Hostage to Murder (34 page)

 

Bernie stood on a chair and took the suitcases down from the top of the wardrobe. She wanted to believe that Lindsay's plan would work. But she needed insurance. If Patrick couldn't be neutralised, then she would have to go on the run again. It would be harder with Jack in tow, but without him there would be no point.

She would pack a couple of bags, just the essentials for the two of them. She'd stow them in the boot of the car. Then if things went wrong, she could just hit the road and head south. Hull would be a good place to leave from. They could cross the North Sea to Holland and make their way down to Italy. She'd learned basic Italian when she'd been married to Bruno. It wouldn't be too hard to find a decent job in some big anonymous city where Patrick and his thugs would never find her. Bruno would help, she was sure. After the initial acrimony of the divorce, he'd proved a surprisingly good friend. She supposed that was because he'd grown to care about Jack.

But in her heart, she didn't want to run. She wanted to stay
here in this house where she'd been happy with Tam. She wanted to mourn at his funeral. She wanted to grieve in peace, without having to look over her shoulder all the time. Bernie sat down heavily on the bed and let the tears flow. “Oh, Tam,” she sobbed. “What am I going to do without you?” Misery and remorse seized her and she rolled on to her stomach, pounding the pillows with her fist.

She was lamenting not only what she had lost but the knowledge that she could never again take the risk of allowing someone to love her. That was what had cost Tam his life. Under no circumstances could she gamble with another's. From now on, it was her and Jack against the world.

Giles stared at Rory. “Why me?” he asked plaintively.

“Because I trust you.”

“What about Sandra?”

Rory snorted derisively. “Would you let Sandra loose on something that needed split second timing? She'd probably chip her nail varnish or get distracted by some trainee accountant with a cute bum.”

Giles smiled in spite of his discomfiture. “I see your point. But really, is this sensible?”

“Of course it's not sensible. But the thing I've realised about Lindsay is that once she decides she's going to do something, she won't be diverted. And if she tries to do this single-handed, it'll never work. I'm doing it purely for business reasons, because I don't want anything bad to happen to her.” Rory avoided his eyes, not wanting him to see too much.

“And you're asking me to help because you know I don't want anything bad to happen to you,” Giles said, reaching across the table and patting her hand. “Purely for business reasons, of course.”

“Hey, where else would you get all the best stories? But the real reason I want you on board is that if it all goes horribly wrong, Julia can use her influence to get us off the hook,” Rory said,
deflecting his seriousness with flippancy. “So, are you in or are you going to make me ask Sandra?”

Giles shook his head, wondering at his own stupidity. “I'm in.”

“Thanks, Giles. I appreciate it. Now, this is what you have to do.” She ran through the details of the plan once more, making sure he was clear about his role. “Can you see any flaws in it?”

“Apart from the general insanity of trying to blackmail an IRA capo? No, not a thing. It all makes perfect sense,” he said sarcastically.

“Lindsay will pick you up at half past seven. And we'll take it from there.” Rory stood up and gathered her things. She took a theatrical look around Café Virginia. “I've loved these days,” she said. “Do you think if I don't make it back, they'll put a blue plaque on this booth?”

“More likely a health warning. ‘Sitting in this booth may provoke the illusion that you are Don Quixote.' ”

Rory grinned. “Bring on the windmills.”

 

Lindsay checked over the electronic equipment one last time. “I've put new batteries in everything, there shouldn't be a problem,” she said. She studied Rory carefully, knowing the margin for error was small and needing to be sure of her. “You OK about this?”

Rory nodded. “Let's get on with it before my bottle goes completely.”

Lindsay picked up a small radio mike with a crocodile clip and a loose wire dangling from it. “This is the radio mike. Not exactly state of the art, but it does the business. I'll have the receiver in my car, linked up to a tape recorder.”

“So where do I wear it?”

Lindsay couldn't resist a wicked grin. “Experience has shown that for women, the best place is attached to your bra.”

