the flats, "I don't think I was doing her much good by the end. As soon as I left, her writer's block disappeared, and she wrote the best book of her career, by all accounts. I guess she's better off without me."
Before Helen could reply, Lindsay used Rosalind's spare keys to let them into the block and headed straight for the lifts. "It's the eighth floor, isn't it?" she asked, her finger hovering over the button.
"That's right," Helen replied, finally realising that Lindsay didn't want to discuss Cordelia further.
When they rang Rosalind's bell, the door was opened almost immediately by a uniformed police constable. "We're friends of Ms. Campbell," Helen announced, sweeping past him in the narrow hall. "She's expecting us." Flashing an apologetic smile at the constable, Lindsay followed Helen through to the living room.
Rosalind was sitting in an armchair, looking dazed in the midst of the chaos that surrounded her. Her violet eyes were red-rimmed, as if she'd been rubbing them, her white hair in a disarray that was all the more shocking because of the contrast with her usual neatly groomed appearance. Papers were thrown everywhere, furniture had been overturned, carpets pulled up, and pictures hurled from the walls into corners where they lay surrounded by shards of broken glass. The drawers of the desk had been pulled out and emptied on the floor, and a bottle of ink had broken, leaving a permanent blue puddle on a scattered pile of envelopes. Lindsay, who had only been in the flat a couple of times before, remembered how neat and orderly it had always been and felt a dim version of the shock that clearly possessed Rosalind.
Helen rushed impulsively across the room to hug Rosalind. "I'll make a cup of tea," Lindsay said, feeling useless. She went through to the kitchen where the burglars had also been active. All the storage jars had been emptied on the floor, and the contents of the cupboards were strewn everywhere. It didn't have the air of random vandalism, however. Odd, thought Lindsay. Almost as if they knew they were looking for something specific. Lindsay raked through the wreckage till she found a mound of teabags and put the kettle on. She stuck her head into the hall and asked the policeman if he wanted a cup of tea.
"Thanks very much," he said gratefully, following her back into the kitchen.
"How many are there of you?" Lindsay asked.
"Just me," he replied. "I was told to hang on here till the CID could send somebody round. They've made some mess, eh?" he added almost admiringly as he looked around.
"You're not kidding," Lindsay said absently as she brewed up. "I've never understood why they feel the need to do it."
"Anger and frustration, so they say. If they don't find any money or decent jewelry that they can sell easy, they take it out on the householder. I always tell the wife, leave PS20 in a drawer in the living room. That way, if we do get some animal breaking in, they might not make a mess of the place."
Crime prevention from the horse's mouth, Lindsay thought wryly. She handed a mug of tea to the constable and returned to the living room where Helen was sitting with her arms round Rosalind, who looked smaller and more vulnerable than Lindsay could have imagined possible. She handed them both a cup of hot tea, then settled down to wait for Rosalind to tell her what had happened.
Rosalind took a gulp of tea then gave Lindsay a weak smile. "If I hadn't gone white at twenty, this lot would have done the trick. I'm sorry to drag you into this," she said, clutching her mug as if it were a lifebelt in a stormy sea. "But I needed your advice."
"What happened?" Lindsay asked.
"I came back from the office in Edinburgh at lunchtime because I had a report to finish for my Minister by tomorrow morning," Rosalind said. "You can never get any serious work done in that office. The Minister's in and out all afternoon, wanting his hand held about something or other, so I thought I'd just pack up the draft
Before Helen could reply, Lindsay used Rosalind's spare keys to let them into the block and headed straight for the lifts. "It's the eighth floor, isn't it?" she asked, her finger hovering over the button.
"That's right," Helen replied, finally realising that Lindsay didn't want to discuss Cordelia further.
When they rang Rosalind's bell, the door was opened almost immediately by a uniformed police constable. "We're friends of Ms. Campbell," Helen announced, sweeping past him in the narrow hall. "She's expecting us." Flashing an apologetic smile at the constable, Lindsay followed Helen through to the living room.
Rosalind was sitting in an armchair, looking dazed in the midst of the chaos that surrounded her. Her violet eyes were red-rimmed, as if she'd been rubbing them, her white hair in a disarray that was all the more shocking because of the contrast with her usual neatly groomed appearance. Papers were thrown everywhere, furniture had been overturned, carpets pulled up, and pictures hurled from the walls into corners where they lay surrounded by shards of broken glass. The drawers of the desk had been pulled out and emptied on the floor, and a bottle of ink had broken, leaving a permanent blue puddle on a scattered pile of envelopes. Lindsay, who had only been in the flat a couple of times before, remembered how neat and orderly it had always been and felt a dim version of the shock that clearly possessed Rosalind.
Helen rushed impulsively across the room to hug Rosalind. "I'll make a cup of tea," Lindsay said, feeling useless. She went through to the kitchen where the burglars had also been active. All the storage jars had been emptied on the floor, and the contents of the cupboards were strewn everywhere. It didn't have the air of random vandalism, however. Odd, thought Lindsay. Almost as if they knew they were looking for something specific. Lindsay raked through the wreckage till she found a mound of teabags and put the kettle on. She stuck her head into the hall and asked the policeman if he wanted a cup of tea.
"Thanks very much," he said gratefully, following her back into the kitchen.
"How many are there of you?" Lindsay asked.
"Just me," he replied. "I was told to hang on here till the CID could send somebody round. They've made some mess, eh?" he added almost admiringly as he looked around.
"You're not kidding," Lindsay said absently as she brewed up. "I've never understood why they feel the need to do it."
"Anger and frustration, so they say. If they don't find any money or decent jewelry that they can sell easy, they take it out on the householder. I always tell the wife, leave PS20 in a drawer in the living room. That way, if we do get some animal breaking in, they might not make a mess of the place."
Crime prevention from the horse's mouth, Lindsay thought wryly. She handed a mug of tea to the constable and returned to the living room where Helen was sitting with her arms round Rosalind, who looked smaller and more vulnerable than Lindsay could have imagined possible. She handed them both a cup of hot tea, then settled down to wait for Rosalind to tell her what had happened.
Rosalind took a gulp of tea then gave Lindsay a weak smile. "If I hadn't gone white at twenty, this lot would have done the trick. I'm sorry to drag you into this," she said, clutching her mug as if it were a lifebelt in a stormy sea. "But I needed your advice."
"What happened?" Lindsay asked.
"I came back from the office in Edinburgh at lunchtime because I had a report to finish for my Minister by tomorrow morning," Rosalind said. "You can never get any serious work done in that office. The Minister's in and out all afternoon, wanting his hand held about something or other, so I thought I'd just pack up the draft
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