Deadline for Murder

by Val McDermid

  “But I told you,” he said desperately. “I don’t know where the papers came from!”

  “You must think my head’s full of mince, not brains,” Lindsay said, moving toward the door.

  “No! Wait a minute,” Ostler said, sagging back into his chair like a deflated balloon. “I’ll tell you. It came from a lad called Alex McNaught. He’s a rent boy, hangs about on the meatracks down Blythswood Square. I met him on a story I was doing a few months back. I thought he was a pretty smart cookie, so I told him to stay in touch. He brought the papers to me late on Monday afternoon.”

  “You’re seriously expecting me to believe that a rent boy was smart enough to spot the implications of a bundle of Scottish Office papers? You sure you weren’t there with him, turning the place over?” Lindsay asked sarcastically.

  “Who are you accusing of burglary? What do you take me for?” Ostler demanded self-righteously.

  “I’d rather not answer that, Barry, if you don’t mind. So where do I find him?”

  “I don’t know,” Ostler whined. “How the hell would I know?”

  “You might know if you put him up to it,” Lindsay said shrewdly.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake, Lindsay, gie’s a break! I told you, I don’t know where he lives.” Lindsay noticed a sheen of sweat on his pasty features. A moment ago, she wouldn’t have believed it was possible for him to look less appealing. Now she knew different.

  “You’ve told me a lot of lies this morning and it’s not even half past nine yet. Come on, Barry, I’m doing you a favor. Do me one,” Lindsay pressed.

  “Some favor,” he muttered. “Okay, you win. He lives in Springburn. He’s got a bedsit there. I don’t know the exact address.”

  “You can do better than that, Barry. How about some directions?”

  Ostler sighed deeply. “You’re a hard bitch, Lindsay Gordon. Anyone ever tell you that? Up Springburn Road, first left after a pub called The Spring Inn. Second right and it’s the third or fourth house on the left. It’s got a blue door. Satisfied?”

  “That better be good info, Barry. Or I’m down the road to the police first thing tomorrow. Cheerio then. It’s been nice seeing you again,” she threw over her shoulder as she made her way with relief out of the fetid atmosphere of Ostler’s flat.

  “Aye, and I hope your next shite’s a hedgehog,” he called as she slammed the front door behind her.

  Gleeful, she ran down the stairs. At last she had something positive to tell Rosalind! But what Ostler had told her hadn’t eliminated the possibility that the murder and the burglary were linked. Perhaps Alex McNaught was the connecting link. After all, Ian Mclntosh had hinted that Alison was into blackmail. What better source of compromising information than a rent boy?

  Lindsay stopped at the first callbox she came to and rang Claire’s office. She had a momentary pang of apprehension as she waited to be connected. Would Cordelia have said anything about her visit yesterday? “Can I see you this morning?” she asked when she was finally put through to Claire.

  “I can fit you in for ten minutes in half an hour. Otherwise it will be this evening,” Claire said briskly. “I’m sorry about yesterday, by the way. Cordelia said you’d had a wasted journey.”

  “No problem. See you in half an hour.” Lindsay hung up.

  Thirty minutes later, she was walking into Claire’s comfortable office high above the city skyline. The lawyer was seated behind a wide and uncluttered desk, looking utterly in command of her situation. A desk lamp was switched on, making her white-blonde hair gleam ethereally. She reminded Lindsay strangely of a modern version of Joan of Arc, with her small, chiseled features. She’d look stunning in a suit of shining armor astride a white horse, she thought in surprise. “You seem to like having a view,” Lindsay remarked as she settled into a tweed-upholstered sofa.

  “It prevents claustrophobia,” Claire remarked absently, signing a piece of paper on her desk. She put her pen down and gave Lindsay her full attention. Her face looked calm and untroubled. Whatever Cordelia had told her about Lindsay’s visit, it obviously hadn’t been the truth. “Now, where are you up to?” she asked tartly.

  Lindsay gave Claire a swift rundown on her progress so far, while Claire jotted notes on a legal pad. Lindsay concluded by saying, “And tonight, Ruth and Antonis are coming to dinner. All I need is one shred of evidence, and this whole thing could be wrapped up by the end of the weekend. But how about you? How did you get on with Alistair?”

