by Val McDermid
“I told him my idea, and we did a deal. Three month trial basis. He’d let me use one of the booths in the back bar as a kind of office. And I’d do bits and pieces of PR for him. So I wander down there most mornings and set up shop in the bar. Pick up the papers on the way, take my laptop and my mobile and get to work.”
“And people actually bring you stories?”
Rory poured out the coffee and brought two mugs across to the table. She sat down opposite Lindsay and met her questioning gaze. “Amazingly enough, they do. It was a bit slow to start with. Just the odd gossipy wee bit that made a few pars in the tabloids. But then one of the lunchtime regulars who works in the City Chambers dropped me a juicy tale about some very dodgy dealing in the leisure department. I got a splash and spread in the Herald, and I was away. People soon realised I could be trusted to protect my sources, so everybody with an axe to grind came leaping out the woodwork. Absolute bonanza.” She grinned. It was hard not to be seduced by her delight.
“I’m impressed,” Lindsay said. “And it’s not a bad cup of coffee, either.”
“So what are you doing back in Glasgow? Last I heard about you was when you got involved in Union Jack’s murder at the Journalists’ Union conference. But the word was that you were living in California, that you’d given up the game for teaching. How come you’re back in Glasgow?”
Lindsay stared into her coffee. “Good question.”
“Has it got an answer?” There was a long silence, then Rory continued. “Sorry, I can’t help myself. I’m a nosy wee shite.”
“It’s a good quality in a journalist.”
“Aye, but it’s not exactly an asset in the social skills department,” Rory said ruefully. “Which would maybe be why, as you rightly pointed out, I live alone.”
“I came back for love,” Lindsay said. The kid had worked hard for an answer. It seemed a reasonable exchange for a decent cup of coffee and some pain relief.
Rory ran a hand through her hair. “God, what a dyke answer. Why do we ever do anything demented? Love.”
“You think it’s demented to come back to Glasgow?”
Rory pulled a rueful face. “Me and my big mouth. I mean, for all I know, California’s not what it’s cracked up to be. So, what are you doing with yourself now?”
Lindsay shook her head. “Not a lot. Mostly waiting for the love object to come home from the high-powered world of obstetrics and gynaecology.”
“You don’t fancy getting back into deadline city, then?”
Lindsay leaned back in her seat, trying to ease her teeshirt away from her shoulder blades now that the sweat had dried and stuck it to her skin. “I’ve no contacts. I’ve not written a news story in seven years. I don’t even know the name of my local MSP, never mind who’s running Celtic and Rangers. It’d be like starting all over again as a trainee reporter on the local weekly.”
Rory gave her a speculative look. “Not necessarily,” she said slowly.
“Meaning what?” Lindsay couldn’t even be bothered to be intrigued.
“Meaning, you could always come and work with me.”
Chapter 2
Morning rain on the Falls Road, grey sky only half a shade lighter than gunmetal; a comparison that still came too easy to too many people in Belfast. Ceasefires, peace deals, referendums and still it caught people by surprise that the disasters on the news were happening some other place.
A black taxi pulled up outside a betting shop on a street corner. By then, sometimes a black taxi was just a taxi. This one wasn’t. This one was bringing Patrick Coughlan to work. To his official work. When he went about his unofficial work, the last thing he wanted to be seen in was IRA trademark wheels. In the days when he went about his unofficial work rather more frequently than of late, he had always gone under his own steam, in any one of a dozen nondescript vehicles. Of course the security services had almost certainly known Patrick Coughlan was a senior member of the IRA Army Council, but they’d never been able to catch him at it. He was a careful as well as a solid citizen.
The cab idled for a full minute by the kerb while Patrick scrutinised the street. If someone had asked what he was looking for, he’d have been hard pressed to answer. He only knew when it wasn’t there. Satisfied, he stepped out of the cab and across the pavement. A man in his early fifties, obviously once very handsome, his features now blurred with slightly too much weight and high living, his walk betrayed a sense of purpose. His hair was a glossy chestnut, suspiciously so at the temples for a man who had lived his particular life. In spite of the laughter lines that surrounded them, his eyes were dark, shrewd and never still.
