“One moment please.” The electronic bleeps of the Cuckoo Waltz assaulted Lindsay’s ears for the best part of a minute. Then, abruptly, Kimberley was back. “Sorry to keep you,” she breezed with no trace of regret. “Ms. Gordon, room 603 is not accepting any calls at this point in time, unless the caller is able to supply us with the name of room 603’s pet Labrador.”

“I’m sorry?” Lindsay exploded with a giggle. “Her pet Labrador?”

“That is correct. Are you in a position to supply us with the name in question?” Kimberley asked.

“Her black, two-year-old Labrador is called Mutton, as in Cockney rhyming slang, because when he was a puppy, you could scream yourself hoarse telling him not to do something and he wouldn’t take a blind bit of notice. Is that enough, Kimberley?” Lindsay said condescendingly.

“Thank you,” Kimberley said with a descending intonation. “Putting you through now.”

There was a click, a buzz, then Sophie’s wary voice. “Hello?”

“Taking a poor dumb animal’s name in vain,” Lindsay said. “I like it. Has it worked?”

“Like a charm. I haven’t had to speak to a single hack till now. Fortunately, the reception desk thought it was a great game. They’ve been wonderful. Where are you, sweetheart?”

“I’m about half a mile down the road from the hotel, with Jennifer Okido. Listen, how do you feel about going back to Glasgow tonight? If the hotel have been this accommodating about keeping the vultures at bay, they’d probably smuggle you out the back door and you could just slip into the car and we could shoot off.”

“That sounds like the best idea you’ve had this week,” Sophie said.

Twenty minutes later, Lindsay and Sophie waved their goodbyes to Jennifer Okido. Sophie started the car and said, “Before we go, we need to eat. At least, I do. I was waiting for you to get back before I hit room service.”

“There’s an Italian about half a mile down the hill. I noticed it the other morning. We should be far enough off the beaten track to avoid the other delegates.”

“What about the world’s press?” Sophie asked.

“Are you kidding? They’re staked out in a place with a bar and sandwich service. You won’t get them shifting till tomorrow lunchtime,” Lindsay snorted.

As they tucked into a tomato and mozzarella salad, Sophie said, “By the way, there was a message for you back at the hotel. The people you got to do the search for Ian’s will? They’ve got a copy of it, and they want to know where to fax it or send it.”

“That’s it?” Lindsay asked in dismay. “No details?”

“Oh yes. Simple will, one beneficiary. Laura Margaret Craig.”