Deadline for Murder

by Val McDermid

  Rosalind paled. “You mean, they were actually spying on me? Surely not! I don’t have anything valuable.”

  “Did they steal those papers you brought home?”

  Miserably, Rosalind nodded. “They walked off with the lot. And the disk from the computer with the finished report. They took all my other disks as well. Luckily, I’ve got backups of most of them safely stowed in Helen’s flat.”

  “Do you think the intent was to steal the draft?” Lindsay asked.

  “How could it be? Nobody knew what I was bringing home. Not even my secretary knew exactly what it was about. God knows what I’m going to tell the Minister. I’m not supposed to let things like that out of my sight. He’ll go absolutely apeshit.”

  “Why?” Helen cut in, unable to restrain her natural exuberant curiosity. “What were they about, for God’s sake?”

  “I can’t say,” Rosalind said. “Official Secrets Act.”

  “I know all about that,” said Lindsay grimly. “But look, you can trust us, Rosalind. We’re not about to tell anyone. And the police are going to have to know, aren’t they?”

  Rosalind looked worried. “Yes, they are.” She thought for a moment, then made her decision. “It mustn’t go any farther, and I really mean that, both of you.”

  “You have my word,” said Lindsay.

  “I won’t tell a soul,” Helen said. “Though God knows it’ll kill me, keeping my mouth shut.” She pulled a face.

  Rosalind gave a faint smile. “I know you can keep quiet when you have to, Helen. The report was about the privatization of prisons. They’ve been muttering about it for a while, but just like the poll tax, they’ve decided to try it out in Scotland first. You know the Tory theory—dump it on the Scots, that way if it doesn’t work, we’ve not lost anything because the bloody Scots always vote Labour anyway.”

  “Jesus,” Helen breathed softly. “That’s dynamite, Ros. What exactly are they planning?”

  “I really don’t want to go into details,” Rosalind said. “But they’re planning all sorts of shit like armed guards and high security isolation units for violent offenders. It’ll mean the end of any kind of rehabilitation programs for long-stay prisoners, among other things.”

  Lindsay sighed. “I can see why you’re so worried. And if there were rumors around that you were working on it, there would be plenty of people who’d be happy to get their hands on the proposals. Any security firm who were thinking of bidding for the contract, for starters.”

  “But I’ve already told you, no one could have known that this would be the one afternoon when the papers would be here,” Rosalind protested. She looked around the room distractedly, as if the chaos would provide her with some clue.

  “Yes, that is a problem,” Lindsay admitted. “But I don’t quite understand why you wanted my advice. I mean, the CID and the Special Branch will be running around like blue-arsed flies till they get their hands on your precious briefcase.”

  “That wasn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. I know that you can’t help me with the official stuff. I’m just going to have to pray that the police find my papers quickly. Then the relief might just stop the Minister from killing me. What I’m worried about is more personal.”

  Lindsay lit a cigarette and waited. After a few moments, Rosalind disengaged herself from Helen’s hug, took a deep breath, and said, “Did you ever meet my brother Harry?”

  “The M.P.? No, I’ve never actually met him, though I knew he was your brother, of course.”

  “Lucky you,” Helen muttered. “Harry’s about as much use as a chocolate chip-pan.”

  “All right, Helen. I know you can’t stand Harry. But he’s not as bad as you make out. Harry’s the Labour member for Kinradie, in the Mearns. It’s a long way from being a safe seat—it’s mainly a farming constituency, and it was one of the few remaining Tory seats till 1983 when Harry won it the first time. So he has to maintain a respectable stance as far as the electorate is concerned. And his constituency party has a nasty right-wing rump that doesn’t like a lot of his ideas, so they’re always looking for an excuse to deselect him. He’s done all the right things—bought a smallholding, married a nice girl who runs the farm while he’s away. The only thing he’s not managed to achieve in terms of respectability is to have kids.

  “There’s a good reason for that—Harry’s actually gay. His wife knew what she was getting into when she married him, and they’re good friends. I think Angela channels all her sexual energies into growing the perfect loganberry. But Harry’s always been sexually active even though he’s deep in the closet. He was a teacher before he got into politics, so he’s always had the habit of being really careful about it.” Rosalind stopped abruptly, clearly not certain how to continue.

