After the call, Lindsay checked out her clothes. If Donald Mottram was the ladies’ man she took him for, she might just get under his guard with the fluttery female act. Desperately, she searched through her bags. There was nothing there that would remotely fit the bill. Cursing under her breath, she ran through to Sophie’s room and opened the wardrobe. They were near enough the same size, though Sophie was taller, and Sophie had always had impeccable taste in clothes. Unlike me, thought Lindsay, choosing a smart red woollen dress with matching shoes. She pulled open the top drawer of the dressing table and hastily applied some eyeshadow and mascara. Thank God she still had the healthy remains of her Italian tan! She surveyed herself in the mirror, far from happy with the overall effect. “Relax, you’re looking good,” she muttered, trying to convince herself.

Precisely half an hour later, Lindsay was shown into Donald Mottram’s businesslike office. The walls were covered with gray hessian shot with apricot and cream, their sole decoration a moody photograph of a blood-red sun setting over the Glasgow skyline. The yuppies really are here to stay, she thought moodily. As she entered, Donald Mottram rose from a gray leather swivel chair and extended his hand across a wide gray desk. He was quite short, but stocky, with shoulders and chest that looked bulky inside his smart business suit. His short black hair clung to his head in tight black curls shot with gray. His strong-featured face reminded Lindsay of a prize bull. “Miss Gordon,” he said. “I’m delighted to meet you. Do have a seat.”

Lindsay settled into a deep gray leather armchair, took a deep breath, and told a white lie. “I think we’ve met before, actually,” she said. “At one of Ruth Menzies’ private views? Alison Maxwell introduced me to you and your wife.”

The muscles of his jaw tightened momentarily, but he managed to smile and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t remember. One meets so many people at these dos. Now, what can I do for you?”

Lindsay launched into an account of her chaotic finances while Mottram made careful notes on a foolscap pad. At the end of her recital, he put his pen down and smiled. “Well, Miss Gordon, I don’t foresee too many problems with this. If you can let me have the necessary paperwork by the end of the week, I’ll get your accounts formally prepared.”

“Thank you so much,” Lindsay said, carefully crossing her legs and swinging her foot in its red stiletto, wishing she had Sophie’s long legs. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you. It’s been preying on my mind. Then I remembered Alison saying you were the best tax accountant in Glasgow, and if I ever needed help I should come to you.”

Mottram gave a smug smile. “We aim to please,” he said.