"Oh, yeah," she said eagerly, "I remember you."

"The team are still at the house. You can get in okay."

"Smashin'."

"Are you going up now?"

"Aye."

"Tell them who you are when you get to the door-"

She interrupted him. "Mr. McAskill, can I ask you something?"

He thought for a moment. "Depends," he said tentatively.

"What was in the cupboard?"

McAskill didn't answer.

"It wasn't just slippers, was it?"

She could hear him exhale away from the receiver. "You don't want to know, pet," he said softly. "I'll phone your house and let them know you're coming."

"You're very kind," said Maureen, and meant it.

As she walked up the stairs in her close she looked out of the landing window. Eight or so uniformed officers were searching the back court; three of them poked around the spilled contents of the big communal wheelie bins.

A uniformed policeman was standing guard outside her front door. She told him she was expected. He asked her to wait and slipped inside, shutting the door in her face. He opened it two sighs later. Something McMummb was in the living room with two men from the Forensics team, still shuffling around in their white paper suits. He peered out at Maureen. "That's her," he said.

The officer on the door warned her that they would have to examine anything she wanted to take away and she wouldn't be allowed into certain parts of the house.

The heat had evaporated and it was cooler. The door of the hall cupboard was sealed shut with thick strips of yellow tape. She could see the first browning footprint in the living room. McMummb stepped lightly to the side, blocking the doorway, letting her know that she wasn't allowed to go in. Maureen lowered her eyes and went straight into the bedroom. McMummb hung back, talking to someone in the hall.

Everything was exactly as she had left it: the duvet was thrown back off the bed, the shift dress she had worn for work lay crumpled on the floor, half covering her handbag, and her watch was sitting on the bedside cabinet next to a lidless jar of cold cream. She stood next to her bed on the unaccustomed side. She wanted to sit down and rub her sore feet but she knew she shouldn't touch anything until McMummb came in to supervise. She reached out and touched the rumpled cotton sheet. The pillow showed an imprint where her sweaty head had been.

She looked down at the carpet and saw the cracked corner of a CD cover. She put her toe on it and dragged it out from under the bed without bending down. It was Benny's Best of the Selecter CD, the one she'd borrowed and was convinced she had given back. She had been so adamant. Benny'd never let her forget this.

McMummb came into the room and found her standing by the bed grinning at her feet. "I need to see the things," he said.

She watched him, waiting for him to finish his sentence, but his voice trailed away. He looked unhappily at the carpet in front of him.

"Okay," said Maureen, and handed him her watch to peruse.

She picked out a pair of jeans, her leather rucksack and a mustard cable-knit jumper. McMummb gave her the watch and looked inside the bag. He examined the clothes, held them to the light and checked the pockets. Another man in a white paper suit came into the room and checked them again.

She picked out four pairs of her most going-to-the-doctor knickers, some T-shirts, a tartan scarf and her charcoal cashmere overcoat. The two men looked them over with intense professionalism, running their fingers down the coat's silk lining. They handed them back to her. She shoved the T-shirts and knickers into the bag. "Can I get things out of my handbag?"

McMummb saw it on the floor and picked it up defensively, holding the long strap in front of him with two hands as if he were pushing a pram. "What do you want?" rags.

He took out the fag packet and looked at it. He didn't know what he was supposed to be looking for. He shoved it at the Forensics man, who took the trouble to open the packet, look inside and poke the fags about with a long, bony finger. "I think we should keep these," he said, addressing McMummb solemnly.

"I think we should keep them," said McMummb.

"Okay," said Maureen. "Can I get my wallet?"

McMummb took out the wallet and leafed through the cashpoint receipts and pound notes. The Forensics man did the same and handed it to her.

"And my keys?"

"You can't come in here unless we're with you," said McMummb.

She nodded. "When will I be able to come home?"

"We'll notify you," said McMummb, as he opened the bag and took out the keys. He shook them, as if some vital clue might be hidden among them, and handed them to the Forensics man. The Forensics man held them up and shook them. He waited for them to stop jangling and handed them to Maureen.

"Thanks," she said, and put them in her rucksack.

The less the police picked up about Liam's movements the better. She went down to a battered, pissed-in call box in the next street rather than use her own phone and, finally, caught up with him at Benny's house.

At the base of Garnethill on Sauchiehall Street is a small and comfortingly grubby cafe called the Equal. Maureen took Douglas there for breakfast sometimes. It's a genuine sixties throwback, when fifties decor had just reached Glasgow: the tables are black Formica with a gold fleck through it and the coffee machine looks like a red and chrome prototype steam engine.

They sat down at an empty table near the window.

Liam tapped her on the forearm. "Where have you been all day, hen?" he asked, watching her closely to see how she was.

"I've just been sort of running around," said Maureen, her head bobbing nervously when she tried to relax her shoulders. "I didn't want to stop in case I couldn't get started again. I haven't eaten all day. That must be why I feel so shaky."

"It's probably got something to do with what happened, though, eh?"

"Well," she said, "yeah, that too."

"Scary day, though, eh?"

"I've had scarier."

He smiled at her bravura. "Could you eat something?"

When Maureen got upset the first thing to go was her appetite.

She had almost starved herself irredeemably before Liam found her in the hall cupboard and took her to the hospital. "Strangely enough, I'm starving today."

The surreal character of the cafe was enhanced by the depressed, elderly waitress with a sore leg. When she brought them the wrong order for the second time they accepted it to save her walking all the way to the kitchen again.

"Mum's been hassling the police," said Maureen, sliding her knife into the underside of an unrequested bridie and letting the excess grease run out of the pastry parcel. "She was phoning the station all day demanding my release."

"Yeah." Liam sipped his coffee. "She's gone into full Jill Morrell mode. They told me about it and I phoned home. Got Una to unplug the phone."

"What kind of things did they ask you about?"

"They asked about you and about Douglas. They didn't have a clue what I'm into so that was all right."

"Jim Maliano was dead nice to me," said Maureen.

"He's a bit of an arse usually, isn't he?"

"Total arse usually. He brought me out a chair and a cup of tea and everything. And he lent me that beautiful Celtic top to wear while I was being questioned."

Liam squeezed watery tomato sauce from the plastic bottle onto his plate of chips. "That must have impressed the polis." He watched his sister steer the oily rivulet away from her chips and beans, into a safe empty space at the side of the plate. She dabbed it off with a paper napkin. "I can see," he said, "that you're used to eating in top-class restaurants such as this one."