by Val McDermid
Reluctantly he nodded. “I don’t know, though,” he muttered, throwing himself petulantly into the armchair. “I just don’t want to get involved.”
“But you are involved, like it or not. And now I know, I intend to get you to help me to trap Alison’s killer. With or without your cooperation,” she added with an edge to her voice.
“How do you mean, with or without my cooperation?” Alex challenged.
Lindsay reached over for her cigarettes and lit one. She’d tried being nice. Now it was time to put the pressure on. And she’d seen Alex under pressure. It shouldn’t be too hard, she thought, already making excuses to herself for behavior she was ashamed of. “Look at it from my point of view for a minute,” she said. “Jackie’s my mate. I don’t want to see her stuck in prison for a crime she didn’t commit. But unlike Jackie, I don’t owe you a damn thing. You’re just a wee rent boy with a fondness for illegal chemicals and blackmail. I like you well enough, Alex, but it wouldn’t honestly matter a toss to me if you were alive or dead. All I have to do is tell my suspects all about you, then sit back and wait to see what happens next.”
Alex paled. “You wouldn’t dare!” he gasped. “You wouldn’t set me up like that!”
“I don’t want to, Alex. But if that’s the only way I’m going to nail Alison Maxwell’s killer, I’ll do it. Like I said, Jackie matters to me. But you don’t. So what’s it to be? You going to help me? Or am I going to have to throw you to the wolves?”
“I’ve got no fucking choice, have I?” he said bitterly. “Okay, okay, you win. I’ll point the finger. But I’m not going to the police, is that clear?”
“As crystal, Alex.” She got to her feet. “I’ll be back here tomorrow to tell you about the arrangements.” Swiftly, before he could stop her, she moved to the table and scooped up his money.
“What the hell are you doing?” he shouted as he leapt out of the armchair and threw himself at her.
The struggle was brief, and Lindsay soon threw his slight frame off her. She stuffed the money into the inside pocket of her jacket. “Think of it as insurance,” she said. “In case you were tempted to try anything silly like doing a runner. I’ll be back tomorrow, with your money.”
“You can’t do this,” he howled, tears in his eyes.
“Who’s going to stop me?” she asked calmly. “Going to call the cops, Alex?”
He looked at her with pure hatred in his eyes. “I thought you were okay,” he panted. “But you’re another bitch like the rest of them.”
“Afraid so, Alex. I’ll see you tomorrow about twelve. I’ll be back. I promise you. Here’s my address and phone number, if you don’t believe me.” She scribbled on her pad and tore off a sheet which she dropped on the bed, then walked out.
An hour later, Lindsay was driving down the motorway toward Stirling, and beyond that, to Dundee and Mrs. Maxwell. The morning’s business had left her with a nasty taste in her mouth. She had hated being pressed into service on Harry’s account, and she had hated even more having to play the bully to win Alex’s cooperation. God alone knew what Claire would say when she told her he’d have to be paid eventually. But then, if Sophie’s suspicions were right, it wouldn’t be Claire who’d have to pay for her own nemesis.
Thinking of Sophie made Lindsay wish she were with her now. After dropping the still-complaining Harry at Rosalind’s, she had driven back to the flat to ask Sophie if she wanted to come to Dundee with her for the ride. But Sophie had reluctantly declined, explaining she was on call. Lindsay thought wistfully that now she knew how Cordelia had felt all those times she’d been denied Lindsay’s company because of the vagaries of a journalist’s life. Lindsay put a Mathilde Santing tape into the cassette player and turned up the volume. It was all in the past now. Whatever she did to earn a living from now on would give her the freedom to spend time with Sophie. Or whoever, she thought to herself, refusing to count her chickens.
She wasn’t entirely certain why she was still going through with her plan to collect Alison’s papers, except that once she knew the killer’s identity, there might be valuable corroborative evidence there. She still wasn’t sure how she was going to persuade Mrs. Maxwell to hand over the boxes that contained what was left of Alison’s life. Somehow, she didn’t think the truth would be very compelling. If Mrs. Maxwell had convinced herself that Jackie was Alison’s killer, it would take more than Lindsay to change her mind.
