“More fool Cordelia, then,” said Sophie consolingly. Privately, she thought Lindsay’s reaction to Cordelia’s new relationship was completely unreasonable, but she was too fond of her to say so yet. There would be plenty of time to thrash it out when Lindsay was feeling less raw. She tried to take her mind off the débâcle in Soutar Johnnie’s, saying, “But what about Jackie?”

Lindsay shrugged. “I don’t know. The fact that I’ve managed to dig out the truth a couple of times in the past doesn’t mean I’m some kind of private eye. You know, Sophie, I can’t seem to take it in that Alison’s dead. I mean, when I was having my own little fling with her, God knows I felt like strangling her often enough; but the difference between feeling like that and actually doing it . . . I can’t imagine what makes that possible. I suppose I feel like I’ve got a score to settle on Alison’s account, never mind Jackie. But I’m in such a mess about myself and my future that I don’t know how much use I’d be.”

Sophie ran a hand through her curly hair, a gesture Lindsay recognized from the days when the brown hadn’t been streaked with gray. “I know what you mean,” she said with feeling. “But you’re not committed to anything else right now, are you? And in spite of the way you’ve been putting yourself down ever since you saw Claire and Cordelia together, you’ve got a pretty good track record when it comes to discovering things that the police have missed or ignored. And there is one other aspect of it you might not have considered. If you can get Jackie released, it might well be enough to drive a wedge between Cordelia and Claire. That would at least give you the chance to find out if the two of you have still got a future together.”

Before Lindsay could reply, a booming Liverpool accent rang across the room. “Bloody skinflint, Hartley. Where’s the bottle? I suppose we’ll have to buy our own drinks?”

Lindsay swung round in her seat to see Helen Christie waving from the bar, her unmistakable mane of carrot-red hair glinting under the lights. Behind her, paying for a carafe of wine, was her fellow Sister of Treachery, Rosalind Campbell. As they came over to the table, Lindsay thought it was no wonder that they struck terror into their political opponents. They looked like a pair of Valkyries striding across the bar.

“My God,” Helen groaned as she subsided into a chair, after planting a cursory kiss on the top of Sophie’s head. “What a night we’ve had! That lot couldn’t organize an explosion in a fireworks factory!”