He pulled open the door on a gust of stale air and stepped inside. To the uninformed eye, just a busy Belfast betting shop, nothing to differentiate it from any other. Odds were chalked up on whiteboards, sporting papers pinned to the walls, tiled floor pocked with cigarette burns. The clientele looked like the unemployed, the unemployable and the retired. Every one of them was male. The staff were working hard behind metal grilles, but not so hard that they didn’t all glance up at the opening of the door. The smoke of the day’s cigarettes already hung heavy in the air, even though it was barely eleven.
Patrick crossed the room like the lord of the manor, nodding affably, waving a proprietary greeting to several regulars. They returned the greeting deferentially, one actually tugging the greasy brim of a tweed cap. It had never struck anyone as odd that so avowed a Republican should behave quite so much like an English patrician.
Patrick continued across the room towards a door set in the wall by the end of the counter. One of the counter staff automatically slid a hand beneath the counter and the sound of a buzzer followed. Without breaking stride, Patrick pushed through the door and into a dim corridor with stairs at the far end.
A door in the wall opened and a young woman with hair like a black version of Ronald McDonald and skin the blue white of skimmed milk stuck her head round it. “Sammy McGuire was on earlier. He said would you give him a call.”
“I will, Theresa.” Patrick continued down the corridor and up the stairs.
It would be hard to imagine how the office he walked into could have been more different from the seediness downstairs. The floor was parquet—the real thing, not those pre-glued packs from the DIY superstore—with a silver grey Bokhara occupying what space wasn’t taken up by a Regency desk that looked almost too much for its slender legs. The chair behind it was padded leather, the filing cabinets that lined the wall old mahogany buffed to a soft sheen. Two paintings on the wall, both copies, one of a Degas and one of a Stubbs, both featuring horses. The only thing that let the room down was the view of the Falls Road.
He’d thought of having the window bricked up and replacing it with another Degas. But it didn’t do to let people think you weren’t keeping an eye on them. Information had always been a commodity in Belfast; and if you didn’t yet have the information, it was almost as important to make it look as if there was no reason why you shouldn’t. So the window stayed.
Patrick lowered himself gingerly into the chair, a martyr to his back as well as his country. Settled, he reached for the phone and pushed a single button on the speed dialler.
“Sammy?” Patrick said.
“Patrick. How’re ye?”
“Well, Sammy. And yourself ?”
“Ah well, no complaints, you know?”
“And the family?” The rituals had to be observed.
“They’re all doing fine. Geraldine’s got herself a nice wee job with the Housing Corporation.”
“Good for her. She’ll do well there, so she will. So, Sammy, what can I do for you?”
“Well, Patrick, it might be that I can do something for you.”
Patrick opened the humidor on his desk and selected a King Edward half corona. “Is that so, Sammy?” he said, tucking the phone into his neck while he lit the cigar.
“Have you still an interest in Bernadette Dooley?”
Patrick clenched
the phone in his fist. Only a lifetime of dissimulation allowed him to sound unruffled. “Now there’s a name I’ve not heard these six years,” he said genially. But his heart was jittering in his chest, the surge of memory flashing a slideshow of images across his mind’s eye.
“Only, when she went missing, I seem to remember you were pretty keen to find out where she’d gone.”
“I’m always concerned about my employees, Sammy. You know that.”
“Oh aye,” Sammy said hastily. “I know that, Patrick. But I didn’t know if you were still interested?”
He couldn’t maintain the pretence of disinterest any longer. “Where is she, Sammy?”
Patrick heard the sound of a cheap lighter clicking. “I was in Glasgow last weekend—a cousin of the wife’s wedding. Anyway, I went into a supermarket to get some drinks in, and I saw Bernadette. Not to speak to, like, but it was definitely her, Patrick.” Sammy spoke rapidly.
