Hostage to Murder

  “I’ve never been.”

  “You should go, before the Russians get the hang of mass tourism and it gets ruined.”

  I could end up there sooner than you imagine, she thought wryly. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any contacts there?” she asked without much hope that serendipity would weigh in on her side.

  He shook his head. “Not journalists, no. I got quite pally with a chap from the British Council. He does a lot of liaison work with the local schools and colleges, which is why we ended up spending quite a bit of time with him.”

  A faint glimmer of an idea flickered at the edge of Lindsay’s brain. “Do you think he might be up for a bit of intrigue?”

  Giles laughed. “Probably. British Council bureaucracy doesn’t exactly make for an interesting life. I expect he’d be terribly grateful for a bit of excitement. Do you want me to call him?”

  In reply, Lindsay handed him her phone.

  “You don’t mess about, do you?” he said, amused. He looked up a number on his electronic organiser then dialled it. “Hello? Is that Gareth? Gareth, it’s Giles Graham here. Julia’s husband. How are things with you?” He listened politely for a minute. “Oh, we’re both fine,” he continued. “Listen, Gareth, a colleague of mine has a need for a little clandestine information gathering in your fair city. And I wondered if you’d be willing to help her? . . . I’m not entirely sure, but I suspect it’s not the sort of thing she could put through official channels . . . You would? Hang on, I’ll pass you over to her.”

  He handed the phone to Lindsay with a wink. “I think you’ll be OK there.”

  “Hello? Gareth, my name’s Lindsay Gordon. I really appreciate you talking to me.”

  “No problem,” he said, his Geordie accent immediately obvious. “A change is as good as a holiday round here. If I can do anything to help, I will.”

  “Great. This is all a bit delicate, and I don’t want to drop you in it professionally, so it’s probably better if I don’t go into the reasons why I need this information. Are you OK with that?” Lindsay’s voice was warm and persuasive, honed over years of persuading the reluctant to talk.

  “I suppose so,” he said dubiously. “It’s not anything illegal, is it?”

  “No, of course not. I just don’t want to put you in an embarrassing position.”

  “So what is it you want to know?”

  “I’m trying to track down a six-year-old boy. I think he might be in St Petersburg, and if he is, I’m sure he’ll be going to school. He’s a native English speaker, which I guess would narrow the options down quite a bit. I wondered if you could maybe let me have a list of places he could possibly be enrolled?”

  “That’s it? That’s all you want to know? No problem. Just let me make a couple of calls. Can you ring me back tomorrow on this number? Make it around the same time, if you can.”

  Lindsay punched the air and gave Giles the thumbs-up. “That’s great, Gareth. I really appreciate this.”

  “Like I said, no problem. You tell Giles, next time he comes, he owes me a bottle of Bowmore.”

  Lindsay ended the call, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “Giles, you are a prince among men. That espresso is on me.”

  Chapter 11

  People were so gullible, Michael mused. No, on second thoughts, people were so greedy. The estate agent had been a pushover as soon as the words, “I’d pay cash, of course. No need to bother the taxman, is there?” had left his mouth. You’d think with the damage Republican bombs had done over the years that any Brit with half a brain would think twice before they rented out an empty flat to a man with an accent like his. But the magic of money worked the trick every time.

  It was perfect. The view from the bay window of the living room couldn’t be bettered. They could see the Gourlays’ front door and they could catch glimpses of Bernadette as she moved across the living room. The only thing Michael had to worry about was whether Kevin had the attention span to keep a proper watch when it was his turn.

  So far, there hadn’t been much to see. The big fucker had gone off in his shiny maroon Jag at twenty to nine. Bernadette had emerged just before ten and Michael had followed at a discreet distance. She’d walked down to the supermarket and bought a chicken, a bag of spuds, a cabbage, a bottle of Scotch and 200 cigarettes. She’d moved like a zombie, he’d thought. If he’d jumped up in front of her and shouted, “Boo!” he didn’t think she’d have broken stride.

