Deadline for Murder

by Val McDermid

  “No point in blaming yourself,” Sophie said. “You had your own problems at the time. You were under a lot of pressure too.”

  “That’s no excuse,” Lindsay muttered. She was wallowing in self-pity, and no amount of good sense was going to interfere with her self-indulgence.

  “Stop beating yourself up, Lindsay. These things happen,” Sophie sighed. Then she adroitly shifted the subject, knowing it was the best way to dig Lindsay out of her gloom. “Look at me and Helen. Toward the end, we were living separate lives. Half the time, I didn’t know what was happening in her world, and she was so revolted by mine that she acted like she didn’t even know what I did for a living.”

  “But you two always seemed so supportive of each other,” Lindsay said, diverted from her own misery by this revelation, just as Sophie had planned.

  Sophie shrugged. “If it’s supportive to say, whatever you do is all right by me, and then make no effort to find out what the other is doing, then we had a supportive relationship.” Sophie got to her feet and for the first time Lindsay noticed the deep lines of exhaustion round her eyes. “Anyway, enough of my troubles. Have you eaten?” Lindsay shook her head. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Come and tell me about your day while I throw some dinner together.”

  “I’ll give you a hand.” Lindsay followed Sophie and found her pulling the crisper out of the fridge. Sophie picked up a sharp kitchen knife and started chopping vegetables into a big wooden salad bowl. Lindsay picked up a carrot and chewed it idly, feeling vaguely guilty about imposing her problems on Sophie when it was obvious she had more than enough stress in her own life. “What kind of day have you had?” she asked.

  “Pretty shitty. Delivered a baby this morning, mother’s an IV heroin user, virus positive, starting to develop AIDS-related symptoms,” Sophie said dispassionately. “We won’t know if the baby’s carrying the virus till the last traces of his mother’s blood have left his system and we can test him, but he’s not looking too good. Imagine your first experience outside the womb being heroin withdrawal,” Sophie sighed as she savagely attacked a lollo rosso lettuce.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” Lindsay said.

  Sophie stopped chopping.

  “Matter of principle,” she said. “After all, according to you journalists, AIDS is the disease that proves God’s a lesbian. Least I can do is help the poor unfortunates who are stricken by it.”

  Lindsay looked puzzled. “I’m not with you.”

  “Well, the moral majority as represented by our beloved tabloid columnists spent a lot of time telling us that AIDS was a gay plague sent by God to punish the sodomites. So if AIDS is God’s punishment, it must follow that the people God identifies with and loves best must be the people least at risk. And since non-drug-using lesbians are statistically the lowest risk group . . .”

  In spite of herself, Lindsay laughed. “That’s sick,” she said.

  “Gallows humor. One of the lesser known medical specialties. If I didn’t laugh, I’d crack up completely. Now, tell me about your day. How are your inquiries going?”

  Lindsay brought Sophie up to date, finally adding, “Do you know a gynecologist at the Western who fits the description Macho the Knife? Possibly married to a nurse?”

  Sophie barely paused for thought before replying. “Yes, as it happens. Why?”

  “He could be on my list of suspects for Alison’s murder,” Lindsay replied, picking up a chunk of mozzarella cheese and dicing it into tiny cubes.

  Sophie stopped cutting carrots into neat batons with surgical precision and stared at Lindsay. “Ian McIntosh? You’ve got to be joking! He’s all mouth and trousers. You’re not seriously trying to tell me he was bonking Alison Maxwell?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well . . . It’s just that he’s one of those guys who’s always cracking double entendres and pretending he’s a superstud. In my limited experience, those types seldom actually do what they’re always mouthing about. He’s not been married that long. Can’t be more than eighteen months or so,” she added thoughtfully.

  “And is his wife a nurse?” Lindsay probed insistently, her earlier misery forgotten in the joys of the chase.

  Sophie nodded. “Yes. A theater sister, I think. But how on earth would he have met Alison? I can’t imagine their social circles overlapping,” she mused as she threw the carrots into the big wooden salad bowl and started to cut up some cauliflower florets.

  “Maybe she was his patient,” Lindsay said.

  “Dear God. I suppose you could be right. Do you want me to see if I can take a look at the records?”

