No, Duncan, I can't write anything about the RABD yet. I've only got one guy's word for it, and half of that's second-hand," Lindsay said in exasperation. "I should be able to harden up the ratepayers' routine by tomorrow lunch-time."

"That'll have to do then, I suppose," Duncan barked. "But see if you can tie it up today, okay? And keep close to the cops. Any sign of an arrest, I want to be the first to know. And don't forget that interview with the suspect woman. Keep ahead of the game, Lindsay."

The line went dead. Lindsay was grateful. The interview with Stanhope had produced more than she'd anticipated, and she'd spent the rest of the morning trying to set up meetings with Mallard and Warminster. But neither could fit her in till the next day which left her with a hole in the news editor's schedule to fill and nothing to fill it with except for the one interview she didn't want to capitalise on. The fact that she was no stranger to living on her wits didn't mean she had to enjoy it. The one thing she wasn't prepared to admit to herself yet was that the job was increasingly turning into something she couldn't square either with her conscience or her principles. After all, once she had acknowledged the tackiness of the world she loved working in, how could she justify her continued determination to take the money and run?

It was half past one by the time she reached the Frog and Basset, a real ale pub about two miles out of the town in the opposite direction to Brownlow. She pushed her way through the crowd of lunchtime drinkers into the tiny snug, which had a hand-lettered sign saying "Private Meeting" on the door. The only inhabitant was Rigano, sitting at a converted sewing-machine table with the remains of a pint in front of him. He looked up at her. "Glad you could make it," he said. "I've got to be back at the station for two. Ring the bell on the bar if you want a drink. Mine's a pint of Basset Bitter."

Lindsay's eyebrows rose, but nevertheless she did as he said. The barman who emerged in response to her ring scuttled off and returned moments later with two crystal-clear pints. Lindsay paid and brought the drinks over in silence. Rigano picked up his and took a deep swallow. "So was Carlton Stanhope a help?"

Lindsay shrugged. "Interesting. There seems to have been something going on between Crabtree and the treasurer, Mallard."

Rigano shook his head. "Don't get too excited about that. It's only in bad detective novels that people get bumped off to avoid financial scandal and ruin."

Stung, Lindsay replied, "Don't get too excited about that. There are plenty of cases that make the papers where people have been murdered for next to nothing. It all depends how much the murderer feels they can bear to lose."

"And did Carlton Stanhope come up with anyone else that you think might have something to lose?"

Lindsay shrugged. "He mentioned someone called Warminster."

"A crank. Not really dangerous. All mouth and no action."

"Thanks. And have you got anything for me? I could do with a bone to throw to my boss."

Rigano took another deep swig of his beer. "There's not much I can say. We're not about to make an arrest, and we're pursuing various lines of enquiry."

"Oh come on, surely you can do better than that. What about CID? What are they doing? Who's in charge of that end of things?"

Rigano scowled, and Lindsay felt suddenly threatened. "I'm in charge," he answered grimly. "I'll keep my end of the deal, don't worry. I've set you up with Stanhope, haven't I? I gave you the whereabouts of the daughter, didn't I? So don't push your luck."

Frustrated, she drank her drink and smoked a cigarette in the silence between them. Then, abruptly, Rigano got to his feet, finishing his drink as he rose. "I've got to get back," he said. "The sooner I do, the nearer we'll be to sorting this business out. Keep me informed about how you're getting on." He slipped out of the snug. Lindsay left the remains of her drink and drove back to the camp.

She parked the car and went to the van, which was empty. She put the kettle on, but before it boiled, the driver's door opened and Deborah's head appeared. "Busy?" she asked.

Lindsay shook her head. "Not at all," she replied. "Actually, I was about to come looking for you. I need your help again."

Deborah made herself comfortable. "All you have to do is ask. Been on a shopping spree? I can't believe all these frightfully chic outfits came out of that little overnight bag."

"I had to find something to wear that makes me look like an efficient journo. Your average punter isn't too impressed with decrepit Levi's and sweatshirts. Anything doing that I've missed?"

