Maureen wasn't required to speak: all she had to do was eat and listen, but her mind kept wandering back to the bottle of Glenfiddich at the far end of the gantry. She could see it in her mind's eye, lit up from behind like a holy vision.

They were finishing the meal when Brady moved on to the press. They had hassled her mercilessly at the airport and had called her office repeatedly. "Jackals," she said angrily. "Bloody jackals, most of them."

Maureen told her about the cameraman at her work and the phone calls to her mum. Brady looked at her. "I heard that your mother is… unwell," she said.

"Yeah, she is unwell," said Maureen, grateful for the euphemism. "There's a thick streak of Celtic melancholia in our family. It's the Irish blood."

"Celtic melancholia?" Brady looked at her blankly.

"Alcoholism."

"I see," said Brady. "They said you were from an unsavory family."

Maureen dropped her fork. It clattered onto her plate. "Who said that about my family?"

"The police," said Brady, and smiled at her in a way that was oddly insulting. "What is an 'unsavory family'? Are they all drunks?"

"The police told you that?"

Brady placed her cutlery on the plate and dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin.

"Did the police tell you I was staying with my friend in Maryhill as well? Is that how you found me?"

"I needed to see you," Brady said, as if that explained it.

"They had no business telling you about me," said Maureen, feeling picked on.

"Keep your voice down, dear," said Brady, and motioned to the waiter. "I'm assuming you want coffee?" She gestured to Maureen's glass. "Or would you rather have more whisky?"

The question was laughable. Maureen couldn't go home, her boyfriend was dead, she was having a shitty fucking lunch with his snotty mother and it was Sunday lunchtime. Of course she'd rather have a fucking whisky.

"Coffee would be fine," she said. "Thanks."

Brady gave the order and tapped the PA on the arm. "Go to the bar and wait." When he was out of earshot she leaned forward. "How could you seduce Douglas knowing he was married?"

"I didn't know he was married."

"Were you planning to take Douglas away from Elsbeth?"

"I didn't 'plan' to take him away. Douglas was an adult, he made his own decisions."

"Douglas was a child. If you knew him better you would have known that," she said, hinting at a familial subtext that was none of Maureen's business.

They regained their composure while the coffee things were placed on the table.

Brady poured a touch of cream into hers and stirred it quickly, rhythmically. "Did Douglas pay for your flat?"

"No," said Maureen indignantly.

"I suppose he gave you money?" continued Brady. "Is that why you never bothered to get a decent job?"

"Look, I'd only known Douglas for the past eight months. I've had that job for three years."

"But you have no ambition," said Brady disparagingly. "You've never sought promotion."

"It isn't everyone's ambition to become an authority figure."

Brady looked skeptically at her. "Oh, come on now." She sipped at her coffee with a tiny drawstring mouth.

Maureen was tired of Brady's relentlessly genteel hostility. She put her coffee cup down, shoved it away and lifted what was left of her whisky. She took a generous mouthful, watching over the rim of the glass as Brady sneered at her. "I can understand that you're angry, Mrs. Brady," she said softly, "and I'm sorry for what you've been through, but that doesn't make me responsible for Douglas's behavior."

"Did he give you money?"

"Why do you keep going back to that?"

"Why won't you answer that?"

"He didn't give me money," she said. "He never gave me money."

Brady looked across the table with her sour eyes and Maureen suddenly wanted to get the fuck away from her and never see her again.

Brady softened her voice. "You're lying to me. You've lied to the police and now you're lying to me. Were you drunk the night Douglas was killed?"

"Is that why you're so angry with me?"

"Did you kill him?"

Maureen sat back in her chair and stared at Brady. "Do you think I killed him?"

"Yes," she said certainly, meeting Maureen's gaze. "I do."

"How could you sit here with me if you thought that?"

"I wanted to meet you, just once, to see."

"Do you think I'd come here if I did it? Do you think I could eat food with you if I did it?"

Brady broke off eye contact. "People don't always remember what they do when they're drunk."

Maureen put down her glass. "I think I should leave," she said.

Brady grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her closer so that their faces were inches apart. "They'll catch you, you know," she said. "They'll get you, and if they don't get you, I'll get you."

"Are you threatening me with something?"

"What do you think?"

"Look," said Maureen, "I'm nobody and I have nothing. There's nothing you can do to hurt me." She twisted her wrist and freed it, threw some money on the table and walked out of the restaurant.

She went straight to a phone box in Buchanan Street and phoned around for Liam but she couldn't find him anywhere. Finally she left a message on his machine telling him to clean the house from top to bottom and take the rubbish out because his father-in-law might come for a visit. If he didn't he'd be in a lot of trouble. It was urgent. She hoped the message was obtuse without being obscure.

She bought an overpriced bottle of whisky from a pub near the station, went back to Benny's house and fulfilled Carol Brady's worst expectations by drinking it neat from the bottle and passing out on the settee in front of Songs of Praise. She woke up at three in the morning with a spinning head and had to sit in an armchair for over an hour, sipping milky tea and wishing the nausea away before she managed to fall asleep again.

She was dreaming a vague dream with loud banging in it. Someone was banging on the front door. She tried to open her eyes but the sunlight scratched them like sandpaper. She waited for a minute, hoping Benny would answer it or they'd stop it and go away but he didn't and they didn't and she couldn't sleep through the noise. She pulled the duvet around her and felt her way along the wall to the front door, keeping one of her eyes shut. It was Una, with Alistair in tow. "Mum phoned me last night. She was as drunk as a lord, and she said you were missing." Una's voice was louder than most people's. She didn't shout but her voice had extraordinary natural projection.

"Well, you've found me now," said Maureen, wishing she was anywhere other than here now, feeling anything other than this.

"I can see that," said Una.

Maureen raised her hand. One of her eyes was stuck shut with sleep and when she spoke she could feel dried drool cracking on her chin. "Una," she said slowly, "I am hung over today. If you need to speak, please do it quietly. If you can't speak quietly please leave."

She dropped her hand and went into the kitchen. Alistair and Una followed her in. Maureen poured a pint of water from the tap and drank it. A note from Benny was sitting on the table. It said he had gone to the university and that Maureen was a drunken bum.

"I can't believe it," said Una, making a bad job of keeping her voice down. "What are you doing here alone? And look at the mess in here. Where's Benny?"

"He's out," said Maureen, with great effort.

"Maureen, you look terrible. I've been trying to get in touch with you but you've been out all the time."

Maureen's mouth flooded with salt water. She bombed it down the hall to the bathroom and threw up across the cistern. Una was at her back. "Dear God, Maureen, go to bed."