by Val McDermid
Lindsay sat up, stretched and yawned hugely. “Oh God,” she sighed. “That was wonderful.” She yawned again. “I feel so-o-oh relaxed.” She rubbed her eyes and swung her feet on to the floor. “Well, I suppose it was worth a try. If nothing else, I’ve had a good rest.”
“I’m glad I’ve got my uses,” Sophie said drily. “Don’t you want to discuss what you came up with?”
Lindsay did a double take. “What I came up with? I don’t remember coming up with anything!”
Sophie smiled. “Oh yes you did.”
Lindsay looked suspicious. “You said I was in control. You said I’d be able to remember anything that happened under hypnosis.”
“You do, in the sense that what was in your subconscious is now part of your conscious mind. But you were very deeply under. You’ll have to think quite hard about what you came up with. Luckily, I was here to listen.”
“How do I know you’re not just making it up?”
“Because you’ll know what I’m talking about as soon as I remind you that what was niggling at the back of your mind wasn’t something you saw or heard. It was something you smelled. Le Must de Cartier.”
“As used by Cordelia Brown and Laura Craig. They should rechristen it Betrayal.” Suddenly, Lindsay sat bolt upright. “Conference Chronicle must have got it right about her being a Special Branch plant. No way she could afford Cartier on what the union pays her.”
“You’ve completely lost me, Lindsay,” Sophie complained. “Although you do seem to have astonishing recall considering this hypnosis business doesn’t really work,” she added, tongue firmly planted in her cheek.
Lindsay apologized and brought Sophie up to date on the allegations about Laura. “And there’s something else I didn’t go into detail about. I don’t know what bearing it has on what’s happened now, but old sins cast long shadows. It was another unexpected death that looked like it could have been an accident. Let me tell you a bedtime story,” Lindsay said. She put her arms round Sophie and cast her mind back nine years to her first union conference.
Succinctly, reviving her dormant journalistic skills, Lindsay outlined the circumstances of Ian Ross’s death. “He died instantly,” she concluded. “And all because his inhaler ran out at the wrong time.”
Sophie, who had been listening intently, frowned. “That can’t be right, Lindsay. It can’t have happened like that.”
10
“It is worth remembering that, like football fans, we are ambassadors. People have a low enough opinion of the media without us making it worse. If delegates feel the urge to behave badly, we strongly suggest they do so within the confines of the conference venues.”
from “Advice for New Delegates”, a Standing Orders Sub-Committee booklet.
“I’m telling you, that’s what happened,” Lindsay said obstinately.
Recalling in the nick of time her partner’s fondness for being right, Sophie diplomatically said, “I’m sure that’s what people were saying at the time, but I find it hard to credit.”
Lindsay’s chin lifted. “What exactly is it you are taking issue with? I mean, I was there, and I’ve not exactly gone senile yet. I can still remember what happened, even if it was nine years ago.”
“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with your recollection, sweetheart. Just that whoever told you what happened might have got it wrong, that’s all.”
“Wrong about what?” Lindsay persisted, only slightly mollified.
Sophie absently massaged the back of Lindsay’s neck, kneading the tight muscles as she formulated the least inflammatory approach. “How long had Ian been asthmatic?” she eventually asked.
“I don’t know. Since he was a kid, I think. Certainly as long as I knew him. He didn’t make any secret of it. He used his inhalers wherever he happened to be—in the middle of the office, in the car, down the pub. Mmm, that’s wonderful, gimme more!” Lindsay groaned, leaning back into Sophie.
“And did he use his inhalers often?” Sophie asked, moving out across the firm trapezius muscles that Lindsay had built up on the volleyball court and in the surf.
“Mmm,” Lindsay breathed. “Yeah, every few hours or so, I guess.”
“And did you ever see him have an acute attack?”
“Only the once. The day after we arrived at Blackpool. Laura brought her golden retriever over to our table in the bar at lunchtime. The dog was next to Ian. He took his inhalers right away, but it didn’t seem to help. He was really wheezing and struggling for breath. Don’t suppose I have to tell you, you’ll have seen it often enough. Oh, God, Soph, that’s perfect, just there,” she added as Sophie dug her thumbs in around Lindsay’s spine.
