by Val McDermid
“So instead of pledging yourself to wait for her, you jumped into bed with Cordelia. Very supportive,” Lindsay said, fighting the sympathy she was beginning to feel for Claire with her anger at Cordelia.
“That’s not fair,” Claire protested angrily. “It wasn’t like that. Neither of us planned what happened.”
Lindsay ignored Claire’s response and asked, “Is there anything more you can tell me that might shed some light? Did Jackie mention anyone else in connection with Alison?”
Claire shook her head. “No. You’ll need to ask Jackie all the details of what actually happened that afternoon,” she grimaced. “Ever the lawyer, you see, I’m not giving you any hearsay evidence. I’ll also speak to Jackie’s lawyer, Jim Carstairs, so you can have access to all the legal papers. Remember—what I’m interested in is getting Jackie freed. To do that, you don’t have to provide definitive proof against any individual. You simply have to come up with enough new evidence to cast reasonable doubt on the conviction.”
“I might not have a law degree, but I do have a qualification in Scots law for journalists, Claire. I’m well aware of the standard of proof required by the courts,” Lindsay retorted, feeling patronized by Claire’s spelling out of the situation.
Claire flushed. “Very well. What do you plan to do next?”
“I want to see Jackie as soon as that can be arranged. In the meantime, I’m going to take a look at the flats where Alison lived. I’ve borrowed a set of keys from a friend of mine who lives in the block. I want to refresh my memory on the layout. I’ll ring Jim Carstairs and arrange a time to see the papers. And I’ll look up a few contacts from my Clarion days. I’ll call you tomorrow evening and let you know how I’m going on.”
“Where can I reach you?” Claire asked. “Cordelia told me you rented your flat out when you moved to London three years ago.”
“Yes. Unfortunately, the students who are in it now have a lease that doesn’t run out till July. So I’m staying with a friend.” Lindsay scribbled down Sophie’s number on a sheet from her notebook. She got to her feet. “Goodbye, Claire. I’ll see myself out.”
Lindsay drove out of the city center with a sour taste in her mouth. How could Cordelia have fallen for a pretentious yuppie like Claire Ogilvie? To distract herself, she studied Great Western Road as she drove out toward Alison’s flat in Hyndland. There had been a few changes here in recent years. It all looked smarter, somehow, the last-ditch hippy emporia of the seventies having finally vanished, overtaken by bookshops, up-market restaurants, and interesting food shops. I like being back, she thought with surprise as she swung left off the main road and headed for Caird House. The flats were a ten-story modern block, built by a housing association in the late seventies. Alison’s flat was on the sixth floor, two below Rosalind’s.
Lindsay left her car in one of the visitors’ parking bays, then walked down the ramp and past the barrier into the residents’ underground car park. It was almost empty in the late afternoon. Like Claire’s Merchant City eyrie, these were flats for single professionals, or couples without children. At this time of day, they would all be at work. Lindsay crossed the garage and examined the door. Unlike the ground floor entrances, this one had no entryphone, just the same seven-lever mortice lock as the other outside doors. Presumably only residents were expected to come in from the garage. Lindsay tried the key that Rosalind had given her and entered the block.
She noticed the two lifts, but ignored them and headed for the fire escape stairs. She climbed up one level and emerged through a heavy swing door into the foyer. There were two outside exits, one on either side of the block, each leading to a small landscaped parking area. Through the far door, she could just see the nose of her own car. There were no flats on the ground floor, merely boxroom storage areas and the collection area where the rubbish chutes deposited their contents. Lindsay pushed the fire door open again and climbed the stairs. She’d always used the lifts before, and wanted to see for herself how likely it was that Jackie might have been spotted from the outside as she’d sat on the stairs smoking. Small frosted glass windows provided the only daylight, killing that possibility. Overhead, fluorescent strips hummed. At the sixth floor, Lindsay emerged on to a familiar landing.
