by Val McDermid
Table of Contents
Praise
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
1996
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
V. L. McDermid
Copyright Page
Praise for V. L. McDermid
“One of my favorite authors, Val McDermid is an important writer—witty, never sentimental, taking us through mean streets with the dexterity of a Chandler.” Sara Paretsky
“If you haven’t discovered this award-winning trailblazer in lesbian detective fiction you’re missing out on a good one.”
Katherine V. Forrest
“There is no one in contemporary crime fiction who has managed to combine the visceral and the humane as well as Val McDermid . . . . She’s the best we’ve got.”
The New York Times Book Review
“Val McDermid is one of the bright lights of the mystery field.”
The Washington Post
“McDermid’s a skillful writer—comparisons with such American novelists as Sara Paretsky and Sue Grafton are appropriate.”
Chicago Tribune
“Lindsay Gordon has got a heart of gold and a nose for trouble.”
Randye Lordon
“Lindsay Gordon is smart, tenacious, daring, lusty, loyal, and class-conscious to the bone.” Barbara Neely
Also by Val McDermid
The Grave Tattoo
Stranded
The Distant Echo
Killing the Shadows
A Place of Execution
Lindsay Gordon novels
Report for Murder
Common Murder
Deadline for Murder
Conferences are Murder
Booked for Murder
Hostage to Murder
Kate Brannigan novels
Star Struck
Blue Genes
Clean Break
Crack Down
Kick Back
Dead Beat
Tony Hill and Carol Jordon novels
The Mermaids Singing
The Wire in the Blood
The Last Temptation
The Torment of Others
Non-fiction
A Suitable Job for a Woman
For Jai and Paula. They know why.
Acknowledgements
Readers often wonder how much research writers do in the pursuit of our plots. I used to think that the only way to do it was over a beer or a meal. That was before I discovered the Internet and the wonders of e-mail.
This time around, I’d like particularly to thank Kathryn Skoyles, whose knowledge of the seamy side of commerce was invaluable, and Janet Dawson and Chris Aldrich, who kindly prevented me from committing an assortment of transatlantic solecisms. Others who contributed in varying degrees, wittingly or unwittingly, were Lee D’Courcy, Frankie Hegarty, Brigid Baillie, David Byrne, Chaz Brenchley, Jai Penna and Sharon Zukowski.
Setting a book in the publishing industry holds certain dangers for an author. In a bid not to become what the Americans now term “dispublished,” I’m bound to say that none of the editors, agents or publishers depicted in these pages bears the slightest resemblance to the people I actually work with. Except the dog.
1996
Prologue
Murder, she felt fairly sure, was not the kind of “Purpose of Visit” calculated to speed her through the notoriously difficult US immigration channels. “Pleasure,” she ticked, deciding it might not be entirely a lie. At least no one would suspect the truth that lay behind the occupational description of “systems consultant.” In spite of the books and films that indicated otherwise, hers was not a job people expected to be carried out by a woman.
She finished filling in the form and looked out of the windows of the jumbo jet. They had chased the sunset west across the Atlantic, and now it was firmly dark blue night out there. Streetlights formed a glittering web when they passed above small towns. Over bigger cities, the lights seemed to be enclosed beneath a dimly glowing bowl that held them trapped, the highway lights leading away from them like chains of refugees. Somewhere out there, her target. Watching TV, eating dinner, reading a book, talking to her lover, gossiping on the phone, composing e-mail. Whatever it was, she wouldn’t be doing it tomorrow. Not if the woman was successful in her mission.
She turned away from the window and pulled her paperback novel out of the seat pocket. She opened it where she had carefully dogeared a page to mark her place and carried on reading Northanger Abbey.
A change in engine note signalled the start of the descent into San Francisco. It was a sign she noted with relief. A transatlantic, transcontinental flight was quite long enough for her body to feel permanently realigned into the shape of the aircraft seat. That might be just about bearable in first class, but back in anonymous economy it provoked the irresistible fear that she might never walk properly again. The woman stretched her spine, thrusting shoulders back and chest out. The sleeping man next to her snorted and shifted in his seat. Thankfully, he’d been like that for most of the flight. She never liked talking on public transport unless she had instigated the conversation, usually for professional reasons.
She couldn’t believe how quickly she cleared immigration. It had been half a dozen years since she’d last set foot in America, and her abiding memory of arrival had been spending the thick end of an hour shuffling forward foot by foot in an endless queue that snaked across the concourse while sadistic immigration officers with faces impassive as hatchets questioned every new arrival. As she collected her luggage, she wondered idly what had brought about the change. It couldn’t be that the Americans had become less xenophobic or less paranoid about terrorism, that was for sure, especially after Oklahoma City. She only had to think about the drop in the numbers of American tourists to Britain in the wake of the IRA’s abandoning of their precarious ceasefire.