"Judith is coming to see me at three o'clock."

Lindsay poured out their coffee and said, "Is it about the assault case?"

"That's right," Deborah confirmed. "She wants to explain exactly what the situation is. I think she's had some news today. Or an opinion or something. Now, what was it you wanted from me? Nothing too shocking, I hope."

"I need you to have dinner with me tonight. In London."

Deborah looked surprised. "I thought Cordelia was in London? Doesn't she eat dinner any more?"

"For this particular dinner, I need you. We are going to a bijou vegetarian restaurant called Rubyfruits."

"You're taking me to a dykey-sounding place like that? On your own patch? And you're not worried about who you might run into? Whatever happened to keeping it light between us?"

Lindsay grimaced. "This is business, not pleasure. Rubyfruits is run by Ros Crabtree, our Rupert's daughter. The dyke that Daddy didn't know about, apparently. And I need you there to tell me if you saw anything of Ros or her partner around Brownlow recently. Okay?"

As Deborah agreed, Judith's car drew up outside.

She looked every inch the solicitor in a dark green tweed-mixture suit and a cream open-necked shirt. But behind the facade she was clearly bursting with a nugget of gossip that threatened to make her explode, and she was quite shrewd enough to realise that dumping it in Lindsay's lap was guaranteed to provide it with the most fertile ground possible.

"You look like the cat that's had the cream," Lindsay remarked.

"Sorry, terribly unprofessional of me. We solicitors are not supposed to show any emotion about anything, you know. But this is such a wonderful tale of dirty linen washing itself in public, I can't be all cool and collected about it. A wonderful piece of gossip, and the best of it is that it's twenty-four carat truth. Now Lindsay, if you're going to use this, you certainly didn't get it from me, all right?"

Lindsay nodded, bored with yet another demand for anonymity. When she was a young trainee reporter, it had always made the adrenalin surge when people required to be Deep Throats. But cynical experience of the insignificance of ninety per cent of people's revelations had ended that excitement years ago. Whatever Judith had to say might merit a few paragraphs, but she would wait and hear it before she let her pulse race.

"Rupert Crabtree's will is with one of the partners in the building next to ours. Anyway, the junior partner is by way of being a pal of mine, and he's managed to cast an eye over the will. And you'll never guess who gets ten thousand pounds?"

Lindsay sighed. "Ros Crabtree? Simon?"

Judith shook her head impatiently. "No, no. They each get one third of the residue, about fifty thousand each. No, the ten thousand goes to Alexandra Phillips. Now isn't that extraordinary?" She was clearly disappointed by the blank stares from her audience. "Oh Lindsay, you must know about Alexandra. You're supposed to be looking into Rupert Crabtree. Has no one told you about Alexandra? Lindsay, she was his mistress."

That last word won Judith all the reaction she could have wished. Lindsay sat bolt upright and spilt the remains of her coffee over the table. "His mistress?" she demanded. "Why the hell did nobody tell me he had a mistress?"

Judith shrugged. "I assumed you knew. It wasn't exactly common knowledge, but I guess most of us lawyers had a notion it was going on. Anyway, I rather think it was cooling off, at least on Alexandra's side."

Lindsay counted to ten in her head. Then she said slowly and clearly, "Tell me everything you know about the affair, Judith. Tell me now."

Judith looked surprised and hurt at the intensity of Lindsay's tone. "Alexandra Phillips is about twenty-five. She's a solicitor with Hampson, Humphrey and Brundage in Fordham. She does all the dogsbody work, being the practice baby. She's a local girl, used to be friendly with Ros Crabtree, in fact. I know her through the job also because she and Ros used to kick around with my younger sister Antonia. Anyway, Alexandra came back to Fordham about eighteen months ago and almost as soon as she got back, Rupert pounced. He asked her out to dinner at some intimate little Good Food Guide bistro that none of his cronies would be seen dead patronizing. He spun the line that he wanted to give her the benefit of his experience and all that blah. And being more than a little impressionable, dear Alexandra fell for his line like an absolute mug. This much I know, because she confided in me right at the start. I warned her not to be a bloody fool and to see him off sharpish, which earned me the cold shoulder and no more confidences.