“QED,” Sophie said, trying to keep the note of triumph out of her voice.
“What is?” Lindsay groaned.
“The point I was trying to make. Any asthmatic whose condition was bad enough to require the use of inhalers every few hours and who was prone to acute attacks provoked by specific allergens would never have been caught out with one empty inhaler,” Sophie said.
“But they must run out some time,” Lindsay objected.
Sophie nodded. “Of course they do. But asthmatics have a healthy respect for their illness. They know it can kill. When I was a student, I shared a flat with a woman who had relatively bad asthma, and she had inhalers like most people have personal jewellery. There was always at least one in her bag, usually a couple. There was one tucked down the seat of her armchair, one in the bathroom, one in the cutlery drawer and one by her bed. Whenever we were going out anywhere, she always gave her inhaler a shake to check there was enough in it to cope if she had an acute attack. It was a reflex. And she wasn’t paranoid. From what I’ve seen of asthmatics, she was pretty typical. That’s why I don’t believe what you’ve told me about Ian’s death. I find it inconceivable that he didn’t have a spare inhaler either on his person or in his car.”
“So how come nobody pointed that out at the time?” Lindsay asked.
“Speaking purely as a subscriber to chaos theory, I’d assume that the coroner was a lawyer rather than a doctor and that no one involved on the official side knew much about asthma. But you’re right to ask the question,” she added. “It’s curious that it didn’t crop up.”
Suddenly, Lindsay jumped to her feet. “The hot water!” she exclaimed, hitting the heel of her hand against her forehead. “Of course, the hot water!”
Sophie sat patiently, watching Lindsay bouncing on the balls of her feet like a runner waiting for the starting-pistol. “The hot water?” she asked.
Lindsay closed her eyes and summoned up a picture from the past. This time, she didn’t need hypnotherapy to reach the information.
“Ian used to drink herbal tea, so he just used to get the waitress to bring him a pot of boiling water and he’d dunk his own bag. Anyway, on the morning he died, Laura cannoned into our table and sent his pot of water flying. It looked just like a regular bit of clumsiness, and they had a bit of a shouting match. Laura ended up marching off to the kitchen and getting him another pot. And that’s how she did it,” Lindsay concluded triumphantly.
Sophie sighed. “Did what, Lindsay?”
“D’you remember that woman who was at Paige’s birthday party? The allergy specialist?”
Sophie nodded. “The one from Sonoma?”
“That’s right. Well, she was telling me how they do allergy testing. They make a concentrated extract of the allergen and put it in solution. Apparently, you have to be really careful with labelling, because the liquids are mostly colorless, odourless and tasteless. Just the sort of thing you could dump into a pot of hot water without anyone noticing, don’t you think?”
Sophie shook her head, bemused. “That’s a bit of a jump, isn’t it?”
“Logic, that’s what it is.”
Sophie couldn’t help chuckling. “Fine. So what next, Sherlock?”
Lindsay flopped on the bed and stretched out. “I suppose a quick bonk would be out of
the question?”
“You suppose right. On the other hand, the offer of a long, slow, sensuous night of passion might just persuade me . . .”
“Blackpool,” Lindsay muttered sleepily.
“Sorry?” Sophie yawned. “I thought you said Blackpool.”
“I did. What time is it?”
Sophie rolled over and picked up her watch. “Ten to nine. If we’re quick, we’ll make breakfast. I don’t know about you, but I’m ravenous. Must be all that passion last night.” She turned to cuddle Lindsay, but clutched at empty air as her partner rolled out of bed and headed for the shower. “Hey,” Sophie yelled in protest. “What happened to ‘I’ll respect you in the morning’?”
Lindsay grinned. “I can still respect you from the shower, can’t I? We need to get a move on if we’re going to get to Blackpool this morning.”
If she said anything more, it was drowned in the hiss of the shower. “What did I do to deserve this?” Sophie groused amiably as she followed Lindsay into the bathroom. “What is all this about Blackpool? Does this mean you’ve given up hunting for Union Jack’s killer? Are we going for a ride on the big dipper? Do I get to wear a kiss-me-quick hat? Will you smother me in candy-floss and lick it off slowly?”
