Deadline for Murder

by Val McDermid

  Ruth seized Lindsay’s comment like a drowning woman a raft. “That’s right,” she replied. “I had gone back to the gallery. I had some clients to phone, and the girl who runs the gallery for me had gone off early to the dentist. But it never occurred to me that it was anything other than a tiff. Then when I got back about seven, the whole block was in an uproar. There were policemen everywhere. I nearly collapsed when I heard the news.”

  “Luckily, I came home soon after Ruth,” Antonis said. “She was in a state of complete terror.”

  Lindsay cleared the dishes and brought the ice cream to the table. “That’s funny,” she said. “I thought someone had told me you were there too all afternoon.”

  “You must have misunderstood,” he said, fixing her with a suspicious look. “I was out all day. I went through to Edinburgh to have lunch with my literary agent, then I visited some friends at the university.”

  “It must have been a terrible blow to you both,” Lindsay continued relentlessly. “She was very close to the two of you.”

  “I’m surprised you let Antonis near Alison, Ruth,” Sophie said lightly. “After all, she had a nasty habit of poaching other people’s property.”

  Antonis smiled politely, revealing slightly crooked but brilliant teeth. “Ah, but Ruth knows I am devoted to her only.” He was fiddling with his wine glass again, throwing quizzical glances at Lindsay and Sophie as he listened to his wife.

  “I think a lot of that has been exaggerated,” Ruth said primly. “A lot of rumor and gossip. If half of it were true, well, there would have been a lot of people rejoicing at her death, wouldn’t there? But everyone was really upset.”

  “They’d be bloody silly if they did dance on her grave with a police investigation in full swing,” Sophie muttered.

  “I think Ruth has a point,” Lindsay said, pouring oil on the deliberately troubled waters. Sophie was playing her prearranged part of grit in the oyster almost too well. “But on the other hand, if Jackie hadn’t been arrested, I think she and Claire would have been keeping very quiet about her connection with Alison.”

  “But didn’t people know about it already?” Ruth asked.

  “If you hadn’t lived in the same block as Alison, would you have known?” Ruth shook her head at Lindsay’s question. “And you were her closest friend. So it’s fair to assume there must be other people out there with sufficient motives that no one knows about. Ice cream and fruit sauce, anyone?”

  Lindsay dished up the dessert as the conversation continued. Antonis leaned back in his chair and said, “Motives are all very well. But no one is interested in motives now. There is someone paying the price for the crime. That keeps the police happy.”

  “But she’s innocent!” Lindsay protested.

  Antonis shrugged expressively. “Excuse me, I do not mean to be rude. I know she is a friend of yours. But I did not know the lady in question very well. You say she is innocent. But a court has said otherwise.”

  “And that’s the end of the matter?” Sophie inquired casually, spooning the rich fruit sauce over her ice cream.

  Again, he shrugged. “It should be. You Scots are so proud of your judicial process.”

  “So we just forget about it? Even if a mistake has been made? Even if the murderer is free now? Relaxing after a good dinner like us?” Lindsay asked, deliberately not looking at anyone.

  Antonis’ dark eyes narrowed. “There is still the small matter of proof.”

  “I think what Lindsay’s getting at is that by examining the motives of other people it might be possible to come up with enough reasonable doubt to get Jackie out of prison,” Sophie said.

  “There must be some clue somewhere as to who her other lovers were,” Lindsay said. “Didn’t she keep a diary or anything? Ruth, you were her best friend. You must have some ideas.”

  Antonis froze with a spoonful of fruit halfway to his mouth, and cast a startled look at his wife. But Ruth only shook her head. “You know how secretive she could be. And there wasn’t any sign of a diary or anything among her papers.”

  “Did you have to go through them, then?” Lindsay probed.

  Ruth played nervously with her fork and spoon. “No. But I helped her mother pack everything up after the police had finished with the flat. We didn’t really look at anything . . . we just packed all her letters and cuttings and computer disks into boxes. Neither of us could bear to read anything that would remind us of her. We were still in shock, you see. Her mother took it all home to Dundee with her. I suppose one day she’ll be able to bring herself to . . .” Ruth tailed off, looking as if she was about to burst into tears.