  “It seems you’ll have to remove him from your list of possible suspects,” Claire said, pushing her glasses up her nose in the familiar gesture. “On the day Alison was killed, he was in Aberdeen. Between four and five o’clock, he was giving a lecture at the art college, and afterward he was discussing the lecture with several of the students. He learned about Alison’s murder later that evening when he saw the television news in his hotel room. I’ve already checked his story, and it seems he was telling the truth.”

  “In a funny way, I’m glad about that. I’ve always liked his paintings. They’re so full of life and color,” Lindsay said.

  “If that’s all, Lindsay . . . I have another appointment in a minute,” Claire said, ostentatiously consulting her watch.

  Lindsay swallowed hard. The moment had come, and her bottle had nearly gone. Giving a silent prayer, she said, “One more thing. There’s no pleasant and polite way to ask this, Claire, but I hope you won’t take it the wrong way. Even though you’re paying me to carry out this inquiry, I still have to be impartial. And if I was a police officer, I’d have to ask you this.” Claire looked puzzled, but Lindsay struggled on. “What were you doing at the time of Alison’s murder?”

  Claire looked furious, two bright spots of color rising on her pale cheeks. Then quickly she saw the funny side and laughed, tossing her fine hair back. “Well done, Lindsay. Hang on just a minute, would you?” She buzzed her intercom and said, “Mrs. Cox, would you bring me in my diary for last year, please?” Then she turned back to Lindsay and said, “As far as I can remember, I was in a meeting all afternoon. I left the office about half past five and I was at home when Jackie arrived.” She broke off as her secretary walked in with a large leather-bound desk diary. Claire quickly flicked through the pages then pushed it across to Lindsay. “There you are. 3:30. Meeting with Colin Amis, Duncan Mclver, David Milne. I can give you their phone numbers if you want to check.”

  Lindsay was forced to smile in spite of her suspicions. “But you’ve no alibi for the crucial time, have you?”

  Claire returned her smile. “It doesn’t appear so. But I’d have had to have been incredibly lucky not to have been spotted by someone if I’d been running to such a tight schedule. Besides, I had no motive for killing Alison. Jackie and I had settled our differences. As far as I was concerned, her visit to Alison’s flat was for the sole purpose of ending their liaison. If I’d been going to kill Alison, I’d have done it either before then or after. Not at that particular point. And why on earth would I hire you to investigate if I was the murderer?”

  “It’s a good double bluff,” Lindsay retorted.

  This time, Claire’s smile had a hint of steel in it. “I’m sure if you really want Cordelia back, there are easier ways of going about it than trying to implicate me in a murder. Now, if there’s nothing else?”

  Claire’s words were like a slap in the face. Cordelia had obviously given Claire a highly sanitized version of their encounter, revealing only Lindsay’s suspicions. Claire had been playing with her all along. Furious, Lindsay got to her feet and marched to the door. “I’ll be in touch when I’ve got something to report,” she said angrily. “And don’t kid yourself that I’d cast suspicion on you for Cordelia’s sake. As far as I’m concerned, you’re more than welcome to her.” And as she strode through Claire’s outer office, Lindsay realized with a feeling of shock that she had meant exactly what she said.

  15

  “Can you talk, Ros?” Lindsay asked cautiously when she was fin
ally put through to Rosalind’s office extension.

  “Yes, I’m alone. Have you got any news?” she inquired eagerly.

  “Progress at last. I think I know who our burglar is.”

  “That’s terrific news! How on earth did you find out?” Rosalind asked, her voice full of admiration.

  “Trade secret,” Lindsay replied modestly. “But I can tell you that the burglary appears to have been carried out by a rent boy called Alex McNaught. Does the name mean anything to you?”

  “Can’t say it does. But if he’s one of Harry’s little friends, there’s no reason why it should. I never meet them. But if he knew his way around the building . . . Does this tie in with Alison’s murder, like you thought it might?”

  “I can’t quite see how. Why do you ask?” Lindsay asked.

  “It’s just that . . . It might be nothing, but she did a five-part series on AIDS for the Clarion last year. About how it’s spreading into the heterosexual community. Maybe she ran into him then?”