“Was she working there?”
“No, no, she was walking out with her shopping. I was at the check-out, in the middle of paying, there was nothing I could do...”
“What supermarket would that be, now?” Patrick said, as if it were a matter of supreme indifference.
“I’m not sure of the name of it, like, but it’s right at the top of Byres Road. Behind the Grosvenor Hotel. That’s where the wedding was, you see. I didn’t know if you were still interested, but I thought, no harm in letting your man know.”
“I appreciate that, Sammy. There’s a twenty pound bet for you in the shop next time you’re passing.” It would cost him nothing. Sammy McGuire was one of life’s losers. “Take care now.”
Patrick terminated the connection. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the Degas, two frown lines between his eyebrows. Few people had ever touched his heart; Bernadette Dooley had been the only one of those who had ever dared to betray him. Even now, the thought of what he had lost when she had disappeared gave him physical pain. For seven years, he’d dreamed of finding her again, convinced that their paths would have to cross sooner or later. Not a day had passed without consciousness of what had gone when she had vanished from his life. At last, he had a chance to regain the peace of mind she had stolen from him. He flicked the intercom. “Theresa, Sammy McGuire’s due a twenty on the house. He’ll be by later on.”
Then he hit the speed dialler again. The other end answered on the second ring, if silence could be called answering. “Michael?” Patrick said softly.
“No, it’s Kevin.”
Patrick stifled a sigh. The way it worked, you had to find a place for the stupid ones because it was bad politics to turn them away. So you put one thick one on every team and hoped the others would keep him out of trouble. Funny, it always was a him that was the thicko. You could get away with it without too many problems usually, because one dummy in a cell of four or five wasn’t too much of a liability. But in a team of two . . . it might be a different story. Patrick hoped not, for all sorts of reasons. “Put Michael on,” he said wearily.
A long moment of silence, then Michael’s hard voice cut through the ether. “Patrick,” he said.
“Come in. I’ve got something for you.” Patrick put the phone down. Only then did he realise his cigar had gone out.
The headlights turned into the drive. Lindsay checked that it was Sophie’s car and reached for the phone. “Carry out, please,” she said when it was answered. By the time the front door closed, she was listening to the invariable, “Twenty-five minutes, Mrs. Gordon.” She twisted round on the window seat so she was halffacing the door. She heard Sophie’s briefcase hit the floor, heard the snick of the cloakroom door shutting, then her partner’s voice.
“I’m home,” Sophie called. Her shoes clicked on the wooden flooring as she turned into the kitchen. “Lindsay?” She sounded puzzled.
“I’m through here.”
Sophie appeared in the doorway, still elegant after a day’s work in a tailored suit and plain silk shirt. She had the grace not to ask why Lindsay wasn’t in the kitchen as usual, putting the finishing touches to dinner. “Hi, darling,” she said, the smile reaching her tired eyes. Then she took in the bandaged ankle propped on a cushion and raised her eyebrows, concern on her face. “What on earth have you been doing to yourself ?”
“It’s just a sprain.”
Sophie crossed the room and perched by Lindsay’s foot, her hand drawn irresistibly to the neatly wrapped crepe bandage that swaddled the injured ankle. “Suddenly you’re the doctor?”
“I’m the one with the sports injuries experience,” Lindsay grinned. “Trust me, it’s a sprain.”
“What happened?” Sophie tenderly stroked Lindsay’s leg.
“I wasn’t paying attention. I was running up the hill to the Botanics and I crashed into somebody.”
Sophie shook her head, indulgent amusement on her face. “So how much havoc did you create?”
“None. She was absolutely fine. She ended up driving me home.”
“Lucky for you her car was there.”
Lindsay shrugged. “She lives just across the river. It was easier to give in and hobble there than to risk doing myself serious damage by walking all the way home.”
“Still, it was nice of her to take the trouble.” Sophie began gently massaging the relaxed curve of Lindsay’s calf.
