Deadline for Murder (5 page)

Lindsay managed to find a free parking meter by the river, a couple of streets away from Claire's flat. She set the alarm on her ancient MGB roadster, then strode briskly through the misty winter air, casting a jaundiced eye on the cold grey waters of the Clyde. Not an improvement on the blue of the Adriatic, she thought. At times like this, she wished she'd never left Italy. Fancy thinking coming home would solve anything.

Following Claire's detailed instructions, she turned into a narrow alleyway which opened out into a small courtyard with several staircases leading off it. Originally, these had been the semi-slum homes of the ill-paid clerks who had tended the fortunes of the Victorian merchants and shipping magnates who had once made the city great. Over the years, the properties had deteriorated, till they were precariously balanced on the edge of demolition. But in the nick of time, a new prosperity had arrived in Glasgow, and the property developers had snapped up the almost derelict slums and renovated them. Now, there were luxury flats with steel doors and closed circuit video security systems where once there had been open staircases that rang with the sounds of too many families crammed into too small a space. Lindsay surveyed the clean, sandblasted courtyard with an ironic smile, before pressing the buzzer for Claire's flat and glowering at the camera lens three feet above her head.

The speaker at her ear crackled, and she could just make out Claire's voice. "It's Lindsay," she said, and was rewarded by the angry buzz of the door release. Lindsay mounted the stairs to the third landing, where Claire stood by her open front door. Lindsay took in the details of her appearance that she had been too upset to notice the night before. The most striking thing about her was her height. She was nearly six feet tall, and her body had all the willowy sinuousness of a model. Her fine white-blonde hair was beautifully cut, like the severely tailored grey herringbone woollen suit she wore. She looked like a recruitment poster for law graduates.

"Come in," Claire greeted her. "You're very punctual." Lindsay bit back a sarcastic retort and followed her through a spacious hallway furnished with a small Turkish carpet and several pale wood bookcases. In an alcove, behind glass doors, was a collection of Oriental porcelain. Claire showed her into a huge square room with two bay windows which overlooked the river. The room must originally have been the living rooms of two separate flats, Lindsay thought to herself. Two families would have occupied the space now filled with Claire's Scandinavian pine furniture and colourful wall hangings. Even the stereo system and the CD collection were housed in tailor-made glass-fronted pine units. It could have come straight from the pages of the kind of glossy magazine Lindsay couldn't imagine wanting to write for. Cordelia would feel right at home here, she thought bitterly, taking in the Cartier briefcase standing beside the sofa. The room's designer consumerism epitomised everything that had disturbed Lindsay about their life together. But Cordelia had never shared her discomfort.

"Can I get you a drink?" Claire asked.

"No thanks," Lindsay replied. She might have to take Claire's money, but she was damned if she would accept anything that fell outside the ambit of a purely professional relationship. At least Cordelia wasn't here to churn up her emotions again, she thought with a mixture of relief and regret. "So, you said that Jackie wants my help," she added, perching on the edge of a pine-framed armchair.

Claire pushed her glasses up her nose in a nervous gesture. "That's right," she said. "Look, before we start, I just wanted to apologise for last night. I realise it must have been something of a shock for you, and I'm sorry if I was less than helpful."

Lindsay shrugged. "What exactly did Jackie want me to do?"

Claire was clearly unsettled by Lindsay's ungracious response to her apology and walked over to the window to stare out at the mist-shrouded water. "She thought you could establish her innocence."

"But why? What made her think I could succeed where the police and her own lawyers had failed? Surely if there had been anything to go on you would have hired a private detective before the trial."

Having recovered her poise, Claire turned back and sat down on the edge of the sofa. Lindsay couldn't help picturing Cordelia curled up there beside her, watching television or just talking. She pushed the bitter thought aside and forced herself to listen to Claire. "We didn't go to a conventional private detective because Jackie didn't believe that we'd find one who would genuinely be on our side. I have to say that in my experience professionally with the breed, I wouldn't expect to find one who was sympathetic to a gay woman. Jackie thought you'd believe her. And she thought you'd have a vested interest in finding out the truth. She knew about your own affair with Alison, knew you'd understand what she'd been put through."

Lindsay lit a cigarette without her usual courtesy of asking permission first. Claire leapt to her feet, saying, "I'll get you an ashtray." She disappeared through another door and returned moments later with an ostentatiously large crystal ashtray. Lindsay felt that using it would be like shouting in a museum. Claire placed it on the occasional table next to Lindsay's chair and said, "Well, will you help? She didn't do it, you know." There was a note of desperation in her voice that touched Lindsay in spite of herself.

