"No. We've been pretty thorough."

"It wasn't in his jacket pocket?"

McEwan sneered. " 'Thorough' would usually include his pockets."

She thought about it with a rising sense of panic. "Could the man who killed him have taken it?"

McEwan shrugged. "We don't know where it is," he said.

Maureen slumped back in her chair. "My God, he's got a key to my house."

"You're very sure it's a man, Maureen."

"I'm guessing."

"Of course, he may not have had the key on him." McEwan spoke slowly, watching for a reaction. "He could have got into the house some other way."

"I didn't let him in, if that's what you're hinting at," she said. "I would have remembered."

"Yes," said McEwan, tip-and-tailing the skinny pencil noisily on the table. He smiled up at her. "Do you know Douglas's wife, Elsbeth Brady?"

"No."

"You've never met her?"

"No."

He asked her to go through her movements yesterday morning and afternoon. She repeated the details she had given Inness at the house that morning: she went to work at nine-thirty and didn't leave until six o'clock. McEwan asked her carefully whether she had been out of the office for longer than a few minutes, say for lunch. She definitely hadn't. She'd been in the office with Liz all day, they could ask her if they liked.

"We will," said McEwan, and closed his notebook. "Incidentally, your mother has been phoning here all day. She keeps demanding to speak to you. I suggest you phone her. She's been getting more and more… upset."

"Right." Maureen knew full well what Winnie had been getting more and more. "I'm sorry if she's been bothering you."

McEwan brushed over it. "Talking of mothers, do you know Douglas Brady's mother?"

"I've seen photos of her in the paper."

"But you've never met her?"

Maureen shook her head.

"Well," said McEwan, "we'll try to keep this out of the papers for as long as possible but there is going to be a lot of interest in it because she's an MEP. I don't want you talking to the press."

"Right," she said, her heart sinking at the thought of Drunk Winnie's propensity to talk and talk and talk. She couldn't be with her all the time and Drunk Winnie's very favorite subject was family secrets and how shitty her kids were.

She gave him Benny's name, address and telephone number. They wouldn't allow her into her own house unescorted; if she wanted to go home to get anything she would need to phone in advance and they would arrange for an officer to be present.

"Why?"

"In case you disturb any evidence we haven't collected yet."

"You surely don't suspect me?"

"We don't know who did it yet," he said, looking at his pencil in a manner that strongly suggested he did.

As he was showing her out they ran into Elsbeth in the lobby. She was petite with a sharp blond bob, sharper features and a tidy figure. Her eyes were red raw. Poor Elsbeth had been the focus of gut-gnawing guilt over the past eight months: Maureen's sense that they were doing a very unkind thing indeed had snowballed as her feelings for Douglas changed. Seeing the picture of Elsbeth in the newspaper had made it worse: she had a face to put to the guilt. Douglas didn't seem to think about it. He didn't flinch when Maureen reproached herself; he acted as if she was making a big something out of nothing; it was as if Maureen was being unfaithful to Elsbeth and not Douglas. Seeing Elsbeth in the flesh for the first time made Maureen feel sick and hot. She tried to slip past her but Elsbeth caught her arm. "Did you do it, Maureen?" she asked.

Maureen was startled. Elsbeth shouldn't know who she was. "No," she said, guilty and uncomfortable.

"Neither did I," said Elsbeth. Her face sagged suddenly and she shuffled over to Joe McEwan, who was standing at the foot of the stairs. Panicked and shaky, Maureen turned stiffly toward the door.

"Maureen?" Elsbeth's voice was fraught and cracked. "Will you wait for me?"

"If you want me to," said Maureen, resisting the urge to scream and run away.

McEwan smiled at her but when Elsbeth turned her back he frowned and motioned for her to leave. She watched them climb the stairs together. Elsbeth was wearing the Aran jumper Maureen had bought for Douglas's last birthday.

She left the police station and crossed the main road, walking two blocks to the shops. She'd decided to cook a meal for Benny as a thank-you for letting her stay. She chose some baby corncobs, zucchini and a green pepper to pad out a tomato sauce. The garlic looked old and sprouty. She asked an assistant if they had any more at the back of the shop and looked through it slowly. Her heart began to palpitate at the checkout. She abandoned her trolley in the queue and ran the two blocks, darting across the main road and getting into Stewart Street just in time to see Elsbeth coming out of the main entrance of the station. Elsbeth didn't seem surprised that she was there: she assumed people would do what she asked and Maureen resented her for it.

"Let's go to my house," she said, without looking up, and Maureen followed her into a waiting black cab.

The driver turned onto the broad Great Western Road and headed west. The traffic was heavy for early afternoon and the taxi got caught at three red lights in a row.

Elsbeth and Maureen sat as far apart as the backseat would allow, looking out of their respective windows in silence, watching the pedestrians going about their business.

"How did you know who I was?" asked Elsbeth, her sharp voice shattering the heavy silence between them.

Maureen turned to her and tried to catch her eye but Elsbeth was looking out of the window. "I saw a picture of you in the paper," she said softly, "at the last election. It was you and Douglas in front of a hotel."

Elsbeth looked at her lap and ground her jaw. She lifted her head and stared out of the window again.

"How come you recognized me?" asked Maureen.

"I saw a photograph of you," said Elsbeth. "It was in Douglas's briefcase. You were wearing a party hat."

Jesus Christ, the party-hat photo. Douglas had borrowed it because he thought it was so funny. Maureen was pissed and spliffed and guffawing and wearing a purple pointy hat with streamers coming out of it. The thick string of elastic was under her nose, pulling it back into a piggy snout. It must have been the ultimate insult for pristine Elsbeth, cuckold to a vulgar red-faced drunk.

The West End is Glasgow's student quarter and centers around the Byres Road, a broad street down the hill from the neo-Gothic university. Every third shop is a deli or bar. When Maureen was at university she worked in a West End bar and was often mistaken for an out-of-work actress. She was young at the time and thought it was a compliment.

As they neared the university the driver turned the cab off the Great Western Road into a crescent street. It was lined with elegant blond sandstone tenements on one side; on the other ornate cast-iron railings barred the steep drop to the river Kelvin. He pulled over to the pavement and stopped the meter.

Elsbeth stopped outside one of the blocks and took out her keys. She opened the security door into a close with shimmering green tiles up to shoulder height topped off with a border of pseudo-Mackintosh roses. The fancy tiling ceased abruptly on the first floor, replaced by green gloss.

They stopped on the second floor and Elsbeth unlocked her front door, letting it swing open into a huge hallway with stripped-pine floorboards. It was the biggest hallway Maureen had ever seen. "Come in," said Elsbeth, wrestling her key out of the door, relishing Maureen's surprise. "I'll show you around."

Elsbeth took her into all the rooms, pointing out unusual pieces of furniture and favored ornaments. The ceilings in the flat were high and ornate, the furniture sparse and expensive. The framed pictures in the living room were all Miro prints but Maureen suspected that this was a decor decision rather than a passion.