“How could I let you know? It’s not as if I went away without a word. The whole point of me leaving the country was so the security forces would get off my back. I knew they’d be tapping your phone and checking your mail. The last thing I wanted was for you to have to suffer even more because of my pig-headed principles.” Lindsay stood staring defiantly at Cordelia’s naked body. She wasn’t going to give in, she wasn’t, she kept telling herself. She shook her head. “I think it’s too late,” she sighed. “I think it’s too late for both of us. I’m sorry, Cordelia. But you turned your back on me when you started living with Claire. Now I’m turning my back on you. Sophie has made me feel good for the first time in months. And I don’t believe any more that loving more than one person is a good thing multiplied. It’s not. It’s a good thing divided.”

“But we need each other,” Cordelia pleaded. “Don’t be so stubborn. You know we belong together. Sophie can’t give you what I can. Sophie won’t be any use to you trying to track down a killer. Sophie doesn’t know the way your mind works. She won’t put up with your crazy working routines, all those unexplained absences.” Her face was flushed and angry, her straight brows twisted in a frown.

“At least Sophie’s loyal. Sophie never made a pass at me while she was still living with Helen, or while I was with you.”

Cordelia flushed a deeper scarlet. “You’d better go,” she said softly.

“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said today,” Lindsay replied. “I’m sorry it had to end like this, Cordelia.”

The cliché was still ringing in her ears as she stumbled blindly from the flat and ran through the streets to her car. It was fully five minutes before the shaking in her hands subsided enough for her to drive the car safely. Lindsay drove back to the flat like a maniac, desperate to shut the door on the world and lose herself in drink.

13

Once the emotional storm had abated, Lindsay found herself ravenous. Cursing Cordelia, she fixed herself a bacon sandwich. “Damned if I’m going to let her interfere with this job,” she muttered as she slung her dirty plate into the sink. Fired with anger and energy, she grabbed the phone and rang Ruth Menzies at her gallery. “It’s Lindsay Gordon, Ruth,” she announced. “I’d really like to get together with you and Antonis. Are you free tomorrow evening for dinner?”

Ruth was instantly flustered by the positive approach, which was what Lindsay had banked on. “Well, I . . . em . . . there’s nothing in the diary, and Antonis hasn’t said anything about . . .”