“So much for keeping your hands off my body.” Rory stood up and unbuttoned her blouse, trying to keep it as matter of fact as she could. “How much do I need from Coughlan, do you think? Is it enough if he acknowledges he's Jack's real father?”

“You have to get him to admit to being involved with Tam's
murder. That's the only insurance policy that's worth anything. You get that, then you get clear.”

Rory nodded. “Then you phone him and tell him that if anything happens to Jack or Bernie—if a pigeon so much as craps on their car—the tape goes to the police. And the papers.” Rory opened her blouse and gave a wry smile. “All yours,” she said.

Lindsay picked up the mike and stepped towards Rory. In spite of her best intentions, she couldn't avoid a nostalgic frisson of desire. Trying hard to stay businesslike, she delicately slid the mike inside the bra so it nestled neatly against Rory's left breast. Rory gave an involuntary shiver as Lindsay's hand brushed her skin. “Sorry,” she muttered.

“Don't be,” Lindsay said softly. She laid her hands on the soft skin stretched over Rory's collarbone. She frowned slightly, her eyes filled with sadness. “I . . .”

Rory put a finger on her lips. “Don't say it. I know. Me too, for what it's worth.”

Lindsay nodded and stood back. “Make yourself decent. We've got work to do, woman.”

Rory smiled and buttoned up her blouse then reached for her jacket.

“OK, time to go. Try it out on the way down the stairs.” Lindsay said, desperately wanting to give Rory a benedictory kiss but knowing it would only be another source of pain.

Rory waggled her fingers in farewell and winked. “See you in Café Virginia when it's all over.”

Lindsay watched her leave, then made some adjustments to the small receiver and tape recorder. Suddenly, Rory's voice emerged clearly from the speaker. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to adopt celibacy as the only safe way to live . . .”

In spite of the seriousness of the moment, Lindsay couldn't help herself. She burst out laughing. “Oh, Rory,” she said out loud. “Such bad timing.”

 

Patrick sat in the passenger seat of Michael's hired car, staring at Bernie's house through a pair of binoculars. He let them drop and
pulled out his phone. The number was answered on the second ring.

“Are you free and clear now?” he said without preamble.

“They've left,” Bernie said.

“Good. Where are we meeting?”

“The Charles Rennie Mackintosh multi-storey car park at the bottom of Garnethill. Top floor. Eight o'clock.” Bernie's voice was flat and depressed, the voice of a woman who has given up. It gladdened Patrick's heart to hear it.

“Fine. I'll be there. And no tricks, mind, or there'll be a couple more funerals in this city before too long.” He stabbed a finger at the phone, ending the call. He allowed himself a satisfied smile and said, “Charles Rennie Mackintosh car park in Garnethill. Half an hour's time. You know what to do, boys. When she comes out the house with the boy, you follow her. If she goes anywhere except this car park, you stay on her tail and call me right away. If the boy comes out with anyone else, Kevin, you follow them. And Michael, you deal with the bitch. Is that all clear, now?”

“It's clear,” Michael said.

“But she's not going to try anything on, is she?” Kevin asked. “Not after that wee warning.”

“Of course she's not,” Patrick said, confident and dismissive.

“But I've always been a believer in contingency plans. That's probably why I'm still alive. I'll see youse later, boys.” He opened the door and stepped out into the heavy drizzle, turning up his coat collar as he walked back to his car, parked further up the street. Although he had spent years battening down his emotions in favour of operational activity, Patrick couldn't suppress a surge of excitement that raised his pulse rate. Tonight, finally, he would take his son home. What better feeling could a man have?

 

Lindsay let herself out of Rory's flat and walked to her car. She put the receiver and tape recorder on the passenger seat, then lifted the narrow bench seat in the back of the MGB. When she'd first bought the car, she'd customised the seat with a set of hinges so the area beneath it could be used for extra storage space. She hadn't
quite envisaged stowing one of her father's shotguns there, but it had turned out to be perfect for the job. She deliberately hadn't told Rory about the gun, aware that the knowledge would have made it impossible for Rory to carry out her end of the plan with anything approaching equanimity. But Lindsay didn't trust Patrick Coughlan and she had no intention of leaving Rory exposed and unprotected.

