Blue Genes - By Val McDermid Page 0,70

be a contender on "Mas¬termind" to work out that the chances were that the other egg had come from the person most concerned with the procedure.

The more I found out, the more the idea of a random burglar sounded as likely as Barry Manilow ducting with Snoop Doggy Dogg. Forget her colleagues in Leeds. They'd still be there tomorrow. Right now, I needed to check on whether there was a murderer on my own doorstep.

Lesley Hilton was Sarah Blackstone's first experiment mother. According to the files, she lived with her partner on the edge of the Saddleworth moors, where the red¬brick terraced slopes of Oldham yield to the Yorkshire stone villas built by those of the Victorians who managed to get rich on the backs of the ones toiling in the humid spinning mills. It was far from the nearest address to me, but Lesley's daughter Coriander must be around eighteen months old by now, and if she was Blackstone's baby, it might be obvious. It was as good a place to start as any, and better than most.

The house was one of a group of three cottages set at the foot of a steep field where sheep did the job I'd have cheerfully paid a gardener to do. Anything's preferable to having a herd of wild animals at the back door. The original tawny color of the stone was smudged with more than a century's worth of grime. So much for the clean country air. I yanked an old-fashioned bellpull and heard a dispro¬portionately small tinkle.

The woman who opened the door looked like a social worker in her fisherman's smock, loose cotton trousers, and the kind of sensible leather sandals that make Clark's Startrite look positively dashing. She was short and squarely built, with dark blond hair cut spiky on top. She peered at me through granny glasses, her chubby face smiling tentatively. "Yes?" she said.

I'd been working on a decent cover story all the way out along the Oldham Road. What I had was pitifully thin, but it was going to have to do. "I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes?" I started. "This isn't easy to talk about on the doorstep, but it concerns a Dr. Sarah Blackstone."

Either Lesley Hilton had never heard the name before, or she had more acting skills than a family outing of Red-graves. She looked blank and frowned. "Are you sure you've got the right house?" "You are Lesley Hilton?"

She nodded, her head cocked in what I recognized as the classic pose of a mother listening for a toddler who was probably dismantling the TV set as we spoke.

"I think you probably knew Dr. Blackstone as Dr. Helen Maitland," I said.

This time, the name got a reaction. Her cheekbones bloomed scarlet and she stepped back involuntarily, the door starting to close. "I think you'd better go," she said. "I'm no threat to you and Coriander. I'm not from the authorities, I swear," I pleaded, fishing out a card that simply said, "Kate Brannigan, Confidential Consultant," with the office address and phone number. I gave her the card. "Look, it's important that we talk. Dr. Blackstone or Dr. Maitland, whatever you prefer to call her, is dead and I'm trying to..."

The door closed, shutting off the expression of panic that had gripped Lesley Hilton's features. Cursing myself for my clumsiness, I walked back to my car. At least I hadn't blown it with someone who knew that Dr. Helen Maitland was really Sarah Blackstone. I'd have put money on that. And if she wasn't aware of that, chances were she hadn't killed her.

I fared better with Jude Webster, another of the early births. According to the files, she'd been a self-employed PR copywriter when she became pregnant. Judging by the word processor whose screen glowed on the table next to the pack of disposable diapers, she was still trying to earn some money that way. She had glossy chestnut hair, which, considering the depth of the lines around her eyes, owed more to the bottle than to nature. Even though little Leonie was at the nursery, the buttons on Jude's cardigan had been done up in a hurry and didn't match the appropriate buttonholes, but I didn't feel it would help our rapport if I pointed that out.

The news of Sarah Blackstone's real identity and her death had got me across the threshold. I hadn't even needed a business card. Maybe she assumed I was another of the lesbian mothers