by Val McDermid
“You bet,” said Sophie.
Cosmo handed her a menu. “I’ll take your order in a minute. There’s plenty of tables in the back room.” He turned away to serve another customer.
“What was all that about?” Lindsay demanded. “Who in God’s name are the Sisters of Treachery?”
“It’s a little political joke. Cosmo’s a member of the same Constituency Labour Party as Helen and Rosalind. The party’s been split over lots of issues lately, so there’s been a lot of intriguing going on. One of the right-wingers was having a go at Helen and Rosalind one night and he called them the Sisters of Treachery. The pair of them thought it was hysterical, and the name became a sort of in-joke among the left,” Sophie explained. “Now, what do you want to eat?”
Lindsay studied the menu with delight. There were all the traditional favorites like black pudding with scrambled eggs, mutton stovies and haggis. But there were also vegetarian dishes, and new variations on old themes, like spiced chicken stovies—a mixture of potatoes, onions, and spiced chicken pieces. Just reading the list made her mouth water. What a change from pasta and pizza, she thought happily. Eventually she settled on haggis with mashed potatoes and turnips.
While they were waiting for Cosmo to return, Sophie turned to Lindsay and asked, “Have you given any more thought to what you’re going to do for a living?”
Lindsay shrugged. “Not really. I don’t think I can go back to being a journo, though, even if they wanted me. My heart just isn’t in it any more.”
“You could always become a private detective. After all, you’ve solved two murders so far. I can just see you with the snap-brimmed trilby and the bottle of Jack Daniels in the desk drawer. And just think of the perks! All, those beautiful blondes falling at your feet,” Sophie teased.
Lindsay pulled a face and shook her head. “No thanks. I’m looking for a quiet life these days.”
“You came to the wrong place then,” Cosmo interrupted. “What can I get you ladies—sorry, women—to eat?”
Having given their order to Cosmo, Sophie steered a path through the crowded bar toward a doorway at the rear. Lindsay followed her into a remarkable room. The far wall and the sloping roof were made of glass, and the other walls were covered from floor to ceiling with plants trained over trellises. Chattering groups of people sat on white garden furniture with brightly colored cushions. Before she had a chance to take it all in, she cannoned into Sophie who had stopped dead.
Sophie turned on her heel and tried to usher Lindsay out of the room. But she was too late. Lindsay had already spotted the reason for her abrupt, awkward halt. Sitting at a table on the far side of the room were two women, deeply engrossed in conversation. It was obvious to the most casual observer that they were a couple. She had never seen the slender blonde before. But the woman sitting opposite her was as familiar to Lindsay as her own face in the mirror. She felt her stomach lurch and fought the desperate urge to be sick. Without even realizing she was doing it, she shrugged off Sophie’s restraining arm and purposefully crossed the room.
Neither of the two women registered her presence till she was only feet from their table. Even then, it was the blonde who looked up first. When she saw Lindsay, a series of reactions flashed across her face in a moment. Curiosity was overtaken by bewilderment, bewilderment by shock, and shock by a strange mixture of relief and amusement. Her companion was slower to realize they had company, since Lindsay had approached from behind her. She turned in her chair and her eyes widened. “Lindsay!” she gasped, pushing her chair back and getting to her feet. She gave a nervous half-smile, apparently incapable of further speech.
“Hello, Cordelia. Fancy meeting you here. That explains why I couldn’t find you in London,” Lindsay said with ice in her voice.
The blonde woman got to her feet and extended a slim hand. “Hello, Lindsay. We’ve never met before, but I’ve heard a lot about you . . .”
“I bet you have,” Lindsay interrupted savagely, ignoring the outstretched hand.
Undaunted, the other continued. “I’m Claire Ogilvie. Jackie—Jackie Mitchell, that is, told me a lot about you. That’s how I came to meet Cordelia.”
“How fascinating,” Lindsay said with heavy sarcasm, mentally slotting Claire into place. Jackie’s girlfriend, the lawyer. Portia with a Porsche. Cordelia had obviously had her fill of working-class heroes and reverted to type, Lindsay thought furiously. In a cold voice she said, “Well, don’t let us interrupt your intimate little tête-a-tête. Come on, Sophie,” she added, turning away. “We’ll find somewhere more congenial to eat.”
