Less than an hour after she had left the prison, Lindsay was ensconced in the lawyer’s secretary’s office, plowing through a thick file of all the case papers relating to Alison’s murder. The police statements were interesting, as much for what they did not contain. They had been led straight to Jackie because of a name tape stitched into her scarf. In Jackie’s statement, she’d revealed that it was a scarf she’d had since schooldays, hence the presence of the faded tape. Once they had Jackie in custody, she’d been picked out of an identification parade with no hesitation by Alison’s mother, who had passed out cold as soon as she saw the woman she believed to be her daughter’s killer.

Because they were certain they had the murderer, and because they were convinced it was an open-and-shut case, the police had not pursued any other lines of inquiry with much vigor. Judging by the statements from Alison’s friends and colleagues, the questioning had been superficial in the extreme. By the time the papers had been passed on to the Procurator Fiscal for his decision as to whether there was enough for a successful prosecution, the case against Jackie looked overwhelming. And there were no other obvious suspects.

There was only one tiny piece of evidence which did not actually confirm Jackie’s guilt. On the bedside table there had been a high-ball glass containing the remains of a whisky and water. There was a smudged lip-print on the glass, and faint traces of fingerprints. Only one was clear enough for the forensic scientists to lift a usable print. But it did not match Jackie’s prints in any respect. Nor did it belong to Alison. They had half of a thumbprint from the glass, and the owner of that print was still unknown. Three hours later, that was still the only discrepancy that Lindsay could find in the case against Jackie. With a deep sigh, she closed the file and asked to see Jim Carstairs.

Lindsay was shown into a comfortable office, whose size was disguised by the piles of books, files, and loose papers stacked everywhere. “Come in, come in,” Carstairs greeted her. He was a tall, thin man in his early thirties, with narrow shoulders and bony wrists that stuck out of his fashionable double-breasted suit. “Sit down, sit down,” he added. “Sorry about the mess. The joiners have been promising to put my shelves up for months now, but they never appear. Now, how did you get on with the case papers?”

“They were heavy going,” Lindsay admitted. “And I have to say there’s not much there to lend support to the theory of Jackie’s innocence. Apart from one thing.”