Wearily, Lindsay nodded. "I'll do what I can," she said. "My daily rate is PS100 plus expenses. I'd expect a week's payment in advance, as a retainer," she added quickly, amazed at how easily it came out.

Claire's eyebrows rose. "Cordelia didn't seem to think you'd expect to be paid," she said coolly. "But I'm used to paying for professional services. In return, I expect full reports on what you are doing." Claire opened her briefcase and swiftly wrote a cheque for PS700. She handed it to Lindsay with a look of contempt.

"That goes without saying," Lindsay replied. She glanced at the cheque and noted it was drawn on the JM Defence Account. Claire might be happy to splash out on maintaining her own high-flying image, but clearly a private detective wasn't considered a designer accessory, Lindsay thought with a spurt of anger. She took a deep breath before she spoke. "Now, before we go any further, I want you to tell me everything you know about the events leading up to the murder." Lindsay took a notebook out of her shoulder bag to take down Claire's words in her rusty shorthand.

Claire took a deep breath and went back to her vantage point at the window. "We'd been having a difficult time. We'd been together just over five years, and I suppose we'd started taking each other for granted. I had only recently been made a partner in my firm, and I was bringing a lot of work home. And Jackie was busier than ever. So many new magazines have been launched in the last couple of years, and they're all hungry for strong, well-written features. But I was too absorbed in my own problems to notice the strain she was under. I suppose that was Alison's appeal for her. Alison was in the same business, and they could talk shop together. I know Jackie had a lot of professional respect for Alison." Claire sighed deeply and walked across to a tray with a decanter and glasses. She poured herself a careful inch of Scotch, turning to Lindsay and saying, "Sure you won't have one?"

Lindsay shook her head. "Go on," she probed.

Claire paced the floor. "It was the old, old story. I was the last to know. It had apparently been going on for about two months when I found out."

"How did you find out?" Lindsay asked gently. She couldn't help herself. Even with a woman she instinctively disliked so much, she still slipped straight into the persona of the professionally sympathetic interviewer.

"I usually went to bed before Jackie. One night, I couldn't sleep, so I got up to make myself a cup of cocoa. I came through from the bedroom, and I could hear Jackie's voice. It wasn't that I was eavesdropping, I just couldn't help overhearing. She was clearly having an intimate conversation with someone..." Claire's voice tailed off, and she traced the pattern on the crystal glass with one long fingernail.

"What made you think it was the sort of intimate conversation you have with lovers?" Lindsay probed.

"For want of a better way of putting it, she was talking dirty to someone," Claire said with a look of distaste. "I was completely stunned. The idea of her having a lover had never once crossed my mind, can you believe it?"

"Oh, I can believe it all right," Lindsay said, pushing the thought of Cordelia away again. "But how did you find out it was Alison? Did you confront Jackie then and there?"

"I didn't know what to do, so I crept back to bed. When she finally came through, I waited till she'd fallen asleep, then I got up and pressed the last number redial button on the phone. I got Alison Maxwell's answering machine. The following evening, I confronted Jackie with it, and she admitted it immediately. It was almost as if it was a relief to her." Claire took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. "We had a very traumatic evening. A lot of tears, a lot of talking. At the end of it, we decided that there was still too much between us to finish it. Jackie agreed that she would stop seeing Alison. And as far as I was concerned, that was the end of it. Two days later, I came home to find Jackie in tears. She told me she'd been to see Alison to break it off, but that Alison had been completely unreasonable. She had threatened to tell me all sorts of lies about what they had done together, and to destroy Jackie's career. Jackie was in a hell of a state. Before we could sort anything out between us, the police arrived and arrested her." Claire stopped pacing and stared at Lindsay in mute misery. The cool lawyer's facade had vanished completely. "It was only later that I discovered that Alison and Jackie had been to bed together that afternoon. I know it sounds absurd, but I was more upset over her lying to me about that than I was about her being accused of the murder."

"So instead of pledging yourself to wait for her, you jumped into bed with Cordelia. Very supportive," Lindsay said, fighting the sympathy she was beginning to feel for Claire with her anger at Cordelia.

"That's not fair," Claire protested angrily. "It wasn't like that. Neither of us planned what happened."

Lindsay ignored Claire's response and asked, "Is there anything more you can tell me that might shed some light? Did Jackie mention anyone else in connection with Alison?"

