Deadline for Murder

by Val McDermid

  “You’ve got to be realistic about it,” Rosalind said patiently. “You’ve got no job and no prospect of one, if I understand you correctly. If you refuse to help and Claire wants to pursue this, she’s going to have to go to a private detective. There is no reason on God’s earth why you should be prepared to do it for free. And Claire Ogilvie can certainly afford to pay.”

  Lindsay looked stunned. “I’m not taking money from that bloody designer dyke,” she replied angrily. “What do you take me for?”

  “Ros is right,” Sophie said quietly. “If Claire wants you to do a job, she should be prepared to pay the going rate.”

  “It feels like taking money under false pretences,” said Lindsay stubbornly. “I’m hardly Philip Marlowe, am I?”

  “You’ve got skills and specialist knowledge,” Rosalind argued. “It’s unprofessional not to charge her for exercising them. I can’t imagine Claire dishing out free professional advice, can you?”

  “But I don’t know where to start,” Lindsay said weakly, knowing she had been outflanked by Rosalind. And, given the tenacity of her friends, she knew she’d actually have to go through with the business of charging Claire for her services.

  “I might just be able to help you there,” Rosalind said with a slow smile.

  Lindsay rang off and threw the cordless phone to the other end of the sofa. Burned my boats now, she thought with a scowl. “Why do I let myself get talked into these things?” she muttered as she walked through to the big, airy kitchen of Sophie’s tenement flat. Lindsay poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down to think. She had agreed to meet Claire in an hour’s time, and she wanted to get everything straight in her head before then.

  Recalling Alison Maxwell wasn’t difficult. They had met the first time Lindsay had been hired to do a shift on the Scottish Daily Clarion. Lindsay had been standing at the library counter waiting for a packet of cuttings. She turned to find herself faced with a woman who seemed to have stepped out of her most secret fantasies, the ones she guiltily felt shouldn’t inhabit the mind of a politically aware feminist. The vision had sandy blonde hair, and an almost Scandinavian cast to her high-cheekboned features. She was a couple of inches taller than Lindsay, with slim hips, and a cleavage that was impossible to ignore. “Hi,” she said in a rich, cultivated Kelvinside accent. “I’m Alison Maxwell. Features department.”

  Lindsay had fallen head over heels in lust. “Pleased to meet you,” she croaked, feeling gauche and adolescent. “I’m Lindsay Gordon. I’m doing a shift for the newsdesk.”

  “Ah,” said Alison. “Pity you’re not a photographer, then I could call you Flash Gordon.”

  “If I get the front page tonight, then you can call me Splash Gordon instead.”

  Lindsay hadn’t made the front page splash that night, but she’d still been Splash from then on to Alison. To Lindsay’s surprise, the feature writer seemed determined to include Lindsay in her busy social life, inviting her out to dinner, to parties, and to her flat for drinks. It wasn’t long before they became lovers. But it was Alison who made the first move. If it had been up to Lindsay, they would never have got beyond a peck on the cheek when they parted. Lindsay would have been happy to leave Alison on her pedestal, having no confidence at all in her own power to attract a woman so different from her previous lovers.

  At first, Lindsay was in a daze of lust fulfilled by exotic and imaginative sex. But once the initial infatuation wore off, she began to see Alison more clearly, and she grew to dislike and distrust what she saw. Lindsay gradually came to understand that Alison Maxwell was a woman who was incapable of simple human relationships. She was too in love with power to have love left over for people. That power was usually exercised through the nuggets of information she’d acquired in the bedroom. It took only a matter of days for Lindsay to discover that she was far from being Alison’s only lover. In a matter of weeks, she had reached the bitter conclusion that Alison was sexually omnivorous.

  Faced with this, Lindsay had made up her mind to end their relationship. That was when she had discovered the cruelest streak in Alison. For Alison was a woman who only let go when she was ready. She had to have control over every situation, and that included the ending of her sexual relationships. When Lindsay had announced her intention to sever their connection, Alison had wept and raged, and finally threatened. She would claim that Lindsay had got her drunk and seduced her. She would make sure everyone knew what a twisted little dyke Lindsay was. And she’d make sure that Lindsay never did another day’s work at the Clarion. Her venom had unnerved Lindsay, and she had allowed herself to be swallowed up in the passion of their reconciliation.

