“We know one or two things about Miss Campbell too,” Fraser said flatly. “We know, for example, that she’s an active member of the Labour Party. Maybe she wanted this story to get out. I mean, what could be more damaging to the Tories?”

Lindsay stubbed out her cigarette angrily. “If Rosalind had wanted the story to get out, don’t you think she could have used her Labour Party contacts to leak it that way? She’s not stupid, she could have covered her tracks easily enough.”

“Maybe she wanted her flat redecorated on the insurance. Like I said, I’m not a psychologist. And all my years in the force have taught me that nine times out of ten, the obvious answer is the right one. You were on the spot. You had keys to the flat. And you’ve got the contacts to place that story,” Fraser summed up, ticking off the points on his short, thick fingers. “Either you start to cooperate, or I’m going to charge you.”

“Fine. At least that way I’ll get to see my lawyer.”

He smiled in a way that sent a chill down her spine. “Eventually. I wasn’t planning on charging you for a wee while yet. I’d like you to have every chance of showing your willingness to help us out.”

Fraser had backed her into a corner. She’d have to cooperate if she was to have any chance of getting home tonight. “Okay,” she said. “Thank you for finally telling me what all of this is about. I suppose I’d better keep my end of the bargain. I’ll answer your questions now.”

Fraser nodded. “Very wise. Let’s start from the beginning. When did you get the keys of the flat?”

“Rosalind gave them to me the night before the break-in.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t she explain that to you?”

“It’s you I’m asking. Why did she give you the keys?”

“I wanted to take a look at the block,” Lindsay said, aware of how feeble her story sounded.

“Thinking of buying a flat, are you?”

“No. A friend of mine was murdered there last year. I’ve been asked to make some inquiries relating to her death,” Lindsay said defensively.

“So you think the police didn’t manage to get the right person for Alison Maxwell’s murder?” Fraser demanded.

He’d done his homework, Lindsay thought. “Something like that,” she said.

“And you decided to come along on your white charger to show the woodentops how it should really be done, eh? I thought you said you were looking for the quiet life these days?”

Lindsay shrugged. “I’m just doing a favor for a friend, that’s all.”