Hostage to Murder

  “What’s she like personally?”

  “I wouldn’t say I knew her that well. She seems very private, never really gives much away. She’s not one of those freelances who’s always trying to freeload in the pub, you know the kind?”

  Lindsay knew the kind. “But you like her?”

  “Oh yes, I like her fine. She’s very pally with Giles Graham, you know Giles? Such a sweetie. If Giles likes her, she must have something going for her, I’ve always thought he’s an awfully good judge of character. I’ve seen her about with Sandra Singh as well. You won’t know Sandra, she’s a factual programmes producer at STV, after your time. Does that help?”

  It had helped. Lindsay had instinctively liked Rory, but she was too shrewd an operator herself to trust her future to someone she knew nothing about. Now she knew enough to take a chance. She picked the top paper off the pile and began browsing. After an hour, she ordered a burger and fries. The burger turned out to be a very poor relation of what she was accustomed to in California, but the chips were glorious—fat chunks of real potato, golden brown and crunchy, the way she liked them and had seldom found them in America. That would be how I stayed so slim over there, she thought. She decided she’d give Rory till she’d finished her lunch, then she’d leave her a note and go. It really didn’t do to seem too keen, after all.

  A shadow crossed the page she was reading and Lindsay looked up to see Rory standing before her, laptop slung over one shoulder, a delighted grin on her face. “Couldn’t stay away, huh?” Rory asked, sliding into the seat opposite Lindsay.

  “Well, I could hardly go running, could I?”

  Rory winced. “How is the ankle?”

  “Sore. But not as swollen as it was. A week or so and it’ll be back to normal.”

  “That’s the official clinical view from the resident medic?”

  Lindsay snorted. “Given Sophie’s area of expertise, she’d take one look at a swollen ankle and probably tell me I was suffering from pre-eclampsia.”

  Annie arrived carrying a couple of cappuccinos. “There youse go. You want something to eat, Rory?”

  “I’ll take a plate of stovies, Annie.”

  The barmaid nodded and left them to it.

  “Three cappuccinos in one day. I’ll be jazzed till bedtime at this rate,” Lindsay said.

  “Would you rather have something else? Only, Annie said that’s what you were on.” Rory looked momentarily anxious.

  She’s trying to make an impression, Lindsay thought wryly. “No, that’s fine. I suspect I’m going to have to have my wits about me to deal with you anyway.”

  “So, you’ve decided to take me up on my suggestion?” Rory kept her eyes on her coffee, but Lindsay could sense the eagerness underlying the question.

  “I’m giving it serious consideration. But if it’s going to stand any chance of working, we’ve got to be up front with each other.” Rory’s head came up as she registered the seriousness of Lindsay’s tone. The banter was over, and it was time to get down to business.

  “Point taken. So, what do you want to know?”

  Lindsay sucked some foam off her cappuccino and wiped her top lip clean. “My big reservation is that initially, stories would only be coming my way on the basis of your reputation. Which obviously means you get first pick of whatever lands on the table. I have no idea what that means for me. If I’m just going to be running around doing the dross that doesn’t interest you or that you think isn’t worth your time and attention, then, frankly, I’m not interested.”

  Rory looked wounded. “No, that’s not how I see it at all. See, the thing is, I already get more stuff coming to me than I can deal with. I end up selling stuff on as tips that I’d rather work myself, but if I’m in the middle of something big and I get a lead on a story that’s time-sensitive, I have to let it go. The way I see it, when a story comes in, whichever one of us is free to take it runs with it. Anyway, the reputation you’ve got, you’ll be pulling stories in yourself in no time.”

  Lindsay’s eyebrows shot up. “The reputation I’ve got? Come on, Rory, I’m hardly a household name.”

  “I’ve just been in at the Standard, passing a tip on to Giles Graham. He remembers exactly who you are. And you didn’t even work together. Your by-line will sell stories that I’d struggle to place. Lindsay, I’m not handing out charity here. You’d be doing me a favour by coming in with me.”

