by Val McDermid
“The painter?” Claire asked, surprise showing in her blue eyes.
“That’s right. He was an old buddy of Alison. She used to use him as a public escort when she needed a man on her arm. He painted the mural on her bedroom wall, and he did one on Ruth and Antonis’ ceiling. Their sexual relationship was still current.”
Claire shook her head, bemused. “I know Alistair. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Unless . . .”
“Unless what?” Cordelia demanded, settling herself down on the sofa next to Claire and reaching out for her hand.
“Unless someone was trying to stop him painting, I suppose.”
“If you know him, why don’t you see what you can do by way of checking him out?” Lindsay said. “I only ever met him once at a party, so I’ve no excuse for talking to him, really.”
“How on earth do I do that?” Claire asked. “I thought that’s what I was paying you for.”
“It would be easy,” Cordelia interjected, seeing Lindsay’s angry flush and knowing how near an explosion was. “Don’t forget, Claire, I know Lindsay’s methods,” she added lightly. “We could invite him round for dinner, work the conversation round to Alison’s death, and ask him if he remembers what he was doing at the time, all very casually, a bit like the ‘what were you doing when Kennedy was shot’ conversation.”
Claire shrugged doubtfully. “I suppose so. Well, Lindsay, what other little jobs do you have for me?”
“There’s one I’ve marked on the last page. ‘Davina’s Duck. Wonder when he’s going to settle his account? I told him I’d make him pay for flaunting her under my nose, and I meant it. 7.1.’ Mean anything to you?”
Claire nodded slowly. “Davina and Donald Mottram, I suspect. Donald’s an accountant with Porterhouse’s. Davina was very into the arts. I’ve seen them at a few openings and parties where Alison was too. But they split up a few weeks ago. Davina ran off with Bill Herd the ethnologist to some South Pacific island. I wonder if that had anything to do with Alison’s death?”
“One way to find out,” Lindsay said. “I know Donald Mottram slightly. Rosalind went out with his brother once. I can check that one out. Next is ‘Macho the Knife. Brought his work into the bedroom. All that was missing were the stirrups to stir me up.’ He didn’t score too well, either. A mere 5. And she makes a snide remark later about his wife having to nurse his ego, which might mean he’s married to a nurse. He sounds like a gynecologist to me. And one of their encounters took place at GWI, which I take to be the Western Infirmary. I’ll ask Sophie if she can think of anyone there who might fit the bill. But I’ve saved the best—or the worst, depending on your point of view—till last. Look at the one I’ve highlighted in blue.”
“‘Greek God. She’ll never sell a work of art that wonderful. 8.4,’” Cordelia read out.
“That’s the one. It can only refer to Antonis Makaronas,” Lindsay said.
“Who is . . .?” Claire asked.
“Ruth Menzies’ husband. Ruth was Alison’s best friend. Ruth runs an art gallery off Byres Road. They live in the flat above Alison’s. And as you’ll no doubt remember, at Jackie’s trial, Ruth gave evidence that she was in the flat that afternoon. I don’t know if Antonis was at home, or how long Ruth claims she was there for. Ruth met Antonis a couple of years ago when she was on a business trip in Greece. He was a self-styled writer playing bouzouki in a taverna to make ends meet. It was love at first sight, at least on Ruth’s side. They were married days later and Ruth came home with a suntan and a husband. She supports them both while he supposedly is writing the Great European Novel. Except that it now looks like he was running his fingers over Alison rather than a word processor keyboard. It’s got to be one hell of a motive for both of them. If I was a gambling woman, I’d be giving very short odds on one of that pair as my chief suspect.”
Claire smiled grimly. “You’ve certainly come up with some interesting leads. Well done.”
“Thanks,” Lindsay said drily. “There’s also someone who used to work at the Clarion with an ax to grind against Alison. A guy called Jimmy Mills. Alison made some extremely unpleasant allegations about him, and he lost all his shifts on the sports desk as a result. I’ll be checking that out too.”
Before Lindsay could say more, the phone rang and Claire jumped to her feet. “Excuse me,” she said, hurrying out of the room. “I’m expecting a call from a client. I won’t be long.”