“No, wait,” said Cordelia, finally finding her tongue. “Don’t go, Lindsay.”
“Why not? You’ve obviously not been counting the minutes till I got back, have you?”
“I think you’re being a little unfair, Lindsay,” Claire said. “Why don’t you calm down and sit down and we can discuss this like adults?”
“Discuss what?” Lindsay demanded, her voice rising. “Discuss your relationship with the woman I have just discovered is my ex-lover?”
“Lindsay,” Sophie said in the soothing but firm voice she’d developed years ago to deal with drunks in casualty. “Cool it. Either let’s go now, or else sit down and have a drink.”
Lindsay, struggling with a mixture of anger, disappointment, and hurt, abruptly sat down, followed by the other three.
“When did you get back? And where have you been?” Cordelia asked. Even to herself, her questions sounded empty and irrelevant. But she didn’t know what else to say. Seeing Lindsay again so unexpectedly had left her floundering in a welter of emotions that she could neither separate nor identify.
“I got back a week ago,” Lindsay replied in weary tones. “I tried to phone a couple of times en route, but I kept getting the answering machine, and it didn’t seem the appropriate way to break the silence. When I got to London, I went straight to the house, but you weren’t there. I rang your mother, but she didn’t seem to know where you were. Your agent said you’d gone away for a couple of weeks, she wasn’t sure where either, so rather than hang about in London on the off-chance that you’d be back, I drove up to Yorkshire, gave Deborah her van back, and collected my MG. Then I went to see my parents and came back to Glasgow. I’ve been in Italy. By myself, which is more than I can say for you,” she added bitterly.
“My God, you’ve got a nerve,” Cordelia said. “You vanish off the face of the earth for nine bloody months and you expect to come home like the prodigal daughter and find everything exactly the way it was?”
“Obviously I was wrong, wasn’t I? You knew exactly why I went to ground. For God’s sake, I left a letter explaining what the hell was going on. And I sent you a card to let you know I was safe.”
“One poxy card in nine months! I could recite it from memory. “Weather stunning. Natives friendly. Hope to get over to London to see you soon, but life is hectic right now. Be patient!” Cordelia flashed back sarcastically.
“I was trying to protect you. I didn’t want them leaning on you to turn me in,” Lindsay replied defensively.
“How noble!” Cordelia retorted, gray eyes cloudy with anger, generous mouth uncharacteristically pursed.
“I did what I thought was right. I didn’t expect you to jump into bed with someone else the minute my back was turned,” Lindsay accused.
“What the hell was I supposed to do? Answer me that! How long was I supposed to wait before I started to put my life back together again? Have you any idea how much time, energy, and money I spent trying to find you? I rang everyone I could think of, I went everywhere I thought you might be. I even went to bloody New York!”
“And how long did it take you to steal Jackie’s girlfriend?”
Both Claire and Cordelia looked shocked by Lindsay’s question. But it was Claire who collected herself first and said in conciliatory tones, “It wasn’t like that. I was looking for you, and a mutual friend introduced me to Cordelia, who was in Glasgow at the time, a
lso trying to get a lead on your whereabouts. So we joined forces and spent a lot of time trying to track you down. But you made a good job of your disappearing act.”
“And what the hell business of yours was it where I was?” Lindsay snapped, stalling while she took in what Claire had said.
“Jackie asked me to find you.”
“So why couldn’t she look for me herself if she was so desperate?” said Lindsay defiantly. She remembered Jackie Mitchell well—a hard-working, hard-bitten journalist, well capable of fighting her own battles. If Jackie had wanted to find her, she wouldn’t have delegated her mission to this toffee-nosed yuppie.
“It’s a bit hard to scour the world for someone when you’re behind bars,” Claire replied ironically.
“Behind bars? You mean . . . in prison?” Lindsay asked, confused.
“That’s right. She’s serving life for the murder of Alison Maxwell.”