  The following day, ashamed of having given in to Alison’s blackmail, Lindsay had left town for a few days, making the excuse of a feature she wanted to research in Aberdeen. By the time she had returned, Alison had been absorbed in someone new, and had lost all interest in Lindsay, much to her relief. Being dropped from Alison’s social circle had left a gap at first, but Lindsay was grateful to have survived relatively unscathed. As the months passed and she observed her former lover wreaking havoc in other people’s lives, Lindsay vowed never to let her fantasies run away with her again.

  Since she’d moved away from Glasgow, Alison had been no more than a distant memory. But the news of her death had brought these memories to life. There had been so much life in Alison. It might not have been a desirable vivacity, but nevertheless, Lindsay felt herself diminished by Alison’s death. They had hit the heights together, after all. And she’d been a bloody good journalist. The same skills that she used to wind her lovers round her little finger were invaluable when it came to persuading interviewees to open up to her. Alison might have been a bitch, thought Lindsay sadly, but she didn’t deserve to die like that. And however hard she tried, Lindsay couldn’t picture Jackie Mitchell as her killer. Jackie had been a hard-nosed journalist, but underneath, like so many of them, she was soft-centered and weak. Nothing Lindsay had learned about the murder seemed to fit her image of Jackie.

  Rosalind had provided a surprising amount of information about Alison Maxwell’s murder. Surprising, that is, until Lindsay had remembered that Rosalind’s compact modern flat was in the same block as the dead woman’s apartment. As a result, Rosalind had taken a keen interest in the progress of the investigation and trial. The training and experience she’d acquired over her years in the civil service had stood her in good stead when it came to reporting her version of events to Lindsay. She had run through everything she knew in a crisp, factual way, making Lindsay feel like a Scottish Office Minister on the receiving end of some vital briefing. No wonder politicians felt inferior to their senior civil servants! And no wonder Rosalind had climbed to the rank of Principal Officer.

  All the evidence against Jackie had been circumstantial, Rosalind had reported. She had never denied that she had been in Alison’s flat on the afternoon of the murder. She had never denied that they had been to bed together. She had never denied her ownership of the scarf that had strangled Alison. But from the moment of her arrest till now, convicted and sentenced, she had vigorously denied killing her. The point at issue, according to Rosalind, was whether Jackie was telling the truth about the time of her departure.

  “Jackie was seen by Alison’s mother leaving the building by the side door at five minutes to six. Mrs. Maxwell was trying to gain admittance to the block. We have security entryphones, and there was no response from Alison’s flat. Mrs. Maxwell had to wait another fifteen minutes before someone arrived who could let her into the building. They went up in the lift together. Mrs. Maxwell went straight to Alison’s flat, where the front door was ajar. She walked as far as the bedroom door, saw her daughter, and started screaming,” Rosalind explained.

  “Jackie maintained at the time, and later, that she had left the flat nearly half an hour before the body was discovered. She had walked down the fire escape stairs rather than take the lift, and stopped to have a cigarette and a think. The pol
ice took the not unreasonable view that this was scarcely normal behavior. And of course, once they had Jackie in custody, and had satisfied the Procurator Fiscal that the case against her covered all the eventualities, the investigation stopped dead.”

  It didn’t leave too many avenues for exploring, Lindsay thought to herself as she finished her coffee. But Rosalind had been able to give her a spare set of keys to the building and her flat. Later this afternoon, Lindsay would take advantage of that to have a good look around and refresh her memory about the layout of the block that had once been almost as familiar as her own tenement. But first, she had to face Claire.

  She glanced in the full-length mirror in the hall as she reached for her heavy sheepskin jacket. If Cordelia was going to be at Claire’s, Lindsay wanted to look her best. All the exercise and healthy eating in Italy had left her nearly a stone lighter, and her tight Levis emphasized the fact. But her thick Aran sweater did her no favors. Impatiently, Lindsay pulled it off and surveyed herself in the loose but flattering scarlet polo shirt she was wearing underneath. She’d probably freeze to death, but at least she was looking pretty good. She shrugged into her jacket, determined to show Cordelia exactly what she was missing!

