"Nothing," said McEwan thoughtfully, running the ripped end between his thumb and forefinger. "Was this bit of paper longer? I remember the pad as longer than this. Was a bit ripped off the bottom?"

Maureen shrugged. "Not that I know of."

"It's a bit damp."

"I just washed my hands."

She was seeing them out of the front door when she noticed the answer phone winking at her. McEwan caught her eye as he followed McAskill into the close. "Carol Brady was on TV last night," he said. "I don't know if you saw it?"

"No," said Maureen.

"Well, I think the press'll be hanging around again. Just watch your back, okay?" He smiled at her.

"Thanks, Joe." She patted his arm. "I will." She shut the door and waited until the policemen had walked down a couple of landings before she pressed the Play button on the answer phone. It was Lynn, she was off today, could Maureen call her at home.

A man with a Belfast accent answered and said he'd see if she was in. He put down the receiver, walked away two steps, knocked on a door and shouted something. Maureen could hear the cats meowing intermittently in the background. A door opened, two footsteps, and Lynn lifted the phone. "Hello?"

"Lynn!"

"Mauri! What's the crack? How ye feeling now?"

"Oh, I'm much better now, Lynn. Thanks for the other day."

"Liam said you'd cut your hair and it looked dead nice. I didn't let on I'd seen ye."

"Good woman."

"Look, he told me about Benny going to your house and him having a key and everything."

"God, I told him not to say anything. He's an awful arse."

"Yeah, he's that all right," said Lynn fondly. "Anyway, I might be able to do that wee thing you asked about."

"Which thing?"

"Can't say, really."

There must be someone in the background. "The medical file?" guessed Maureen. "Do you know how I get to see it?"

"I might be able to do more than that. I might be able to get it for you."

"How can you do that?"

"Inverness's files are networked and my cousin works there."

"Can you get the name of the doctor from that?"

"Patient name, address, condition, treatment and doctor's name."

"Oh, Lynn, would you? All I need is the doctor's name."

"If it's there she'll get it. Not one word, Secret Squirrel, not even to Liam. I could get my books over this."

"When could you get it for?"

"Couple of days? Phone me at work on Thursday. If ye phone in the morning I'll definitely be there."

They whispered their cheerios.

She dialed the number of the Dennistoun day center. A man answered. When Maureen asked about Siobhain McCloud the man hummed and hawed in a manner so forcefully nonchalant that Maureen was terrified. "Are you a relation?" he asked.

"I'm her cousin. Tell me what happened."

"Miss McCloud's been… I'm afraid…" His voice trailed off, as if he had turned his head away from the receiver to look at something.

She demanded to speak to the female receptionist. The girl picked up the phone. "Hello?" Maureen was halfway through reminding her she'd been in that morning when she heard a watery, tearful sniff on the other end of the phone. The receptionist had been crying.

Maureen threw down the phone and ran out of the house, hailing a cab to Dennistoun.

She ran through the reception area. Old Gurtie with the falling teeth was crying by the desk, her hand to her face, the red lipstick smudged over her cheek and nose. A woman in a smart navy trouser suit was standing by the door to the dayroom. "You can't go in!" she shouted as Maureen bolted toward the door. Maureen skipped past her. The woman lunged forward and caught the back of Maureen's overcoat, dragging her back into the lobby. Maureen slipped her arms out of the coat and ran into the dayroom.

Siobhain was sitting in the chair, still facing the television. Behind the television the fire exit was lying open, a bitter draft blowing into the room from the back alley. A dark-haired man was sitting on a chair next to Siobhain, holding a paper bag over her face. She was breathing into it. He looked up as Maureen ran over and said something about a bad turn. Maureen crouched down in front of Siobhain. She couldn't speak because of the bag over her face – she was hyperventilating – but she was awake again. Her eyes were wide with terror.

Maureen hunkered down in front of her, stroking her knee and inhaling in time with her. Siobhain's breathing slowly returned to normal and the man took the bag away from her mouth. "I saw him," mouthed Siobhain. "Him."

The man told her that Siobhain had been watching TV and one of the other clients had walked in, giving her a fright. She began to scream and lost her breath. "She worked herself up into a right old state," he said, holding her hand. "Didn't you, pet?" He gestured to the reception area. "Nearly scared the life out of poor old Gurtie."

Maureen took Siobhain's hand. "Do you want to go home and have a lie-down?"

Siobhain shut her eyes and nodded.

The dark-haired man yanked her into her windcheater. Maureen took her own coat from the suited woman and held Siobhain's arm, leading her out of the day center and into the street.

It could have been a flashback – a rapist would hardly walk into a day center in broad daylight. The staff hadn't seen anyone else in the room except Gurtie. From her own experience of flashbacks Maureen knew how difficult it is to tell them from reality and she knew they were triggered by stress. Maybe this was an after-effect of the interview with Joe McEwan. Maureen looked around the street for pedestrians or occupied cars. The only car in the street was a blue Ford but two people were sitting in it and they were chatting to each other quite casually.

They walked slowly around the corner. "Not Gurtie," whispered Siobhain.

"I know it wasn't Gurtie you saw, hen. Can you say his name to me?"

Siobhain jackknifed stiffly forward, squeezed her eyes tight together, and vomited stringy white lumps of bread and spit onto her shoes.

Maureen tried to help her upright. "I'm sorry, Siobhain, I'm sorry."

Maureen stopped at the edge of the pavement, waiting for a pause in the traffic so that they could cross to the phone box, but Siobhain tugged her sleeve. "I was going to phone Leslie," said Maureen.

"Home," said Siobhain. "Home."

"But I can't stay here all day and I think you should have someone with you."

Siobhain ignored her, tugging her sleeve. "Home," she said, walking on and turning into her close.

A small boy with a wedge haircut and a football was standing in the close. He had a Man United shirt on. He flattened himself against the wall to let them pass, watching Siobhain shuffle up the stairs. When they had passed he began his game again, headering the ball against the inside wall of the close. He was playing keepy-uppy, leaving round muddy marks on the cream wall. He was six or seven, too young to go out on his own.

The smell of heather wasn't as strong as Maureen remembered it: she must be getting used to it. She made Siobhain a cup of tea, listening all the while to the rhythmic thump, thump of the boy's ball game in the close below. She took the tea bag out and stirred three sugars into the cup.

Siobhain drank a mouthful. "Sugar," she said.

"It's good for shock," said Maureen, putting her fingers on the base of the cup and tilting it to Siobhain's mouth.

Siobhain drank quickly as she stared at the carpet, taking big gulps, leaving a brown smile at the corners of her mouth. Maureen took the cup and put it on the floor. "I really think you should go to Leslie's house, Siobhain, you shouldn't be on your own. The only thing is you'll need to go on the motorbike-"

"No," whispered Siobhain, shaking her head slowly. "No."