"But I saw his car outside her flat on a few occasions, and the will obviously indicates an ongoing situation. However, there's been a whisper of a rumour going round Antonia's crowd that Alexandra was looking for a way out. There was a very definite suggestion that she rather fancied another fish to fry. Sorry, no names. I did ask Antonia, but she's pretty sure that Alexandra hasn't spilled that to anyone."

"Great," said Lindsay, getting to her feet and pulling on her jacket. "Come on then, Judith."

Judith looked bewildered. "Where?"

"To wherever Alexandra hangs out. I want to talk to her, and the sooner the better before the rest of the world gets the same idea."

"But we can't just barge in on her without an appointment. And besides, I came here to talk to Deborah about her pending court case."

"Oh God," said Lindsay in exasperation. "Yes, of course. But after that we've just got to see Alexandra Phillips as soon as possible."

Judith, looking startled and apprehensive, rattled machine-gun sentences at Deborah. Following the demise of the sole prosecution witness, she told her, the police could offer no evidence against Deborah in the Crown Court, and the case would therefore fall since she had made no admissions of guilt. It was unlikely that the police would be able to find an eye-witness at that late stage, particularly since they were pursuing that line of enquiry with something less than breathtaking vigour.

"Except in so far as it overlaps with the murder enquiry," Lindsay muttered nonchalantly.

"Thanks for the reassurance," Deborah remarked. "Why don't you two run off now and prevent the police from making too many mistakes about me?"

Judith rose hesitantly. "Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, Alexandra is something of a friend, or at least a friend of the family. I can't imagine she's going to take too kindly to us barging in and demanding answers about Rupert..."

"Look at it this way," said Lindsay. "Events are conspiring to force Debs into Rigano's arms as the obvious and easy villain. Debs is your client. Therefore you'd be failing in your professional duty if you didn't explore every possible avenue to establish her innocence. Isn't that so?"

Judith nodded dubiously. "I suppose so," she conceded. "But it doesn't mean I feel any better about going through with it." Lindsay treated Judith to a hard stare. The solicitor pursed her lips and said, "Oh, come on then. If we go now, we'll probably catch her at the office. I think it would be easier from every point of view if we saw her there."

It took them nearly twenty minutes to reach Alexandra's office thanks to Judith's driving, rendered doubly appalling by her apprehensions about the approaching interview. Her nervousness grew in the fifteen minutes they spent in the waiting room of Hampson, Humphrey and Brundage while Alexandra dealt with her last client of the day. When they were eventually summoned by buzzer, Judith bolted into the office with Lindsay behind her. Barely bigger than a boxroom, Alexandra Philips's office was dominated by filing cabinets and a standard-sized desk which looked enormous in the confined space.

Yet the surroundings did not diminish its occupant. Alexandra was stunning. Lindsay instantly envied Rupert Crabtree and despised herself for the reaction. The woman who rose to greet them, was, Lindsay estimated, about five-foot-nine tall. Her hair was a glossy blue-black, cut close to a fine-boned head dominated by almond-shaped, luminous brown eyes. Her skin was a healthy glowing golden. Hardly the typical English rose, thought Lindsay. The clothes weren't what she expected either. Alexandra wore a black velvet dress, fitting across the bust, then flaring out to a full swirling skirt. She should have had all the assurance in the world, but it was painfully obvious that self-possession wasn't her long suit. There were black smudges under the eyes, and she looked as if tears would be a relief. The exchange of greetings had been on the formal side, and Judith threw a pleading look at Lindsay, expecting her to take over from there.