Left alone with Cordelia, Lindsay felt wrong-footed. She stood up and picked up her jacket. “I’d better be going anyway,” she said awkwardly. “I’ll just wait and see if Claire’s got anything else to say, then I’ll be on my way.”
“Don’t rush off,” Cordelia said, getting to her feet. “Look, Lindsay, I know this is all a bit difficult, but I want us to stay friends. I’d hoped that if I could help you by working with you on this business that maybe we could build some bridges.”
“I think we’ve burned all our bridges, don’t you?” Lindsay said bitterly, walking over to study one of the quilted wall-hangings. “Besides, you seem to get along much better without me. Judging by what the critics have to say about the new book, I’d say that my departure was the best thing that ever happened to you, professionally speaking.”
“Have you read it yet?” Cordelia asked, moving toward her.
Lindsay deliberately walked away from her, putting a sofa between the two of them. Her face felt as if the muscles had seized and it seemed to take an extraordinary effort to speak. “No,” she said. “I guess I got used to getting complimentary copies of Cordelia Brown books. I haven’t got back into the habit of actually buying them.”
Cordelia flushed and then frowned. Somehow, she kept her voice even and friendly. “I haven’t got any spare copies here, but I’ll let you have one when I get back to London,” she said.
“Don’t bother. I’m sure I can afford a copy, on what Claire’s paying me,” Lindsay retorted sharply, not trusting herself to be anything other than combative. “You really don’t owe me anything, Cordelia.”
“That’s not true, you know that.” Whatever Cordelia might have been going to say was lost as Claire walked back into the room.
The awkward silence that greeted her brought an angry frown to her face. Her eyes glittered behind her glasses, and she moved swiftly to Cordelia’s side. “Are you off, then?” she demanded.
Lindsay nodded. “I’ve got work to do. I’ll speak to you as soon as I’ve got anything to report. Let me know how you get on with Alistair,” she said abruptly. “I’ll see myself out.”
Lindsay rushed out of the flat and ran down the stairs. Catching her breath in the street outside, she was overwhelmed by the desire to kick and punch and gouge someone, anyone, but preferably Claire bloody Ogilvie. Shaking with emotion, she slumped in her car seat. When was she going to stop loving Cordelia?
10
Lindsay’s fury had subsided by the time she returned to Sophie’s. The sudden recollection of a thought that had drifted across her mind as she’d been dropping off to sleep drove thoughts of Cordelia far away. Fraser had been too quick off the mark with Alison Maxwell’s name. He was Special Branch, not CID. He would normally have had no involvement in a routine homicide like Alison’s. Yet as soon as she’d mentioned murder in connection with Caird House, he’d known instantly whose murder she was talking about.
Could there be any link between Ros’s burglary and Alison’s death? It seemed too much of a coincidence that the break-in had happened on the very day that Lindsay had started her inquiries, and at a time when she was actually in the building. But the idea of Ros and Alison as lovers was ridiculous, even to Lindsay’s suspicious mind. Although her two closest friends, Helen and Sophie, were gay, Ros herself had never been interested in women except as friends. Lindsay had sat through too many slightly drunken conversations with the three women to believe that even Alison Maxwell’s charisma could have disrupted Ros’s lifelong exuberant heterosexuality. Besides, there was nothing in Alison’s notes th
at sounded even remotely like Ros.
If there was a link, it had to be Harry. The idea of some sexual connection between them seemed unlikely. Perhaps they shared a lover? Could Harry Campbell be the “political hot potato” of Alison’s dossier? As Lindsay threw herself down on the couch, the headline of an article about vaccines in a medical journal lying on the side table caught her eye. “I wonder,” she muttered aloud.
Harry had visited the AIDS clinic for his test. But if anyone was a candidate for the terrifying virus, it had to be Alison, given the extent of her promiscuity. Could Alison have seen him there? Could she even have been blackmailing him? Lindsay wouldn’t put it past her.
It was about time she started asking some questions. Lindsay leaned over and picked up the phone. She dialed a number and drummed her fingers impatiently on the arm. “Come on, Ros,” she muttered to herself. “Answer the goddamn phone.” On the seventh ring, Rosalind answered. “Hi, Ros, it’s Lindsay.”