  “Would you? That would be terrific,” Lindsay enthused, glad to feel she was getting somewhere at last.

  “No problem. I like to feel useful.” Sophie threw the last of the ingredients in the bowl and took a bottle of homemade dressing from the fridge. She sprinkled it over the salad and began to toss it vigorously. “Besides, I don’t like doctors who abuse their position.”

  “Good. Then can you arrange for me to meet this guy McIntosh?”

  Sophie laughed. “My God, I’d forgotten what a pushy little shit you can be when you’ve got a bee in your bonnet. I’ll see what I can do.”

  After they had eaten, Lindsay curled up on the couch and continued to read Cordelia’s new novel. Sophie settled down beside her with the British Journal of Obstetrics, a comforting arm round Lindsay’s shoulders. Just after eleven, Sophie finished reading her periodical and yawned expansively. “I’m ready for bed,” she said. “How are you feeling now?”

  Lindsay shrugged. “Pretty raw, to tell you the truth. Losing Cordelia’s taking a bit more getting used to than I expected.”

  “Come to bed with me, then,” Sophie said. Seeing the look of surprise on Lindsay’s face, she laughed softly. “Sorry, not the most romantic proposition you’ve ever had, is it? It’s just that . . . well, you look fairly cuddle-starved to me. We both need a bit of loving and comfort, I’d say. And we’ve been friends for long enough to trust each other. No strings, Lindsay, just a bit of shelter in the storm.”

  Lindsay felt the prickle of tears in her eyes as she hugged Sophie. “Thanks,” she whispered. “If you hand out prescriptions like this to all your patients, no wonder you’re such a success!”

  Sophie grinned and kissed Lindsay’s forehead. “If you saw my patients, you wouldn’t even think of making a scurrilous suggestion like that!”

  Afterward, they lay sprawled chaotically together in Sophie’s king-sized bed, the room illuminated with the eerie glow of the ten-foot long fish tank that occupied most of one wall. “Mmm. It’s been a long time,” Lindsay murmured.

  “For me too. You’re the first since Helen,” Sophie confessed with a distant smile. Her eyes had lost the weary look they’d held earlier.

  “You surprise me,” Lindsay said. “A woman of your charms. I didn’t think you’d be on the loose for long, to be honest.”

  “After Helen, it would take someone rather special to interest me,” Sophie said with a trace of bitterness unnoticed by Lindsay in her post-orgasmic haze.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Lindsay purred as she leaned over and picked up her cigarettes from the bedside table.

  “You should. I’ve always had a soft spot for you, you know?” Sophie said, stretching luxuriously.

  “I’d no idea. Personally, I’d always thought Helen was far luckier than she deserved to be. So how come we never did anything about it till now?” Lindsay asked as she lit up and inhaled deeply.

  Sophie propped herself up on one elbow and stroked Lindsay’s side. “Well, I was with Helen, then when I wasn’t with Helen any more, you were with Cordelia. Speaking of whom, how are you finding working for Claire?”

  “Uncomfortable,” Lindsay said, luxuriating in her new lover’s touch. “It’s not easy maintaining a coolly professional relationship with her when Cordelia’s around all the time. Though I suspect that after tonight all that might have chan
ged.”

  Sophie stopped in mid-stroke. “I wonder . . .” she murmured.

  “What?”

  “I wonder if it’s deliberate, Cordelia always being around?” Sophie said thoughtfully.

  “I don’t understand,” Lindsay said. “Why should it be deliberate?”

  “Say for the sake of argument that Claire’s heart isn’t really in it. She doesn’t really want you to discover Alison’s murderer.”

  “You mean she doesn’t believe in Jackie’s innocence at all?”

  “No, no,” Sophie said impatiently, sitting up and hugging her knees. “Jackie’s innocence isn’t the issue. I mean, she’s obviously fond of Jackie and would be happy for her if she were released. But say Claire didn’t want you to uncover the truth. What better way of distracting you than by ramming Cordelia down your throat at every opportunity?”

  “But why on earth would she want to do that? I mean, why bother asking me to investigate in the first place if she then goes out of her way to distract me?” Lindsay demanded, completely confused.