  Helen jumped into the breach. “What Rosalind isn’t telling you is that Harry has a penchant for young boys. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not some kind of pedophile. He just prefers them in their teens. And, as we all know, that’s still illegal in this benighted country. So Harry is no stranger to the meat racks round Blythswood Square. He likes the illicit thrill of the rent boys.”

  “God, Helen,” Rosalind protested, “you make him sound like some kind of sleazeball pervert. He’s not like that. He’s had a steadyish relationship on and off for years with Tom McNally.”

  “One of his former pupils,” Helen interjected.

  “Yes, one of his former pupils. But Harry never laid a finger on him while he was still at school. It was only after he’d gone to university that they started sleeping together,” Rosalind said defensively.

  “I still don’t see what this has got to do with me. Or the burglary,” Lindsay said, trying to break up the conversation between the other two women before it became a row.

  “Sorry, I’m not explaining things very clearly,” Rosalind apologized. “It must be the shock of all this. Harry spends quite a lot of time in Glasgow, seeing Tom and . . . other boys. When he’s here, he uses my flat. I’m quite often away because of work.”

  “And because of Bill,” Helen muttered. She got to her feet and began to wander round the room, unable to keep still. It was a constant source of amazement to Lindsay that in spite of Helen’s phenomenal level of nervous energy, she still fought a constant battle with her weight.

  “Yes, and because of Bill. That’s the bloke I’ve been seeing recently. He lives in Edinburgh,” Rosalind explained. “So Harry makes a lot of use of my spare room. Even when I’m here, it’s not really a problem. We’ve always got along fine. But the spare room’s been turned over as well. He has a desk in there with a locked drawer. The drawer has been forced and everything in it has been taken.”

  “What exactly was in it? Do you know?” Lindsay asked.

  “I’m not exactly sure,” Rosalind said. “I’ve tried to get hold of him at the House of Commons, but he’s not in his office. I’m waiting for him to call me back. But I know he has a Polaroid camera in there and I suspect he takes pictures of the boys he brings back here. They’d be dynamite in the wrong hands. A blackmailer or a journalist could really have a field day with them. But what really worries me is the HIV test results.”

  “My God, he’s not got AIDS, has he?” Helen asked. “Poor bastard. Even creepy Harry Campbell doesn’t deserve that!”

  Rosalind ran a hand through her tousled white hair and shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve been nagging him about having the test for ages. He’s been with so many rent boys over the last few years, I’ve been scared stiff he’d be HIV positive. I thought he should find out, if only so he wouldn’t infect anyone else. He’s always resisted me, but a couple of months ago, he finally gave in and went for counseling and had the test. I know he went back for an appointment last week and he told me they’d given him the all-clear. But if there’s anything in writing—appointment cards or a letter saying he’s not HIV positive, then the only place I can imagine it would be would be that drawer. He thought he was safe here.” Rosalind’s eyes quivered with tea
rs. She was suffering a delayed reaction to the shock of the burglary, Lindsay realized.

  “How can I help?” she asked gently.

  Rosalind pulled herself together with difficulty. “I wanted to ask whether you thought I should tell the police,” she said. “And I wondered if you’d seen anybody hanging around when you were here.”

  “I didn’t notice anything,” Lindsay said. “But when did it actually happen?”

  “About four o’clock.”

  Lindsay shook her head. “It must have been just after I left,” she said. “But as far as the police are concerned, I would be inclined to say nothing about photographs or blood tests. The police are a leaky sieve. Too many coppers are too pally with journalists for something like that to stay under wraps. Unless Harry is prepared to let the cat out of the bag, you’d better keep that stuff to yourself. They’ll be pulling out all the stops to get your stuff back, and if they catch the guys who did it, they’ll get their hands on the other stuff too. Then you’ll get it all back with no one any the wiser. Hopefully.” She could already picture the headlines. The combination of AIDS, porno pictures, and an M.P. would have the press pack on the doorstep faster than a major earthquake. To the tabloids, an all-clear result would be just as damning as a positive one. The fact of Harry having taken the test would be an admission of guilt in itself.