“Have you got some news for me?” Rosalind demanded eagerly.
“Not yet, but I’m working on it. Hopefully tomorrow.”
“Oh.”
Lindsay didn’t need to see Rosalind to sense her disappointment. “Don’t worry, it’s all under control,” she lied uncomfortably. “How were things at work?”
“Don’t ask. I feel like a haddock. By half past nine this morning, I was gutted, filleted, and battered. On a popularity rating of one to ten with my minister, I come around minus ninety-nine.”
“Poor you,” Lindsay sympathized. “Have you spoken to Harry yet? Do you know exactly what was taken?”
“I finally got hold of him about midnight last night. He’s in a hell of a state. You can imagine—he’s phoning me every hour to see if there’s any news. He’s convinced his perfect little world is going to come crashing round his ears any minute now. He’s going to try to get up here tomorrow, and he’ll want to have a chat with you. As to what’s missing—I was more or less right. There were photographs of various rent boys. And I don’t mean happy family snaps. There were a couple of letters from Tom. And Harry’s appointment card for the AIDS clinic and the counseling service. Luckily for him the tests were negative. But in the wrong hands, the combination of the pictures, the letters, and the very fact that he’s had the test makes for a very unpleasant conclusion.” There was a note of desperation in Rosalind’s voice that Lindsay found hard to reconcile with her normal cool control.
In response, she tried to fill her own voice with confidence and certainty. “Well, I’ll do everything I can. I should be able to find out where the Clarion’s story came from. Once I’ve got that sussed, then we can’t be too far away from our burglar.”
“I appreciate all you’re doing, Lindsay. Just make it as quick as you can, eh?”
“Will do. Listen, Ros, I need some more help on the Maxwell investigation . . .” Lindsay let her unspoken request hang in the air.
Rosalind sighed. “Sure. What can I do for you?”
“It’s all a bit delicate. I’m trying to track down the people Alison was sleeping with around the time of her death. I’ve got good reason to believe that one of them was Donald Mottram. Didn’t you go out with his brother a few years ago?”
“That’s right. Duncan and I were together for about six months . . . God, it must be four years ago now. But we’ve stayed vaguely in touch.”
“How well do you know Donald?” Lindsay asked, lighting a cigarette. Old habits die hard, she thought ruefully to herself. She could survive for days at a time in her outdoor routine in Italy without recourse to a cigarette. But put a phone in her hand, and it was second nature to have a cigarette in the other. Lindsay shook herself mentally and listened to Rosalind’s response.
“Not too well, I’m afraid. I know him to say hello to in the street.”
“But not well enough to set up a meeting with him?”
“Afraid not. But why don’t you just make an appointment to see him professionally?” Rosalind suggested. “It wouldn’t be unreasonable for you to need to see a tax specialist. You’ve been working abroad, you’ve no idea what your tax position is on your foreign earnings. You can tell him I recommended you—he sorted out a problem with the Inland Revenue for me a couple of years ago.”
“That’s a good idea. But how do I get him talking about Alison?”
“You’re the journalist. I thought your forte was getting people to talk about things they didn’t want to discuss?” Rosalind teased.
“Miracles take longer,” Lindsay muttered. “By the way,” she added, trying to sound nonchalant. “Did Harry know Alison at all?”
“Harry?” Ros’s astonishment was obvious even in one word. “I don’t think so, Lindsay. He certainly never mentioned her to me. I suppose they might have had a nodding acquaintance from the lift or something, but I don’t think he knew her at all.”
“I just wondered if her murder had unsettled him at all,” Lindsay said lamely.
Ros laughed. “It did. He got very jittery about us all being murdered in our beds. I think he’s been rather more discriminating about who he brought home since then. Why d’you ask?”
“It’s probably nothing. It just seemed odd to me that the burglary happened just after I started looking into Alison’s death. Must just be a coincidence.”
“It struck me last night, actually. But I can’t for the life of me see what the connection could be.”