  “So no one actually looked through it? Not even the police?” Lindsay asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. It didn’t look as if it had been disturbed,” Ruth said.

  Antonis leaned forward and put his strong, hairy forearms on the table. “Why should they have studied her documents?” he asked intensely. “They already had their hands on Alison’s killer.”

  “True,” Lindsay sighed, pushing away her empty plate and lighting up a cigarette.

  “Must we carry on talking about this?” Ruth suddenly said. “I’m sorry but I just find it so . . .”

  “It is distressing,” Antonis agreed with a heavy finality in his voice that even Lindsay couldn’t argue with. “And it is in the past now. I think we should leave the dead in peace. Tell me, Sophie, what progress are you making in the care of your AIDS patients?”

  Sophie closed the door behind Ruth and Antonis with a huge sigh of relief. “That,” she complained as she returned to the living room, “was above and beyond the call of duty.” She collapsed on the sofa with a groan. “They are dire!”

  “I know,” Lindsay commiserated. “I’m sorry. Let me get you another brandy.”

  “Please,” Sophie begged. “Promise me we don’t have to have them round for dinner ever again.”

  “I promise. I’ll tell you something, though. That Antonis is a very cool customer. If I hadn’t known he was one of Alison’s lovers, I’d never have guessed from that performance,” Lindsay announced as she poured Sophie’s drink.

  “And he trotted out his alibi as if he’d been waiting for months to get the chance to parade it before someone. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  “It sure does. Maybe I should take a little look at Antonis’ movements. Though I don’t quite know how I’m going to manage it. You performed beautifully, by the way,” Lindsay congratulated her as she handed her a glass of brandy.

  “Perhaps I’ve finally found my natural role in life. Ms. Nasty to your Ms. Nice. So, what do you think? Any closer to an answer?”

  Lindsay shrugged. “What is it the song says? ‘There are more questions than answers, And the more I find out, the less I know!’” She paced the floor as she worked through the facts she had gathered. Past experience had taught her that the best way to order her thoughts was to bounce them off someone. And when it came to providing her with stimulating responses, Sophie had already proved herself that evening.

  “Claire has no alibi, and she has motive,” Lindsay began, ticking people off on her fingers as she paced. She worked her way through Claire, Jimmy Mills, Ian McIntosh, Ruth, and Antonis, and concluded, “What we are distinctly lacking is any proof.”

  “What about the thumbprint that you told me about? Couldn’t we get prints from all those suspects and see if any of them match?” Sophie suggested.

  Lindsay sighed. “I guess it might have to come to that. But I can’t see the police being very cooperative. And I really haven’t the faintest idea if you can get freelance fingerprint experts to check out any prints we might obtain by subterfuge. I don’t know, Sophie. I’m completely confused.” She threw herself down on the sofa beside Sophie.

  Sophie tickled the back of her neck, sending shivers of pleasure down Lindsay’s spine. “The darkest hour is just before the dawn,” she consoled. “Come on, let’s go to bed. Maybe sleeping on it will help t
o clarify your thoughts.”

  Lindsay grinned. “Personally, I’ve always found that vigorous physical activity is a great mental catalyst.”

  “So go out for a jog!”

  16

  It was loathe at first sight. Lindsay hadn’t been in Harry Campbell’s company for five minutes before she knew for certain they would never be friends. When she arrived at Rosalind’s flat, he was sitting at the kitchen table, nervously drumming his fingers while Rosalind waited on him. As Lindsay entered, he half-rose from his chair and offered her his hand.

  “Lindsay? I’m glad to meet you. Rosalind has told me so much about you. I understand we’re deeply indebted to you for all your hard work in tracking down our burglar. Well, let me say now, we won’t forget what we owe you. Coffee? Orange juice? Rosalind, see to our guest, will you?” he smarmed.