She leaned into the car and broke the gun open, slotting a pair of cartridges into the breech. It had been a long time since she'd handled a gun, years since she'd shot rabbits and pheasants with her father on the hills above Invercross, but she was pleased to find she hadn't lost the knack. Then she slammed it closed and put it on the floor behind the driver's seat, hiding it beneath a tatty tartan rug she'd borrowed from her father's workshop.

Lindsay leaned on the cloth roof of the car and tried to calm herself. It was still painful to breathe, never mind move around freely. But she had to be up to this. She had to forget her physical discomfort and focus on the plan. She reached into her pocket and took out a container of ibuprofen tablets. She swallowed 600mg and hoped for the best.

Lindsay climbed into the car and pulled a ski mask out of the pocket of her waxed jacket. She'd gone back home that afternoon in Sophie's absence and chosen her clothes with care. A black cotton polo neck, the jacket, black fleece trousers, black leather gloves and rubber soled black shoes. She rolled up the ski mask so that it resembled a watch cap and jammed it over her hair, then started the engine. She wanted some music to psych her up for what lay ahead and slotted Horse's
Both Sides
into the cassette player. “Never Not Going To” blasted out at her and she sang along with a sense of savage irony as she drove through the rainy streets in the gathering dusk to her rendezvous with Giles.

She pulled up outside the Victorian warehouse where Giles and Julia enjoyed a magnificent view of the river and the Finnieston crane from their converted loft apartment. A tall slim figure detached itself from the shadows of the doorway and crossed to the car. Giles was almost unrecognisable in camouflage trousers,
Doc Martens and a parka. “You look like Rambo on a night out,” Lindsay observed as he piled into the car, shunting the electronic equipment on to his lap.

Giles raised an eyebrow. “And you don't?” he asked. “I have to wonder what I'm doing here.”

“You can't resist playing cowboys and Indians.”

“Hmm. Let me tell you, if Rory wasn't certifiably lucky, I wouldn't be here.”

Lindsay drove off, cutting up from the quayside on the road that paralleled the motorway as far as Charing Cross, then followed the signs to the Charles Rennie Mackintosh car park.

“Why here?” Giles asked as they approached the entrance.

“Because of the system.” Lindsay pointed to a sign that read, PAY AT MACHINE BEFORE RETURNING TO VEHICLE. She drove up to the entry barrier, lowered her window and took a ticket. The metal arm rose and she drove through. “There you go,” she said, handing the ticket to Giles. They stared at each other for a long moment then he opened the door, unfolded his long legs and climbed out, leaning back into the car to give Lindsay the thumbs up sign.

“Good luck,” he said.

“And you.” Lindsay waited till she saw Giles walk over to the lifts and attach an OUT OF ORDER sticker to the doors. Then she drove on up, her damp tyres screaming on the cement as she climbed to the penultimate floor, the last covered level below the roof.

Lindsay parked near the “up” ramp and got out. She pocketed the electronic equipment, slipped the shotgun under her waxed jacket and walked cautiously up the ramp to the roof. Here, there were only a couple of other cars, and little scope for hiding. She checked out one of the parked cars, but the lines of sight were terrible. Adrenaline was making her jumpy and she began to panic at her inability to find somewhere to conceal herself. Then she spotted a large concrete bin used for storing grit near the door leading to the lifts. She hurried over there and stood by it, sighting along her arm like a child playing soldiers. This was better, she thought, dry-mouthed and sweating. She could see the ramps
clearly, as well as the whole area of the roof level. Lindsay freed the shotgun and squeezed down behind the bin, gasping as her ribs protested.

Meanwhile, nine floors below her, Patrick Coughlan slowed down as he approached the barrier. He looked sharply around him, but missed Giles, who had found a patch of shadow in the lee of the entrance. Patrick leaned out of the driver's window to snatch a ticket then edged forward, aiming for the ramp that would carry him to the meeting he'd dreamed of for years.