by Val McDermid
Lindsay looked appalled. “You’re not suggesting we . . . ?” Then she suddenly saw the funny side and burst out laughing. The release of the tension that had them both clenched in its grip brought them together again like a stretched elastic band snapping back into shape. “I really don’t think I can do it,” Lindsay spluttered.
Sophie finished undressing, slipping quickly beneath the duvet. “I don’t think I could keep a straight face now. Probably better if I do it myself.”
Lindsay closed her eyes and rubbed her eyelids with thumb and forefinger. “I think that might be best,” she said, shaking her head incredulously, a final snigger escaping her lips.
Before she could say more, there was a tentative tap at the door. “All ready, girls,” Peter sang out from the hall.
Lindsay opened up and stared down in disbelief at the glass being proffered to her. A large gob of off-white mucus clung to the bottom of the Edinburgh crystal, as viscous and slimy as phlegm. Wordlessly, she took it and closed the door. “You gave him one of my whisky tumblers,” she said plaintively. “How can I ever drink out of them again?”
Sophie snorted with laughter. “That bloody dishwasher’s about as hot as an autoclave. Trust me, you’re not going to catch anything.”
“It’s not a matter of hygiene, it’s a matter of taste. And I’m not talking flavour,” Lindsay growled, thrusting the glass down the front of her shirt to nestle in her bra between still firm breasts. “Oh God, the smell,” she moaned as the sharp tang of the sperm invaded her nostrils. “It’s like municipal swimming pools. Jesus, I really thought being a dyke meant I’d never have to deal with this gunge again. This is so disgusting, Sophie.”
“You think I don’t know that? Listen, you’re not the one facing the prospect of having it inside you.”
Lindsay gave a savage grin. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”
“Very funny. Come and give me a cuddle, please?”
Gingerly, careful of her cargo, Lindsay edged alongside Sophie. With her free hand, she stroked Sophie’s hair, letting her lips brush against the top of her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt less sexual,” Sophie said, her voice wavering on the edge of tears as she struggled for arousal.
You and me both, Lindsay thought grimly. But she kept her thoughts to herself and dropped her head to Sophie’s breast, gently nuzzling her nipple. She licked it harder, sucking it into her mouth and tonguing it firmly. She was rewarded, as she knew she would be, with a soft moan and the arching of Sophie’s spine.
Then suddenly it was all action. Lindsay had to pull away to draw the sperm into the syringe. Placing her hand over Sophie’s, she slid the barrel into her lover’s vagina as far as it would go, then depressed the plunger. There was a desperation in Sophie’s cries as she came almost simultaneously. When Lindsay dared look up, she saw tears tracking down Sophie’s cheeks. She knew her own eyes were pricking almost to overflowing.
Their reasons, she knew, were dangerously different.
Lindsay leaned against Sophie’s bent legs, her cheek against Sophie’s knee. As soon as was decently possible, she pulled away. “I’m going to see if the guys need a drink,” she said. Anything to get out of there and find a moment to get her face in order.
Now, two hours later, Lindsay was staring out of the living room window to the moonlit playing fields across the road and the tawdry glitter of the city lights beyond. She had shared a large malt with Fraser and Peter then seen them out. She’d made a cup of herbal tea for Sophie, whose body had overnight become a temple worshipping very different gods from before. She’d climbed into bed as she suspected she was expected to do and had faked sleep. Once she’d been certain that Sophie’s deep and regular breathing wasn’t feigned, she’d slipped out of bed, poured herself another Caol Ila and sat on the window seat wondering how much of her future lay within these walls, and how much within the walls of the Café Virginia.
Chapter 6
A few miles away, Rory McLaren was also pondering Lindsay’s future, though not in quite the same terms as the subject of her plotting. She swigged greedily from a bottle of water and let herself slide down the wall she was leaning against until she was hunkered down level with Sandra. Sweat streaked their faces and bodies as they grinned inanely at each other in the chilling out space in the basement of Escape, their favourite dance club which occupied a former warehouse where Garnethill merged into Cowcaddens.