  Lindsay shook the warm, soft palm he held out, and before Rosalind could do anything, she helped herself to orange juice and coffee. Being with her big brother might reduce Rosalind to the level of obedient schoolgirl, but Lindsay didn’t want to be part of it. She sat down and appraised Harry Campbell. Leaving aside the possibility that he was Alison’s “political hot potato,” if he was going to be by her side on the showdown with Alex McNaught, she wanted to know exactly what she was getting into.

  He was in his late thirties, though he looked younger. His pepper and salt hair was neatly barbered, as was the still-dark mustache, which Lindsay guessed was there to hide the weakness of his thin mouth. His eyes were dark blue rather than violet like Ros’s, but they had the disconcerting habit of sliding away from direct contact. He was, she supposed, fairly handsome in an almost feminine way. But there was nothing arch or camp in his manner or his dress. He wore a crisp white shirt with a tweed tie, and tweed trousers. The matching suit jacket was slung over the back of the kitchen chair on which he sat. If he hadn’t been a politician, he might have been deputy headmaster at a country primary school. He wasn’t a natural number one, Lindsay decided almost immediately.

  Before he could launch into his party political broadcast, Lindsay turned to Rosalind and commented on her success in restoring the flat to its previous state of neatness.

  “Helen helped me,” Rosalind said. “I don’t know what I’d have done without her. Actually, once we’d cleared up the mess, it didn’t take too long.”

  Harry was clearly impatient of such domestic chitchat. “So,” he said portentously. “You’re the young woman who succeeds where our incompetent police force fails? Tell me, how did you discover the culprit’s identity?”

  “I’d rather not say,” Lindsay replied coldly. “I promised I wouldn’t reveal my source. But the information is sound.”

  “Oh, I’m not doubting that for a moment,” Harry said hastily. “I was just curious.”

  “Lindsay has all sorts of contacts,” Rosalind said as she put a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of Harry. The smell made Lindsay feel vaguely nauseous after her overindulgence the night before. “What would you like to eat, Lindsay? We’ve got eggs, bacon, mushrooms, sliced sausage, black pudding, potato scones . . .”

  “Just toast, please. And some Marmite, if you’ve got it,” Lindsay replied. “Harry, what can you tell me about Alex McNaught?”

  Harry flashed an uncertain look at Rosalind, who said reassuringly as if to a small child, “It’s all right, Harry. You can trust Lindsay.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, forcing a quick, artificial smile which revealed a row of perfect crowns. “I’m not accustomed to being able to trust members of your profession.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Lindsay said wearily. “You’re not alone. Now. About Alex McNaught?”

  Harry sighed and picked at his breakfast. Finally, he said, “I met Alex about six months ago. I picked him up in the city center and brought him back here.”

  “Wasn’t that taking a bit of a chance?” Lindsay inquired, buttering a slice of toast and adding a thin coating of Marmite.

  “As things turned out, it seems so. But I didn’t think it was at the time. He didn’t know who I was. I mean, he knew my name was Harry, but he didn’t know I was an M.P. I mean, I’m not exactly Neil Kinnock, am I? I’m hardly a household name in Kinradie, never mind Glasgow,” he said bitterly.

  “So you brought him back here. And?”

  “Well, we went to bed together. I took some Polaroid photographs of him.” Harry looked embarrassed. “Look, this is all a bit awkward, you know.”

  “Better me than the Special Branch,” Lindsay commented, despising him for his lack of bottle.

  “I suppose so. Well, I paid him, and drove him back to where I’d picked him up. I saw him again a couple of times over the next six weeks or so. And that was that. He was really a rather boring boy. Not someone I’d want to spend a lot of time with.”

  Lindsay found a moment to wonder just why she was putting herself out for this unpleasant politician. Then she caught sight of Rosalind’s worried expression, and bit on the bullet. “When you say you saw him, do you mean you brought him back here for sex?” she asked bluntly.

  “That’s right.”

  “Fine,” she said. “What I suggest we do is this. I think we should go round to his flat now, while there’s still a chance that he’ll be there. Initially, I want you to wait in the car while I see exactly what the score is. I suspect he’ll want money in exchange for your things, since they could earn him a fair amount if he goes to the papers. Once I’ve persuaded him we can do a deal, I’ll bring you in to negotiate the nuts and bolts. Then we’ll take it from there. How much money have you got on you?”

