by Val McDermid
“You really can’t take responsibility for everything,” Sophie protested, trying to control the anger she felt toward Cordelia. “Anyway, you didn’t give in to her attempts to distract you. You stuck with it.”
“I wish now I hadn’t,” Lindsay retorted. “How do you think it feels to know that the woman I loved and lived with for three years is a plagiarist and a killer? Jesus, where did she think it was going to end? Did she really think that killing Alison was any kind of answer?”
“Like you said, she probably panicked. She didn’t expect any doubts to surface about the book’s authenticity, she didn’t have her answers off pat. Besides, you’ve told me yourself how twisted and provocative Alison could be,” Sophie replied.
“Don’t make excuses for her, Sophie,” Lindsay said angrily. “She killed someone just to protect her reputation. Alison might have been a complete shit, but that’s no excuse for what Cordelia did.” She got up and restlessly paced the floor.
“What are you going to do about it?” Sophie asked.
“I’m going to finish the job that Claire paid me to do,” Lindsay said. “My personal feelings don’t enter into it. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to see Jim Carstairs with a printout of that file, Anisha’s letter, and a set of Cordelia’s prints. Then I’m going to report to my employer that I have completed my assignment. Do you have a problem with that?” she asked belligerently.
Sophie shook her head. She was desperate now to break Lindsay’s calm to force her to release the emotions that were tormenting her. She struggled to find the words that would do the trick. “No, I don’t,” she said emphatically. “And frankly, I don’t give a shit what happens to Cordelia. But I do care very much about you. And I won’t sit quietly by while you go through this pointless self-flagellation. You’ve done nothing wrong. Cordelia’s the one who’s done wrong. So stop blaming yourself. By all means, let out your feelings of hurt and anger and disappointment. But stop behaving like you’re the one person in the universe who has to carry the can. Blame Cordelia as much as you like, but don’t blame yourself.”
Lindsay stopped pacing as Sophie’s words hit home. Then, like an animal in pain, she let out a roar of anguish and fell to her knees, sobbing like a child. Sophie leapt up from the sofa and cradled Lindsay in her arms till exhaustion finally stilled her tears.
At last, Sophie said, “Let’s go to bed, Lindsay. Today’s gone on long enough.”
Lindsay got to her feet and allowed herself to be led through to the bedroom, where Sophie quickly undressed her and put her to bed with a hot water bottle. Then she too climbed under the duvet and held Lindsay’s cold, rigid body till sleep finally released her from her pain.
At nine the following morning, Lindsay was waiting in Jim Carstairs’ secretary’s office, the damning evidence in her hands. While she waited for him to arrive, she persuaded his secretary to let her make photocopies of Anisha’s letter. When he bustled in looking harried with a briefcase and an armful of files, he gave Lindsay a friendly grin. “Come on through,” he invited her.
She hovered nervously in front of his desk while he deposited his papers, then looked up at her. “Sit down then,” he said. “It’s all right. I’m not going to eat you. Though after yesterday evening’s little farce, don’t be surprised if Antonis Makaronas does.”
“I’m sorry I wasted your time,” Lindsay sighed. “I should just have brought Alex straight to you and we could have taken it from there.”
“I can’t deny that would have been the more sensible course,” Jim admitted. “But what’s done is done. And you’ve uncovered some very significant material. I think in Alison Maxwell’s diary alone we have the basis of an appeal.”
Lindsay nodded miserably. “I’ve brought that with me. But I’m afraid I’ve got some more information for you. It should be enough to get Jackie a Queen’s Pardon, never mind to win an appeal.”
His eyebrows rose. “I hope it’s a bit more convincing than that young lad last night. Bit of a blunder, that was, eh?”
“Not really, as it turns out.” Lindsay handed over Anisha’s letter and a printout from Alison’s computer file. She sat in silence while Jim Carstairs read the letter, looking more and more disturbed as he neared the end.
Lindsay deposited the paper bag on his desk, saying, “This is Cordelia’s glass from last night. Maybe you can get the prints checked against the thumbprint that was found in Alison’s flat.”
