“I see . . .” Lindsay mused.

“I thought you’d be interested. He’s just written a fairly pedestrian paper on combating postpartum infection, which is actually very relevant to my work, so I rang him up and suggested we meet for a drink,” Sophie continued.

“Well done! When?”

“This evening. Half past six in The Cricketers. If I can make a suggestion?” Sophie asked tentatively.

“Please do. I need all the help I can get.”

“Why don’t you arrive about five to seven? Then I can introduce you. You can give me some spurious phone message, from Helen or someone, asking me to call her between seven and half past. Then I can slope off to the phone and you can do your Perry Mason bit with him. How does that sound to you?”

“Sophie, you are a star. I couldn’t have plotted it better myself. I owe you one.”

“I’ll collect later,” Sophie replied, her voice heavy with innuendo.

“It’ll be my pleasure.”

“Mine too, I hope. See you in The Cricketers.”

“Yes. And Sophie—thanks.” Lindsay switched the phone off and grinned, delighted that Sophie had so swiftly proved Cordelia wrong. So much for her insistence that Sophie would be of no use in a murder inquiry! She checked with her copy of Alison’s list and found the dates referring to the man they believed to be Ian McIntosh. Interestingly, Alison had made a passing reference to him around the time of her operation. But they hadn’t actually become lovers till a few weeks after her follow-up appointment. So technically, she had no longer been a patient when she had started sleeping with him. Lindsay wondered fleetingly how the General Medical Council would view that. When did a patient stop being a patient, as far as disciplinary matters are concerned? Could he have been struck off for his affair with Alison?

No point in cooking a meal now, Lindsay thought. She’d treat Sophie to a takeaway after they’d seen McIntosh. Then they could switch off the phones and forget about Alison Maxwell for a while. She’d tell Sophie about Cordelia’s futile seduction attempt, and show her that last night had been more than a desperate search for comfort. Feeling pleased with herself, Lindsay ran a hot bath and soaked in it for an hour while she read a new crime novel she’d found on Sophie’s shelves. As she skimmed forward to check the ending, it amused her that she had spotted the murderer eighty pages before the detective did. If only real life were so simple!