  Harry looked confused and pulled his wallet out of his jacket pocket. He took a quick look inside and said, “About £50.”

  Lindsay shook her head. “That’s not going to be nearly enough. Have you got any cash cards?”

  Harry nodded reluctantly. “I’ve got a couple of those gold cards that let you draw £500 at a time.”

  “Let’s hope that’ll be enough,” Lindsay said.

  Harry looked dismayed. “You mean he might want more than £1,000?”

  “Harry, if I had what he’s got in his possession, and if you weren’t Ros’s brother, I could be ten grand richer by teatime. Get away with £1,000 and you’ll be doing very well. Now, when you’ve finished tucking in, I think we should get round to Springburn.”

  As she followed Ostler’s directions, Lindsay broke the edgy silence in the car. “By the way Harry, did you know Alison Maxwell?”

  He frowned as if trying to recall where he’d heard the name. “Maxwell? Oh yes, the woman who was murdered in Caird House. No, we’d never met.”

  His response seemed so natural that Lindsay was tempted to believe him. Then she remembered the necessity for all politicians, especially the ones with skeletons in the closet, to learn how to lie expertly, and reserved judgment. If there was a connection between Harry and Alison, straight questioning wasn’t going to bring it to light.

  She pulled up outside a three-story detached Victorian house slotted incongruously among blocks of council flats. Its gray stucco was peeling off, giving the building a scabby, down-at-heel look. The door, once painted royal blue, was now overlaid with a layer of city grime. Leaving Harry in the car, Lindsay walked up the path and studied the house. Most of the curtains were closed, but a few were drawn back to provide unappetizing glimpses of typical bed-sit land. On the door jamb were a dozen bell pushes, only a few of which had names scrawled on their labels. Lindsay scrutinized them carefully, but the name McNaught was nowhere to be seen. Undeterred, she pressed the bell marked Flat 1. There was no response, so she worked her way methodically down the bells. Eventually, Flat 5 produced a response.

  The door inched open to reveal a sleepy looking young woman in a grubby dressing gown. “What is it?” she demanded grumpily.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” Lindsay said. “But I was looking for Alex McNaught and I didn’t know which flat was his.”

  �
�Flat 9,” the girl muttered crossly. “I wish they’d all put their bloody names on the bells,” she added as she moved to close the door.

  “I’ll just come in, then,” Lindsay said, moving forward forcefully. “It’ll save Alex coming all the way down to open the door.”

  “Please yourself,” the girl said with a shrug, moving back to allow Lindsay in. Before Lindsay could thank her, she retreated down the dim hallway and disappeared through a door at the far end.

  Lindsay looked around her. The only light in the hall came from the dirty fan light above the door. Several doors opened off the hall, with cheap plastic numbers screwed to them. To her right was a rickety table with a scatter of mail in brown envelopes lying on it. She checked the letters, and soon spotted an unemployment benefit check addressed to McNaught. G-day, she thought happily. If he was expecting his Giro, he might well be in a reasonably good mood.

  Ahead of her was a flight of stairs, surprisingly elegant in spite of its shabby carpet. Obviously a remnant of the house’s former glory, Lindsay thought as she climbed. On the first landing, there were three numbered doors, from six to eight, and two other doors labeled “toilet” and “bathroom.” The whole place was seedy and smelled of unidentifiable cooking odors, strongly reminiscent of her student days. She took a deep breath and climbed the second flight, narrower than the first. Five doors opened off the landing, four of which were numbered. Lindsay stepped up to the door of Flat 9 and knocked loudly.

  For a moment there was silence, then she heard soft footsteps cross the room. “Who is it?” a voice nervously demanded.

  “A friend,” Lindsay said, feeling foolishly like a player in a bad TV show.

  “What friend?” came the suspicious response.

  “I’ve got a proposition for you, Alex. A nice little earner. Barry Ostler sent me,” Lindsay tried, feeling no less foolish. She heard the lock turn, then the door opened on a chain.