They’d split a tab of ecstasy earlier in the evening, they’d danced like dervishes and now they were both starting the gradual descent to the point where sleep might be possible at some point in the not too distant future. But for now, they were content to let the gentle throb of the ambient track ease them down gently.
“What’re you thinking?” Sandra said after a few minutes.
“How useful Lindsay’s going to be.”
“That would be in a work context?”
Rory giggled softly. “I was thinking about work. But you never know...”
Sandra groaned. “Stick to the work. Useful how?”
“Well, take Keillor. I’ve got the tip, I’ve hardened it up pretty well, but I need some solid evidence. But Keillor knows me so I’ve got no chance of scamming him. But he’s never seen Lindsay. Maybe between us we can figure out how to have him over and she can do the sharp end.”
Sandra’s mouth curled up in a feline smile. “Oh yes, I like it. Nail the wee slug to the floor.”
“I’ll talk to her about it in the morning.”
“It’s already the morning.”
“Only technically.” Rory hugged herself and scrunched her face up in an expression of amused cunning. “A couple of real buzzes like creepy Keillor and she’ll be so hooked. Which will be nice.”
Sandra chugged on her own bottle of mineral water. “Uh oh.”
“I mean it’ll be nice to have somebody around to work with. I never thought I’d miss the newsroom, and I don’t, not really. But it does get lonely sometimes. Everybody in the bar is a potential source, so I can’t afford to let them be my friends. So I spend most days not really talking to anybody unless you or Giles stops by. Lindsay . . . now, there’s somebody I can talk to. Nice woman. Very nice woman.”
“She’s also a happily married woman, Rory. Tell me you’re not going to crash through her life like an express train on speed,” she sighed.
Rory shook her head vigorously, droplets of moisture scattering from her sweat-darkened hair. “Hey, she’s a grown up. She can make her own choices. I don’t force myself on anyone.”
Sandra snorted. “Little miss butter wouldn’t melt. Rory, just for once, leave it alone. You know you don’t do relationships. You’re the emotional equivalent of a hit and run driver. You never get hurt yourself, you just leave a trail of wreckage in your rear view mirror.”
Rory pulled a face. “Yeah, well. When the only relationship you’ve ever seen close up was as fucked as my mum and dad’s was, you’d be mental to think it was as easy as falling in love. Dive in, dive deep and then climb back out and dry off before you catch a cold, that’s what works for me. And if it makes you any happier, I promise not to make a move on Lindsay. OK?”
Sandra put an arm round her friend and hugged her close. “It’s not about making me happy. It’s about you making yourself happy.”
“Which I do, with lots of girlies.” Rory’s smile was wry. “Only, never for very long.”
“Just remember that if Lindsay starts looking like Mount Everest.”
“Eh?”
“You don’t have to climb it just because it’s there. You’ll have more fun in the long run working with her.”
“Sandra, are you sure you’re not Jewish?”
Sandra gave her an affectionate punch in the ribs. “Fuck off, Rory. C’mon, let’s go and have a last dance and see if I can pick myself up some wee boy who wants to be initiated into the secret world of the older woman.”
Rory chuckled as she got to her feet. “And you’ve got the ne
rve to talk about me.”
Sandra rumpled Rory’s damp hair. “Difference is, I can do the serious thing just as well as I do the playing.” She pushed past and made for the stairs leading to the main dance floor, entirely missing the momentary flash of sadness and longing that crossed Rory’s face.
The raw cold ate into Kevin’s bones. Michael seemed oblivious to the weather, as affected by the penetrating damp as were the concrete and glass of the primary school they were watching. The school was near the Botanic Gardens, in a quiet side street lined with tall sandstone tenements, which posed something of a problem for them. There was no convenient bus shelter or phone box to use as a surveillance point. Nor was there a handy café with windows overlooking the school entrance. And in these days of paedophile paranoia, nothing would provoke a call to the police faster than two men standing on a street corner scrutinising the children arriving at a primary school.
