by Val McDermid
“Thanks. I’ll have a pint of lager,” Lindsay said as Sophie nodded. Lindsay’s eyebrows rose as he headed for the bar. “I thought you said you only knew him slightly.”
“I do. This is the longest I’ve ever spent in his company. I told you he was full of shit.”
Before they could say more, McIntosh returned with a round of drinks. “Aren’t I the lucky man, surrounded by two lovely ladies,” he said, preening himself.
There was nothing one could say to that and remain within the realms of social politeness, Lindsay thought. Ignoring him, she turned to Sophie and said, “By the way, before I forget. Helen rang just as I was leaving the flat. She asked if you could ring her between seven and half past. She said it was urgent.”
Sophie nodded. “Thanks.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ll give her a ring in a minute.”
“Don’t let me interrupt your professional conclave,” Lindsay said. “Just ignore me if you’ve still got business to discuss.”
“Ignore you? Impossible,” McIntosh said archly. He smoothed his light-brown hair in what was clearly a habitual gesture.
“It’s all right, we’ve finished. Ian’s given me a couple of ideas about procedures we can implement that should reduce our infection rate.”
“Think nothing of it, Soph,” he said magnanimously, turning his calculated smile on her. “But let’s not bore your friend talking shop. Soph tells me you’re a journalist. What sort of stuff do you do?”
Lindsay shrugged. “This and that. Anything that comes along, really. I’m a freelance, you see, so I have to pick up every little tidbit I can. You live by your wits, and what you can winkle out of people.”
“Fascinating,” he said. “It must be very interesting.”
“People always think so,” Lindsay replied ruefully. “But it’s not always glamorous or exciting. A lot of the time it’s excruciatingly boring. You can spend a whole day waiting for the one phone call that you need before you can get an inch farther on a story. Or you can sit and freeze in your car outside someone’s house waiting for them to come home. And you have to be just as polite to the creeps as the nice guys. It’s not a bit like All the President’s Men.”
Sophie got to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just make that phone call,” she said.
“Don’t leave us alone too long,” McIntosh replied with an exaggerated wink. “We might not be able to control our basic animal urges, you know!”
Lindsay watched Sophie cross the room, wondering how she put up with men like McIntosh with such equanimity. Collecting herself, she turned back to the gynecologist and said casually, “I used to work at the Clarion here in Glasgow. I believe we had a mutual . . . how shall I put it? Acquaintance?”
He looked slightly disconcerted and flashed the grin at her. Lindsay looked forward to wiping it off his self-satisfied face. “Really?” he said casually. “I don’t think I know anyone who works there.”
“She doesn’t work there any more. She’s dead now. Alison Maxwell?”
McIntosh refused to meet Lindsay’s eyes and nervously ran a hand over his light-brown hair. “Maxwell . . . Maxwell? Oh yes, I remember now. She was a patient of mine for a short time about a year ago.”
“A bit more than a patient, I think.” Lindsay let her comment hang in the air.
“I think you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick, Lindsay,” he said sincerely. “I can assure you that my relationship with her was purely professional.”
“Alison and I were very close, you know,” Lindsay said. “She told me everything. I think I was a kind of insurance policy for her, you know? If anything were to happen. Which of course, it did.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I don’t like your tone one little bit,” he blustered, all traces of the irritating grin gone.
“You must have been very relieved when she was killed. Especially when the police arrested Jackie Mitchell so quickly that they didn’t have to bother investigating Alison’s other relationships,” Lindsay stated coldly, abandoning all efforts at finesse. They’d be wasted on McIntosh, she decided.
“That’s an outrageous and scurrilous suggestion. I barely knew the woman,” he parried weakly, looking round desperately, clearly wishing Sophie would return and rescue him from Lindsay’s attentions.
“Barely being the operative word,” Lindsay remarked drily.
“What the hell has all of this got to do with you?” he said angrily. “You’d better be very careful what you say. There’s such a thing as the law of slander.”
“I just wondered what you were doing on the afternoon Alison was killed,” Lindsay said coolly.
