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her fellow Sister of Treachery, Rosalind Campbell. As they came over to the table, Lindsay thought it was no wonder that they struck terror into their political opponents. They looked like a pair of Valkyries striding across the bar.
    "My God," Helen groaned as she subsided into a chair, after planting a cursory kiss on the top of Sophie's head. "What a night we've had! That lot couldn't organise an explosion in a fireworks factory!"
    Lindsay watched fondly as Helen and Rosalind launched into a double-act recitation of the evening's meeting. No matter how down Lindsay felt, Helen had always had the power to make her laugh. They'd met at Oxford, the only working-class students reading English at St. Mary's College. They'd instantly formed an alliance whose main weapon had been satire, a desperate wit born of their never-admitted feelings of inferiority. After university, their ways had parted, Lindsay choosing journalism, Helen arts administration. Now, she ran her own television and film casting agency, and, with what was left from her boundless supply of energy, she had thrown herself into local politics.
    But the two women had stayed in touch, and even when Helen and Sophie had set up home together eight years earlier, there had been no diminution of the close friendship that still bound Lindsay and Helen. In fact, Lindsay had gained a friend in Sophie. When Helen and Sophie had split up eighteen months before, Lindsay had feared that she would be forced to choose between her two friends. But, to her amazement, the ending of their love affair had been remarkably without rancour, and they had remained the closest of friends. The only real change, as far as Lindsay could see, was that they now lived separately. Neither had formed any lasting relationship with anyone else, although, according to Sophie, Helen had recently been spending time with a young actress she'd spotted in a pub theatre group and placed in a new television series.
    Lindsay suddenly became aware that Helen was looking enquiringly at her. She pulled herself back into the painful present. "I'm sorry," she confessed, "I didn't catch what you said."
    "Pearls before swine," Helen sighed. "Here am I, bringing you despatches from the front line of British politics, and you're daydreaming about some leggy blonde, no doubt. I said, what kind of evening have you had, Lindsay?"
    "Ask Sophie," Lindsay replied wryly. "She's already told me it's given her enough ammo to sing for her supper for months to come. You might as well practise on the experts, Soph."
    Sophie pulled a face, then launched into a detailed account of their earlier encounter at Soutar Johnnie's. Before she could finish, Helen had exploded. "My God, what a complete shit for you, Lindsay!" she exclaimed. "I had no idea she was still around, did you, Sophie? We saw her a couple of times after you first left, Lindsay. She was desperate to get in touch with you and thought you might have been in contact with one or other of us. But I thought she'd gone back to London. Poor you!"
    With her usual detachment, Rosalind had been listening. As Helen paused for breath, she cut in. "You will take it on, though, won't you? I can't imagine you sitting back and letting Jackie rot."
    Reluctantly, Lindsay nodded. "I don't suppose I've got much choice."
    "Well at least Claire can afford it," Rosalind said.
    "Afford what?" Helen demanded.
    "Afford Lindsay," Rosalind replied.
    "What do you mean, afford me?" Lindsay asked, puzzled.
    "You've got to be realistic about it," Rosalind said patiently. "You've got no job and no prospect of one, if I understand you correctly. If you refuse to help and Claire wants to pursue this, she's going to have to go to a private detective. There is no reason on God's earth why you should be prepared to do it for free. And Claire Ogilvie can certainly afford to pay."
    Lindsay looked stunned. "I'm not taking money from that bloody designer dyke," she replied angrily. "What do you take me