Claire shook her head. "No. You'll need to ask Jackie all the details of what actually happened that afternoon," she grimaced. "Ever the lawyer, you see, I'm not giving you any hearsay evidence. I'll also speak to Jackie's lawyer, Jim Carstairs, so you can have access to all the legal papers. Remember--what I'm interested in is getting Jackie freed. To do that, you don't have to provide definitive proof against any individual. You simply have to come up with enough new evidence to cast reasonable doubt on the conviction."

"I might not have a law degree, but I do have a qualification in Scots law for journalists, Claire. I'm well aware of the standard of proof required by the courts," Lindsay retorted, feeling patronised by Claire's spelling out of the situation.

Claire flushed. "Very well. What do you plan to do next?"

"I want to see Jackie as soon as that can be arranged. In the meantime, I'm going to take a look at the flats where Alison lived. I've borrowed a set of keys from a friend of mine who lives in the block. I want to refresh my memory on the layout. I'll ring Jim Carstairs and arrange a time to see the papers. And I'll look up a few contacts from my
Clarion
days. I'll call you tomorrow evening and let you know how I'm going on."

"Where can I reach you?" Claire asked. "Cordelia told me you rented your flat out when you moved to London three years ago."

"Yes. Unfortunately, the students who are in it now have a lease that doesn't run out till July. So I'm staying with a friend." Lindsay scribbled down Sophie's number on a sheet from her notebook. She got to her feet. "Goodbye, Claire. I'll see myself out."

Lindsay drove out of the city centre with a sour taste in her mouth. How could Cordelia have fallen for a pretentious yuppie like Claire Ogilvie? To distract herself, she studied Great Western Road as she drove out towards Alison's flat in Hyndland. There had been a few changes here in recent years. It all looked smarter, somehow, the last-ditch hippy emporia of the seventies having finally vanished, overtaken by bookshops, up-market restaurants and interesting food shops. I like being back, she thought with surprise as she swung left off the main road and headed for Caird House. The flats were a ten-storey modern block, built by a housing association in the late seventies. Alison's flat was on the sixth floor, two below Rosalind's.

Lindsay left her car in one of the visitors' parking bays, then walked down the ramp and past the barrier into the residents' underground car park. It was almost empty in the late afternoon. Like Claire's Merchant City eyrie, these were flats for single professionals or couples without children. At this time of day, they would all be at work. Lindsay crossed the garage and examined the door. Unlike the ground floor entrances, this one had no entryphone, just the same seven-lever mortice lock as the other outside doors. Presumably only residents were expected to come in from the garage. Lindsay tried the key that Rosalind had given her and entered the block.

She noticed the two lifts, but ignored them and headed for the fire escape stairs. She climbed up one level and emerged through a heavy swing door into the foyer. There were two outside exits, one on either side of the block, each leading to a small landscaped parking area. Through the far door, she could just see the nose of her own car. There were no flats on the ground floor, merely boxroom storage areas and the collection area where the rubbish chutes deposited their contents. Lindsay pushed the fire door open again and climbed the stairs. She'd always used the lifts before and wanted to see for herself how likely it was that Jackie might have been spotted from the outside as she'd sat on the stairs smoking. Small frosted glass windows provided the only daylight, killing that possibility. Overhead, fluorescent strips hummed. At the sixth floor, Lindsay emerged on to a familiar landing.

There were four flats on each landing, one at each corner of the central core. Two had one bedroom, the others had two, she remembered. Ahead of her lay Alison's front door. 6A. How many times had she stood here in a fever of anticipation, desperate for the satisfaction she knew she'd find on the other side of that cherry-red door?

Lindsay turned away, aware for the first time of the depth of her sorrow for Alison. She examined the landing more carefully. Beside the lifts was another door. Curious, she opened it. Inside, there was just room for a person to stand. In the wall was a large, square hole with a sign above it saying "Rubbish Chute." Cautiously, Lindsay stuck her head into the gap. It was pitch black. Presumably this was the chute that carried bin bags from the flats down to the huge bins in the ground floor storeroom.

Lindsay withdrew and thoughtfully returned to the landing. She pressed the lift button and waited a few seconds for it to arrive. The double doors slid back, revealing a woman standing in the cramped compartment. As she saw Lindsay, she gasped in surprise.

Lindsay stepped into the lift and said nonchalantly, "Hello, Ruth, I didn't realise you still lived here."

"Lindsay. What a surprise. I heard you'd left the country after... But... what on earth were you doing on the landing there? You hadn't come to see... I mean, you did know about...?"