She had met Alison’s widowed mother only once. But that had been enough. She had been staying with her daughter when Lindsay had popped in one afternoon to drop off a book she’d borrowed from Alison. Lindsay remembered a tall, ramrod-straight woman with iron gray hair carefully set like concrete who had peered disapprovingly at Lindsay’s jeans through gold-rimmed glasses. Alison had told her how strict her mother had been with her as a child, and Lindsay found it easy to believe, having heard Mrs. Maxwell pontificating about the appalling behavior of the unions, the need for Mrs. Thatcher’s firm hand at the helm, and the desirability of removing communism from the world. Remembering all that, Lindsay had taken time to change out of her jeans and sweatshirt and had borrowed a tweed suit and jade green silk shirt from Sophie. At least she now looked like the kind of woman Mrs. Maxwell might allow across her threshold.
It was just after two when Lindsay pulled up in the quiet street where Mrs. Maxwell lived. She’d found the address in the case papers Jim Carstairs had shown her, and had luckily taken a note of it at the time. The house was a large bungalow surrounded by a geometrically neat terraced garden, with dramatic views over the Firth of Tay to the Tentsmuir bird sanctuary in Fife. She climbed the steps leading to the bungalow’s front door and rang the bell. In the distance, she could hear chimes ringing out.
Almost before the echoes died away, the door opened to reveal Mrs. Maxwell. Grief had changed her outward appearance not one iota. She looked questioningly at Lindsay. “Yes?” she said.
“Hello, Mrs. Maxwell. I’m Lindsay Gordon. I don’t know if you remember me, but we met once at Alison’s flat.”
“I remember you perfectly well, Miss Gordon. I may be old, but I’m not senile yet,” she replied crisply. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, I was in the area visiting friends, and I thought I ought to call and say how sorry I was about Alison. I was out of the country when it happened, you see, so I missed the funeral and everything,” Lindsay said.
“I see. Well, thank you very much for taking the trouble,” Mrs. Maxwell said, showing no inclination to admit Lindsay.
“I also wondered . . . Well, Ruth Menzies told me you had all Alison’s papers and correspondence. Before I went off to Italy, Alison and I had discussed a joint project. We were going to write a book together about Scots who had made their mark in the 1980s. Alison said she would carry out the preliminary research while I was away, then we could finish it together.”
“She said nothing about it to me,” Mrs. Maxwell said. “You’d better come in, I suppose.”
She ushered Lindsay into a lounge that looked as if no one had ever relaxed in it. Even the copies of the Scots Magazine and Woman’s Weekly on the rack had their corners aligned. Lindsay sat on the edge of an armchair opposite Alison’s mother. “So, Miss Gordon, you and my daughter had planned to write a book together.”
“That’s right. I thought that if Alison’s notes were available, I might be able to complete the project as a sort of memorial to her.”
Mrs. Maxwell compressed her lips. “I see,” she said eventually. “Judging by the kind of memorial most of her colleagues gave her in the columns of the papers, I’m not at all sure that I want anything more raked over.”
“I had nothing to do with that, Mrs. Maxwell,” Lindsay remarked apologetically. “I was very fond of Alison. I have no intention of besmirching your memories of her.”
“It’s too late for that, Miss Gordon. My memories of my daughter have already been damaged beyond repair by the scurrilous lies of your colleagues.”
“I’m sorry about that. But what I had in mind was a genuine tribute to her journalistic skills. People should be able to remember her by what she was best at. I’m not interested in rehashing her private life. I’d hoped you’d be willing to help me.”
Mrs. Maxwell got to her feet. “My daughter is dead, Miss Gordon. Nothing can bring her back to me. But if her papers can be of any use to you, I suppose there is no harm in letting you go through them. But I insist that I have power of veto over anything you write using my daughter’s work.”
Lindsay nodded vigorously. “That’s no problem, Mrs. Maxwell. I’ll happily let you have it in writing if that would make you happier.”
“It would,” Mrs. Maxwell said. “Have you pen and paper?”
Lindsay fished out her notebook and a pen and dashed off a note promising to give Mrs. Maxwell complete control over the final product of her daughter’s notes for the nonexistent book.
