Claire shrugged doubtfully. “I suppose so. Well, Lindsay, what other little jobs do you have for me?”

“There’s one I’ve marked on the last page. ‘Davina’s Duck. Wonder when he’s going to settle his account? I told him I’d make him pay for flaunting her under my nose, and I meant it. 7.1.’ Mean anything to you?”

Claire nodded slowly. “Davina and Donald Mottram, I suspect. Donald’s an accountant with Porterhouse’s. Davina was very into the arts. I’ve seen them at a few openings and parties where Alison was too. But they split up a few weeks ago. Davina ran off with Bill Herd the ethnologist to some South Pacific island. I wonder if that had anything to do with Alison’s death?”

“One way to find out,” Lindsay said. “I know Donald Mottram slightly. Rosalind went out with his brother once. I can check that one out. Next is ‘Macho the Knife. Brought his work into the bedroom. All that was missing were the stirrups to stir me up.’ He didn’t score too well, either. A mere 5. And she makes a snide remark later about his wife having to nurse his ego, which might mean he’s married to a nurse. He sounds like a gynecologist to me. And one of their encounters took place at GWI, which I take to be the Western Infirmary. I’ll ask Sophie if she can think of anyone there who might fit the bill. But I’ve saved the best—or the worst, depending on your point of view—till last. Look at the one I’ve highlighted in blue.”

“‘Greek God. She’ll never sell a work of art that wonderful. 8.4,’” Cordelia read out.

“That’s the one. It can only refer to Antonis Makaronas,” Lindsay said.

“Who is . . .?” Claire asked.

“Ruth Menzies’ husband. Ruth was Alison’s best friend. Ruth runs an art gallery off Byres Road. They live in the flat above Alison’s. And as you’ll no doubt remember, at Jackie’s trial, Ruth gave evidence that she was in the flat that afternoon. I don’t know if Antonis was at home, or how long Ruth claims she was there for. Ruth met Antonis a couple of years ago when she was on a business trip in Greece. He was a self-styled writer playing bouzouki in a taverna to make ends meet. It was love at first sight, at least on Ruth’s side. They were married days later and Ruth came home with a suntan and a husband. She supports them both while he supposedly is writing the Great European Novel. Except that it now looks like he was running his fingers over Alison rather than a word processor keyboard. It’s got to be one hell of a motive for both of them. If I was a gambling woman, I’d be giving very short odds on one of that pair as my chief suspect.”