Lindsay leaned back against the folded wooden shutter. “Aye, it was. And then she propositioned me.”
Sophie’s hand froze and her eyes widened. “She what?”
Lindsay struggled to maintain a straight face. “She made me the kind of offer you’re not supposed to be able to refuse, especially when it comes from a cute blonde baby dyke.”
“I hope this is your idea of a joke,” Sophie said, her voice a dark warning.
“No joke. She asked me if I wanted to come and work with her.”
Sophie cocked her head to one side, not sure how much her lover was playing with her. “She offered you a job? On the basis of crashing into you and watching you sprain your ankle? She’s looking for a bull in a china shop?”
“On the basis that I am still apparently a legend in my own lunchtime and she’s got a very healthy freelance journalism business that could use another pair of hands.” Lindsay let her face relax, her eyes sparkling with the delight of having wound Sophie up.
Sophie gave Lindsay’s knee a gentle punch. “Bastard,” she said. “You had me going for a minute there.” She ran a hand through her silvered curls. “I don’t believe you,” she sighed. “Only you could manage to turn a jogging accident into a job opportunity. But how did she know you were a journalist? Is she someone you used to work with?”
“No. She was barely in the game by the time we left for California.” Lindsay quickly ran through the details of the encounter with Rory that she’d been polishing into an anecdote all afternoon. “And so,” she concluded, “I said I’d think about it.”
“What’s to think about?” Sophie said. “It doesn’t have to be forever. If something else you really fancy comes up, you can always move on. Idleness makes you miserable, and it’s not like you’re snowed under with prospects.”
Lindsay pulled a face. “Thanks for reminding me,” she said frostily.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that it sounds like what Rory’s doing would be right up your street. Chasing the kind of stories that interest you. Working with a community you can feel part of.”
Lindsay drew her leg away from Sophie and swung round to face the living room. “Never mind that I’d be working for somebody ten years younger than me. Never mind that she only offered it because she felt sorry for me. Never mind that it feels like backtracking to where I was fifteen years ago.”
Sophie got to her feet and moved to turn on the lamps. “It doesn’t sound like she felt sorry for you. It sounds like she was blown away by the chance of working with one of her heroes. Anyway, from what you’ve said, you wouldn’t be working for Rory, you’d be working with her.”
“And who do you think is going to get first dibs on the stories? They’d be coming from her contacts, not mine. Coming on the basis of her reputation, not mine. I’d end up with the scraps from the table. The stories that don’t interest her. The down-page dross.”
Sophie leaned on the mantelpiece, casting a speculative look at her lover. “It might start off like that. But it wouldn’t be long before the word went out that Lindsay Gordon was back in town again. You’d soon be pulling in your own stories. Where’s your fight gone, Lindsay? You’ve always had a good conceit of yourself. It’s not like you to indulge in self-pity.”
For a long moment, Lindsay said nothing. Finally, she took a deep breath. “Maybe I’ve been sitting in your shadow for too long.”
Sophie’s face registered shock. But before she could say anything, the doorbell rang.
“That’ll be the takeaway,” Lindsay said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I didn’t feel up to standing around cooking.”
Sophie frowned. “Of course I don’t mind. Why would I mind, for God’s sake?”
“Because you’ll be paying for it. You’d better go and answer the door. If we wait for me to stagger out there, it’ll be cold by the time we get to eat it.” She pushed herself upright and began to limp towards the kitchen, using whatever furniture was available as a prop.
By the time Sophie returned with a carrier bag full of Indian food, Lindsay had managed to put plates and cutlery on the kitchen table. Sophie dumped the takeaway on the table and headed for the fridge. “You want a beer?”
“Please.” Lindsay busied herself with unpacking the foil containers and tossing the lids into the empty bag. When Sophie returned with a couple of bottles of Sam Adams Boston Lager, Lindsay looked up. “I’m sorry. That was out of order.”