  Lindsay’s thoughts were racing. Rosalind’s words seemed to confirm her hunch about a connection. Casting Harry as the “political hot potato” suddenly seemed far more credible. On impulse, she stalled Rosalind with, “Possibly. It’ll have to be checked out, though.”

  “I agree. Do you know where to find this McNaught?” Rosalind demanded.

  “I think so. But before I go any farther, I think I’d better speak to Harry. When is he coming up?” Lindsay asked.

  “He’ll be here late tonight. He was supposed to be spending the weekend in Kinradie, but after this business, he canceled his Saturday morning surgery and he’s not going up till Sunday. Do you want to come round later on?”

  Lindsay thought rapidly. With Ruth and Antonis coming for dinner, she really didn’t want to commit herself to anything more that evening. “Not tonight, Ros,” she said. “Sophie and I have got dinner guests. Business rather than pleasure, if you catch my drift.”

  “No problem. Why don’t you come round for breakfast in the morning and take it from there?”

  “That would be perfect. What time?”

  “Nine okay? Harry should have surfaced by then. He’ll be your friend for life after this, Lindsay. And so will I, come to that.”

  “Don’t fall at my feet with gratitude till I’ve actually got Harry’s papers back,” Lindsay warned. “It might not be entirely straightforward, I shouldn’t have to tell you that. Tell Harry it might cost him to get his stuff back.”

  “He won’t quibble, don’t worry about that. He’ll think it’s cheap at the price to preserve his respectability,” Rosalind said bitterly. “See you tomorrow morning.”

  Lindsay put down the phone and started preparing for the evening’s dinner party. Plenty of good food and good wine to relax them and put them at their ease, she had decided. She’d worked the menu out and stopped to do the shopping on the way back from her sticky encounter with Claire, and she surveyed her purchases with satisfaction. She wondered if she could claim her outlay back from Claire as a legitimate business expense. Maybe she should have broached the subject before she accused Claire of murder, Lindsay thought ironically.

  First, she put some water on to boil, then quartered the two pheasants she had bought from the game butcher. There was a glut of pheasants this year, they’d never be cheaper, he had informed her as he’d talked her into buying the brace. She tipped the pheasants into the boiling water, then added carrots, onions, and spices. She left it to simmer while she chopped vegetables ready for the soup she was planning as a starter.

  Once the pheasant was cooked, Lindsay stripped the flesh from the bones and set about assembling the complicated dish of bastilla: layers of phyllo pastry, pheasant, slivered almonds, and egg custard. After half an hour’s work, she looked with satisfaction at the finished pastry parcel, all ready to be popped in the oven to cook. The soup was also bubbling merrily. For dessert, she’d bought some Italian ice cream which she planned to serve with a sauce of puréed fruit from the rumtopf Sophie prepared every year with 160 proof Austrian rum. If they hadn’t drunk enough wine to loosen their tongues, she’d get them pissed on the pudding.

  By six, everything was ready, and Lindsay poured herself a glass of wine on her way to the bath. Sophie arrived from work just as Lindsay was toweling herself dry. She looked stunning in a scarlet and cream leisure suit. “Doctors never looked like this when I was young,” Lindsay commented as Sophie pulled her into her arms and kissed her heartily.

  “Probably just as well! How’s my favorite detective today? Did Barry Ostler eat you alive?” she asked.

  “He was just like the Red Queen,” Lindsay replied. “Wanted me to believe six impossible things before breakfast.”

  “But did you get Harry’s papers back?”

  “Not as such,” Lindsay admitted. “But I’ve got a pretty shrewd idea where they are. I’m meeting Harry for breakfast tomorrow, and then we’ll go and see if we can get them.”

  “There’s a treat for you,” Sophie teased. “A breakfast meeting with one of our leading politicians. Rather you than me.”

  “What’s he like?” Lindsay asked, following her through to the bathroom where Sophie quickly stripped off and dived into the shower.

  “He’s a pain,” Sophie shouted. “The sort who makes you feel distinctly iffy about gay solidarity. He’s basically a chancer. He tells people what he thinks they want to hear.”

  “Sounds like the perfect recipe for a politician,” Lindsay called back.

