly. "Hey, what's life without a few risks?"

"You can afford to say that, you won the lottery. This is worth doing, you know. You won't regret it. I promise."

"I have a feeling you've used that line before," Rory said. "Bet it wasn't true then, either. The one thing that still bothers me - apart from my new career as accessory to blackmail - is that it's not just you and me that's involved here."

"Bernie won't be a problem. She'll do anything to keep Jack safe." Lindsay shifted along the sofa, wincing, then patted the cover beside her. "Come and give me a cuddle. But gently," she added apprehensively as Rory slid over the edge of the arm to bounce on to the seat.

"If this is going to work, we need another body," Rory pointed out a few minutes later.

"I know. Anybody in mind?"

"I know just the man," Rory said.

"Does it have to be a man?"

"Don't tell me you're one of those lesbians that don't like men?" Rory teased.

"Oh, I like some of them fine," Lindsay said. "But I wouldn't trust them to hold the dog while I went for a pee."

"Well, I trust Giles."

"Giles Graham?" Lindsay said incredulously. "You've got to be joking. He'd get his suit creased."

Rory shook her head. "You underestimate him. He used to be in the Territorial Army, you know."

"That's meant to be a recommendation?"

Rory snuggled into Lindsay's side, taking care to avoid the area she knew was going to be a multicoloured bruise by morning. "Giles is one of the good guys. Besides, he owes me. I know where the bodies are buried."

"An unfortunate metaphor," Lindsay said. "OK, Giles it is."

"So when are you thinking about swinging into action?"

Lindsay sipped her whisky and stared into the middle distance. "Not tomorrow. There's too much to get organized. The night after, I think. Bernie reckons she can stall Patrick until then, she'll tell him she can't get away from her police protection."

"Can you squeeze another twenty-four hours out of him?" Rory asked. "Only, I know Giles is going out of town tomorrow on a job. And we need time to make sure we know exactly how we're going to carry it off."

Lindsay considered. One more day wouldn't make any difference. Bernie could always plead fear and demand police protection for a bit longer. "I don't see why not. It'd give me more of a chance to recover. And I need to go up to Argyll before then."

Rory's curiosity was pricked. "You're not thinking about bringing your dad in on this?"

Lindsay shook her head. "No way. But there's something I need to sort out first."

"Tell," Rory demanded.

"No. A woman has to have some secrets, you know." ' Lindsay rumpled Rory's hair. "Thanks. For everything."

Rory snorted derisively. "What? For buggering up your life? You're going to have to talk to Sophie, you know. You've got to get things sorted out between you."

"What? Fed up of having me under your feet already?"

"Stop hiding behind facetiousness. You don't belong with me, you know that."

Lindsay took a slow, considering sip of her whisky. "It's not quite that simple, though, is it? We both know that in different circumstances..."

Rory pulled away and stood up, moving to the armchair opposite. "But we can only play the hand we've been dealt, Lindsay. And the bottom line is that you still love Sophie and that's too important to throw away for a maybe."

"I think it's already more than a maybe for us, don't you?"

Rory flinched, clearly uncomfortable with Lindsay's insight. "Look, I've been doing some thinking today. I don't think we should sleep together any more." Her eyes pleaded with Lindsay not to push for a reason.

But Lindsay couldn't close it there. "Why not?"

"It's not that I don't want to. I do, I really do, and that's the problem. If it were just a fling, just a shag, like it was supposed to be, that would be fine. But it's not. It has emotional content for us both. And so it's pointless, because your heart's still tied to Sophie, which is how it should be. And if I can't have everything, I don't want anything. Except your friendship. If that's still on offer." The words dragged out of Rory, words she'd never spoken before, and every one an effort.

They stared at each other for a long moment, both gripped by the inevitability of Rory's argument, both pierced by the poignancy of the decision that they knew they'd already taken. "Go and talk to her," Rory said softly. "Go and fix it."

"Maybe not tonight, eh? I'm feeling a wee bit fragile."

"Yes, tonight. You'll feel worse tomorrow, once those muscles have stiffened up. And it's not like you're going to get a good night's sleep, is it? Do it now, before you start figuring out another set of excuses. Besides, I've got some copy to write. I fronted Keillor up this afternoon. He tried to bluff his way out of it, but we've got more than enough to go with."

Lindsay managed a wan smile. "Well done. What a team, eh?"

Rory sighed. "Aye. What a team, right enough. So, come on, Splash, get some clothes on and go and see Sophie."

"There's no point, you know," Lindsay said, edging forward and working her way into a standing position.

"Of course there's a point. Apart from anything else, you need some clean knickers."