  Lindsay gave Rory a long, considering look. Sure, the kid was probably a bit starry-eyed about her, imagining a past crammed with glory days and twenty-two point by-lines. But surely that had to be better than trying single-handed to carve out a niche among the sceptical new faces that were running the newsdesks and magazine supplements these days?

  It wasn’t the hardest decision of her life. “OK. Let’s give it a go. A month’s trial, and at the end of it, either of us can walk away if it’s not working out.”

  Rory punched the air. “Yes! That’s brilliant, Lindsay. Hey, you won’t regret this, you know.”

  I sincerely hope not, Lindsay thought. But she stifled her remaining reservations and extended a hand across the table. “Nor will you,” she said.

  “So. When do we start?”

  Chapter 5

  Kevin followed Michael out into the street and sniffed the air like a dog in a new wood. “So this is Glasgow,” he said. “It’s not that different, is it?” There was a note of disappointment in his voice.

  Michael said nothing. He simply turned left and set off towards the bus stop he’d been told he’d find a couple of streets away. He carried his heavy holdall as lightly as if it held nothing more substantial than an evening newspaper. At the bus stop, he came to a halt, dropped his bag at his feet and lit a cigarette.

  “Where is it we’re going again?” Kevin asked.

  “A bed and breakfast,” Michael said. “Argyle Street.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “We’ll take a wee look round the pubs near where she was spotted.”

  Kevin’s face lit up at the prospect. “Sounds good to me, Michael.”

  A bus drew up and the two men boarded. It was almost empty and they had the rear area to themselves.

  “We won’t be drinking, Kevin. This is an operation, not a holiday,” Michael said. His tone of voice would have signalled to anyone else that this wasn’t a subject for debate.

  Not to Kevin. He gave the cunning smile of the truly stupid. “But we’ll need to fit in, Michael. We’ll stick out like a sore thumb if we just go in and order a couple of cokes.”

  “That’s why we won’t be going in and ordering any cokes, Kevin,” Michael snarled. “You’ll be going up to the bar and asking for change for the cigarette machine. Or a box of matches. Meanwhile, I’ll be taking a good look around. And if I see her, we’ll be stopping for a glass of stout. And we’ll be making it last.”

  Crestfallen, Kevin slumped in his seat, watching the unfamiliar city roll past the windows. He knew he was supposed to like Michael, for his sister’s sake, but he was a moody bastard to work with and no mistake.

  By closing time, Michael’s mood had blackened to a pitch where even Kevin realised silence was the best option. They’d explored pubs ranging from raucous student bars with loud insistent music to more traditional pubs where old men nursed their pints with the tenderness of new mothers. Michael had cast an apparently negligent but actually sharp look over hundreds of women, none of them Bernadette Dooley.

  They walked back through streets shared with drinkers heading home, the air aromatic with curry and fish suppers, to the scruffy B&B where they were inconspicuous among the transient workers and DSS claimants who made it their home. All the way back, a scowl deepened the crease between Michael’s eyebrows. Kevin had lost count of the number of pubs they’d scouted out, but his pockets were bulging with boxes of matches and loose change. And not so much as a glass of stout had passed his lips.

  Michael broke the silence as they turned on to Argyle Street. “We’ll d
o a school in the morning.”

  “Eh?”

  “Patrick says she has a child. A child has to go to school. We’ll stake out the nearest primary to the supermarket.”

  “I don’t remember anything being said about a child,” Kevin complained.

  “I checked in when we got here. You were in the toilet. Patrick said he’d forgotten to mention she has a child.”

  “I never knew that. From before, like. When she was working in the shop.”

  Michael made a kissing sound of exasperation. “She didn’t have it then. Whoever it was who spotted her in the supermarket told Patrick she had a child with her.”

  “Maybe it’s not old enough to be at the school,” Kevin pointed out, proud of himself for coming up with the argument. “I mean, it’s only six years since she left.”

  Michael flashed a look of surprise at Kevin. It was always a shock when he said something that wouldn’t be self-evident to a three-year-old. “Maybe not. But apart from hanging around the supermarket, we’ve got nothing else to go at. She’ll not be on the voter’s roll or in the phone book, not if she’s got any sense. So we’ll check out the primary schools on the map and we’ll be there first thing.”