Slinging her suit carrier across her shoulder, the woman headed for the taxi rank and gave the name of the hotel where she hoped a room would be waiting for her. Even though she’d been up all night, she feared that sleep would abandon her as soon as her head hit the pillow. It didn’t matter. She had time. According to her briefing, the best opportunity she’d have wouldn’t come before six in the evening of the following day.
She’d heard about the fog rolling in across the bay in the late afternoon, but she’d never quite believed it could be so tangible a phenomenon. She sat among the Sunday tourists in one of the Fisherman’s Wharf cafés and watched the bank of fog envelop the rust-red curve of the Golden Gate, leaving the twin towers stranded above and below. She stirred the last inch of her cappuccino. It had been about the only thing she’d recognized on a list of beverages. They didn’t have iced mocha latte in the coffee bar where she picked up her morning carton of steaming pale brown liquid that smelled mostly of its polystyrene container. She supposed this was what they called culture shock.
She’d spent the morning on a whistle-stop sightseeing tour of the crucial highlights. None of her clients had ever sent her to San Francisco before, and she always liked to make the most of her trips at other people’s expense. Her one regret was that she
hadn’t had time for Alcatraz. Now she was reading through her brief one last time, making sure there wasn’t something important she’d failed to notice. But it was all as she remembered it. The photographs—well, snapshots really. Directions to the target’s home. Suggested lines of approach. And the number to call when she’d achieved her mission.
The woman swallowed the dregs of her coffee and headed back to her hire car, shivering as the damp air hit her. She was wearing only a light cotton shirt over the linen shorts she’d bought for last year’s Greek island holiday. It had seemed an appropriate outfit for the warm sun that had beaten down on her earlier. It was California in July, after all. Now the weather had turned into English autumn, she was hopelessly underdressed. She wondered whether she had time to slip back to her hotel, but decided against it.
Ten minutes out of the city, and she was as glad of her decision as she was of the car’s air conditioning. The fog that had chilled her was so localized that half a dozen miles away people were still sweating in the same heat that had engulfed her earlier in the day. But at least the air conditioning meant she was clear-headed enough to pay attention to the road signs, making sure she ended up heading down the coast on Highway 1. She drove cautiously, aware that a speed limit lower than the UK’s would be easy for her to breach without realizing. Attracting the attention of the Highway Patrol would definitely not be a good idea.
The road curved across the peninsula past the vast suburban tract of Daly City, then swerved towards the ocean, the blue swell coming properly into view as she rolled down the hill and past the boxy condos of Pacifica. According to the map she had unfolded on the passenger seat, she was nearly half-way there. Once the map ran out, she had a hand-drawn map of her exact destination, courtesy of her client.
She appreciated the need for the detailed map as soon as she turned off the highway into Half Moon Bay. She found herself in a grid of streets between highway and ocean, quiet residential streets where a strange car cruising slowly and making wrong turns would probably be noticed before too long. Following her directions, she turned on to a road fronting the Pacific. The houses were detached, two storeys high, covered in either carefully tended white or pastel siding or natural wood protected from the climate by heavy coats of sealant. Several had verandas along the front that looked out across the calm ocean towards the eventual sunset. The houses looked like money. Not excessive, obscene, vulgar amounts, but substantial, two professional income levels. As she approached the house where her target lived, she was careful neither to speed up nor to slow down, but she slewed her eyes left as she passed and registered a battered black convertible in the drive. According to the client, that was the target’s car. As expected, she wasn’t home. But this wasn’t an appropriate place. Too easy for her target to avoid what came next.
The woman carried on to the end of the road and turned left on to the rough, unmetalled track that led across the few hundred yards of greenish-brown scrub that lay between the houses and the dunes that edged the beach. As she drew nearer, she could see what had looked like a gentle swell breaking on the sand in a white frothing surf. Where the track ended there was a clear area, and, as instructed, she parked her hire car there, a short distance from the two other vehicles already facing the pounding waves.
She got out of the car and ignored the hard-packed path that led from the car park to the beach. Instead, the woman walked about half a mile north across the scrub before she chose another route down to the beach. She didn’t go all the way down, halting at a point where, if she hunkered down, she would be invisible both from the beach and the flat scrubland above. She settled behind an outcropping of gritty sandstone and surveyed the long sweep of the strand. She’d never seen so spectacular a beach that wasn’t scarred with serried ranks of sun loungers, parasols, cars and bars. The beach was wide and flat, sweeping round in a long white arc. From the air, it would look more like a crescent than a half moon, scything a thick line between the dark blue sea and the brown land.
She took a small pair of green rubber binoculars from her satchel and scanned the beach from north to south. Luckily for her purpose, there were surprisingly few people, and those there were clearly didn’t belong to the bucket and spade brigade. Every time the woman’s binoculars picked out a dog, she paused and took a careful look at the animal and its owner. There was no sign of her target.
