“You must think my head’s full of mince, not brains,” Lindsay said, moving toward the door.

“No! Wait a minute,” Ostler said, sagging back into his chair like a deflated balloon. “I’ll tell you. It came from a lad called Alex McNaught. He’s a rent boy, hangs about on the meatracks down Blythswood Square. I met him on a story I was doing a few months back. I thought he was a pretty smart cookie, so I told him to stay in touch. He brought the papers to me late on Monday afternoon.”

“You’re seriously expecting me to believe that a rent boy was smart enough to spot the implications of a bundle of Scottish Office papers? You sure you weren’t there with him, turning the place over?” Lindsay asked sarcastically.

“Who are you accusing of burglary? What do you take me for?” Ostler demanded self-righteously.

“I’d rather not answer that, Barry, if you don’t mind. So where do I find him?”

“I don’t know,” Ostler whined. “How the hell would I know?”

“You might know if you put him up to it,” Lindsay said shrewdly.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Lindsay, gie’s a break! I told you, I don’t know where he lives.” Lindsay noticed a sheen of sweat on his pasty features. A moment ago, she wouldn’t have believed it was possible for him to look less appealing. Now she knew different.

“You’ve told me a lot of lies this morning and it’s not even half past nine yet. Come on, Barry, I’m doing you a favor. Do me one,” Lindsay pressed.

“Some favor,” he muttered. “Okay, you win. He lives in Springburn. He’s got a bedsit there. I don’t know the exact address.”

“You can do better than that, Barry. How about some directions?”

Ostler sighed deeply. “You’re a hard bitch, Lindsay Gordon. Anyone ever tell you that? Up Springburn Road, first left after a pub called The Spring Inn. Second right and it’s the third or fourth house on the left. It’s got a blue door. Satisfied?”

“That better be good info, Barry. Or I’m down the road to the police first thing tomorrow. Cheerio then. It’s been nice seeing you again,” she threw over her shoulder as she made her way with relief out of the fetid atmosphere of Ostler’s flat.

“Aye, and I hope your next shite’s a hedgehog,” he called as she slammed the front door behind her.

Gleeful, she ran down the stairs. At last she had something positive to tell Rosalind! But what Ostler had told her hadn’t eliminated the possibility that the murder and the burglary were linked. Perhaps Alex McNaught was the connecting link. After all, Ian Mclntosh had hinted that Alison was into blackmail. What better source of compromising information than a rent boy?