If it had been up to Kevin, they would have gone back to bed after their preliminary reconnaissance at half past seven had demonstrated how apparently impossible was the task facing them. But this was the school nearest the supermarket where Bernadette Dooley had been spotted, so they had to start here, Michael decreed. And besides, he had spent long enough on the front line to have honed his improvisational skills. As they had walked up Byres Road towards the school, he’d noticed two youths by the Underground entrance handing out copies of a free newspaper to the commuters hurrying into the station. When he realised how exposed the school was from a surveillance point of view, he’d remembered the newspaper distributors.
He’d marched Kevin back down to the station and gone into a huddle with the youths. A threatening look from his amber eyes would probably have been enough to achieve his goal, but Michael didn’t want to be fixed in anyone’s memory as a bad lad. Not just yet, anyway. So a couple of tenners were swapped for two bundles of freesheets and they walked back to the school, where they took up position at either side of the gates, handing out the paper to teachers and parents as they arrived.
Nobody gave them a second look.
“Won’t she recognise you?” Kevin had asked as they’d walked back.
In reply, Michael had taken a pair of glasses from his inside pocket. They had thick black frames and lenses tinted blue. He put them on and simultaneously let his shoulders slump. In that instant, the threat disappeared like the sun behind a cloud.
“No, right, I see what you mean,” Kevin muttered.
Now, he watched how Michael scrutinised every face that approached. When the electric bell finally sounded on the dot of nine o’clock, he was satisfied that Bernadette Dooley was not among the parents who had delivered their offspring to Botanics Primary.
“So what do we do now?” Kevin asked forlornly, clutching the leftover newspapers to his chest.
“We go and see if that supermarket’s got a café,” Michael said. “And if it hasn’t, we find someplace to watch it from. And this afternoon, we find another primary school at chucking out time.” He was already striding down the street.
Two hours and forty-three minutes later, Kevin shifted in his plastic chair. “She’s giving us funny looks, that woman on the till,” he muttered.
Michael scowled. “You’re too fucking obvious, that’s why.” He glanced at his watch. Three teas each and a couple of bacon butties. The worst part was not being able to smoke. No, Michael corrected himself. The worst part was having to work with a fucking eejit like Kevin who could no more blend into the background than a naked woman at High Mass.
“I’m not doing anything,” Kevin whined.
Michael bit back a vicious response. He sipped his lukewarm tea. “Away and get me a fresh cup of tea. And when you’ve done that, you can go into the supermarket and buy me some bananas.”
“Bananas?” Kevin frowned in puzzlement.
“They’re a good source of potassium. Just do it, Kevin.”
Kevin pushed himself up from the table. He strolled over to the counter, his attempt at nonchalance setting all the till operator’s antennae jangling. She couldn’t figure out his game at all, but she was mentally rehearsing his description. When he returned with the tea, Michael said, “Fine. Now the bananas, there’s a good lad. And take your time about it. Have a browse. See if there’s any new flavours of Pot Noodle to get you excited.” The sarcasm was wasted on Kevin, who shrugged and walked off to join the milling shoppers.
Left to himself, Michael pulled out his mobile and called Patrick. “It’s me,” he said as soon as they were connected. “So far, no joy.”
“I didn’t expect anything so soon.” Patrick’s voice was flat, unreadable. “Stay on it. Call me tomorrow.”
The line went dead. Whatever Bernadette had taken from Patrick, it had clearly pissed the man off more than Michael would have risked lightly. He put the phone back in his pocket and continued his scrutiny of the entrance to the store. Barely taking his eyes off the harassed mothers and the slow-moving pensioners who made up most of the clientele at that time of the morning, he sugared his tea and began to drink it. This was probably a total waste of time, but they had nothing else to chase. As long as Patrick was willing to spend his money, Michael was content to watch and wait.
Time ticked inexorably past and still Kevin didn’t return. He was probably memorising the Pot Noodle flavours, Michael reckoned. Then suddenly, all thoughts of Kevin disappeared. He went immobile as a lizard that knows it’s been spotted and still hopes its camouflage will keep it safe.
