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went back to the microscope, not
wanting to think about the Art Gallery. Not since last Friday when
she’d taken her lunch there and spotted the familiar long blue
raincoat and dark hair.
    She tried to
concentrate on the next slide, ignoring the knot in her
stomach.
    ‘Fancy coming
out for some lunch?’ Chrissy was standing in the doorway.
    Rhona shook her
head.
    ‘Right. I’ll
bring you back a sandwich then.’ Chrissy wasn’t asking. She was
telling. It was like having your mother working for you.
    Rhona leaned
forward and watched Chrissy emerge below. A bloke on the other side
of the street crossed over to meet her, his shaved head bowed and
his hands in his pockets. It looked as if Chrissy was giving him a
right mouthful. He would be either the latest in a long line of
boyfriends, she thought, or else one of Chrissy’s brothers here to
borrow money from the only member of the family who was in a job, a
legitimate one anyway.
    Bill Wilson
phoned her halfway through the afternoon and asked her how things
were going. She told him what she’d told Dr Sissons.
    ‘I’m working on
the hairs just now’, she said. ‘It’ll take us a while to examine
the cover thoroughly, but you can have the whisky glasses back’,
she added, ‘I’ve finished with them.’
    ‘Thanks,
although I don’t hold out much hope of finding our suspect’s prints
on file.’ Bill sounded resigned. ‘By the way, the story’s splashed
all over the evening paper.’
    ‘Right.’
    She heard a
short ‘Mmm’ of displeasure.‘If anyone pesters you for info?’
    ‘I don’t have
any. Oh and Bill,’ she stopped him before the phone went down.
‘Were you right?’ she asked.
    ‘About
what?’
    ‘The English
connection.’
    ‘We haven’t
found out who the boy was or where he came from. But you can read
that in the Evening Post. They always know more than us
anyway.’
    Rhona stopped
work at five o’clock. Her eyes were tired from peering down the
microscope and the lunchtime sandwich had long since been eaten.
Chrissy had left at four, pleading a ‘domestic’ to sort out. One
look at Chrissy’s face convinced Rhona not to ask any
questions.
    Now, all she
wanted was something substantial to eat and a long hot soak in the
bath. She started to tidy the lab, methodically filing away her
notes and locking the filing cabinet. She stored the samples and
switched on the ansaphone.
    Outside, the
rain had moved off north towards the Campsie Hills. The sky had
cleared to a dull blue. She was a twenty minute walk from the flat
and as long as the evening was fine there was no point in taking a
bus. It would just sit at the traffic lights anyway. She headed for
Byres Road.
    She knew Sean
would have already bought something for tea but she stopped at the
pasta shop anyway. Mr Margiotta welcomed her with his usual patter
and persuaded her to try the spinach and ricotta cannelloni, adding
an extra dollop of tomato and basil sauce for good measure.
    ‘Love food,’ he
promised with a wicked grin.
    Just what she
didn’t need.
    Rhona allowed
herself five minutes to decide what she was going to do, before she
put her key in the lock. Part of her wished she could just forget
what she’d seen in the Art Gallery, but it was like a forensic clue
and she couldn’t let it go. Like one of those semen samples. She
had to know whose it was.
    When she opened
the door of the flat she was greeted by the rich scent of garlic
and olive oil.
    ‘Hi,’ Sean
called from the kitchen. He was chopping vegetables next to the
cooker. He turned and smiled at her, wiping his hands on a tea
towel. ‘You look tired,’ he said. ‘Coffee? A drink?’
    ‘A bath.’
    He came towards
her and she forced herself to smile.
    ‘Come on,’ he
said.
    She wanted to
be in the bathroom alone with the door locked, but Sean led her in,
turned on the taps and began to undress her, his big hands never
fumbling. He dropped the blouse and skirt to the floor, turned her,
unclipped her bra and