He sat bolt upright in his chair and for the first time, Lindsay was aware of his acute intelligence as he stared fixedly at her. “Let me get this perfectly clear,” he said slowly. “You are making an accusation against Cordelia Brown in the matter of Alison Maxwell’s murder?”
Lindsay nodded. “That’s right. As you’ve probably gathered, Cordelia and I used to be lovers. We lived together till May last year, when I had to leave the country for a while. At the point when I left, she hadn’t written a word of Ikhaya Lamaqhawe. Yet that book was published in December. Even if her publishers had worked like hell to get it out, it can only have taken her eight weeks to write. Now that’s a nonsense when you look at the quality of the book and the research it must have entailed.”
Jim nodded encouragingly. “Go on,” he urged.
“Looking at Anisha’s letter, it appears that Cordelia stole this Mary Nkobo’s manuscript and published it as hers. Oh, she probably made a few changes here and there, but I suspect that the bulk of it is Mary Nkobo’s work. Unfortunately for everyone, Anisha chose the wrong woman. She only knew Alison Maxwell the journalist. She had no way of knowing she was handing her information to a woman who preferred the pleasures of blackmail to getting a stunning exclusive in the paper. But the very qualities that made Alison such a good journalist also made her a serious threat as a blackmailer.
“Faced with Anisha’s letter, Alison of course put two and two together. I suspect she was holding the threat of exposure over Cordelia, and in doing that, she signed her own death warrant. Cordelia was spending time in Glasgow then, supposedly looking for me. I would imagine it won’t be too difficult to put her in the right place at the right time.” She stopped abruptly.
“I see,” he said pensively. “And it’s your contention that the boy you produced last night actually did see Cordelia leaving the flat?”
“That’s right. I know that on the surface he might not seem the most reliable of witnesses, but I think he’s telling the truth. He had no reason to lie, and he was so accurate about his timings. The reason I met him was nothing whatsoever to do with the murder. It was he who volunteered the information to me, and he said spontaneously that it was just after six because he heard the radio news starting as he left his client’s flat. I believe him, Jim, I really do,” she said persuasively.
He nodded slowly, and sat silent for a moment, as if he were carefully weighing what she had said in some private balance. Then he said, “You’ve done a good job, Lindsay. It can’t have been easy for you to come here with this evidence.”
Lindsay said nothing of her temptation to destroy the letter, merely saying, “How soon will Jackie be in the clear?”
“I can’t be certain,” he replied. “But I’ll be placing this new evidence in the hands of the Procurator Fiscal just as soon as I’ve had this fingerprint checked. Then it will simply be a matter of deciding what procedure to adopt. The Fiscal may decide at once to reopen the case. If he does, I’ll immediately apply to the court for Jackie to be released on bail pending appeal, and I’ll apply to the Secretary of State for a pardon. It could be days, it could be weeks. But either way, she’ll soon be free again. And I know she’ll never be able to thank you enough for what you’ve done.”
Lindsay shrugged. “She might thank me. But there are others who won’t. And I’ve got to face one of them right now.”
21
Lindsay eyed the receptionist coldly. “You’re seriously trying to tell me that Miss Ogilvie is completely tied up in meetings for every minute of the day?”
The receptionist gave Lindsay the frozen stare of her breed. “All I can do is pass on what her secretary has just told me. Miss Ogilvie’s diary is full today and she cannot see you.”
“Doesn’t she eat lunch? Doesn’t she take a coffee break?” Lindsay persisted.
“I really have no idea what Miss Ogilvie’s nutritional arrangements are,” the receptionist retaliated, pointedly opening a file and reading its contents.
“I’ll wait, then,” Lindsay said defiantly, throwing herself into a chair.
“Please yourself,” the receptionist shrugged. She picked up her phone and punched in a number. “Mrs. Cox? Miss Gordon is waiting in reception on the off-chance of seeing Miss Ogilvie . . . I see . . . Yes, I’ll tell her.” She looked up at Lindsay. “Miss Ogilvie’s secretary says you’ll be wasting your time. She really does have a very busy schedule today and there’s no chance of her seeing you.”