Lindsay stared at Claire, unbelieving. “This has got to be some kind of sick joke,” she muttered. Lindsay turned to Sophie. “Tell me she’s making this up.”
Sophie shook her head. “She’s telling you the truth. The trial was just before Christmas. I’m sorry, I didn’t think to tell you.”
“Jesus,” Lindsay sighed, dragging out the syllables. “Alison? What the hell happened?”
Claire took over in businesslike fashion, perhaps because she sensed that Cordelia was too shaken to deal with Lindsay. “Alison was found strangled in her flat. Jackie had been there with her shortly before she was killed, and in the absence of any other obvious candidate, the police chose her. Unfortunately, the jury agreed with them. Shortly after her arrest, Jackie asked me to see if I could find you. She knew you’d been involved with a couple of murder investigations before, and she was very impressed with your courage over the Brownlow Common spy scandal. And of course, because you’re gay, she thought you’d be more sympathetic. She believed that if anyone could prove her innocence, it was you. While I was searching for you, I met Cordelia. I’m sorry if our relationship outrages you, but you can hardly have expected Cordelia to take a vow of chastity till you deigned to show up.”
Lindsay stared miserably at Cordelia. It was all too much to take in. She had lost the one woman with whom she had ever formed an equal relationship; a former lover was dead; and a former colleague was in prison for her murder. Once she could have turned to Cordelia for the love and support to carry her through those moments when the roof caved in on her life. But it was too late for that now. She gradually became aware that Claire was talking to her. “I’m sorry,” Lindsay said. “I didn’t catch what you said.”
“I said I’d like to discuss with you the possibility of trying to clear Jackie’s name. It’s not too late for an appeal if we can dig up some fresh evidence. I’m not asking you to make any decision now—I realize this has been rather a traumatic evening. But I’d appreciate it if you’d call me tomorrow when you’ve had time to think it over.” Claire fished in the inevitable filofax and produced a card. “My home and my business numbers are both there.”
Lindsay stared numbly at the card lying on the table. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d encountered someone with Claire’s thick-skinned audacity. Her nerve was breathtaking, a sharp contrast to the way Lindsay herself was feeling. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her. Coming home was supposed to feel good. But she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so bad.
3
Lindsay sat staring at the cigarette in her hand, watching the smoke spiral up to join the thick layer that hung below the ceiling in the crowded bar of the Tron Theatre. The noisy chatter of the literary wing of Glasgow’s renaissance could not distract her from the bleakness that filled her. She was shaken from her reverie by Sophie’s return from the bar with two spritzers, condensation already dripping down the glasses. “Drink up, doctor’s orders,” Sophie said sympathetically as she sat down.
“Thanks,” Lindsay muttered. “Sorry to spoil your evening.”
“Don’t be daft,” Sophie replied. “I haven’t seen a cabaret as good as that since last year’s Edinburgh Festival. I’d forgotten what a drama queen you can be. I’ll be dining out on it for months.” In spite of herself, Lindsay smiled. “So, what are you going to do about it?” Sophie added.
“About Cordelia or about Jackie?”
“Both.”
Lindsay sighed. “There doesn’t seem to be a whole lot I can do about Cordelia, does there? She’s got herself a class act to cuddle up to. Much more her speed than a toerag like me, don’t you think?”
“More fool Cordelia, then,” said Sophie consolingly. Privately, she thought Lindsay’s reaction to Cordelia’s new relationship was completely unreasonable, but she was too fond of her to say so yet. There would be plenty of time to thrash it out when Lindsay was feeling less raw. She tried to take her mind off the débâcle in Soutar Johnnie’s, saying, “But what about Jackie?”
Lindsay shrugged. “I don’t know. The fact that I’ve managed to dig out the truth a couple of times in the past doesn’t mean I’m some kind of private eye. You know, Sophie, I can’t seem to take it in that Alison’s dead. I mean, when I was having my own little fling with her, God knows I felt like strangling her often enough; but the difference between feeling like that and actually doing it . . . I can’t imagine what makes that possible. I suppose I feel like I’ve got a score to settle on Alison’s account, never mind Jackie. But I’m in such a mess about myself and my future that I don’t know how much use I’d be.”