  Kevin saw the prospect of a decent night’s sleep rapidly receding. “Right you are,” he sighed. “The school it is.”

  Kevin wasn’t the only one who reckoned sleep might be elusive. Lindsay had had one of the worst evenings in living memory, and the turmoil of emotions raging through her didn’t feel as if they were going to subside any time soon. Part of her wished she’d taken Rory up on her suggestion of a celebratory meal out to cement their new partnership and to hell with the consequences. But she knew that, being who she was, that would always have been impossible. She couldn’t be sure whether it was cowardice, love, good manners or fear that meant she had to go home and participate in the insemination she dreaded; all she knew was that she couldn’t bring herself to do otherwise.

  She’d returned via the greengrocer in Hyndland who seemed somehow always to have the freshest vegetables in town. Sprue asparagus, a selection of wild mushrooms, fresh strawberries, peaches and raspberries. She’d remembered Fraser’s boyfriend was vegetarian, and while deep down she longed to serve them all congealed Kentucky Fried Chicken, her need to see the world well fed wouldn’t allow it. It was a mark of pride to Lindsay that when people ate in her kitchen, they ate memorably and well. So she’d take the time and trouble to produce grilled asparagus, wild mushroom risotto garnished with parmesan and rocket, and a fresh fruit salad. If she’d liked them better, she’d have made a meringue shell for a pavlova, but her soul wasn’t feeling that generous.

  She’d thought that Sophie would be home early for once, but her lover only just made it through the door ahead of their guests. “Trying to avoid talking about it?” Lindsay had said sourly when Sophie finally walked into the kitchen and came up behind her to kiss her on the neck.

  “No,” Sophie replied evenly, refusing to be drawn. “I was called in on an emergency consult at the Western. You’ll be pleased to hear we saved the baby and the mother, though it was touch and go with the mum.”

  Guilt tripped, Lindsay said nothing, taking out her spleen on the parmesan, producing a pile of extravagant curls.

  The rest of the evening hadn’t gone any better. Fraser and Peter had clearly already been to the pub before they arrived, drowning their apprehensions in whisky, to judge by the smell on their breath as they leaned forward in turn to plant air kisses on Lindsay’s cheeks. “So, what’s the drill?” Fraser had demanded with an air of forced gaiety. “Is there some ceremony to the Goddess, or do we just run away through to the spare room and have a wank?”

  Lindsay closed her eyes momentarily, biting down hard to keep her mouth firmly shut. “Don’t be daft,” Sophie said, her voice more affectionate than Lindsay could ever have managed in the circumstances. “We’ll eat first. Lindsay’s cooked us a lovely meal. And then . . .”

  “He can provide his specimen, eh?” Peter chipped in, his ferret smile disturbingly predatory. Lindsay was glad Sophie had asked Fraser to be their donor; at least he looked like a human being, not an escapee from a vivisection lab. Sophie’s chosen donor would be a good match for her, Lindsay thought dispassionately as she poured wine for everyone. Like her lover, Fraser was above average height, especially for a Scot, and he had the same trim build. His hair and eye colour were close to Sophie’s and like her, he had good facial bone structure.

  Lindsay supposed it made sense to have a donor who resembled Sophie so closely. It increased the chances of any baby that resulted resembling its mother. But she couldn’t help feeling an irrational pang of exclusion that Sophie had never even bothered to ask if she’d like them to find a donor who was a match for her, so that there would be at least a chance that any child would look like an amalgam of both of them, rather than be so clearly Sophie’s child.

  The dinner conversation had been gruesome. When the two men had eaten with them previously, it had been an easy and comfortable evening. But what lay ahead sat like a ponderous elephant in the middle of the dinner table, impossible to ignore yet equally unfit for discussion according to any rules of decorum.

  Fed up of the dismal attempts at small talk that kept running aground, Lindsay finally said, “You don’t want to be a parent, then, Fraser?”