  On the way back, he’d caught himself wondering what the point of this was. Patrick knew where she was living. He’d given her one scare already with the note he’s had Michael leave on the kitchen table. Presumably, he was also leaning on her via the phone to get her to give up whatever it was she’d walked off with. But surely he must have realised by now that the softly-softly approach wasn’t getting him anywhere? Michael couldn’t understand why he hadn’t been instructed to try a more direct method of persuasion.

  However, the habit of obeying orders was ingrained in Michael. If Patrick was holding back, there had to be a reason. It was possible he wanted to front her up himself. Christ Almighty, Michael thought, if I’d robbed Patrick Coughlan and he showed up on my doorstep, I’d sign away everything I owned in the world to see the back of him. If that was the game plan, it was possible that the delay was because Patrick hadn’t been able to get away. He wasn’t simply a busy man; he was important too. Just because there was a ceasefire, that didn’t mean Patrick could disappear on his own private business whenever it suited him.

  All in good time, Michael had told himself as he watched Bernadette let herself into the home she probably still saw as a sanctuary. For now, he was content to wait.

  Sophie had woken up feeling sick. When she passed the news on, Lindsay felt sick too. “Does that mean it’s worked?” she’d asked.

  “I’m not getting my hopes up,” Sophie had said. “It could be psychosomatic, it could be that I ate too much of your wonderful tomato and artichoke risotto last night.”

  “And it could be that you’re pregnant.” Lindsay rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed, wondering for how much longer it would just be the two of them.

  “What are you so scared of, Lindsay? Are you worried I won’t love you any more when the baby comes?” Sophie squirmed across the bed and put an arm round her lover’s naked back.

  “I suppose that’s part of it. The baby will come first with you, it’s the way the biology works. But mostly, it’s just that I like my life the way it is. I like the choices we have. Where to live, where to go on holiday, when to go to the pictures, when to go out for dinner. We’ve worked hard for the right to those choices and it feels like madness to throw all that away.” She got to her feet and padded across the room to get her dressing gown.

  “We’ll have different choices,” Sophie said, her voice tinged with sadness. “We’ll have a lovely life, Lindsay, I promise you.”

  “Yeah, but on balance, I prefer the devil I know.”

  Her words came back to her as she sat in Café Virginia browsing the morning papers. She hadn’t seen Rory since the previous morning, and had no idea what her business partner was up to. Presumably pursuing the Faslane story, whatever it had turned out to be. She wondered if they needed to set up an agreed system for communicating what they were up to, or whether that would feel too much like keeping tabs on each other. She was fairly sure Rory would hate to feel checked up on almost as much as she would.

  So, what was she doing with her much-vaunted choices today? Not a lot, came the answer. She’d spent half an hour checking out St Petersburg on the internet, formulating ideas and discarding them as fast as she thought of them. Eventually, she’d come up with the bare bones of a plan. But she needed to know she wasn’t setting herself an impossible task. Three hours till she could phone Gareth in St Petersburg, and damn all to fill them with. Lindsay needed to dig up some stories for herself, but she wasn’t going to do that sitting on her backside in the café. She was about to go off in search of a
newsagent that sold out-of-town weekly papers when her phone rang. She grabbed it eagerly and said, “Hello? Lindsay Gordon.”

  “Lindsay? It’s Gareth here. I got your number off Giles, I hope you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all, no.”

  “Only, I’ve got that information for you, but I’ve got to go to a meeting this afternoon, so I thought I’d better get back to you before then.”

  “That’s great,’ Lindsay said, elation swelling inside her. “What’s the score?”

  “There’s three schools that could take an English-speaking six-year-old. I can email you the details, it would be easier than trying to spell them out to you.”

  Lindsay’s heart sank. “Three?”

  “Yes. They’re all fairly central, and they’re all much of a muchness when it comes to the quality of teaching, as far as I can gather.”

  “Is there any one in particular that caters to the diplomatic community?” Lindsay asked, desperate to narrow down the search.