She handed it to Mrs. Maxwell, who scrutinized it carefully, then said, “If you’ll come with me, everything is in Alison’s room.”
Lindsay followed her down the hall and into a pristine bedroom, a shrine to the teenage years of Alison Maxwell. It made Lindsay shiver inside as she surveyed the neat single bed with its hand-crocheted bedspread, the matching white wardrobe, chest of drawers, and dressing table, and the framed photographs of Alison in the sixth form, Alison in Girl Guide uniform, and Alison in cap and gown clutching her degree scroll from St. Andrew’s University. Mrs. Maxwell opened the wardrobe and pointed to two large cardboard boxes.
“It’s all in there,” she announced. “I haven’t had the heart to go through it.”
“Thank you,” Lindsay said. “I’ll bring it all back as soon as possible.”
“You mean you want to take it away?” Mrs. Maxwell demanded, outrage in every line of her face.
“I’ll have to. I’ll need to be able to go through all her computer disks to see what they contain. And there could be documents in there that are referred to on the disks,” Lindsay explained. “I’ll be very careful with them, Mrs. Maxwell.”
The elderly woman looked worried. “I don’t know,” she hesitated. “I really don’t know.”
“That way, I won’t be under your feet. There’s at least a few days work in there,” Lindsay said persuasively.
The thought of having Lindsay in her home for any length of time clearly tipped the balance. “Very well,” Mrs. Maxwell said, resuming her normal decisive manner. “But I expect everything to be returned in the state in which you found it. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly,” said Lindsay. Half an hour later she was on her way back to Glasgow, feeling utterly triumphant. At last, everything was going her way.
18
Lindsay surveyed the living room with satisfaction. Everything was ready. Bottles and glasses were set out on a side table with mixers and a bucket of ice. The chairs were arranged so that she could see everyone if she stood in front of the fire. Very Hercule Poirot, she mocked herself as she went through to the study to check that there were no problems there either. She found Sophie sprawled across the divan reading the latest Jeanette Winterson, and Alex sitting at the computer, a fierce frown of concentration on his face.
“Glad to see you’re making the best of it,” Lindsay remarked.
Alex looked up with a scowl. “You didn’t give me a lot of choice, did you? Huckling me off here to do your dirty work. When am I going to get my money back? You robbed me!”
“I didn’t rob you,” Lindsay said mildly. “Think of me as a kind of bank. You’ll get your money back soon enough.”
Alex ignored her and said, “Hey, Sophie, got any more games? I’m getting kind of fed up with Batman.”
Sophie dropped her book and got up. “Sure, Alex, just a minute. No one here yet?” she asked as she rummaged in a drawer to emerge with another disk.
“They’re due any minute,” Lindsay replied, nervously checking her watch.
“Good luck,” Sophie said.
“I’ll come and get you when I’m ready,” Lindsay promised on her way out of the door. She paced up and down the hall, smoking continuously. Ten minutes passed before the doorbell pealed out.
Lindsay leapt for the door and opened it to reveal Claire and Cordelia. “Come in, come in,” Lindsay invited them, ushering them into the lounge. They both looked striking. Lindsay felt like a scruff in her jeans and Levi shirt and wished she’d had the sense to raid Sophie’s wardrobe again.
“This all looks very organized,” Claire commented coolly as Lindsay poured Scotch and water for her and Cordelia. “Don’t you think you should tell me exactly what is going on? After all, I am footing the bill.”
Lindsay bit back the angry retort that sprang to mind and smiled. “The element of surprise is vital,” she said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to trust me. But I think I can promise you that by the end of the evening, we’ll have a much clearer idea of who killed Alison Maxwell, and why.”
“Very mysterious,” Cordelia said sarcastically. “You always did have a penchant for the dramatic, Lindsay. Let’s just hope you don’t pull your usual trick of accusing the wrong person.”
Lindsay flushed. Cordelia’s raking up of the murder case that had brought them together was deeply unsettling. Lindsay fought to control herself and said, “Only once, Cordelia, only once. And I didn’t actually accuse the wrong person over the Derbyshire House murder. I can’t help it if people take my questions the wrong way.”
“Well, let’s hope you get it right this time,” Cordelia retorted.
