She peered down at Lindsay without stooping. “Ms. . . . Gordon, was it?”

Lindsay nodded. “Catriona Polson?”

“That’s me. When you say you represent Meredith Miller, in what capacity are we talking here?” Her voice was firm and clipped, her accent straight out of a girls’ school story.

Wishing she had a discreet card saying, “Private Investigator,” Lindsay said, “I think it would be better if we conducted our business in private.”

Catriona frowned. “I’m not at all sure we have any business. All I know about you is that you perpetrated a time-wasting hoax on my company and you claim to ‘represent’ someone who is not one of our clients and who, as far as I am aware, has nothing to do with publishing.”

It was hard not to feel intimidated by the whole package. Lindsay struggled to maintain any sense of control over the confrontation. Just then, the outside door opened and a middle-aged man in a leather jacket came in. Shit or bust, she thought, dredging up an ancient memory of an interview with a private eye. “I’m a legal agent acting on Ms. Miller’s behalf,” she said firmly. “I’m trying to conduct this matter discreetly, but if you prefer to discuss business matters in the lobby, that’s fine by me. You are Penny Varnavides’ literary executor and my client is her residuary legatee. My client wants to know what exactly . . .”

Before Lindsay could say more, Catriona had stepped back and was holding the door open for her. “This way,” she said, her voice ten degrees frostier than the air conditioning.

Once she’d ushered Lindsay inside, Catriona stepped in front of her and led the way down a corridor lined with framed book covers. A couple were prize-winning Penny Varnavides Darkliners titles. At the end of the corridor was another steel and wood door which led into a small boardroom. The table and the chair frames were the now familiar ashen wood. Lindsay began to wonder if they’d taken over the offices from some failed financial consultancy. More book covers lined the walls, interspersed with author photographs. Penny was still there, in the center of one of the side walls. Catriona walked determinedly to one end of the table and sat down, stretching her long legs in front of her and crossing them neatly at the ankles. “So,” she said. “Why are you really here?”

Lindsay pulled out a chair a couple of seats away from her and sat down. “What makes you think I’m not here to talk about your executorship?”

“Pointless before probate’s granted,” she said dismissively.

“So why march me in here?”

“When people waltz into my office intent on causing trouble, I prefer not to give them the satisfaction of an audience.” She dug into a pocket of her skirt and pulled out a packet of the mild cigarettes Lindsay had only ever smoked when she was kidding herself she was about to give up. As she lit one, she kept an eye on Lindsay. “So who are you, and what are you really doing here?”