  “I don’t know about catering to the diplomatic community specifically, but there are a couple of people here with kids who send them to the international school on Konstantinogradskaya Ulitsa. I’ve heard that quite a few of the kids there have parents who are EU diplomats.”

  “That’s brilliant, Gareth.” She gave him her email address. “I really appreciate you going to this much trouble.”

  “It was no trouble. I’ll email those details to you right away.”

  Lindsay hung up. She dialled a new number and waited.

  “Gourlay’s Garage, your first choice for previously-owned vehicles, how may I help you?” She recognised the voice of Tam’s receptionist.

  “Can I speak to Tam, please? It’s Lindsay Gordon.”

  The line went hollow as she was put on hold. Then Tam Gourlay’s voice boomed in her ear. “Have you got some news for me?”

  “I’ve got a pretty good idea where Jack is.”

  The roar of delight nearly blew the electronics in Lindsay’s phone. “That’s fantastic! Amazing! So where is he?”

  “I think the chances are strong that he’s in St Petersburg.”

  A moment of stunned silence followed by, “You mean, in Russia?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What the fuck’s he doing in Russia?” Tam sounded genuinely bewildered.

  “Bruno’s sister is married to another Italian diplomat. They’ve had it set up officially for ages for Jack to go and live with them. I can’t see any reason for that unless they were planning to look after him once Bruno had snatched him. Even if it’s only for a short time, until the fuss dies down.”

  “Fuck. What do we do now? I mean, Russia. I don’t even know how you get there. Or how long it takes.”

  “Well, funnily enough, I’ve got one or two ideas about that. It’s going to be risky, and it’s going to cost a lot of money.”

  “I told you,” Tam interrupted. “Money is not an issue here. All I want is to see Bernie happy again.”

  “OK. So, this is what I’m thinking.” Lindsay leaned back in the booth and outlined her plan.

  Two hours later, the MGB was powering up the long rise of the Rest and be Thankful. Blessedly, there hadn’t been much traffic on the Loch Lomond road and she’d made good time. With luck and a continued absence of caravans and motor homes, she’d be at her parents’ house in an hour and a half. The heather was turning purple on the hills, and the familiar grandeur of the landscape made Lindsay feel at home as the city never would. She recognised her membership of the national trait of sentimentality for her native land, but she didn’t care. The sense of ownership she felt driving through Argyll to the Kintyre peninsula was something that could never be taken from her.

  Sophie hadn’t been best pleased when she’d called to tell her she was going up to Invercross overnight. It wasn’t that she minded Lindsay being away; she minded not coming with her. “We don’t see enough of your parents,” she’d said plaintively. “Tell them to come down and visit soon.”

  Aye, right, Lindsay thought, knowing how little time her fisherman father was ever prepared to spend away from the sea. Her mother enjoyed the opportunity for shopping in the big city, but watching her father fret always spoiled Lindsay’s joy in her mother’s pleasure. “We’ll go up for a weekend soon,” she promised Sophie.

  “A shame it couldn’t wait till the weekend this time,” Sophie said.

  “You know how stories don’t wait.” Well, it was almost the truth

  “I know. It’s good to see you enjoying yourself again, Lindsay. I’m really glad you’re working with Rory.” They’d left it at that, neither mentioning what was uppermost in both their minds.

  Lindsay was changing down to negotiate a series of bends when the phone rang. She pulled over into a viewpoint and picked up the phone. “Hello? Lindsay Gordon.”

  “Hey, partner, where are you?” Rory sounded cheerful. “I just got this bizarre message from Giles saying I better catch you before you went chasing off to Russia. What’s going on?”

  “I’m on the A83, west of Arrochar, heading down towards Loch Fyne. Which, as far as I’m aware, is not the way to Russia.”

  “What are you doing there?”

  “I’m on my way to Invercross, to visit my parents.”

  “Invercross? Where the hell is that?”

  “Half way down the Mull of Kintyre, on the west side. Where I grew up. Possibly one of the most beautiful places on the planet.”