  4

  Lindsay managed to find a free parking meter by the river, a couple of streets away from Claire’s flat. She set the alarm on her ancient MGB roadster then strode briskly through the misty winter air, casting a jaundiced eye on the cold gray waters of the Clyde. Not an improvement on the blue of the Adriatic, she thought. At times like this, she wished she’d never left Italy. Fancy thinking coming home would solve anything.

  Following Claire’s detailed instructions, she turned into a narrow alleyway which opened out into a small courtyard with several staircases leading off it. Originally, these had been the semi-slum homes of the ill-paid clerks who had tended the fortunes of the Victorian merchants and shipping magnates who had once made the city great. Over the years, the properties had deteriorated, till they were precariously balanced on the edge of demolition. But in the nick of time, a new prosperity had arrived in Glasgow and the property developers had snapped up the almost derelict slums and renovated them. Now, there were luxury flats with steel doors and closed circuit video security systems where once there had been open staircases that rang with the sounds of too many families crammed into too small a space. Lindsay surveyed the clean, sandblasted courtyard with an ironic smile, before pressing the buzzer for Claire’s flat and glowering at the camera lens three feet above her head.

  The speaker at her ear crackled, and she could just make out Claire’s voice. “It’s Lindsay,” she said, and was rewarded by the angry buzz of the door release. Lindsay mounted the stairs to the third landing, where Claire stood by her open front door. Lindsay took in the details of her appearance that she had been too upset to notice the night before. The most striking thing about her was her height. She was nearly six feet tall, and her body had all the willowy sinuousness of a model. Her fine white-blonde hair was beautifully cut, like the severely tailored gray herringbone woollen suit she wore. She looked like a recruitment poster for law graduates.

  “Come in,” Claire greeted her. “You’re very punctual.”

  Lindsay bit back a sarcastic retort and followed her through a spacious hallway furnished with a small Turkish carpet and several pale wood bookcases. In an alcove, behind glass doors, was a collection of Oriental porcelain. Claire showed her into a huge square room with two bay windows which overlooked the river. The room must originally have been the living rooms of two separate flats, Lindsay thought to herself. Two families would have occupied the space now filled with Claire’s Scandinavian pine furniture and colorful wall hangings. Even the stereo system and the CD collection were housed in tailor-made glass-fronted pine units. It could have come straight from the pages of the kind of glossy magazine Lindsay couldn’t imagine wanting to write for. Cordelia would feel right at home here, she thought bitterly, taking in the Cartier briefcase standing beside the sofa. The room’s designer consumerism epitomized everything that had disturbed Lindsay about their life together. But Cordelia had never shared her discomfort.

  “Can I get you a drink?” Claire asked.

  “No thanks,” Lindsay replied. She might have to take Claire’s money; but she was damned if she would accept anything that fell outside the ambit of a purely professional relationship. At least Cordelia wasn’t here to churn up her emotions again, she thought with a mixture of relief and regret. “So, you said that Jackie wants my help,” she added, perching on the edge of a pine-framed armchair.

  Claire pushed her glasses up her nose in a nervous gesture. “That’s right,” she said. “Look, before we start, I just wanted to apologize for last night. I realize it must have been something of a shock for you, and I’m sorry if I was less than helpful.”

  Lindsay shrugged. “What exactly did Jackie want me to do?”

  Claire was clearly unsettled by Lindsay’s ungracious response to her apology, and walked over to the window to stare out at the mist-shrouded water. “She thought you could establish her innocence.”

  “But why? What made her think I could succeed where the police and her own lawyers had failed? Surely if there had been anything to go on you would have hired a private detective before the trial.”

  Having recovered her poise, Claire turned back and sat down on the edge of the sofa. Lindsay couldn’t help picturing Cordelia curled up there beside her, watching television or just talking. She pushed the bitter thought aside and forced herself to listen to Claire. “We didn’t go to a conventional private detective because Jackie didn’t believe that we’d find one who would genuinely be on our side. I have to say that in my experience professionally with the breed, I wouldn’t expect to find one who was sympathetic to a gay woman. Jackie thought you’d believe her. And she thought you’d have a vested interest in finding out the truth. She knew about your own affair with Alison, knew you’d understand what she’d been put through.”