There were four flats on each landing, one at each corner of the central core. Two had one bedroom, the others had two, she remembered. Ahead of her lay Alison’s front door. 6A. How many times had she stood here in a fever of anticipation, desperate for the satisfaction she knew she’d find on the other side of that cherry-red door?
Lindsay turned away, aware for the first time of the depth of her sorrow for Alison. She examined the landing more carefully. Beside the lifts was another door. Curious, she opened it. Inside, there was just room for a person to stand. In the wall was a large, square hole with a sign above it saying “Rubbish Chute.” Cautiously, Lindsay stuck her head into the gap. It was pitch black. Presumably this was the chute that carried bin bags from the flats down to the huge bins in the ground floor storeroom.
Lindsay withdrew and thoughtfully returned to the landing. She pressed the lift button and waited a few seconds for it to arrive. The double doors slid back, revealing a woman standing in the cramped compartment. As she saw Lindsay she gasped in surprise.
Lindsay stepped into the lift and said nonchalantly, “Hello, Ruth, I didn’t realize you still lived here.”
“Lindsay. What a surprise. I heard you’d left the country after . . . But . . . what on earth were you doing on the landing there? You hadn’t come to see . . . I mean, you did know about . . .?”
Same old Ruth, thought Lindsay. Congenitally incapable of finishing her sentences. “I got back a couple of weeks ago,” Lindsay said. “I only heard about Alison last night. I guess I just wanted to make a sort of pilgrimage. For old times’ sake, you know?”
Ruth Menzies gulped and nodded vigorously. “I know what you mean. Antonis and I were thinking of selling up and moving out, you know? I couldn’t face all the memories, it was all too . . . But anyway, we decided to stay a bit longer and see how . . .” The lift slid to a smooth halt and the doors opened.
“Nice to see you, Ruth,” said Lindsay pleasantly. “Maybe we could get together some time and talk about old times?” The lift stopped at the ground floor and Lindsay stepped out.
Ruth’s answer was cut short as the lift doors closed and carried her down to the basement. Lindsay walked back to her car, musing on the coincidence that had thrust her back into contact with Ruth. The mousey-haired art gallery owner had been Alison Maxwell’s closest friend for years. About the only friend who hadn’t been one of her lovers, Lindsay wouldn’t mind betting. They’d been friends since schooldays, she seemed to remember, the classic pairing of the siren who needs the mouse to show her off to full advantage. Alison had been more than a little put out when insignificant little Ruthie had returned from a buying trip to Athens with a husband in tow. And not just any husband, but a handsome, dashing Greek three years her junior, who was determined to put Ruth’s money to good use while he wrote the Great European Novel. Lindsay wondered idly if he’d managed to put pen to paper yet.
On her way back to Sophie’s flat, Lindsay made a detour to Wunda Wines, a discount warehouse in Partick, where she bought a couple of bottles of crisp white Tokai di Aquilea to go with dinner. Even that little taste of the Veneto was better than nothing, she reflected as she drove back. She parked behind a Mercedes coupé and hurried toward the tenement entrance. She had only taken a few steps when she was brought up short by the sound of a familiar voice calling her name. A moment later, Cordelia was by her side.
Lindsay struggled to find something to say that wouldn’t betray the confusion of emotions that were churning inside her. It didn’t matter how many times she told herself it was over, her heart hadn’t got the message yet. “I like the new car,” she said sarcastically. “Very tasty. Must be more money in the book business than I thought. Or was it another windfall from a rich relati
ve?” she added, feeling ashamed as soon as the words were out of her mouth. She’d never been able to forgive Cordelia for the ostentatious luxury of her London home, bought with the money her grandmother had left her.
Cordelia failed to respond to Lindsay’s barb. “I had to get rid of the BMW. Some joyriders smashed into it outside the house one night, and the steering was never the same afterward. When I sold the film rights for Ikhaya Lamaqhawe, I treated myself to the Merc,” she replied. “But I didn’t drive over here to discuss cars. Claire told me where you were staying. I need to talk to you.”
