The door inched open to reveal a sleepy looking young woman in a grubby dressing gown. “What is it?” she demanded grumpily.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Lindsay said. “But I was looking for Alex McNaught and I didn’t know which flat was his.”

“Flat 9,” the girl muttered crossly. “I wish they’d all put their bloody names on the bells,” she added as she moved to close the door.

“I’ll just come in, then,” Lindsay said, moving forward forcefully. “It’ll save Alex coming all the way down to open the door.”

“Please yourself,” the girl said with a shrug, moving back to allow Lindsay in. Before Lindsay could thank her, she retreated down the dim hallway and disappeared through a door at the far end.

Lindsay looked around her. The only light in the hall came from the dirty fan light above the door. Several doors opened off the hall, with cheap plastic numbers screwed to them. To her right was a rickety table with a scatter of mail in brown envelopes lying on it. She checked the letters, and soon spotted an unemployment benefit check addressed to McNaught. G-day, she thought happily. If he was expecting his Giro, he might well be in a reasonably good mood.

Ahead of her was a flight of stairs, surprisingly elegant in spite of its shabby carpet. Obviously a remnant of the house’s former glory, Lindsay thought as she climbed. On the first landing, there were three numbered doors, from six to eight, and two other doors labeled “toilet” and “bathroom.” The whole place was seedy and smelled of unidentifiable cooking odors, strongly reminiscent of her student days. She took a deep breath and climbed the second flight, narrower than the first. Five doors opened off the landing, four of which were numbered. Lindsay stepped up to the door of Flat 9 and knocked loudly.

For a moment there was silence, then she heard soft footsteps cross the room. “Who is it?” a voice nervously demanded.

“A friend,” Lindsay said, feeling foolishly like a player in a bad TV show.

“What friend?” came the suspicious response.

“I’ve got a proposition for you, Alex. A nice little earner. Barry Ostler sent me,” Lindsay tried, feeling no less foolish. She heard the lock turn, then the door opened on a chain.

A thin, frightened face appeared in the crack. “Who are you? What do you want with me?”

Obviously not the usual, Lindsay thought wryly. “I need to talk to you, Alex. Can we do it privately, or do you want the whole house to know your business?” she said with a smile.