  Lindsay lit a cigarette without her usual courtesy of asking permission first. Claire leapt to her feet, saying, “I’ll get you an ashtray.” She disappeared through another door and returned moments later with an ostentatiously large crystal ashtray. Lindsay felt that using it would be like shouting in a museum. Claire placed it on the occasional table next to Lindsay’s chair and said, “Well, will you help? She didn’t do it, you know.” There was a note of desperation in her voice that touched Lindsay in spite of herself.

  Wearily, Lindsay nodded. “I’ll do what I can,” she said. “My daily rate is £100 plus expenses. I’d expect a week’s payment in advance, as a retainer,” she added quickly, amazed at how easily it came out.

  Claire’s eyebrows rose. “Cordelia didn’t seem to think you’d expect to be paid,” she said coolly. “But I’m used to paying for professional services. In return, I expect full reports on what you are doing.” Claire opened her briefcase and swiftly wrote a check for £700. She handed it to Lindsay with a look of contempt.

  “That goes without saying,” Lindsay replied. She glanced at the check and noted it was drawn on the JM Defense Account. Claire might be happy to splash out on maintaining her own high-flying image, but clearly a private detective wasn’t considered a designer accessory, Lindsay thought with a spurt of anger. She took a deep breath before she spoke. “Now, before we go any farther, I want you to tell me everything you know about the events leading up to the murder.” Lindsay took a notebook out of her shoulder bag to take down Claire’s words in her rusty shorthand.

  Claire took a deep breath and went back to her vantage point at the window. “We’d been having a difficult time. We’d been together just over five years, and I suppose we’d started taking each other for granted. I had only recently been made a partner in my firm, and I was bringing a lot of work home. And Jackie was busier than ever. So many new magazines have been launched in the last couple of years, and they’re all hungry for strong, well-written features. But I
was too absorbed in my own problems to notice the strain she was under. I suppose that was Alison’s appeal for her. Alison was in the same business, and they could talk shop together. I know Jackie had a lot of professional respect for Alison.” Claire sighed deeply and walked across to a tray with a decanter and glasses. She poured herself a careful inch of Scotch, turning to Lindsay and saying, “Sure you won’t have one?”

  Lindsay shook her head. “Go on,” she probed.

  Claire paced the floor. “It was the old, old story. I was the last to know. It had apparently been going on for about two months when I found out.”

  “How did you find out?” Lindsay asked gently. She couldn’t help herself. Even with a woman she instinctively disliked so much, she still slipped straight into the persona of the professionally sympathetic interviewer.

  “I usually went to bed before Jackie. One night, I couldn’t sleep, so I got up to make myself a cup of cocoa. I came through from the bedroom and I could hear Jackie’s voice. It wasn’t that I was eavesdropping, I just couldn’t help overhearing. She was clearly having an intimate conversation with someone . . .” Claire’s voice tailed off, and she traced the pattern on the crystal glass with one long fingernail.

  “What made you think it was the sort of intimate conversation you have with lovers?” Lindsay probed.

  “For want of a better way of putting it, she was talking dirty to someone,” Claire said with a look of distaste. “I was completely stunned. The idea of her having a lover had never once crossed my mind, can you believe it?”

  “Oh, I can believe it all right,” Lindsay said, pushing the thought of Cordelia away again. “But how did you find out it was Alison? Did you confront Jackie then and there?”

  “I didn’t know what to do, so I crept back to bed. When she finally came through, I waited till she’d fallen asleep, then I got up and pressed the last number redial button on the phone. I got Alison Maxwell’s answering machine. The following evening, I confronted Jackie with it, and she admitted it immediately. It was almost as if it was a relief to her.” Claire took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “We had a very traumatic evening. A lot of tears, a lot of talking. At the end of it, we decided that there was still too much between us to finish it. Jackie agreed that she would stop seeing Alison. And as far as I was concerned, that was the end of it. Two days later, I came home to find Jackie in tears. She told me she’d been to see Alison to break it off, but that Alison had been completely unreasonable. She had threatened to tell me all sorts of lies about what they had done together, and to destroy Jackie’s career. Jackie was in a hell of a state. Before we could sort anything out between us, the police arrived and arrested her.” Claire stopped pacing and stared at Lindsay in mute misery. The cool lawyer’s façade had vanished completely. “It was only later that I discovered that Alison and Jackie had been to bed together that afternoon. I know it sounds absurd, but I was more upset over her lying to me about that than I was about her being accused of the murder.”