“I told you, it’s vital that I see her,” Lindsay said. “If only for five minutes. I’ll wait, if it’s all the same to you.”
The receptionist went back to her work, and Lindsay settled down to wait. She pulled a paperback out of her bag and tried with little success to concentrate on its convoluted plot. All she could think about was Cordelia. They had lived together for three years, and yet she felt as though Cordelia was a total stranger to her. The woman she had loved had far too much respect for the talent of others to steal someone else’s work and pass it off as her own. The woman she had loved was not the sort to give in to intimidation, but she would never have chosen murder as the way to escape it. What had happened to Cordelia to change all that? Or had she, Lindsay, simply been blind to her lover’s real character? And if she had, how could she ever trust her judgment again?
The minutes ticked slowly by. Lindsay checked her watch. Half past twelve. It was obvious that her former employer was avoiding her. Claire would be going to lunch soon, she felt sure. But if she knew Lindsay was still sitting in reception, she’d either stay holed up in her office or sneak out another way. Lindsay gave a deep sigh to attract the receptionist’s attention and got to her feet. “I’ve not got all day,” she complained and walked out.
She took the lift down to the ground floor and cast a quick glance round the lobby. There were a few chairs scattered round, but none that offered a vantage point where she could see without being seen. And she didn’t want to accost Claire on company property. It would be too easy to get herself thrown out while Claire retreated to the safety of her office. Muttering under her breath, Lindsay stepped out of the warm building into the knife edge of a freezing northeasterly wind. She walked to the corner of the building and tried unsuccessfully to shelter in its lee while keeping an eye on the door.
She thought her ears would drop off by the time Claire emerged from the building. She turned in the opposite direction and walked briskly up the street. Lindsay followed her, breaking into a run to catch up. Claire stopped on the corner, waiting for the lights to change, and Lindsay grabbed her arm.
“What the . . .?” Claire demanded, wheeling round to face Lindsay. “How dare you! I thought I made it perfectly clear that I never want to see you again! Let go of my arm!”
“We need to talk,” Lindsay informed her.
“We have nothing to say to each other,” Claire retorted, shaking loose and heading across the street at a brisk pace.
Lindsay hurried after her. “Look, you hired me to do a job. Last night, you marched off before I could finish that job. But I’ve got solid evidence that will prove that Jackie didn’t kill Alison Maxwell. If you care a damn about her, you’ll listen to me.”
When she reached the other pavement, Claire stopped. “All right,” she snapped. “I’ll give you five minutes. No more.”
“Can we get out of this wind?” Lindsay asked, gesturing toward a nearby café bar.
Claire nodded and followed her in. They found a table near the door and sat down, not bothering to order drinks. “All right, Lindsay,” Claire said. “What have you got? And let me tell you that after last night, it had better be good.”
Without saying a word, Lindsay handed her the printout and a photocopy of the letter. As Claire read them, all color drained from her face, leaving her an ugly shade of gray, with patches of blusher standing out on her cheeks like clown’s makeup. “The originals are with Jim Carstairs. What he’s doing now is checking Cordelia’s prints against the thumbprint on the glass from Alison’s flat. Alex was right, you see. It was Cordelia he saw leaving the flat that day.”
“I don’t believe you,” Claire croaked. “Cordelia isn’t a plagiarist, or a murderer. You of all people must know that. You’ve set her up. You’ve done all this just to frame her. What a cheap trick, Lindsay. My God, are there no lengths you won’t go to, to get your own back on Cordelia?”
“Claire, stop it! You’re kidding yourself. I don’t blame you, I couldn’t believe it either. But how on earth could I have done this? How could I forge a letter with a September postmark from Zimbabwe? The handwriting on the envelope is identical to this. I know you don’t want to believe she’s a killer. But at the very least, she’s got some questions to answer. She lied to all of us about Alison.”
Claire pushed her glasses up and rubbed her eyes. She looked very tired and vulnerable. No bloody wonder, thought Lindsay. “Where is Cordelia now?” Lindsay asked. “I think we both owe it to her to ask her face to face about this.”