  “Harry’s problem is that Ros got all the brains in that family. Harry’s not half as bright as he’d like people to think he is, which is why he’s only ever going to be a back bencher. Speaking of recipes, what time are our guests due?”

  Lindsay checked her watch. “In an hour.”

  “Oh good,” said Sophie, emerging dripping from the shower. “Time for some fun, then.”

  Antonis wiped his mouth delicately on his napkin and favored Lindsay with his most ingratiating smile. Looking at him, she could see exactly why Ruth had fallen for him. He had pale olive skin that hadn’t gone sallow even in the depths of the Scottish winter. Lindsay suspected him of patronizing the sunbeds at the Western Baths. His deep-set brown eyes oozed a sincerity she found spurious. A full mustache drew attention away from his aquiline nose and failed to cover a cruel twist to his full mouth. “May I compliment you on the exquisite dish, Lindsay? I have not tasted such fine pastry since I left Greece,” he said in his precise English with its faint trace of an accent.

  “If I was you, Lindsay, I’d take that as a bit of a back-handed compliment. In my book, the Greeks don’t go down among the great pastry cooks of the world,” Ruth said with a giggle in her voice that Lindsay suspected had a lot to do with the amount of Chardonnay she’d drunk. Her own muddy complexion was flushed and her eyes were glazed over.

  Antonis frowned slightly. “Do not mock at me, Ruthie,” he said softly but with a hint of menace.

  Ruth flushed, but before anyone could say more, Lindsay stepped into the breach. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I must say I had a lot of fun cooking it. I missed cooking anything more elaborate than pasta when I was in Italy. There’s a limit to what you can do with a couple of gas rings and a grill.”

  “Are you now back for good?” Antonis asked politely.

  “I don’t really know,” Lindsay replied. “I’m not exactly flavor of the month as far as journalism is concerned, and I don’t really know what else I’m capable of doing to earn a living.” She took a deep breath. The conversation so far had been superficial to the point of boredom. It was time she got to work. “And the changes there have been while I was away certainly haven’t been for the better. Imagine how I felt, coming home to find one of my mates behind bars for murdering one of my ex-lovers!”

  “Did you really not know anything about . . . about Alison till you got back?” Ruth asked, pushing back the mousey wisps of hair that had escaped from her inefficiently constructed French pleat.
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  Lindsay shook her head. “Not a thing. It completely shattered me when I found out what had happened.”

  “It was a devastating experience for all of us,” Antonis said gravely, playing with the stem of his wine glass. Lindsay noticed with a shiver of distaste that even his fingers were covered with fine black hairs.

  “Jackie especially, considering she didn’t do it,” Sophie said dryly, getting up to fetch another bottle of wine.

  Ruth nodded vigorously. “I’ve never been able to believe she was guilty,” she said sagely.

  “Why’s that, Ruth?” Lindsay asked. “After all, it was partly your evidence that convicted her.”

  Ruth looked as if she might burst into tears. “I know. I . . . I could hardly sleep for days afterward. But I couldn’t lie, could I? Not about what I heard. But it seemed so . . . so cold-blooded. To make love to her, then to do that.”

  Antonis ran a hand through his luxuriant dark hair and said in the exaggeratedly polite tone of voice one uses to a small child who is letting the side down in public, “But I have told you before, Ruthie, we do not know what took place between them. Alison could be very provoking. I have watched her deliberately goad people to anger.”

  “I know, darling. But Jackie? I mean, we knew her. She was always so . . .” Ruth tailed off under his gaze.

  “Alison must have said something to provoke her to fury,” Antonis stated with an air of finality. He drained his glass and refilled it from the fresh bottle.

  “It must be a terrible memory for you to live with, Ruth,” Sophie said. “To think that if you’d only done something when you heard them quarreling, Alison might still be alive.”

  Ruth’s bottom lip trembled, but before she could speak, Antonis butted in authoritatively. “Ruth has tortured herself enough with that thought. I have told her, there was nothing she could have done. Even if she had diverted Jackie that day, there would have been another time.”

  “Que sera, sera, eh?” Lindsay said. Antonis’ attempts to cut short any discussion of Alison’s murder had made her even more determined to pursue it. “But you’d already left by the time of the actual murder, hadn’t you, Ruth?”