Sophie ran a hand through her curly hair, a gesture Lindsay recognized from the days when the brown hadn’t been streaked with gray. “I know what you mean,” she said with feeling. “But you’re not committed to anything else right now, are you? And in spite of the way you’ve been putting yourself down ever since you saw Claire and Cordelia together, you’ve got a pretty good track record when it comes to discovering things that the police have missed or ignored. And there is one other aspect of it you might not have considered. If you can get Jackie released, it might well be enough to drive a wedge between Cordelia and Claire. That would at least give you the chance to find out if the two of you have still got a future together.”
Before Lindsay could reply, a booming Liverpool accent rang across the room. “Bloody skinflint, Hartley. Where’s the bottle? I suppose we’ll have to buy our own drinks?”
Lindsay swung round in her seat to see Helen Christie waving from the bar, her unmistakable mane of carrot-red hair glinting under the lights. Behind her, paying for a carafe of wine, was her fellow Sister of Treachery, Rosalind Campbell. As they came over to the table, Lindsay thought it was no wonder that they struck terror into their political opponents. They looked like a pair of Valkyries striding across the bar.
“My God,” Helen groaned as she subsided into a chair, after planting a cursory kiss on the top of Sophie’s head. “What a night we’ve had! That lot couldn’t organize an explosion in a fireworks factory!”
Lindsay watched fondly as Helen and Rosalind launched into a double-act recitation of the evening’s meeting. No matter how down Lindsay felt, Helen had always had the power to make her laugh. They’d met at Oxford, the only working-class students reading English at St. Mary’s College. They’d instantly formed an alliance whose main weapon had been satire, a desperate wit born of their never-admitted feelings of inferiority. After university, their ways had parted, Lindsay choosing journalism, Helen arts administration. Now, she ran her own television and film casting agency, and, with what was left from her boundless supply of energy, she had thrown herself into local politics.
But the two women had stayed in touch, and even when Helen and Sophie had set up home together eight years earlier, there had been no diminution of the close friendship that still bound Lindsay and Helen. In fact, Lindsay had gained a friend in Sophie. When Helen and Sophie had split up eighteen months before, Lindsay had feared that she would be forced to choose between her two friends. But t
o her amazement, the ending of their love affair had been remarkably without rancor, and they had remained the closest of friends. The only real change, as far as Lindsay could see, was that they now lived separately. Neither had formed any lasting relationship with anyone else, although, according to Sophie, Helen had recently been spending time with a young actress she’d spotted in a pub theatre group and placed in a new television series.
Lindsay suddenly became aware that Helen was looking inquiringly at her. She pulled herself back into the painful present. “I’m sorry,” she confessed, “I didn’t catch what you said.”
“Pearls before swine,” Helen sighed. “Here am I, bringing you despatches from the front line of British politics, and you’re daydreaming about some leggy blonde, no doubt. I said, what kind of evening have you had, Lindsay?”
“Ask Sophie,” Lindsay replied wryly. “She’s already told me it’s given her enough ammo to sing for her supper for months to come. You might as well practice on the experts, Soph.”
Sophie pulled a face, then launched into a detailed account of their earlier encounter at Soutar Johnnie’s. Before she could finish, Helen had exploded. “My God, what a complete shit for you, Lindsay!” she exclaimed. “I had no idea she was still around, did you, Sophie? We saw her a couple of times after you first left, Lindsay. She was desperate to get in touch with you and thought you might have been in contact with one or other of us. But I thought she’d gone back to London. Poor you!”
With her usual detachment, Rosalind had been listening. As Helen paused for breath, she cut in. “You will take it on, though, won’t you? I can’t imagine you sitting back and letting Jackie rot.”
Reluctantly, Lindsay nodded. “I don’t suppose I’ve got much choice.”
“Well at least Claire can afford it,” Rosalind said.
“Afford what?” Helen demanded.
“Afford Lindsay,” Rosalind replied.
“What do you mean, afford me?” Lindsay asked, puzzled.