  Rory snorted. “Compared to Castlemilk, almost anywhere qualifies for that description. So what’s all this about Russia?”

  “I think I’ve tracked down Jack Gourlay. It’s looking likely that he’s in St Petersburg.”

  “Wow! Bizarre. So, is Bernie going to court to get him back?”

  Lindsay took a deep breath. “Not exactly.”

  Rory picked up on the hesitation. “Oh no. Don’t tell me. Big Tam wants to play at Where Eagles Dare.”

  “Something like that. So, do you fancy a trip to Russia?”

  PART TWO

  Chapter 12

  The first thing Lindsay noticed about Pulkovo Airport was the cigarette smoke. Accustomed to American airports where no tobacco had burned for years, she was taken aback to see people smoking everywhere. It reinforced what had already struck her on the approach to the runway—that she was heading somewhere very foreign indeed. This wasn’t a landscape she’d seen anywhere else in Europe. From the plane window, it looked like Legoland: the buildings neat, square blocks, anywhere from six to twelve storeys high, laid out in grids. Sticking up apparently at random were factory chimneys, red and white striped, also like something from a child’s construction kit, plumes of smoke coming out of them at right angles in the stiff wind. There seemed to be nothing organic about this landscape; it was as regimented as humans could make it.

  Then, as the plane dipped down, Rory pointed out a landing strip exclusively for helicopters. There were dozens of them, in various liveries. “It’s a flock of petrol budgies,” she exclaimed.

  As the plane approached the runway, silver birch trees took over. As far as the eye could see, ghostly white trunks stood in the dimming afternoon light, topped by naked branches like a very bad perm, the chimney stacks sticking out of them, still red and white, still spewing out ribbons of white smoke across a sky the blue of robin’s eggs.

  When the wheels touched down on the tarmac, the Russians on board applauded loudly. “Tells you all you need to know about Aeroflot,” Lindsay commented.

  “Where do we go?” Rory asked anxiously as they emerged into the terminal building. She’d admitted to being less than intrepid when it came to abroad, and being confronted with signs in Cyrillic everywhere clearly wasn’t helping her confidence.

  “Follow the crowd,” Lindsay said. “We’ve all got to jump through the same hoops.” They descended a flight of stairs and found themselves in a high-ceilinged immigration hall, queues snaking the length of the room. Lindsay headed for what look
ed like the shortest line, and resigned herself to a long wait. In the week since she’d discovered Jack Gourlay’s whereabouts, she’d set herself a crash course in figuring out Russia, and she knew getting through immigration could take a while.

  She’d thought the whole process would be nightmarish and complicated, but the travel agent had made it all look desperately simple. Arranging visas had taken no more than a couple of days once they’d filled in the forms and supplied passport photographs. The hotel booking was confirmed and the flights arranged. But a lot of what happened now they were here would be up to her. She’d learned the alphabet, the words for “please” and “thank you” and the invaluable sentence, “I don’t speak Russian.” She’d studied a street map of the city, got her head round the metro system and read the Rough Guide.

  All that had been easy compared to explaining to Sophie why she had to go off on such a risky venture at all. Her partner had seemed emotionally vulnerable, a state Lindsay wasn’t accustomed to dealing with. Sophie was the rock in their relationship, the one who was always calm in a crisis. Lindsay was the volatile one, impetuous and prey to insecurities. She didn’t know how to respond when Sophie accused her of abandoning her at a crucial time. She knew she was supposed to be supportive, she just didn’t seem to be able to find the necessary vocabulary. Instead, she retreated into mutinous self-justification, which only made things worse. She wasn’t sure why she was behaving so badly, and she was too scared of the answers to examine her motives too closely. When she’d left that morning, she’d found herself wondering if she could ever manage to be the person Sophie appeared to need her to be. Or if she even wanted to be.

  But she couldn’t think about that now. She was the pivot around whom a meticulously constructed plan had to move like clockwork. That was going to take all her concentration. She was glad Rory was there to share the load, although persuading Rory to come had been almost as hard as overcoming Sophie’s objections.