“Thanks,” Lindsay acknowledged curtly. “Starting in reverse order. The very last entry is one I am completely confounded by. ‘The political hot potato. With what I can prove, it won’t be long now. Let’s hope for some originality between the sheets!’ I haven’t the faintest idea who that refers to. But then, it’s three years since I spent any time with Alison. It’s unlikely that I would know.”

“It looks as if it’s someone she hadn’t actually slept with yet, since there’s no rating,” Cordelia chipped in.

“You could be right,” Lindsay agreed reluctantly. “What I propose, Claire, is that if you don’t understand any of these references either, I’ll discuss them with Jackie to see if she’s got any ideas.”

Claire nodded. “I can’t imagine that many of them would mean much to me, but I’ll certainly try to help. But what about your former colleagues at the Clarion? Surely they might have a better idea?”

“I’d already thought of that,” Lindsay said. “It’s a distinct possibility, which I’ve got covered. I don’t want to raise your hopes, though. Anyone who was having an affair with Alison at the time of her death has had plenty of time to cover their tracks, don’t forget. Now, if we could get started? ‘Ali and his technicolor dream ceiling. He’s starting to feel too secure. Time his cage was rattled a little. 6.3.’ I rather think that might refer to Alistair Anderson.”

“The painter?” Claire asked, surprise showing in her blue eyes.

“That’s right. He was an old buddy of Alison. She used to use him as a public escort when she needed a man on her arm. He painted the mural on her bedroom wall, and he did one on Ruth and Antonis’ ceiling. Their sexual relationship was still current.”

Claire shook her head, bemused. “I know Alistair. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Unless . . .”

“Unless what?” Cordelia demanded, settling herself down on the sofa next to Claire and reaching out for her hand.

“Unless someone was trying to stop him painting, I suppose.”

“If you know him, why don’t you see what you can do by way of checking him out?” Lindsay said. “I only ever met him once at a party, so I’ve no excuse for talking to him, really.”

“How on earth do I do that?” Claire asked. “I thought that’s what I was paying you for.”

“It would be easy,” Cordelia interjected, seeing Lindsay’s angry flush and knowing how near an explosion was. “Don’t forget, Claire, I know Lindsay’s methods,” she added lightly. “We could invite him round for dinner, work the conversation round to Alison’s death, and ask him if he remembers what he was doing at the time, all very casually, a bit like the ‘what were you doing when Kennedy was shot’ conversation.”