Mcintosh jumped to his feet. “I’m not sitting here listening to this one minute longer!” he exploded.
“I wouldn’t do anything rash if I were you, Ian. You see, Alison kept a diary. Names, times, dates, places. It could be dynamite in the wrong hands. Like the General Medical Council. Or your wife, perhaps. Like I said, I was Alison’s insurance policy. Now why don’t you just sit down and discuss this reasonably?”
The strength seemed to disappear from McIntosh’s legs and he crumpled back into his seat. “You blackmailing bitch,” he spat. “Two of a kind, you and Maxwell. Well, she got what she deserved.”
“What do you mean? Was Alison blackmailing you?” Lindsay blurted out. She was no stranger to Alison’s emotional blackmail, but Mcintosh’s tone indicated more than that.
“I never said that,” he objected. “You’re the one doing the blackmailing.”
“I don’t see you running to the police. Though I must say I’m seriously thinking about doing just that. You might as well tell me, doc. What were you doing on the afternoon she was killed?” Lindsay demanded.
“How the hell should I know?” he hissed through lips drawn tight over his even white teeth.
“I’d have thought that the evening you heard the news of her death would be printed indelibly on your mind. Come on, Ian, you can do better than that. Maybe the diary would help to jog your memory? After all, you can probably remember the occasion you had a bonk in the Western Infirmary?”
His eyes narrowed. “I’ll get you for this,” he said.
“I don’t think so,” Lindsay said. “I’m like Alison. I take out insurance for dangerous situations. What were you doing that afternoon?”
He scowled and said, “Not that it’s anything to do with you, but I was in theater till about five o’clock. Then I went up to the University Library to do some reading. I got home about seven o’clock.”
“And can anybody verify that you were in the library?” Lindsay continued relentlessly. Now she had him on the run, she was determined to press home her advantage. If she didn’t nail him now, she knew she wouldn’t get another chance.
“What? Three, four months later? You must be joking!”
“Interesting, Ian. You have motive, and opportunity. And as a doctor, you’d know exactly how to strangle someone most efficiently.”
He looked angrily at Lindsay, speechless for once. His face was white with fear or rage. She couldn’t decide which was the stronger emotion. Recovering himself, he spluttered. “You’re off your rocker. Look, even supposing I had a fling with Alison Maxwell, it was long after she stopped seeing me as a doctor. I had no reason to kill her. Besides, the police got the murderer. Another one of your journalist pals. Is that what all this is about? Frame me to let your pal go scot free? Well, it won’t work. I never went near her flat that day, and you can’t prove I did.” He spoke with the childish defiance of a small boy who’s been caught stealing sweets from the local newsagent.
Before Lindsay could reply, Sophie walked back across the bar. As she came into McIntosh’s sight, he pushed himself to his feet. “You bitch!” he hissed. “You fucking set me up. You haven’t heard the last of this!”
Sophie stared open-mouthed at her colleague as he stumbled unsteadily away from the table and out of the bar. “Jesus Christ,” she said. “You really
rattled his cage.”
Lindsay gazed out of the window at the disappearing form of Ian McIntosh. “Tell me, Sophie. Did he look to you like a man with nothing to hide?”
14
Lindsay performed the dicing-with-death routine required of any driver attempting the first exit off the urban motorway south of the Kingston Bridge. “Shit,” she yelled, as she dodged a Ford Cortina seemingly hell-bent on suicide. Quarter to nine on a Friday morning was not the best time to negotiate the complexities of the motorway bridge, she decided as she swung down the spiraling exit ramp and on to the street below. But by making an early start, she hoped to catch Barry Ostler on the hop.
Sophie had been touching in her concern, without making Lindsay feel at all claustrophobic in the way that Cordelia sometimes had. “Be careful,” she had urged. “He might not be as gutless as Ian McIntosh. I spend enough time in hospitals as it is without having to visit you.”