Lindsay tilted her head back to rinse the shampoo out of her hair. “We’re going to see a man about an inquest. Or at least, I am. You don’t have to come if you don’t want.”
“How could I resist?” Sophie asked, gloomily picking up her toothbrush and squeezing an inch of toothpaste on to it. “At the risk of sounding dense, why Blackpool?”
“Because that’s where Ian was murdered.”
Sophie cast her eyes heavenwards. “Me and my big mouth,” she muttered. “You’d think I’d know better by now.”
Lindsay lathered herself with shower gel and said, “Well, it stands to reason, doesn’t it? If what you said about asthma was right, then Ian’s death obviously wasn’t accidental, was it? We could have a serial killer stalking AMWU, you know.”
“Has anyone ever told you you were born at the wrong time? You’d have made a great Victorian melodrama writer. What about suicide?” Sophie said through a mouthful of foam.
“Nah,” Lindsay said definitely. “Not Ian’s speed at all. No, mark my words, it was murder. And unless my nose is mistaken, Ian’s killer has struck again. What a grade A bitch!”
“Hang on a minute,” Sophie said, climbing into the shower as Lindsay swilled the last of the suds from her body. They embraced briefly, bodies slippery under the stream of water. “I know how unlikely it is that Ian didn’t have an inhaler. I also believe you saw someone—possibly Laura—leaving the scene of Tom Jack’s death. But where’s the evidence that either of them was murdered? And if they were, where’s the link? And what’s the connection to Laura?” Sophie watched her lover’s jaw set stubbornly. She sighed. “All right, Gordon, tell me what your famous nose says about the woman.”
“You mean, apart from the fact that she’s a snotty, patronizing, fashion-obsessed careerist who probably secretly votes Tory? Oh, and a heartless homophobe to boot? This is the woman who told me that one less dyke in the world was no great loss. That was, oh, about six weeks after Frances died.”
Sophie raised her eyebrows. “So it’s just possible you might be a tiny bit biased?”
Lindsay couldn’t fight the smile. “Never let the facts get in the way of a bit of honest prejudice, that’s me. But I bet you a bottle of the Islay malt of your choice that it is her.” She shrugged. “All I have to do now is prove it.”
Sophie sighed. “So why are we delving into ancient history? Surely it’s going to be a lot easier to come up with evidence of something that happened a couple of days ago rather than a nine-year-old death that everyone thinks was accidental anyway?”
Lindsay stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a white fluffy bath towel. “Theoretically, you’re right. But there’s a signal lack of motive here. I can’t think of any reason why Laura Craig would want to off Union Jack. Maybe the answer is buried in the past, along with poor old Ian. Just call it a hunch, as Quasimodo said to Esmerelda.”
Sophie’s heart sank. This wasn’t the time to remind Lindsay that hunches weren’t her strong point.
Blackpool looked more like a ghost town than a holiday resort. A salty fog swirled patchily through the streets, adding gothic emphasis to the eerie emptiness of the pavements. Sophie followed the signs that led to the prom. “And this is the famous Golden Mile, is it?” she remarked as she pulled up on double yellow lines. The neon signs from the amusement arcades and seedy hotels barely penetrated the mist. Every few minutes, ancient trams loomed out of the gloom like strange hallucinations from the past and hurtled on towards Fleetwood or the South Shore, their clatter muffled by the fog. “Do you mean to tell me that it’s for this that thousands of Glaswegians desert their native city for a fortnight every July? Dear God!”
“Tell me about it,” Lindsay said. “Don’t forget, I once spent a week here at a JU conference. At least in Torremolinos you tend to get decent weather.”
A traffic warden materialized out of a thick patch of fog. “Wouldn’t you just know it?” Sophie complained, starting the engine of Helen’s tinny Toyota.
“No, wait!” Lindsay said, opening the door and climbing out on to the pavement. “Thank goodness you’ve come along!” Sophie heard as the car shook to Lindsay’s resounding door slam.
A few moments later, Lindsay jumped back into the car, clutching a sheet from the traffic warden’s notebook. “Natural charm, that’s all it takes. Even traffic wardens like to feel needed. Okay, straight ahead, then take the second right by the Balmoral Bar and Grill,” she said with a slight shudder.