“You’re probably right. If anything occurs to you, let me know. And thanks for the suggestion about Donald. I’ll get back to you.” Lindsay rang off and pondered. She made a mental list of things to do in the morning. First, make an appointment with Donald Mottram. Second, get hold of Jimmy Mills and pump him about Alison. She vaguely remembered him from her days at the Clarion, but she’d have to work up an excuse for seeing him. Third, arrange a meeting with Ruth and Antonis. And she’d have to pump Sophie about Alison’s gynecologist. It was all becoming very complicated.
Lindsay rolled off the couch and poured herself a whisky, wandering through to the kitchen to top it up with water. She felt restless and uneasy. Until she had more information, she was deadlocked. She glanced at the kitchen clock. Ten past eight. Too late to go to the theatre or the cinema. Idly, she wondered where her friends were. Helen was probably out socializing or talent-spotting at some avant-garde play in a church hall with an audience comprising three old biddies and the cast’s lovers. Sophie would be at the hospital, dealing somehow with a level of human misery Lindsay could only guess at. How she coped with the tragedy of the AIDS babies without cracking up Lindsay couldn’t fathom.
“A good read, that’s what I need to take my mind off all the hassle,” Lindsay told herself, striding through to Sophie’s study. The small, high room was lined with built-in bookshelves filled with medical textbooks and modern novels. It also contained a desk, a computer, a filing cabinet, and a single divan bed. Lindsay started looking for something appealing that she hadn’t read. Her absence from Britain for so long meant there was a considerable backlog of new novels for her to work her way through, and Sophie was always well-supplied with the latest fiction. As she scanned the shelves, one book seemed to leap out to catch her eye. In bold black capitals on a gold spine, Lindsay read IKHAYA LAMAQHAWE: CORDELIA BROWN. As if she were mesmerized, Lindsay lifted her hand slowly and took the book from the shell. Lindsay stared bleakly at the dustcover with its embossed three-quarter profile of a black woman, head back, fear straining her skin taut over her jaw and neck.
Lindsay subsided on to the divan and forced herself to open the book. Carefully, as if she were handling a delicate mediaeval manuscript, Lindsay turned the pages. She read the dedication with a wry smile. “To all those who have the courage to fight for truth and against oppression wherever it is found, no matter what the personal cost.” Perhaps she hadn’t been so far from Cordelia’s thoughts after all.
Taking a deep breath, Lindsay began to read the novel. She knew ten pages into it that it was good, no do
ubt about that. The writing was taut. Not a word was wasted. And the atmosphere was extraordinary. Lindsay could almost smell the world that her former lover had created so painstakingly. She shook her head in amazement. Cordelia had somehow managed to get under the skin of South Africa from thousands of miles away.
And the style was a logical development from everything Cordelia had done before. It was so stripped down, so lacking in decoration. Yet it somehow managed to be rich at the same time, the sort of writing that forced you to read slowly because you wanted it to last. Lindsay felt a new respect. She’d always been impressed by Cordelia’s careful plotting and her scrupulous use of language. But with this book, she had achieved her real potential.
The book dropped into her lap. She felt hurt that she’d been cut out of the process of creating this book, and of the joy Cordelia must have felt in it. Lindsay knew her reactions were childish and maudlin, but that didn’t make them any less real. She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t hear the front door opening. Sophie called out, “Anybody home?” and, seeing the light in the study, she walked in. At once, she registered the fallen book and Lindsay’s misery. Dropping her briefcase, Sophie sat down by Lindsay’s side and pulled her into her arms. “It hurts, doesn’t it?” she murmured.
The sympathy destroyed the last remnants of Lindsay’s self-control, and the tears in her eyes overflowed down her cheeks. She shook with sobs as Sophie calmly stroked her back, saying nothing, letting her cry herself out. Eventually, Lindsay pulled brusquely away, rubbing at her eyes with her fists. “I’m sorry,” she gulped. “It all got too much.”
“Want to talk about it?” Sophie asked.
“What’s to say? Reading this, I’m not surprised I’ve lost her. Do you know, I didn’t have the faintest idea she was working on this? She must have been researching it before I had to do a runner. But I was so wrapped up with what I was doing I never even noticed,” Lindsay said unsteadily.
