Lindsay sat down and, hesitantly, Cordelia followed suit. “This is Cordelia Brown. Cordelia, this is Mary Hutcheson, the best careers officer in Glasgow, an occupation rather like being lead trombone in the dance band of the Titanic.”

Mary smiled. “Hello. What brings you to Glasgow? Surely not the company of a reprobate like Lindsay?”

Before Cordelia could reply, the barmaid, a gentle-faced woman in her forties, came across to them. “What’ll it be Lindsay? The usual?”

“Please, Chrissie. And one for Mary. What’ll you have, Cordelia? Glass of the house Muscadet?”

Cordelia looked bewildered, not certain if she was the butt of Lindsay’s humor. Seeing her confusion, Chrissie said, “We’ve got some Liebfraumilch too, or a nice Italian red if you like that better.”

Lindsay, struggling to keep a straight face, said, “I think she’d maybe just like a whisky and water, Chrissie, that’s what we’ve been on. Okay, Cordelia?”

She nodded. As Chrissie returned to the bar, Mary astutely demanded, “Lindsay, have you been winding this woman up?”

Lindsay smiled broadly. “Afraid so. Sorry, Cordelia, I couldn’t resist. I’ve seen so many people come up from London and patronize this city of mine so thoroughly you wouldn’t believe. So now we tend to get our blows in first.”

Cordelia lit a cigarette and looked at Lindsay, considering her. “All right, I probably would have got round to deserving it. But just remember—one day you’ll be on my patch and these games can cut both ways.”

It was two hours and several drinks later when they staggered giggling up the three flights of stairs to Lindsay’s flat. “Sorry about the stairs,” she panted. “Top flats are always the cheapest, you see.”

Lindsay shut the door behind them and fastened the bolts and chain, then turned to Cordelia with a diffidence far removed from the brash assertiveness she’d been displaying all evening and said, “I don’t know what you want to do about sleeping arrangements. There’s a spare bed in my study if you want it. It’s up to you. I . . . I don’t want you to feel anything’s expected . . .” She leaned against the door, shoulders slightly raised against the rebuff she felt sure was coming.

Cordelia stood, hands in pockets, looking far more casual than she felt. “I’d rather like to sleep with you,” she said softly.

Lindsay’s uncertainty made her scowl. “You’re sure? You don’t just feel you’ve got to?”

Cordelia moved to her and hugged her close. “Of course not. But if you’re going to make an issue of it, I’ll begin to think you don’t want me.”

Lindsay held her tight and laughed nervously. “Oh, I want you all right. Even if you do turn out to be the big bad murderer.”

She felt Cordelia stiffen. “You still think I might have done it?” she demanded, pulling away.