  “It would make perfect sense if Claire Ogilvie killed Alison Maxwell.”

  11

  Lindsay woke from a confused dream of being lost in an African township, searching vainly for Cordelia, to Sophie gently shaking her awake.

  “I made you a coffee. I’ve got to run, but you said you had a lot to do today, so I thought I’d better wake you. You were sleeping like the dead,” Sophie greeted her.

  Memory of the night before flooded back to Lindsay, and a satisfied grin spread across her face. “You did right,” she said. “So the bumper sticker is really true?”

  “What bumper sticker?”

  “Gynecologists do it with their fingers,” Lindsay teased.

  “We do other things with our fingers too,” Sophie exclaimed, grabbing Lindsay and tickling her ribs.

  “Whoa!” Lindsay yelled. “Mind the coffee!” Sophie hugged her. “I’ll see you later,” she said, kissing her smiling mouth.

  “I can’t wait!”

  The stinging needles of the shower chased the last trace of sleep from Lindsay’s brain. She wasn’t ready yet to examine the new basis of her relationship with Sophie. Her body felt relaxed and comfortable after their love-making, but her head was still spinning with the implications of Sophie’s bombshell. Why hadn’t she thought of Claire? If Jackie hadn’t been the obvious choice, Claire could well have been the next person the police would have looked at.

  As she toweled herself dry, Lindsay examined the idea step by step. Claire had carefully presented an image of herself as cool and rational, the woman who had been hurt but who had forgiven. But what if the reality had been different? What if she had known Jackie well enough to realize that she would never be able to rid herself of her obsession while Alison was still alive? She could easily have gone to the block of flats and waited in the rubbish chute cupboard till she saw Jackie leaving, then slipped in to Alison’s flat and killed her. But if so, why was she going through the charade of asking Lindsay to help clear Jackie’s name?

  Sophie’s answer to that was the double bluff. What would someone in Claire’s position be expected to do? Answer: she’d be expected to do exactly what she had done. Anything else would have looked suspicious. Added to that was Claire’s insistence when she’d first briefed Lindsay that she didn’t have to uncover the true identity of the murderer, merely cast enough doubt on Jackie’s conviction.

  And the fact remained that she hadn’t actually tracked Lindsay down. What if her involvement with Cordelia had started as a convenient distraction for the one woman who could reasonably be expected to know where to look for Lindsay? Once Claire and Cordelia were lovers, there would be a certain reluctance on Cordelia’s part to searching too diligently for Lindsay, after all.

  Sophie had also come up with another interesting angle. “Claire may not have intended to frame Jackie, just to kill Alison,” she’d mused. “After all, she couldn’t have known Jackie was going to sit around on the stairs like a lemon. And Claire could have had no way of knowing that the body would be discovered so soon. The arrival of Alison’s mother plus Jackie’s bizarre behavior might have screwed up Claire’s plans completely.”

  “But if she hadn’t meant to frame Jackie, why use her scarf?” Lindsay had objected. Thinking it over now, she felt deeply confused. Maybe she was letting herself place more weight on Sophie’s suggestion because she instinctively disliked Claire for coming between her and Cordelia. Well, there was one simple way to see if there was anything in the idea. She’d have to check Claire’s alibi for the time of the murder. Oh boy, that was going to be a fun question to ask her employer!

  Lindsay shivered as she wrapped herself in a bath towel. She’d still not acclimatized to the cold Scottish winter after so long in the warmth of the Adriatic. The thought of the freezing February air outside made her feel like diving back under the duvet and staying there till spring. Instead, she huddled over the gas fire in the living room with the phone and a mug of coffee. This question mark over Claire was going to have to be sorted out, and soon. She fished Claire’s card out of her bag and dialed her office.

  When she was put through, she said, “Lindsay Gordon here. Can we meet for a talk later today?”

  “Have you some progress to report?” Claire asked neutrally. There was no eagerness in her voice, thought Lindsay.

  “Sort of,” Lindsay stalled. “What time would suit you?”

  “I’ll be leaving my office around three. I’m taking some paperwork home. Come round any time before six.”

  “That’ll be fine. See you then.”

