Lindsay performed the dicing-with-death routine required of any driver attempting the first exit off the urban motorway south of the Kingston Bridge. “Shit,” she yelled, as she dodged a Ford Cortina seemingly hell-bent on suicide. Quarter to nine on a Friday morning was not the best time to negotiate the complexities of the motorway bridge, she decided as she swung down the spiraling exit ramp and on to the street below. But by making an early start, she hoped to catch Barry Ostler on the hop.

Sophie had been touching in her concern, without making Lindsay feel at all claustrophobic in the way that Cordelia sometimes had. “Be careful,” she had urged. “He might not be as gutless as Ian McIntosh. I spend enough time in hospitals as it is without having to visit you.”

Lindsay had put a brave face on it, dismissing Sophie’s fears. But she felt far from confident at the thought of confronting Ostler. But at least this time she was well-prepared, she thought as she drove through the south side streets lined with tenements. She had rung Helen the night before, driven by a vague recollection that she’d heard Ostler’s name linked to the Labour Party. Helen had been extremely useful, dredging her memory for a few snippets of gossip. “Barry Ostler’s a real scally,” she’d said. “He’s one of the rent-a-thugs on the right wing of the party. He’s been responsible for spreading several of the nastier rumors that have surfaced about the Left over the past few years. You remember when there was that big scandal a couple of years back about Gordon Graham’s expenses—the word then was that it was Ostler who broke into Gordon’s offices to steal his papers. There was never any proof, but no one was really in any doubt. A few press leaks have been traced back to him too. You know the kind of thing—stories that are essentially true but are twisted so that they sound like there’s something really nasty in the woodwork behind them. Barry Ostler’s idea of party democracy is that he and his pals make all the decisions and everybody else falls into line, or else.”

Interesting, Lindsay thought as she approached the area of Pollokshields where Ostler lived. She had no difficulty remembering his address, having dropped him off at home on both occasions they’d worked together. He preferred her to drive—that way he could drink all day without having to worry about being breathalyzed.