Same old Ruth, thought Lindsay. Congenitally incapable of finishing her sentences. "I got back a couple of weeks ago." Lindsay said. "I only heard about Alison last night. I guess I just wanted to make a sort of pilgrimage. For old times' sake, you know?"

Ruth Menzies gulped and nodded vigorously. "I know what you mean. Antonis and I were thinking of selling up and moving out, you know? I couldn't face all the memories, it was all too... But anyway, we decided to stay a bit longer and see how..." The lift slid to a smooth halt and the doors opened.

"Nice to see you, Ruth," said Lindsay pleasantly. "Maybe we could get together some time and talk about old times?" The lift stopped at the ground floor, and Lindsay stepped out.

Ruth's answer was cut short as the lift doors closed and carried her down to the basement. Lindsay walked back to her car, musing on the coincidence that had thrust her back into contact with Ruth. The art gallery owner had been Alison Maxwell's closest friend for years. About the only friend who hadn't been one of her lovers, Lindsay wouldn't mind betting. They'd been friends since schooldays, she seemed to remember, the classic pairing of the siren who needs the mouse to show her off to full advantage. Alison had been more than a little put out when "insignificant little Ruthie" had returned from a buying trip to Athens with a husband in tow. And not just any husband, but a handsome, dashing Greek three years her junior, who was determined to put Ruth's money to good use while he wrote the Great European Novel. Lindsay wondered idly if he'd managed to put pen to paper yet.

On her way back to Sophie's flat, Lindsay made a detour to Wunda Wines, a discount warehouse in Partick, where she bought a couple of bottles of crisp white Tokai di Aquilea to go with dinner. Even that little taste of the Veneto was better than nothing, she reflected as she drove back. She parked behind a Mercedes coupe and hurried towards the building entrance. She had only taken a few steps when she was brought up short by the sound of a familiar voice calling her name. A moment later, Cordelia was by her side.

Lindsay struggled to find something to say that wouldn't betray the confusion of emotions that were churning inside her. It didn't matter how many times she told herself it was over, her heart hadn't got the message yet. "I like the new car," she said sarcastically. "Very tasty. Must be more money in the book business than I thought. Or was it another windfall from a rich relative?" she added, feeling ashamed as soon as the words were out of her mouth. She'd never been able to forgive Cordelia for the ostentatious luxury of her London home, bought with the money her grandmother had left her.

Cordelia failed to respond to Lindsay's barb. "I had to get rid of the BMW. Some joyriders smashed into it outside the house one night, and the steering was never the same afterwards. When I sold the film rights for
Ikhaya Lamaqhawe
, I treated myself to the Merc," she replied. "But I didn't drive over here to discuss cars. Claire told me where you were staying. I need to talk to you."

Lindsay felt anger rising up inside her. Hadn't Cordelia made her position clear enough the night before? "What is there to say?" she demanded abruptly. She wanted this conversation over with. The longer it went on, the more upset she was going to become. "You've obviously made your choices," she snapped.

"At the time, it was the choice between loneliness and having someone to share things with. I missed you so much, Lindsay. And the months kept going by... well, I decided I couldn't go on hurting forever. Then I met Claire." In spite of the conciliatory tone of her words, Cordelia's face was set in a stubborn expression of self-righteousness.

"Fine," said Lindsay, cutting Cordelia off. "I'll see you around." She moved forward, but Cordelia was in front of her, barring her path.

"Wait," she said urgently. "Claire says you've agreed to try to clear Jackie. I wanted to offer my help."

"That's very noble of you." Lindsay snorted derisively, refusing to let herself be moved. "Aren't you worried about the competition if Jackie gets out?"

Cordelia flinched but didn't rise. "We used to work well together on this kind of thing. I know you like bouncing your ideas off someone. Look, Lindsay, we might not be lovers any more, but I know the way your mind works. Let me help."

In spite of herself, Lindsay was touched by Cordelia's offer. "Okay, let me think about it. I'm not making any promises, but I'll think about it."

Cordelia smiled, and Lindsay felt as if she would burst into tears. "Thanks," Cordelia said. "You can get me at Claire's if you want to talk." Then, with the impeccable sense of timing that always left people wanting more, she walked briskly back to her new Mercedes without a backward glance.

Close to tears, Lindsay stumbled blindly into the close and ran up the stairs to the first-floor flat. She walked into the hall, but before she could reach her room, Helen's voice rang out. "Lindsay? Is that you? Thank God you're back. Rosalind's flat's been burgled!"