Lindsay had put a brave face on it, dismissing Sophie’s fears. But she felt far from confident at the thought of confronting Ostler. But at least this time she was well-prepared, she thought as she drove through the south side streets lined with tenements. She had rung Helen the night before, driven by a vague recollection that she’d heard Ostler’s name linked to the Labour Party. Helen had been extremely useful, dredging her memory for a few snippets of gossip. “Barry Ostler’s a real scally,” she’d said. “He’s one of the rent-a-thugs on the right wing of the party. He’s been responsible for spreading several of the nastier rumors that have surfaced about the Left over the past few years. You remember when there was that big scandal a couple of years back about Gordon Graham’s expenses—the word then was that it was Ostler who broke into Gordon’s offices to steal his papers. There was never any proof, but no one was really in any doubt. A few press leaks have been traced back to him too. You know the kind of thing—stories that are essentially true but are twisted so that they sound like there’s something really nasty in the woodwork behind them. Barry Ostler’s idea of party democracy is that he and his pals make all the decisions and everybody else falls into line, or else.”
Interesting, Lindsay thought as she approached the area of Pollokshields where Ostler lived. She had no difficulty remembering his address, having dropped him off at home on both occasions they’d worked together. He preferred her to drive—that way he could drink all day without having to worry about being breathalyzed.
She turned off the main road and threaded her way through the back streets till she found the slightly shabby 1960s block of flats where Ostler lived alone. His big silver Buick was parked outside, looking like a dinosaur among the Japanese runabouts scattered along the rest of the street. Lindsay found a nearby parking space and carefully set the car alarm. She pushed open the doors and walked up one flight of concrete stairs. The block had grown even more seedy since she’d last been here, with graffiti on the walls and the smell of stale urine in the air. Obviously Barry Ostler wasn’t doing too well, or he’d have found himself somewhere more salubrious to live.
Lindsay rang the bell and waited. There was no reply, so she rang again, then banged on the door for good measure. She was soon rewarded by the door opening a crack. Barry Ostler’s unshaven face appeared, his white quiff awry, eyes screwed up against the light. A blast of sour breath and stale tobacco smoke hit Lindsay as he growled, “What the hell’s going on?”
“Hello, Barry,” Lindsay said with a smile. “You going to leave me standing on the landing like the rent man?”
“Lindsay Gordon? What the hell are you doing here?” he mumbled as he opened the door wider to reveal a beer-gut in an off-white singlet hanging over a pair of striped pajama trousers.
“Did I get you out of your bed? I’m really sorry,” Lindsay lied. “I just wanted a wee word with you about something. I could come back later if it’s not a good time.”
“You might as well come in now you’re here,” he said grudgingly, turning his back on her and padding down the hall in bare feet.
Lindsay followed him, closing the door behind her. The flat smelled of too many cigarettes and fry-ups. The frowsty hall led straight into an untidy living room, with several empty beer cans and the remains of a Chinese takeaway littering the floor round a single armchair that faced the television. Lindsay perched gingerly on the edge of a sofa whose Dralon cover felt slightly tacky to the touch.
“There’s no milk so I cannae offer you a coffee,” he said brusquely as he lit a cigarette and shook with a spasm of coughing. “So what the hell brings you out here at this time of the morning?” he finally gasped.
“I want the stuff that was nicked from Harry Campbell’s desk,” Lindsay said bluntly.
Ostler ran his hand over his stubbly chin and gave the chesty wheeze that passed for laughter with him. His gut wobbled sickeningly in rhythm with the wheeze. Lindsay struggled to keep a sneer from her face as he recovered himself and said, “Christ, I see your interviewing technique hasnae improved any. Lindsay, I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re on about.”
“Okay, Barry. I thought maybe we could do this the quick way, but you’ve obviously got some time to kill. Let me tell you a wee story. On Monday afternoon, there was a burglary in North Kelvinside. Some confidential Scottish Office papers were stolen from a senior civil servant. Also on the missing list are the contents of a desk belonging to Harry Campbell, M.P. for Kinradie. The next day, the Scottish Daily Clarion had a cracking splash based on those Scottish Office papers. Now, I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but it seems to me that whoever gave that nice wee exclusive to the Clarion has either got Harry Campbell’s papers or else knows where they are. Does that seem about right to you so far?”