  Rosalind nodded, but looked far from optimistic. “You’re right. But I needed someone else’s viewpoint before I could bring myself to make the decision. Harry would never survive a scandal.”

  Before she could say more, the door opened and two men walked into the room. The taller of the two, a balding man in his thirties whose shoulders looked one size too big for his sports jacket, said, “Which one of you ladies is Rosalind Campbell?”

  Rosalind got to her feet and said, “I am. And you are?”

  “Inspector Ainslie. Special Branch. I’ll have to ask you two ladies to leave while we talk to Miss Campbell. I’m afraid we’ll have to get the place fingerprinted too. If you ladies would be good enough to leave your names and addresses with the constable, then we can get your prints later if we need them for elimination,” he said authoritatively.

  Lindsay and Helen picked up their coats and prepared to leave. “I’ll drop you back at Sophie’s, Lindsay. Give me a ring when the boys in blue are finished, Ros. I’ll come round and help you clear up,” said Helen on the way out.

  They traveled down in the lift in silence. As they emerged into the car park again, Lindsay turned to look back at the block of flats, twinkling with lights in the early evening darkness. “Not exactly a safe place to live, is it?” she said softly. “First Alison, now this.”

  6

  Lindsay put her foot down hard on the accelerator as the motorway approach road suddenly turned into the fast lane. No matter how often she drove along Glasgow’s urban motorway, she could never accustom herself to its vagaries. It had to be the only motorway in the world where you entered and left in the fast lane! Her nationalistic friends were convinced it was all part of an evil English plot to reduce the Labour-voting Scottish population in hideous road accidents, but Lindsay preferred to believe in the Department of Transport’s incompetence rather than conspiracy theory.

  She flicked the switch that put her engine into overdrive and turned the heater up full. Thundering down the motorway betrayed every draft in the elderly car’s hood. At least it wasn’t too far from Glasgow to the women’s prison near Stirling where Jackie was being held. Claire had pulled strings to arrange an early visit for Lindsay, who had been instructed to say she was working for Jim Carstairs, Jackie’s lawyer.

  Just after ten, Lindsay pulled off the motorway and drove down the quiet country roads that brought her to the prison gates. A fifteen-foot-high fence of spiked metal stakes was topped with barbed wire, stretching as far as the eye could see in both distances. The gate was equally forbidding. Lindsay parked her car in the visitors’ car park opposite the gates and crossed over. She rang a bell by the gate, and a woman in prison officer’s uniform emerged from a small gatehouse. She opened a panel in the gate. “Can I help you?” she asked pleasantly.

  “Good morning,” said Lindsay. “I’ve come to see Jackie Mitchell. Mr. Carstairs arranged the appointment.”

  “You’re the woman from her lawyer’s, are you? We were expecting you. Have you any identification?”

  Lindsay produced her driving license and a covering letter from Jim Carstairs which she’d collected en route. The officer examined them, then opened a small door set into the gate and indicated that Lindsay should enter. “Just walk up the path to the first building and in the doors marked reception. Someone there will sort you out.”

  Thanking her, Lindsay set off up the tarmac path. Her destination was a modern, three-story block, like all the other buildings. Apart from the bars on the windows, it could have been a block of students’ residences. The path was flanked by neat lawns. There was no one else in sight as Lindsay reached a pair of sturdy wooden doors with a black and white plaque that stated simply “Visitors’ Reception.” Lindsay tried the right-hand door, which opened on to a small room divided in two by a wide counter. On her side, there were several institutional plastic chairs. Behind the counter were two prison officers, whose conversation stopped abruptly as Lindsay entered.