Lindsay took pity and launched in on a explanation. "Judith has a client called Deborah Patterson." Alexandra's eyebrows flickered. "I can see the name means something to you. Debs is one of my oldest and closest friends, and the way things are going at the moment it looks as if she's likely to stand accused of Rupert Crabtree's murder, which I can assure you she did not do. Judith and I are determined to see that the charge won't stick, which is why I'm sticking my nose in where it's not wanted."

Alexandra looked puzzled. "I don't actually understand either your status or what you want with me."

"I'm sorry," said Lindsay, "you do deserve a better explanation than that. I've no official status," she went on. "I'm a journalist. But as it happens my first concern with this business is not to get good stories but to make sure Debs stays free. I'm also cooperating, to some degree, with the police on behalf of the women at the peace camp. I find that people don't always want to tell things to the police in case too much emphasis gets placed on the wrong things and innocent people start to appear in a bad light. All I'm trying to do, if you like, is to act as a sort of filter. Anything you want kept within these four walls stays that way until I get the whole picture sorted out, and I can be fairly sure of what's important and what isn't."

"It's called withholding evidence from the police in the circles I move in," Alexandra countered. "I still don't understand what brings you to me."

The last thing Lindsay wanted was to start putting pressure on the young solicitor, but it appeared that in spite of Alexandra's seeming vulnerability, that was what she was going to have to do. "Rupert Crabtree's will is going to be public knowledge soon. If the police haven't already been here, they will be. And so will reporters from every paper in the land. You can bet your bottom dollar they aren't going to be as polite as me. Now, you can try to stall everyone with this disingenuous routine, but eventually you'll get so sick of it you'll feel like murder.

"Or you can short-circuit a lot of the hassle by talking to me. I'll write a story that doesn't make you look like the Scarlet Woman of Fordham. You can go away for a few days till the fuss dies down. You'll be yesterday's news by then, if you've already talked once. And by talking frankly to me, you can maybe prevent a miscarriage of justice. Now, I know you had been having an affair with Rupert Crabtree for over a year, and I know you were trying to get out of that situation. Suppose you tell me the rest?"

Alexandra buried her head in her hands. When she lifted her face her eyes were glistening. "Nice to know who your friends are, Judith," she said bitterly.

"Judith has done the best thing she could for you by bringing me. She could have thrown you to the wolves for the sake of her client, but she did it decently." Lindsay said with a gentleness that was sharp contrast to her previous aggression.

"You're not one of the wolves?"

"No way. I'm the pussycat. Don't think Judith has betrayed you. There will be plenty of others happy to do that over the next few days."

Alexandra gave a shuddering sigh. "All right. Yes, I was Rupert's mistress. I'm not in the least ashamed of that."

"Tell me about him," Lindsay prompted.

Alexandra looked down at her desk top and spoke softly. "He was wonderful company, very witty, very warm. He was also a very generous lover. I know you might find it hard to believe that he was a gentle man if all you've heard is the popular mythology. But he was very different when he was with me. I think he found it refreshing to be with a woman who understood the intricacies of the job."

Lindsay prodded tentatively. "But still you wanted to end it. Why was that?"

Alexandra shrugged. "There seemed to be no future in it. He always made it clear that he would never leave his wife, that his domestic life was one he was not unhappy with. Well, I guess I felt that I wanted more from a long-term relationship than dinners in obscure restaurants and illicit meetings when he could fit them in. I loved him, no getting away from that, but I found I needed more from life. And just when I was at that low ebb, I fell in with someone I knew years ago, someone very different from Rupert, and I realised that with him I could have a relationship that held out a bit more hope for permanence."

"And you told Rupert it was all over?"

Alexandra smiled wryly. "It's easy to see you didn't know Rupert. He had a phenomenal temper. When he raged, he did it in style. No, I didn't tell him it was all over. What I did say was that I was going to have to start thinking about my long-term future. That one of these days I was going to want children, a full-time husband and father for them, and since Rupert wasn't able to fit the bill, we'd better face the fact that sooner or later I was going to need more."

"And what was his reaction to that?" Lindsay asked gently.

