Deadline for Murder (3 page)

News to me, thought Lindsay self-critically. She couldn't remember Cordelia ever showing more than the general interest expected of a right-on feminist in the whole issue of racial oppression. Had she really known so little about what was going on in her lover's mind?

With another deep sigh, she read on.

Not only has Cordelia got it right, she's won plaudits from a wide spectrum of Black activists and writers, who privately have expressed their astonishment that a white writer could have written so passionate and accurate an expose of the grim truth of life in the RSA.

Lindsay signalled for another cappuccino and quickly read on to the end of the article. To her relief, there was no mention of her and the spy scandal that had led to her exile. It would have been an obvious point for the interviewer to pick up on, given its tenuous parallels with Cordelia's plot. Maybe it really had been the nine-day wonder Cordelia had predicted. If that was the case, then there truly was no reason why she shouldn't go home. Or maybe it was simply that Cordelia had excised her so thoroughly from her life that she had insisted on no mention of Lindsay's name. After all, what right had Lindsay to assume that Cordelia would want her back?

There was only one way to find out. Lindsay carefully folded up her paper, got to her feet and took the first step on the road home.

Glasgow, Scotland, February 1990

I always maintained that Glasgow was the only truly European city in Britain," Lindsay stated smugly as she stared out of the taxi window at the rows of sandblasted tenements glowing yellow in the streetlights. "But I didn't realise till now how right I was."

"Listen to it," muttered her companion. "Nine months in Italy and suddenly she's an expert on European culture." Eight years of friendship had given Sophie Hartley the right to snipe at Lindsay's occasional pomposity, and she never hesitated.

"Listen," Lindsay argued. "Nothing you've told me about this wine bar we're heading for sounds British to me. A place where writers, actors, lawyers, and politicians go to drink good wine, eat serious food, and put the world to rights sounds like cafe society in Paris or Vienna or Berlin, not bloody Glasgow. I know it's three years since I lived here, but it seems to me that everything's changed."

Sophie smiled. "It's got yuppified, if that's what you mean. Every other car a BMW. Don't forget, it's the European City of Culture now," she teased.

"As if I could," Lindsay replied ironically. "Every corner shop has got posters up advertising some cultural beanfeast. Everything from opera to open days, from puppets to psycho-drama. I don't even recognise the streets any more. Where there used to be nice wee bakeries selling cream doughnuts and every other sort of cholesterol-packed traditional Scottish goody, there are wholefood cafes. I tell you, Soph, I felt less of a stranger in Venice than I feel in Glasgow these days," she added with a sigh.

"Well, you shouldn't have stayed away from us so long, should you?" said Sophie mercilessly, choosing to ignore the fact that she had been Lindsay's first port of call after her duty visit to her parents in the Highlands.

"I didn't have much of a choice. I never wanted to be a bloody hero. All I wanted was to be the best journalist I could be."

"Don't be so melodramatic, Lindsay. If those mad bastards in the Secret Service had really wanted you, they'd have come and got you, wherever you were. Spy scandals are ten a penny these days. A couple of months after you broke the story, your average 007 would have been hard pressed even to remember your name, never mind what lid you had lifted."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Lindsay said gloomily. "You make it all seem worthwhile."

Sophie laughed. "Come on, Lindsay, you're still in one piece, and you've got the satisfaction of knowing you did the right thing. Stop feeling sorry for yourself."

Before Lindsay could reply, the cab driver pushed back his glass partition. "Youse gonny sit there blethering all night while the meter runs?" he enquired pleasantly.

"Sorry," Sophie said, pushing Lindsay out of the cab and paying the driver. Lindsay watched her as she searched her bag for her wallet. Time was being kind to Sophie, she thought. Now she had passed thirty, she seemed to have grown into her bones. In her twenties, her high cheekbones, straight nose and strong jaw had given her face a raw, unfinished look. But age had softened the impression, producing a striking image of humour and strength of character. Her curly brown hair was shot with grey now, giving an effect that other women paid their hairdressers fortunes for. Tonight, she was wearing a silky cobalt-blue jogging suit under a padded ski jacket, and Lindsay envied her style.

Sophie turned round and caught Lindsay's scrutiny. One eyebrow twitched upwards in amusement. "You look like you're sizing me up for the kill," she remarked wryly. "Come on, this is it," she said, pointing down an alley between the tall, Victorian buildings. A large square sign swinging in the evening air proclaimed "Soutar Johnnie's" above a painting of a cobbler working at his last. "We'll have a drink and something to eat here before we meet Helen and Rosalind at the Tron Bar after their Labour Party meeting. Let's just hope my radiopager doesn't go off," she added as she led the way down the alley.

"You're not on call tonight, are you?" Lindsay asked.