Claire got to her feet. “She’s at my flat. I’m surprised you’ve got the nerve to face her with this. And I hope you’ve got the good grace to accept her explanation when she gives it.” Claire swept out of the bar, Lindsay following.
“My car’s just round the corner,” Lindsay said.
Claire nodded. She followed Lindsay in silence, and didn’t open her mouth again till they were on the threshold of her flat. “No accusations, Lindsay. No performances like last night. We’ll just show her what you’ve shown me then ask her in a civilized manner for an explanation.”
Claire’s injunctions were wasted. They entered the flat to find it empty. “That’s funny,” Claire said, half to herself. “She said she’d be in all day. She had some work to do.” She hurried through to the bedroom, followed by Lindsay. One wardrobe door stood open, revealing a row of empty hangers. “Oh no,” Claire breathed. She turned to a tall pine chest of drawers and pulled the bottom two open. They too were empty.
“Looks like she’s done a runner,” Lindsay commented. “I think that tells us all we need to know.”
Claire turned on her. “Are you happy now?” she screamed.
Unable to cope with Claire, Lindsay walked out of the room and through to the kitchen. There, on top of the dishwasher, was a note. Unashamed, Lindsay picked it up and read it.
Dearest Claire, I’m sorry. I can’t stay here waiting for Lindsay to weave a net around me. Going to jail would kill me, and Lindsay can be very efficient when she’s got the bit between her teeth. I never meant to hurt you, and I’m sorry it turned out that way. I know you’ll doubt this in the light of what has happened, but my love for you was and is genuine. I didn’t make you love me out of expediency, please believe that. Once again, I’m truly sorry. Love, C.
Very clever, thought Lindsay. A long way short of a confession, yet managing to cast doubt on anything Lindsay herself might turn up. She dropped the note and turned to find Claire standing in the doorway.
“I think you’ve done enough snooping,” Claire said, her voice shaking. “You’ve outstayed your welcome, Lindsay.”
“I’m sorry too, Claire,” Lindsay said.
“Spare me the crocodile tears,” Claire retorted bitterly. “Just get out.”
Lindsay let herself into the flat, wishing Sophie was home. As she closed the door behind her, she sensed another presence in the flat. Warily, she took her Swiss Army knife out of her bag and opened a blade. Not exactly the world’s most effective weapon, but better than nothing, she thought as she tiptoed down the hall. She ca
utiously walked into the living room and nearly dropped her knife in shock.
Sitting in the armchair opposite the door was Cordelia. She looked as if she hadn’t slept, and her clothes were uncharacteristically crumpled. “How the hell did you get in?” Lindsay demanded.
“You can put the knife away, Lindsay. I’m not about to attack you. I’m sorry about the surprise, but I needed to talk to you,” Cordelia remarked calmly.
Feeling a mixture of apprehension and foolishness, Lindsay folded the blade away. “You didn’t answer me,” she said. “How did you get in?”
“I took the precaution of helping myself to Sophie’s spare keys last night. It didn’t exactly require the skills of a master cracksman. They were hanging on the hook by the phone as usual. I had a feeling they’d come in handy,” Cordelia replied.
“It’s all over, you know. I found the evidence that Alison had on you. Coupled with Alex’s identification, and your fingerprints on the glass in Alison’s flat, I’d say they’ve got an open and shut case against you,” Lindsay said, fighting to control the surge of emotions that Cordelia’s cool presence was provoking. As she looked at her sitting there, Lindsay found it impossible to believe the evidence she herself had uncovered. Surely she must have got it wrong somehow?
But Cordelia made no attempt to argue. “Once you started to consider the idea that the identification might be correct, I knew you wouldn’t rest till you’d nailed me,” she acknowledged. “I mean, what chance would an ex-lover stand against that finely honed sense of justice of yours?” she added in a tone of heavy irony.
Lindsay found her legs were too weak to support her and she collapsed into the chair opposite Cordelia. “I still don’t understand. What in God’s name made you do it?”
Cordelia ran a hand through her thick dark hair. “That makes two of us. I still don’t understand either. I suppose it was a sort of temporary insanity.”
