Lindsay pushed off from the door and dragged her weary body across what felt like miles of carpet, dragging Kirsten’s details up from the dim recesses of her mind. Freelance radio journalist. A few years younger than Helen, from somewhere in the West Country. They’d met at Pride two years before, had been living together around eighteen months. Sophie and Lindsay had missed meeting her on their last trip home because she’d been off covering some obscure opera festival. “Good to meet you at last,” Lindsay said, taking Kirsten’s hand and letting herself be drawn into a welcoming embrace.

“You look completely shattered,” Kirsten said sympathetically. “Come on through, have a drink, something to eat. Helen’s in the kitchen.”

Lindsay was past independent thought. She let Kirsten lead as they threaded a staggering path through the chaos of the living room into the kitchen.

Helen jumped to her feet and greeted Lindsay with a huge bearhug. “Hey, Linds, it’s great to see you, girl. And now you’ve met Kirsten in the flesh. Isn’t she drop dead gorgeous?” She took one arm away from Lindsay to draw Kirsten into the cuddle.

“Behave,” Kirsten protested. “You’re embarrassing me!”

“Impossible, you’re a journo. And she was one for too long to believe in the possibility of another hack getting a red neck over a compliment,” Helen teased. She stepped back, looking critically at Lindsay. “Where you been till this time? You look like last orders in the dyke bar. We were going to wait to eat till you came back, but we couldn’t hang on, we were starving. But there’s loads left,” she added, waving a vague arm at an array of foil takeaway cartons that covered half the available worktop space. “Just load up a plate and smack it in the video cooker.”

“I’m too tired to eat,” Lindsay said, disengaging herself from Helen’s arm and slumping into the nearest chair. “Thanks for letting me stay here. I really appreciate it.”

“I’m made up you’re here. I’d have been really brassed off if I’d found out you were staying some place else!” Helen opened a cupboard and took out a wine goblet, picked up a bottle of red that was sitting beside the pile of papers she was working on and glugged out a glassful. “Get yourself wrapped round that and tell me what you’ve been up to. Oh, by the way, Soph rang earlier. I don’t think you’re top of her Christmas card list right now.”

Lindsay took the glass and swallowed a mouthful of something that reminded her of a pit bull terrier—warm but with a bite that didn’t let go. “She want me to call her back?”

“She said she’d ring again.” Helen glanced at her watch. “In about half an hour. So what have you been up to? What’s going on? Soph said something about some friend of yours being murdered. What’s the score?”

“Helen,” Kirsten protested. “Let her get her second wind.”

“It’s okay, I’m used to her appalling manners,” Lindsay said.