  Next, Lindsay rang directory inquiries for the number of Porterhouses’ office. After dialing, she was quickly connected to Donald Mottram’s secretary. She explained her need for an urgent appointment to discuss her tax problems.

  “Could you be at the office in half an hour, Miss Gordon?” the secretary inquired. “One of Mr. Mottram’s clients has just rung to cancel his appointment, so he’ll be free then. Otherwise, it would be next Thursday before I could fit you in. He has a very full diary just now.”

  Lindsay couldn’t believe her luck. What a good game this was! She could get her year’s accounts done at Claire’s expense. “I’ll be there,” she promised. “Where exactly are you?”

  After the call, Lindsay checked out her clothes. If Donald Mottram was the ladies’ man she took him for, she might just get under his guard with the fluttery female act. Desperately, she searched through her bags. There was nothing there that would remotely fit the bill. Cursing under her breath, she ran through to Sophie’s room and opened the wardrobe. They were near enough the same size, though Sophie was taller, and Sophie had always had impeccable taste in clothes. Unlike me, thought Lindsay, choosing a smart red woollen dress with matching shoes. She pulled open the top drawer of the dressing table and hastily applied some eyeshadow and mascara. Thank God she still had the healthy remains of her Italian tan! She surveyed herself in the mirror, far from happy with the overall effect. “Relax, you’re looking good,” she muttered, trying to convince herself.

  Precisely half an hour later, Lindsay was shown into Donald Mottram’s businesslike office. The walls were covered with gray hessian shot with apricot and cream, their sole decoration a moody photograph of a blood-red sun setting over the Glasgow skyline. The yuppies really are here to stay, she thought moodily. As she entered, Donald Mottram rose from a gray leather swivel chair and extended his hand across a wide gray desk. He was quite short, but stocky, with shoulders and chest that looked bulky inside his smart business suit. His short black hair clung to his head in tight black curls shot with gray. His strong-featured face reminded Lindsay of a prize bull. “Miss Gordon,” he said. “I’m delighted to meet you. Do have a seat.”

  Lindsay settled into a deep gray leather armchair, took a deep breath, and told a white lie. “I think we’ve met before, actually,” she said. “At one of Ruth Menzies’ private views? Alison Maxwell introd
uced me to you and your wife.”

  The muscles of his jaw tightened momentarily, but he managed to smile and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t remember. One meets so many people at these dos. Now, what can I do for you?”

  Lindsay launched into an account of her chaotic finances while Mottram made careful notes on a foolscap pad. At the end of her recital, he put his pen down and smiled. “Well, Miss Gordon, I don’t foresee too many problems with this. If you can let me have the necessary paperwork by the end of the week, I’ll get your accounts formally prepared.”

  “Thank you so much,” Lindsay said, carefully crossing her legs and swinging her foot in its red stiletto, wishing she had Sophie’s long legs. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you. It’s been preying on my mind. Then I remembered Alison saying you were the best tax accountant in Glasgow, and if I ever needed help I should come to you.”

  Mottram gave a smug smile. “We aim to please,” he said.

  “Such a blow, Alison’s death. I couldn’t believe it when I heard it. We were so close,” Lindsay said, trying to look woebegone and unthreatening while feeling like a grade one fool.

  “Yes, it was a terrible shock,” he replied shortly.

  “I didn’t even hear in time to get to the funeral,” she added. “Were you there?”

  Mottram shook his head. “No. Like you, we were out of the country at the time. My wife and I were on holiday in Madeira. We got back the day after the funeral.”

  Lindsay didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry at his response. It looked as if he was out of the running. One suspect fewer. But she wouldn’t have minded so much if Donald Mottram had been the killer. She didn’t like this smooth accountant whose eyes were fixed greedily on the line of her calf. Hastily, Lindsay uncrossed her legs and got to her feet “Well, Mr. Mottram; I won’t take up any more of your valuable time, and I’ll get that paperwork to you as soon as possible.”

  He moved quickly round his desk to escort her to the door, his hand proprietorially on the small of her back. “If you’re going to be in Glasgow for a while, perhaps we could meet for a drink to discuss your future business plans,” he said.