  Fraser looked startled. “Well, not in the sense of day-to-day involvement, no. Though I like the idea that my genetic material will continue after I’ve gone.”

  Selfish bastard, Lindsay thought. She wondered why he thought his genes were so special they deserved to be preserved, but realised this wasn’t a line of conversation that would endear her to Sophie. “So you’re not going to be popping round to take the wean to the football? Or the Scottish country dancing,” she added as an afterthought, remembering that Peter had revealed that he and Fraser had first met at a gay and lesbian ceilidh. The sort of event she would have slit her throat rather than attend. Lindsay had grown up in the Highlands and knew what ceilidhs were supposed to be like. She thought Peter and Fraser would last about ten minutes tops at any village dance she’d ever attended.

  Fraser smiled uncertainly, unsure if he was really hearing hostility. “I’m happy to let you and Sophie bring up the child without any interference from me,” he said cautiously. “I don’t mind it knowing I’m the other half of its genetic make-up when it’s older, but I’m not planning on being a father in any active way.”

  Lindsay smiled. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Sophie suddenly look apprehensive. “Let’s just hope he doesn’t decide when he’s thirteen that he’d rather live with the other half of his genetic make-up, then,” she said.

  “Lindsay, do stop trying to frighten Fraser,” Sophie said. Her voice was light, but the look she gave Lindsay would have melted the snows of Kilimanjaro. “Now, would anyone like any more fruit salad?”

  Fraser and Peter exchanged a swift glance “Maybe we should just cut to the chase, Sophie,” Fraser said.

  “I’ll show you to the spare room,” Sophie said, ushering them out of the dining room and throwing a warning look over her shoulder at Lindsay. When she returned a few minutes later, she found Lindsay clattering the dirty plates into the dishwasher.

  “Are you deliberately trying to fuck this up for me? Or are you just behaving inappropriately because you’re nervous?” Sophie demanded.

  “Neither. I was just trying to make sure we all knew what the ground rules were.” Lindsay closed the machine forcefully.

  “But I told you all that last night. You knew I’d already been through all that with Fraser.”

  Lindsay tipped the remains of the fruit salad into a plastic container and headed for the fridge. “I wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth.” She leaned against the worktop, her arms folded across her chest. “I’m sorry, Sophie, but it’s hard for me to take your word for things when I know how desperately you want this. You’d tell me black was white if y
ou thought it would prevent me standing in the way of you chasing this particular dream. So I don’t think it was out of order for me to ask Fraser what I did.”

  Sophie’s grey eyes blazed anger. “I don’t suppose you stopped to think that it made us look like anything but the close and confiding couple?”

  Lindsay shrugged. “Maybe Fraser will just figure that I’m cautious. Which is a sensible thing to be.”

  Sophie ran her hands through her silvered curls. “Jesus. I’m supposed to be in a relaxed and receptive state for insemination and look at me. Wound up like a fucking spring thanks to you.”

  Her partner’s anguish worked on Lindsay as no rational argument could have done. She put her arms round Sophie and murmured, “Oh, Christ, I’m sorry. Come on, let’s get you sorted.”

  Sophie led the way through to their bedroom. Somehow, she’d found the time to lay out a sterile plastic syringe by the side of the bed. “What’s the drill?” Lindsay asked grimly.

  “Peter will bring the sperm through in a glass. It starts to thicken once it leaves the man’s body, so we have to keep it at blood heat for about ten to fifteen minutes so it’ll liquefy again.”

  “Too much information,” Lindsay muttered.

  “The best way to do that is to put the glass between your breasts.”

  “My breasts? What’s wrong with yours?” Lindsay demanded.

  “I’ll be lying on my back with a pillow under my hips, Lindsay,” Sophie said impatiently as she began to undress.

  “Great,” Lindsay muttered. “Then what?”

  “You take it up into the syringe and inject it as far up my vagina as you can get.”

  “And that’s it?”

  Sophie, by now stripped down to her underwear, had the grace to look embarrassed. “Not quite. There’s strong anecdotal evidence that an orgasm around the time the sperm is introduced increases the chances of success.”