“Not yet, but I’m working on it. Hopefully tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

Lindsay didn’t need to see Rosalind to sense her disappointment. “Don’t worry, it’s all under control,” she lied uncomfortably. “How were things at work?”

“Don’t ask. I feel like a haddock. By half past nine this morning, I was gutted, filleted, and battered. On a popularity rating of one to ten with my minister, I come around minus ninety-nine.”

“Poor you,” Lindsay sympathized. “Have you spoken to Harry yet? Do you know exactly what was taken?”

“I finally got hold of him about midnight last night. He’s in a hell of a state. You can imagine—he’s phoning me every hour to see if there’s any news. He’s convinced his perfect little world is going to come crashing round his ears any minute now. He’s going to try to get up here tomorrow, and he’ll want to have a chat with you. As to what’s missing—I was more or less right. There were photographs of various rent boys. And I don’t mean happy family snaps. There were a couple of letters from Tom. And Harry’s appointment card for the AIDS clinic and the counseling service. Luckily for him the tests were negative. But in the wrong hands, the combination of the pictures, the letters, and the very fact that he’s had the test makes for a very unpleasant conclusion.” There was a note of desperation in Rosalind’s voice that Lindsay found hard to reconcile with her normal cool control.

In response, she tried to fill her own voice with confidence and certainty. “Well, I’ll do everything I can. I should be able to find out where the Clarion’s story came from. Once I’ve got that sussed, then we can’t be too far away from our burglar.”

“I appreciate all you’re doing, Lindsay. Just make it as quick as you can, eh?”

“Will do. Listen, Ros, I need some more help on the Maxwell investigation . . .” Lindsay let her unspoken request hang in the air.

Rosalind sighed. “Sure. What can I do for you?”

“It’s all a bit delicate. I’m trying to track down the people Alison was sleeping with around the time of her death. I’ve got good reason to believe that one of them was Donald Mottram. Didn’t you go out with his brother a few years ago?”

“That’s right. Duncan and I were together for about six months . . . God, it must be four years ago now. But we’ve stayed vaguely in touch.”