"Technically, no. But if one of my patients goes into labour, they'll probably call me in. The price of being a specialist." Sophie was a consultant gynaecologist at Stobhill Hospital, where she was in the vanguard of those treating the city's growing numbers of HIV-positive women, mainly prostitutes and drug addicts.

Sophie pushed open the polished wooden door of the bar, and Lindsay followed her in. She stopped on the threshold, taken aback. There had been nowhere quite like this when she had been a struggling freelance journalist in the city, and it was a shock to a system accustomed to the functional, masculine atmosphere of the old-fashioned city-centre pubs. The bar was well lit, with square tables and comfy looking chairs scattered around. Food was being eaten at several tables, and even at first glance, it looked completely different from the old pub staple of pie and peas. And, to Lindsay's astonishment, quite a few of the patrons appeared to be drinking coffee rather than alcohol. Very Continental, she thought wryly, as she followed Sophie to the horseshoe shaped mahogany bar.

Lindsay joined Sophie and studied the long list of wines scrawled on the blackboard behind the bar. Her astonishment grew as she read it. Not a single Liebfraumilch or Lambrusco to be seen! The wine list was as varied and interesting as the clientele, who ranged from a few longhaired hippies who looked like reluctant refugees from the sixties, to well-barbered young men in double-breasted suits. Sophie meanwhile had caught the attention of the barman, a huge bull of a man with a mop of thick black curls and a black patch over one eye. "Hi, Cosmo," Sophie said as he approached. "Give us a bottle of the Australian Chardonnay and two glasses, please."

"Coming up, Sophie," he replied, opening a tall glass-fronted fridge. "What's all this, then? Buying classy bottles of wine for strange women? Good gossip! Wait till the Sisters of Treachery get to hear about this!"

Sophie grinned as she paid for the wine and picked it up. "If they do, I'll know who told them, Cosmo," she replied. "This is an old friend of mine, Lindsay Gordon. Lindsay, meet Cosmo Mackay. He owns this disreputable dive."

"Pleased to meet you, Lindsay. Any friend of Sophie's stands a good chance of becoming one of my best customers. She's never introduced me to a teetotaller yet! Are you eating tonight, by the way?" he asked.

"You bet," said Sophie.

Cosmo handed her a menu. "I'll take your order in a minute. There's plenty of tables in the back room." He turned away to serve another customer.

"What was all that about?" Lindsay demanded. "Who in God's name are the Sisters of Treachery?"

"It's a little political joke. Cosmo's a member of the same Constituency Labour Party as Helen and Rosalind. The party's been split over lots of issues lately, so there's been a lot of intriguing going on. One of the right-wingers was having a go at Helen and Rosalind one night, and he called them the Sisters of Treachery. The pair of them thought it was hysterical, and the name became a sort of in-joke among the left," Sophie explained. "Now, what do you want to eat?"

Lindsay studied the menu with delight. There were all the traditional favourites like black pudding with scrambled eggs, mutton stovies, and haggis. But there were also vegetarian dishes, and new variations on old themes, like spiced chicken stovies--a mixture of potatoes, onions, and chicken pieces. Just reading the list made her mouth water. What a change from pasta and pizza, she thought happily. Eventually she settled on haggis with mashed potatoes and turnips.

While they were waiting for Cosmo to return, Sophie turned to Lindsay and asked, "Have you given any more thought to what you're going to do for a living?"

Lindsay shrugged. "Not really. I don't think I can go back to being a journo, though, even if they wanted me. My heart just isn't in it any more."

"You could always become a private detective. After all, you've solved two murders so far. I can just see you with the snap-brimmed trilby and the bottle of Jack Daniels in the desk drawer. And just think of the perks! All those beautiful blondes falling at your feet," Sophie teased.

Lindsay pulled a face and shook her head. "No thanks. I'm looking for a quiet life these days."

"You came to the wrong place, then," Cosmo interrupted. "What can I get you ladies--sorry, women--to eat?"

Having given their order to Cosmo, Sophie steered a path through the crowded bar towards a doorway at the rear. Lindsay followed her into a remarkable room. The far wall and the sloping roof were made of glass, and the other walls were covered from floor to ceiling with plants trained over trellises. Chattering groups of people sat on white garden furniture with brightly coloured cushions. Before she had a chance to take it all in, she cannoned into Sophie who had stopped dead.

Sophie turned on her heel and tried to usher Lindsay out of the room, but she was too late. Lindsay had already spotted the reason for her abrupt, awkward halt. Sitting at a table on the far side of the room were two women, deeply engrossed in conversation. It was obvious to the most casual observer that they were a couple. She had never seen the slender blonde before. But the woman sitting opposite her was as familiar to Lindsay as her own face in the mirror. She felt her stomach lurch and fought the desperate urge to be sick. Without even realising she was doing it, she shrugged off Sophie's restraining arm and purposefully crossed the room.