Ostler took a long drag on his cigarette. “So far, so good, Enid Blyton. But what has all that got to do with me?”
“I’ve got proof that it was you who sold the story to the Clarion.”
He looked shrewdly at her. “You’re bullshitting me, wee lassie. How can you have something that doesn’t exist?”
“Oh, it exists, all right. Because it was you who sold the story, Barry. So that means you’ve either got Harry Campbell’s papers or you know who does. And Harry wants those papers back very badly. That’s why I’m here.” Lindsay pulled opened her handbag and, under the guise of removing her own cigarettes, checked that her tiny voice-activated tape recorder was working.
“Even supposing it was me who gave the story to the Clarion, why the hell should I help you? I mean, if Harry Campbell wants those papers back so badly, they must be worth something. Maybe even another splash in the Clarion, eh?” Ostler said craftily, lighting another cigarette.
“They are worth something, Barry,” Lindsay replied. “Shall I tell you exactly what they’re worth?”
He nodded, appearing vastly amused. “You tell me.”
“They’re worth about six months. That’s what you’ll get if I tell the police it was you who leaked the story to the Clarion.”
“Now wait a minute,” he said apprehensively. “Just wait a minute. What are you saying?”
“I’ve had the police on my back. For some reason, they seem to think it was me who leaked the story. After all, I’ve got more of a track record than you when it comes to breaking stories that embarrass the government. It would make my life a lot easier if I didn’t have the Special Branch breathing down my neck. If I give them you on toast, and tell them where the evidence is that ties you to the burglary, everybody will be happy. Well, me and the police’ll be happy, anyway.”
Ostler shook his head slowly. “And I always thought you were such a nice wee lassie. Fancy you threatening to shop a fellow journalist just to get a wee bit of peace and quiet. And how much work do you think you’d get in this city if you did that?”
Lindsay shrugged. “To tell you the truth, Barry, I’ve been thinking lately that maybe journalism isn’t really my game. So being on the blacklist wouldn’t exactly break my heart. But I’ll do you a deal. You hand over the papers and I w
on’t shop you.”
“Lindsay, I’d gladly give you Harry Campbell’s billets doux if I had them. But what I haven’t got, I can’t part with,” Ostler countered, spreading his hands in an exaggerated Latin shrug.
“But you know where they are,” Lindsay said flatly.
“Now, how would I know that?”
“Because whoever gave you the prison privatization story also has Harry Campbell’s papers. And only someone who had seen those papers or had had them described to him would refer to them as billets doux. I never gave you any indication of what those papers were. You just gave yourself away, Barry,” Lindsay observed.
“Maybe, but a good journalist never reveals his sources.”
“Well, that lets you off the hook, Barry. Not even your best friend would describe you as a good journalist. Look, I’ve not got all day. I’ve told you the deal. You can come across now and I won’t tell the police it was you. Or you can sit there on your big fat principles and wait for the Special Branch to come knocking. What’s it to be?” Lindsay was almost beginning to relish her role as the tough nut.
Ostler sighed and lit another cigarette from the butt of the previous one. “Okay. It was me leaked the story. But I’ve no idea who did the burglary. The papers were shoved through my letterbox in a brown envelope on Monday night. I don’t know where they came from.” Lindsay stared at him, for the moment mute with a mixture of outrage and admiration at his brazen effrontery. “Sorry I can’t be more help,” he added urbanely.
Lindsay smiled in spite of herself. “That’s life,” she remarked, getting to her feet. “Well, I’d better be off now. I’ve got a policeman to see about this burglary. I’m sure they’ll be delighted to hear who was really responsible.”
Alarmed, Ostler jumped to his feet. “Now wait a minute! You said you’d do a deal.”
“That’s right. The deal was that I got Harry Campbell’s papers back. No papers, no deal. I mean, what’s in it for me otherwise?”