Ten minutes later, Lindsay was forced to admit she’d chosen the one traffic warden who either hated all visitors or didn’t know her left from her right. Furious, she stomped into the nearest newsagent’s, where she borrowed their telephone directory then bought an A-Z. It took a further ten minutes to zigzag through the one-way system to the sixties office block that housed the coroner’s office.
As they stood waiting for the lift to carry them to the fifth floor, Lindsay said casually, “I still haven’t come up with a good cover story for this little exercise.”
Sophie grinned. “I love you, Lindsay Gordon,” she said.
“Why? Because I wrecked your UK trip by getting arrested, I can’t keep my nose out of other people’s business and I’m not even smart enough to think up good excuses for it?”
“No, actually, it’s because you’ve got endless bottle.”
“Some would say stupidity,” Lindsay remarked.
“Then they’d be wrong.”
“I’m not so sure. I suspect it’s pretty dumb to rely on the tradition that coroner’s officers are generally the nicest guys on the force. That’s why they get the job—because they have to spend their time dealing with bereaved families.” The lift arrived, and they got in. “I guess I’ll think of something when I’m staring into the whites of his eyes,” Lindsay added with a nervous grimace.
“He really will be Mr. Nice Guy, will he?” Sophie asked.
“Probably,” Lindsay said gloomily. “Which will make me feel like a real shit. Lying to the bad guys is no problem. But taking advantage of the good guys always leaves my self-respect in shreds.”
“Have you got any university ID with you?” Sophie asked. “Something that attaches you to the university without being specific as to subject or faculty?”
Lindsay patted her shoulder bag. “My library card and my researcher’s pass for the stacks. Never leave home without it.”
The lift shuddered to a halt and the doors opened. “Good. Just in case. For once, you follow my lead, sweetheart,” Sophie said. “Busk it.”
“You play glockenspiel, I’ll play drums,” Lindsay muttered as she followed Sophie out of the lift. At the end of the short corridor was a half-glazed door with “Coroner’s Officer” stencilled in gilt Olde E
nglishe lettering. Sophie tapped on the glass and they walked in. Three walls of the room were lined with filing cabinets that stretched to the ceiling. The fourth wall was a window, its view blanked out by the mist. Behind a cheap, chipped desk, a burly middle-aged man sat, flanked by precarious heaps of files. He looked up from the form he was filling in, and a broad smile lit up a creased, wind-burnt sailor’s face. Lindsay suppressed a groan.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said in a gruff voice, his Lancashire accent noticeable even in those few words.
“Good morning, officer,” Sophie said, returning the smile with interest. She produced her wallet and flipped it open to the pass that revealed her to be a member of the medical staff of the Grafton Clinic, San Francisco. “I’m Dr. Sophie Hartley from California. I wrote to you about six weeks ago regarding a research study that my colleague and I are currently doing the groundwork for.”
The policeman’s smile faded and a look of surprised bafflement took its place. “I’m sorry, love,” he said, “but I don’t recall any letter like that.”
Lindsay couldn’t help admiring Sophie’s matching look of bewilderment. “I don’t understand,” she said. “It was one of a batch that were all sent out together. The letter explained what the project was about, and asked for your cooperation, and said I’d visit one morning this week while I was in the UK, if that was convenient.”
He got to his feet, and produced two wooden folding chairs from the narrow gap between a pair of filing cabinets. “Well, it’s not inconvenient,” he said, unfolding the chairs and waving the two women to them. “I was just doing me paperwork, nothing that can’t wait a bit. Mebbe you could tell me what it’s all about?” He plonked himself back down in his own battered typist’s chair.
Lindsay cringed as Sophie launched into an elaborate explanation, heavily larded with medical, statistical and sociological jargon. What it boiled down to was that she and Lindsay were allegedly researching causes of death among national newspaper journalists, to see if there were any statistically significant changes following the introduction of computer technology in the eighties. To Lindsay’s ears, it sounded so outrageously silly it could only be true. Certainly, it seemed to impress the coroner’s officer.
