She thought her ears would drop off by the time Claire emerged from the building. She turned in the opposite direction and walked briskly up the street. Lindsay followed her, breaking into a run to catch up. Claire stopped on the corner, waiting for the lights to change, and Lindsay grabbed her arm.

“What the . . .?” Claire demanded, wheeling round to face Lindsay. “How dare you! I thought I made it perfectly clear that I never want to see you again! Let go of my arm!”

“We need to talk,” Lindsay informed her.

“We have nothing to say to each other,” Claire retorted, shaking loose and heading across the street at a brisk pace.

Lindsay hurried after her. “Look, you hired me to do a job. Last night, you marched off before I could finish that job. But I’ve got solid evidence that will prove that Jackie didn’t kill Alison Maxwell. If you care a damn about her, you’ll listen to me.”

When she reached the other pavement, Claire stopped. “All right,” she snapped. “I’ll give you five minutes. No more.”

“Can we get out of this wind?” Lindsay asked, gesturing toward a nearby café bar.

Claire nodded and followed her in. They found a table near the door and sat down, not bothering to order drinks. “All right, Lindsay,” Claire said. “What have you got? And let me tell you that after last night, it had better be good.”

Without saying a word, Lindsay handed her the printout and a photocopy of the letter. As Claire read them, all color drained from her face, leaving her an ugly shade of gray, with patches of blusher standing out on her cheeks like clown’s makeup. “The originals are with Jim Carstairs. What he’s doing now is checking Cordelia’s prints against the thumbprint on the glass from Alison’s flat. Alex was right, you see. It was Cordelia he saw leaving the flat that day.”

“I don’t believe you,” Claire croaked. “Cordelia isn’t a plagiarist, or a murderer. You of all people must know that. You’ve set her up. You’ve done all this just to frame her. What a cheap trick, Lindsay. My God, are there no lengths you won’t go to, to get your own back on Cordelia?”

“Claire, stop it! You’re kidding yourself. I don’t blame you, I couldn’t believe it either. But how on earth could I have done this? How could I forge a letter with a September postmark from Zimbabwe? The handwriting on the envelope is identical to this. I know you don’t want to believe she’s a killer. But at the very least, she’s got some questions to answer. She lied to all of us about Alison.”