"He seemed really devastated. I was taken aback. I hadn't realised how deep I went with him. He asked me - he didn't beg or plead, he'd never forget himself that much - he asked me to reconsider my options. He said that recently everything he had put his trust in seemed to have failed him, and he didn't want that to happen to us. He said he wanted time to reconsider his future in the light of what I'd said. That was on Saturday. Time's the one thing he never expected not to have. You know how I found out he was dead? I read it in the papers. I'd been sitting watching television while he was being murdered." Her voice cracked, and she turned away from them.

Lindsay found it easy to summon up the set of emotions she'd feel if she read of Cordelia's death in her morning paper. She swallowed, then said, "I'm sorry to go on pushing you. But I need to know some more. Do you know what he meant when he said everything he'd trusted had failed him? What was he referring to?"

Alexandra blew her nose and wiped her eyes before she turned back towards them. "He said Simon had let him down. That he wasn't the son he wanted. He sounded very bitter, but wouldn't say what had provoked it. He seldom discussed family matters with me, though he did say a couple of weeks ago that he'd found something out about Ros that had upset him so much he was seriously considering taking his investment out of her restaurant. I asked him what it was because I've known Ros since we were kids, and I suspected he'd finally found out that she's a lesbian."

"You knew about that?"

"Of course. I was one of the first people she told. I've not seen much of her since then, because I felt really uncomfortable about it. But I'd never have uttered a word to Rupert about it. I knew what it would do to him. But I suspect that that was at the root of his anger against Ros.

"And he was terribly upset about the Ratepayers' Association. He'd discovered that the treasurer was up to something fishy with the money. Instead of there being a large amount, about seven thousand in the current account, there was barely five hundred pounds. Rupert confronted the treasurer with his discovery, and he couldn't account for the difference satisfactorily. Rupert was convinced he'd been using it to speculate in stocks and shares and line his own pockets. So he was bringing it up at the next meeting which I'm told would have been stormy, with Rupert baying for blood."

Suddenly her words tripped a connection lurking at the back of Lindsay's brain. The combination of a repeated phrase and a coincidence of figures clicked into place. "Carlton Stanhope," she said.

Alexandra looked horrified. "Who told you?" she demanded. "No one knew. I made sure no one knew. I wouldn't hurt Rupert like that. Who told you?"

Lindsay smiled ruefully. "You just did. You were unlucky, that's all. I had a talk with Carlton this morning. He told me the William Mallard story?. The figures he gave me were identical to those you gave me, and figures are an area where people are notoriously inaccurate. Also, you used a couple of identical phrases. It had to be you who told him. And the only person you'd be likely to tell would be someone very close to you. By the way, I wouldn't bother trying to hide it from the police. I suspect they already know; it was they who pointed me in his direction as a source of good information on Rupert."

"If they question me, I'll tell them the truth," Alexandra said, in control of herself again. "But I don't want to discuss it with you. I've said more than enough to someone who has no business interfering."

Lindsay shrugged. "That's your decision. But there's one more thing I have to ask. It's really important. Was Rupert in the habit of carrying a gun?"

Alexandra looked bewildered. "A gun?" she demanded incredulously.

"I'm told, a high-standard double-nine point two two revolver, whatever that is. He was carrying it when he was killed."

Alexandra looked stunned. "But why? I don't understand. Do you mean he knew he was at risk?"

"It looks like it. Did you know he had a gun? I'm told it was registered to him. Perfectly in order."

Alexandra shook her head slowly. "I never saw him with a gun. My God, that's awful. He must have been so afraid. And yet he said nothing about it. Oh, poor, poor, Rupert."

"I'm sorry you had to know," said Lindsay. "Look, if you change your mind and want to talk a bit more, you can always reach me through Judith," she added, moving towards the door.

"Oh, and by the way," she added as Judith rose to follow her, "when did you tell Carlton what Rupert had said about rethinking the future? Was it on Saturday night? Or was it Sunday morning?" She didn't wait for the answer she suspected would be a lie. The look of fear in Alexandra's eyes was answer enough.