Neither of the two women registered her presence till she was only feet from their table. Even then, it was the blonde who looked up first. When she saw Lindsay, a series of reactions flashed across her face in a moment. Curiosity was overtaken by bewilderment, bewilderment by shock, and shock by a stringe mixture of relief and amusement. Her companion was slower to realise they had company, since Lindsay had approached from behind her. She turned in her chair and her eyes widened. "Lindsay!" she gasped, pushing her chair back and getting to her feet. She gave a nervous half-smile, apparently incapable of further speech.

"Hello, Cordelia. Fancy meeting you here. That explains why I couldn't find you in London," Lindsay said with ice in her voice.

The blonde woman got to her feet and extended a slim hand. "Hello, Lindsay. We've never met before, but I've heard a lot about you..."

"I bet you have," Lindsay interrupted savagely, ignoring the outstretched hand.

Undaunted, the other continued. "I'm Claire Ogilvie. Jackie--Jackie Mitchell, that is--told me a lot about you. That's how I came to meet Cordelia."

"How fascinating," Lindsay said with heavy sarcasm, mentally slotting Claire into place. Jackie's girlfriend, the lawyer. Portia with a Porsche. Cordelia had obviously had her fill of working-class heroes and reverted to type, Lindsay thought furiously. In a cold voice she said, "Well, don't let us interrupt your intimate little tete-a-tete. Come on, Sophie," she added, turning away. "We'll find somewhere more congenial to eat."

"No, wait," said Cordelia, finally finding her tongue. "Don't go, Lindsay."

"Why not? You've obviously not been counting the minutes till I got back, have you?"

"I think you're being a little unfair, Lindsay," Claire said. "Why don't you calm down and sit down, and we can discuss this like adults?"

"Discuss what?" Lindsay demanded, her voice rising. "Discuss your relationship with the woman I have just discovered is my ex-lover?"

"Lindsay," Sophie said in the soothing but firm voice she'd developed years ago to deal with drunks in casualty. "Cool it. Either let's go now or else sit down and have a drink."

Lindsay, struggling with a mixture of anger, disappointment and hurt, abruptly sat down, followed by the other three.

"When did you get back? And where have you been?" Cordelia asked. Even to herself, her questions sounded empty and irrelevant. But she didn't know what else to say. Seeing Lindsay again so unexpectedly had left her floundering in a welter of emotions that she could neither separate nor identify.

"I got back a week ago," Lindsay replied in weary tones. "I tried to phone a couple of times
en route
, but I kept getting the answering machine, and it didn't seem the appropriate way to break the silence. When I got to London, I went straight to the house, but you weren't there. I rang your mother, but she didn't seem to know where you were. Your agent said you'd gone away for a couple of weeks, she wasn't sure where either, so rather than hang about in London on the off-chance that you'd be back, I drove up to Yorkshire, gave Deborah her van back and collected my MG. Then I went to see my parents and came back to Glasgow. I've been in Italy. By myself, which is more than I can say for you," she added bitterly.

"My God, you've got a nerve," Cordelia said. "You vanish off the face of the earth for nine bloody months, and you expect to come home like the prodigal daughter and find everything exactly the way it was?"

"Obviously I was wrong, wasn't I? You knew exactly why I went to ground. For God's sake, I left a letter explaining what the hell was going on. And I sent you a card to let you know I was safe."

"One poxy card in nine months! I could recite it from memory. 'Weather stunning. Natives friendly. Hope to get over to London to see you soon, but life is hectic right now. Be patient!' " Cordelia flashed back sarcastically.

"I was trying to protect you. I didn't want them leaning on you to turn me in," Lindsay replied defensively.

"How noble!" Cordelia retorted, grey eyes cloudy with anger, generous mouth uncharacteristically pursed.

"I did what I thought was right. I didn't expect you to jump into bed with someone else the minute my back was turned," Lindsay accused.

"What the hell was I supposed to do? Answer me that! How long was I supposed to wait before I started to put my life back together again? Have you any idea how much time, energy, and money I spent trying to find you? I rang everyone I could think of, I went everywhere I thought you might be. I even went to bloody New York!"

"And how long did it take you to steal Jackie's girlfriend?"

Both Claire and Cordelia looked shocked by Lindsay's question. But it was Claire who collected herself first and said in conciliatory tones, "It wasn't like that. I was looking for you, and a mutual friend introduced me to Cordelia, who was in Glasgow at the time, also trying to get a lead on your whereabouts. So we joined forces and spent a lot of time trying to track you down. But you made a good job of your disappearing act."