  Her bag was efficiently searched, then she was led through another door, down a cream-painted corridor lined with amateurish watercolors of the Stirlingshire hills, and finally through another door into a tiny interview room. The room had one large, barred window overlooking the lawns and a distant stand of mixed conifers. Its only furnishings were a small deal table and two plastic chairs. The vinyl floor was pocked with cigarette burns, doubtless as a result of the inadequate little tinfoil ashtray on the table. “Sit there,” the officer said, pointing to the chair nearest the door. “You must not touch the prisoner,” the officer said. “If you want to offer her a cigarette, you should place the packet and the lighter on the table and let her pick it up. Is that clear?”

  Lindsay nodded and immediately lit up, leaving the packet on the table beside her lighter. She had smoked less than half the cigarette before the door opened and another officer brought Jackie in. If she hadn’t been expecting her, Lindsay would never have recognized the woman she used to know. When Lindsay had first met Jackie, she had been cheerful and vivacious. Her shapely figure, bordering on the voluptuous, had always been immaculately turned out in the height of fashion. Her copper hair had been cut and styled regularly. She could never have been described as beautiful, but her milk-white skin and her pale green eyes, which had always reminded Lindsay disconcertingly of gooseberries, had been carefully made up to show her to her best advantage.

  The woman who was moving across the room toward Lindsay looked like a grotesque caricature of that Jackie Mitchell. She had put on weight, and her pasty face looked bloated and puffy. Her hair had lost its shine and was tied back untidily with an elastic band. The prison issue denim overalls made her figure look lumpy, with hips out of proportion to the rest of her. Her eyes looked dull and there were dark bruises underneath them. She barely seemed to notice Lindsay’s presence as she slumped into the chair and reached for the cigarettes.

  “Hello, Jackie,” Lindsay said quietly.

  “Thanks for coming,” Jackie said, not sounding particularly grateful. “Claire said she’d try to find you. I wish she’d been able to get you sooner.”

  “I’m sorry too,” Lindsay said. “But at least I’m here now. I don’t know what exactly I can achieve, but I’ll do everything I can to get you out of here.” There was an awkward pause.

  “You do know I didn’t do it, don’t you?” Jackie suddenly demanded fiercely, challenging Lindsay with a defiant glare.

  “If you’d been going to kill Alison, I don’t think that’s the way you’d have chosen,” said Lindsay.

  Jackie gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Damn right. If I’d killed Alison, I’d have made bloody sur
e I didn’t get caught. She wasn’t worth serving a life sentence for. But I don’t have to tell you that. You know better than anyone what she was like, don’t you?”

  “I have very vivid memories of what Alison was like, yes.”

  “I know, I know. She told me she’d had you on her hook. Told me that’s why you had to do a runner to London. Told me you were scared of what she could do to you. I thought to myself then that if she could put the frighteners on someone as tough as you, I didn’t have a cat’s chance.” Lindsay listened, appalled, to Jackie’s words.

  “But that’s not true,” she protested. “I went to London because of Cordelia, not Alison. I’d finished with her long before I even met Cordelia. She was just trying to scare you, Jackie. I called her bluff, you see. I was the one that got away, and she didn’t like that.”

  Jackie’s face crumpled and Lindsay thought she was on the point of tears. Instead, she crushed out her cigarette and lit another immediately. Lindsay noticed her nails were bitten to the quick. “The bitch,” Jackie said bitterly, sucking the smoke deep into her lungs. “My God, she deserved to die.”

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  “I still don’t understand how it happened. I hadn’t even thought about being unfaithful to Claire until I did so. I suppose we were in a bit of a rut, but it was a rut I liked. It was comfortable, it was home. Then Alison started planting her poison. It was all very subtle, just the odd sentence here and there, all calculated to make me start wondering if we were as solid as I thought.” Jackie rubbed her eyes. “God, I was gullible.”

  Lindsay nodded. “She was good at that. I’ve seen her do it to other people.”

  “But I fell for it. And then I fell for Alison. We’d gone out for a meal one night after I’d been working at the Clarion. We got royally pissed, or at least I thought we did. Looking back on it, I think I got royally pissed and Alison stayed sober. We went back to her place, lights down low, Mary Coughlan on the stereo, another little drink. Next thing I know, we’re undressing each other and it’s hands everywhere. And that was that. I was hooked.” Jackie stared bleakly at the wall, trapped by the memory.