Lindsay felt anger rising up inside her. Hadn’t Cordelia made her position clear enough the night before? “What is there to say?” she demanded abruptly. She wanted this conversation over with. The longer it went on, the more upset she was going to become. “You’ve obviously made your choices,” she snapped.
“At the time, it was the choice between loneliness and having someone to share things with. I missed you so much, Lindsay. And the months kept going by . . . well, I decided I couldn’t go on hurting forever. Then I met Claire.” In spite of the conciliatory tone of her words, Cordelia’s face was set in a stubborn expression of self-righteousness.
“Fine,” said Lindsay, cutting Cordelia off. “I’ll see you around.” She moved forward, but Cordelia was in front of her, barring her path.
“Wait,” she said urgently. “Claire says you’ve agreed to try to clear Jackie. I wanted to offer my help.”
“That’s very noble of you.” Lindsay snorted derisively, refusing to let herself be moved. “Aren’t you worried about the competition if Jackie gets out?”
Cordelia flinched, but didn’t rise. “We used to work well together on this kind of thing. I know you like bouncing your ideas off someone. Look, Lindsay, we might not be lovers any more, but I know the way your mind works. Let me help.”
In spite of herself, Lindsay was touched by Cordelia’s offer. “Okay, let me think about it. I’m not making any promises, but I’ll think about it.”
Cordelia smiled and Lindsay felt as if she would burst into tears. “Thanks,” Cordelia said. “You can get me at Claire’s if you want to talk.” Then, with the impeccable sense of timing that always left people wanting more, she walked briskly back to her new Mercedes without a backward glance.
Close to tears, Lindsay stumbled blindly into the close and ran up the stairs to the first-floor flat. She walked into the hall, but before she could reach her room, Helen’s voice rang out. “Lindsay? Is that you? Thank God you’re back. Rosalind’s flat’s been burgled!”
5
Less than an hour after she had left Caird House, Lindsay was heading back there, this time with Helen. “I told Rosalind I’d find you and bring you round as soon as you got back,” Helen announced for the third time. “I knew you’d be going back to Sophie’s flat, so I thought I’d wait for you there. I still have a key, so I can feed her bloody tropical fish when she’s away.” Why me, thought Lindsay wildly. Answering her unspoken question, Helen continued. “With you being there this afternoon, Rosalind thought you might have noticed somebody hanging around. And besides,” she added mysteriously, “there are things involved that I don’t think Rosalind will be too happy to tell the police about.”
“What do you mean?” Lindsay asked.
“Oh, I’ll leave Rosalind to tell you all about it. It’ll be better coming from her. How did you get on with Claire? Tell all!”
Lindsay gave Helen a brief rundown on her day, punctuated at regular intervals with Helen’s sharp exclamations. When she reached the meeting with Cordelia, Helen exploded in righteous anger as incandescent as her flaming red hair. “The nerve of the woman!” she declared. “I hope you sent her away with her guts in a paper bag!”
Lindsay drew up in Caird House car park, saying, “What’s the point, Helen? She’s got every right to her own life. I was the one who did the walking.” She got out and slammed the car door, adding as they walked over to 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 realizing 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 £20 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 and bring it back here.
“When I went to print out the finished report, I realized I was nearly out of computer paper. So I drove do
wn to Byres Road and bought a box, then came straight back. I was only gone for about twenty minutes. As soon as I got out of the lift, I knew something was wrong. The front door was open, you see. I dithered for a minute or two, wondering whether there was still someone inside, but then I decided, to hell with it, and went in. The place was empty, but it was like this. The policeman said he reckoned they must have been keeping an eye out for me, and just did a runner when they saw my car come back.”
“That’s funny,” Lindsay mused.
“What’s funny about that?” Helen objected. “It’s exactly what I’d do if I was a burglar.”
“Well, how would they know it was Rosalind’s car, unless they were specifically targeting her? In a block this big, you’d have to be dead unlucky if the one car that came in while you were turning a flat over actually belonged to that flat’s owner. It looks to me as if they came here with a particular goal in mind and they knew exactly who to keep watch for. This was no random opportunist burglary,” Lindsay said.