The woman lowered her binoculars and waited five minutes before repeating the exercise. On the third sweep, she picked out the black Labrador frolicking in the waves. In spite of his playfulness, he was clearly no puppy. She felt a frisson of excitement. Forcing herself to be patient, she continued her slow scan. A couple of hundred yards behind the dog, a figure jogged slowly. A finger nudged the focus wheel and the face came into sharp focus. There was no doubt about it. It matched the pictures supplied by her client. The dog was a six-year-old Labrador cross called Mutton. The woman was a thirty-seven-year-old journalist with a reputation for stirring up trouble. Her name was Lindsay Gordon. If the observer was successful in her mission, tomorrow someone else would have to walk the dog.
With infinite care, the watcher returned the binoculars to the satchel. It was time to do the business.
Chapter 1
Lindsay Gordon jogged gently along the hard sand at the edge of the Pacific surf on Half Moon Bay. Against the rhythmic beat of Air Nikes on wet sand and the thud of blood pulsing in her ears, the waves crashed less regularly. Ahead of her, Mutton chased the foaming surf as it retreated across the sand to be sucked back into the vast body of water, occasionally pausing to bark a deep protest as some bubbles he’d been particularly attached to disappeared. Other joggers might have Walkmen clamped to their heads, shutting out everything except their chosen sounds. Lindsay preferred a more natural music, particularly on a day like today when she had death on her mind.
The day had given no indication that it was going to bring tears before bedtime. She’d got up with Sophie and they’d eaten breakfast on the deck together—peaches, bananas, grapes and walnuts chopped up and sprinkled with Grape Nuts, freshly squeezed orange and grapefruit juice and, for Lindsay only, the industrial-strength coffee she still needed to kick-start her day. It didn’t matter how healthy her diet and her habits became; she had grown up on a high-voltage caffeine jolt first thing in the morning, and herbal tea was never going to boot her synapses into activity. Later than usual, because it was Sunday and she was only on stand-by, Sophie had headed north to the hospital in the Bay Area where she worked with HIV-positive mothers, leaving Lindsay to her computer. She preferred to work when Sophie was on duty so she could enjoy their time off together without guilt. Consequently, she didn’t mind settling down with more coffee and a pile of photocopied newspaper cuttings next to her keyboard.
Six years before, she’d stopped practicing journalism and started teaching it. Not a day had gone by when she hadn’t congratulated herself on her decision. Now, thanks to the “publish or be damned” demands of her boss at Santa Cruz, she’d been catapulted into her past life. A persuasive editor had talked her into a publishing contract for a book on the decline of British tabloid journalism from 1980 to 1995. It was supposed simultaneously to be a penetrating political analysis and an entertaining romp for the general reader. “Define oxymoron,” Lindsay muttered as her machine booted up with its usual mechanical grumbles. “The demands of a publisher’s editor. On the one hand, deep and insightful. On the other hand, shallow and superficial.”
Today, the Falklands conflict. Not the battles between the Argentinian and British soldiery, but the rows that raged between government censors and militant journalists betrayed by proprietors who caved in under pressure. And the Sun’s shameful “Gotcha!” headline on the sinking of the Belgrano. It was more than enough to keep her absorbed in her screen until late afternoon, apart from a quick break at noon to walk Mutton around the scrubland and eat a chicken Caesar salad.
By five, she’d had enough. Whistling the dog, Lindsay had fired u
p her battered black Caddie and headed inland to a grocery store a few miles away that carried a stock select enough to satisfy the most discriminating California foodie. Lindsay’s freezer was empty of bread, and she needed to stock up on ciabatta with olives, with artichokes, with sun-dried tomatoes and just plain. The challenge was always to get it home without tearing lumps out of it en route. While she was there, she raided the deli counter for grazing material for the evening. It was that once-a-month night when Sophie would be out with her doctor friends putting the world to rights, so Lindsay could veg out on the sofa and watch the Inspector Morse episode she’d taped the week before, with occasional trips to the kitchen to stack up another plate of nibbles. Bliss.
Her plans died when she got back to the house and finally got round to opening the morning paper. She idly flicked over the front page, breaking off a piece of artichoke ciabatta. Darkliners Author Dies in Freak Accident seemed to separate itself from the rest of page three and rise towards her like a macabre magic carpet.
“No,” Lindsay breathed as she started to read.
(London, AP)
Penny Varnavides, best-selling author of the Darkliners series of novels, died yesterday as the result of a freak accident while on a trip to England. She was killed when a bottle of beer exploded in the kitchen of the apartment in London, where she was living temporarily.
The body was discovered by a neighbor, alerted by the open door of her apartment. It is thought Ms. Varnavides had just returned home when the accident occurred.
According to police sources in London, Ms. Varnavides bled to death when a shard of glass from the explosion penetrated her carotid artery. The unusually prolonged hot summer weather this year in England, where some areas have not had rain for over five weeks, is being blamed for the accident.