The conversation was cut short by the sound of the doorbell. Lindsay returned moments later with Jim Carstairs, Jackie’s lawyer. His only concession to being out of working hours was to swap his pinstripe suit for a sports jacket and cavalry twill trousers. He looked uncomfortable and slightly embarrassed.
“Thanks for coming on a Sunday evening, Jim,” Claire greeted him.
“This is all very irregular,” he complained. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Claire.”
“Me? I’m just a spectator like you, Jim. This is Lindsay’s show. And we’re all waiting with bated breath to see what she has for us.” There was an edge of sarcasm in Claire’s voice that grated on Lindsay, making her all the more determined to prove herself.
“I’ve never found orthodoxy a virtue in itself,” Lindsay muttered as she poured Jim a glass of red wine. “Look, I know you’re all as keen as I am to get Jackie out of prison. I’d thought of going straight to the police with the evidence I’ve got, but then I thought it would make much more sense to do it this way. After all, Claire, it was you yourself who warned me right at the beginning that my job was not so much to find the real killer as to cast enough doubt on Jackie’s conviction to pave the way for an appeal. After tonight, I think we’ll be able to do a little better than create reasonable doubt. You see, I’ve never thought it was enough just to get Jackie out of jail. If she’s released on appeal, there will always be the wagging tongues who’ll say she did it but she was lucky enough to get off. Ordeal by innocence, as Agatha Christie calls it. But I think I’d like to nail whoever did it. That settles all the doubts for good and all.”
Claire looked surprised and opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything Jim said sagely, “Very commendable, I’m just not sure this is quite the right forum to do it in.”
“Well, I hope to prove you wrong,” Lindsay retorted.
“So what exactly is the plan?” Cordelia asked, strolling round the lounge with an expression of patronizing superiority on her face.
“I’m just waiting for Ruth Menzies and her husband Antonis Makaronas to join us. You’ll remember, Ruth gave evidence at the trial. She was the one who heard Jackie and Alison quarreling. And where Ruth goes, Antonis follows. Once they are here, I want to outline what my inquiries have uncovered.” Lindsay checked her watch. “They should be here any minute now,” she said abruptly, turning away and pouring herself a stiff Scotch and wate
r.
“Have you uncovered new evidence since we last spoke?” Claire probed.
“I think so,” Lindsay confirmed. “We’ll see when everyone else is here. I’m sorry, Claire, but I really want to be able to do this my way. Please trust me.”
“We don’t seem to have a great deal of choice,” Cordelia cut in. “May I have another drink?”
“Of course, please help yourself,” Lindsay said stiffly. Cordelia must be more worried about Claire than she was prepared to show, Lindsay thought with mild surprise as she watched her former lover pour herself a large whisky.
The doorbell rang again, and this time, Lindsay ushered in a mutinous-looking Antonis and Ruth, who looked as if she were about to burst into tears. Antonis opened his mouth to say something, but before he could speak, Lindsay offered them both drinks. As she poured their glasses of white wine, Antonis grumbled, “I don’t understand why you asked Ruth and me to come tonight. Jackie killing Alison had nothing to do with us.”
“I explained to Ruth on the phone,” Lindsay sighed. “I have come up with some new evidence about Alison’s murder, and I thought Ruth might be able to cast some light on it, with her having been in the building that afternoon. You know how it is—something that seems perfectly normal at the time can take on an entirely different significance in the light of new evidence. I really appreciate you both coming. Now, if you’d all like to sit down, I’ll give you a brief resumé.”
Antonis frowned, but his curiosity got the better of him and he ushered Ruth toward the sofa. He sat next to her, and Jim joined them. Cordelia chose the armchair facing the door, and Claire sat opposite. Lindsay stationed herself in front of the fire and faced the audience.
“A week ago, Claire asked me to investigate the murder of Alison Maxwell. Ruth, Antonis, I’m sorry I was less than frank with you initially. But I didn’t want to stir up too much attention in case people were put on their guard. I hope you’ll forgive me.” She paused, and took in their reactions. Ruth looked terrified. Antonis was scowling, while a smile played round Cordelia’s lips. Both lawyers gazed intently back at Lindsay.