It was her. Pushing past an elderly couple, dark hair swinging round her head in a long bob, heavy coat wrapped round her, disguising a figure that Michael remembered had always been worth noticing. Bernadette Dooley was hurrying into the supermarket, making straight for the counter that sold cigarettes, confectionery and lottery tickets.
If he leaned over in his seat, he could see her back view. She was scrabbling in her bag for her purse, pulling it out, opening it, taking out a couple of notes. She handed over the money and received a carton of 100 Silk Cut in return. Then she was turning away, pushing the cigarettes into her bag, head down, making for the door again.
Michael was on his feet. By the time she made it to the street, he was a handful of steps behind her. He glanced quickly over his shoulder. Where the fuck was Kevin? Ah, the hell with it. Bernadette was the important one. Kevin would doubtless sit in the supermarket till it closed. Either that or he’d have the sense to make his way back to where they were staying. Wouldn’t he?
Bernadette turned right out of the store and headed down Byres Road. The pavements were busy enough to give him cover. With the total focus of the hunter whose oblivious prey is well upwind and living on borrowed time, Michael began stalking Bernadette Dooley.
Rory was already settled into her booth at Café Virginia when Lindsay arrived. “Hey,” she greeted her, “You look worse than I do, and I was clubbing till gone three.”
Lindsay squeezed out a vague smile. “I was up half the night. And not in a good way.”
“Must have been something you ate, eh?”
“Must have been. So, what’s doing?”
Rory pushed a manila folder across the table as Lindsay’s cappuccino arrived. “Take a look at that.”
Curious, Lindsay studied the contents. The first page was a memo to herself from Rory:
Tip re Keillor/Kilwinning. CCD, the multinational pharmaceutical and agrichemical company have a small plant on the outskirts of Kilwinning. Just over a year ago, local farmer sells biggish chunk of land to a suit from down south, who says he wants to retire and do rare breed sheep. Few months later, planning application goes in for change of use from agricultural to light industrial. Turns out land now belongs to CCD, they want to expand in unspecified ways to extend their research. Locals convinced they’re going to be poisoned with chemicals or overrun with cloned sheep. Think the local plan will keep them safe. But Chief Planning Officer David Keillor leans heavy on councillors and the change of use goes through. Source t
ells me that Keillor is running round in a brand new BMW 4x4, costs about a year’s salary new, and his wife has a neat wee Porsche Boxster. Source also tells me that vehicles were originally registered to CCD.
The other documents were reports of the planning committee meetings and transcriptions of Rory’s interviews with the farmer who sold the land and various locals with an axe to grind. Lindsay digested the material then looked up and said, “And?”
“Well, obviously, we need to get a look at the vehicle registration document for Keillor’s Beamer.”
Lindsay nodded. “Obviously. So what’s been keeping you?”
The sarcasm was gentle enough for Rory to grin. “Keillor knows me. We had a wee bit of a head to head a few years ago when he was working for the city planning department. Something to do with selling off school playing fields. So there’s no way I can get close enough. I thought maybe you’d have an idea how we could pull it off ?”
Lindsay scooped the froth off her coffee and slowly licked it off the spoon. “How bent do you want to get?” she asked thoughtfully.
Rory scratched an eyebrow. “Run it past me.”
“Do you happen to know if Strathclyde Police have changed their warrant cards in the past two years?”
Before Rory could answer, Sandra breezed up to their table. “Hiya, girls.” She inclined her head towards Lindsay. “You must be Splash Gordon.” She thrust a hand out. “I’m Sandra Singh. I’m supposed to be this one’s best pal.” Lindsay took the offered handshake with a nod.
Rory gave an exasperated little smile. “Lindsay, meet Sandra. Sandra is a factual programmes producer/director up the road at STV. She hates her boss, she likes boys that are barely old enough to shave and she thinks that since my mammy’s dead, she should poke her nose into my business all the time.”
