The arrival of Cordelia’s flight was being announced as she ran up the escalator. She resisted the temptation to slip into the bar for a quick drink and headed for the Domestic Arrivals gate. She could see the first passengers in the distance as they walked up the long approach to the main concourse. They were only about twenty yards away when she spotted Cordelia. Then Cordelia was through the gate; without pause for thought, the two fell into each other’s arms and held on tight.

“You’ve heard, then?” asked Cordelia.

“Yes. Only just now, on the radio in the car.”

“I thought you would have heard at work.”

“No, I’ve been out on the road all day. Look, we can’t talk here. Let’s go back to my flat.”

Lindsay picked up the leather holdall which Cordelia had dropped when they met and led the way back to the car. Cordelia was silent till they were roaring back down the motorway. Then she said, “I’m not just here off my own bat. I did want to come up to see you because I know you love Paddy as much as I do, but I wouldn’t have had the nerve to do it without being prodded. Pamela Overton rang me not long after the police took Paddy away. She wanted to enlist your help, and mine, in trying to find out what really happened. Can you believe it? She put it perfectly, though—just enough flattery to pull it off. ‘With Miss Gordon’s talent for investigative journalism and your novelist’s understanding of human psychology, you might be able to ensure there is no miscarriage of justice.’ You see, she knows Paddy couldn’t have done it.”

“She’s got a way of making people do things, hasn’t she? I can’t imagine why she thinks we’ll be able to succeed where the police have made an absolute cock-up,” said Lindsay. She was focusing on the road ahead and talking about Pamela Overton, but her thoughts were on Cordelia and the nagging fear at the back of her mind.

“I suppose she thinks that our personal interest in Paddy will make us that bit sharper,” Cordelia replied. There was silence as they swung off the motorway on to the Dumbarton road. Lindsay pulled up alongside an Indian grocer’s. The street was as busy as midday, with people shopping, gossiping, and hurrying by to keep out the cold of the raw autumn weather.

“Won’t be a tick,” she promised, hurrying into the shop. She returned a few minutes later, clutching a cooked chicken, some onions, mushrooms, and natural yogurt. “Dinner,” she muttered as she drove off again.