Hostage to Murder (18 page)

“Famous last words. What are we going to do if we find it?”

“Wait and see if Jack arrives. And if he does, follow the person who brings him to school back home. That should tell us where he's staying.”

“And then?” Rory pressed on relentlessly.

“I don't know. We'll have to see how it goes.”

“And what if he turns up at the one Sasha's watching?”

“He'll do the same thing,” Lindsay said. “Then he'll come back and pick us up. And then we'll make our plans.”

“Doesn't it scare you?” Rory asked, her eyes fixed on Lindsay's. “Knowing we're about to embark on a criminal act in a country that's not noted for the even-handedness of its judicial system? Not to mention the prevalence of guns?”

“Of course it scares me. That's why I'm trying very hard not to think about the possibility of getting caught. I'm visualising the scene when Jack's reunited with his mother and I'm standing there taking the photos. It takes my mind off the alternative.” It was the truth, but not the whole truth. There were other things on Lindsay's mind that had nothing to do with the fate of one small boy. But she knew she really shouldn't be thinking about them either.

“Good trick if you can manage it. But it's definitely winding me up. Shall we get another relaxing bottle of wine?”

Lindsay's expression turned quizzical. “Is the effect of the banya wearing off already?”

Rory laughed. “Listen, you don't want to go there. That banya has had some very strange side effects, let me tell you.”

“Like what?” Lindsay felt the thin ice creaking beneath her words. She didn't think she was imagining the sparkle of electricity between them.

Rory held her gaze for a moment, then looked away, shaking her head. “Nothing I want to discuss in a public place.” Her words were almost drowned by a noisy burst of laughter from a neighbouring table.

“Look, why don't we get the bill? We can buy a bottle of wine in the hotel bar and drink it in peace,” Lindsay suggested. Rory nodded agreement.

As they strolled down the street towards the hotel, the warm evening air balmy against their faces, Lindsay was feverishly conscious of Rory's body inches from hers. It was as if she was radiating heat like the brazier in the banya.
This is crazy,
she thought.
Eight years you've been with Sophie and never once crossed the line. You're working with this woman, for God's sake. You're maybe going to be a parent. Aren't you taking enough risks already without going overboard? Put the lid on it now.
But her interior monologue had no effect on the churning in her stomach or the prickle of sweat along her spine.

They walked into the hotel and Lindsay turned towards the bar. “Another bottle of red?”

“Maybe not,” Rory said. “Maybe I don't need it after all.”

They didn't speak in the lift, but it was a silence that crackled with what wasn't being said. Lindsay fumbled with the key, struggling to get it into the lock. Then she managed it and they were inside the suite. “I thought I'd sleep in here on the divan, let you have the double bed,” Lindsay gabbled as she flicked the switch to turn on the table lamps. She turned to watch Rory's reaction but couldn't see her eyes through the shadows.

One side of Rory's mouth rose in a knowing half-smile. “You
know, I've seen you stripped to the skin tonight. But you look a hell of a lot sexier with your clothes on.”

Lindsay cleared her throat. Her voice came out half an octave higher than usual. “Delirium. That would be one of the strange side effects of the banya, right?”

The moment broken, Rory walked away and feigned an interest in the St Petersburg tourist magazine on the writing table. “Right enough,” she said, her tone darker and colder. “Should you maybe phone home?”

Lindsay took a couple of steps towards Rory. “I don't want to phone Sophie.”

“She'll be worried about you. Running around Russia like James Bond.” There was no mistaking the coolness now.

“No, she won't. I called her on my mobile when the receptionist was booking the banya. Just to let her know we'd arrived safely.”

Rory turned her head, the half-smile back in place. “She really shouldn't be worried about you, should she?” This time, the tone was regretful.

“Why are we talking about Sophie?”

“Because it puts a wall between us, Lindsay. And that's the sensible option.”

Lindsay ran a hand through her hair. “I'm not good at sensible.”

“Neither am I. So let's work on treating this as a ‘sensible' workshop for both of us.” Rory swung round to face Lindsay and leaned against the writing table. The subtle light of the lamps cast the planes of her face into relief. Lindsay thought she had never wanted so badly to kiss someone.

“You think that'll work, do you? You think we can just ignore whatever it is that's happening here?” There was no aggression in Lindsay's questions, just a simple plea for answers.

Rory spread her hands. “What's the alternative? I want us to be able to work together. I like working with you. I don't want to fuck that up.”

“Me neither. But we can't just pretend we're indifferent to each other. It's not going to go away.”

“If we don't feed the flame, it'll die,” Rory said.

Lindsay shook her head in frustration. “You know that's bullshit.
We'll always be wondering what it would have been like. It'll be sitting there between us in the Café Virginia every bloody day. So let's get it out of our system.”

Rory laughed out loud. “You know, that's probably the least seductive thing anybody's ever said to me. ‘Come on, let's get it over with, one shag with you and I'll be cured,' ” she spluttered.

The laughter was infectious. Lindsay couldn't help herself. All at once she was chuckling too. Somewhere in the middle of the laughter, they fell into each other's arms. Two hungry mouths connected.

Suddenly, sensible was history.

Even at midnight, it was still warm in St Petersburg. Lindsay and Rory lay tangled together, the bedclothes in a rumpled heap on the floor. Unfamiliar scents and sounds drifted in through the open window, reminding them how very far they'd come. Rory ran a fingertip along the thin white line that ran down from Lindsay's right ear to the corner of her jaw. Then, with the tip of her tongue, she traced the starburst scar above her left breast, tasting the sharp saltiness of her sweat. “Tell me about the scars,” she said.

Lindsay squirmed pleasurably at the sensation as Rory's mouth moved down to her nipple. “Not very romantic for post-coital conversation,” she murmured.

“You want romance? You picked the wrong lover, doll. Anyway, who said anything about post-coital?” Rory teased. “I thought this was just the first interval.”

“Fine by me.” Lindsay ran her fingers along Rory's side, learning this unfamiliar body. After eight years with the same woman, it felt strange to explore such alien territory. She'd thought the very exoticism of novelty would provoke guilt, but she'd been mistaken. Making love with Rory had taken her somewhere outside her past experience. Wild and dark, it had shown her a bewildering new side to her own sexuality, both scary and magical. But wrong was the one thing it hadn't felt.

“So tell me about the scars,” Rory persisted. “I'd never even
noticed that one under your jawline before.”

“They did a good job of stitching it up.” Lindsay's hand strayed between Rory's thighs, but she clamped them shut and pulled away.

“Not until you tell me about the scars.”

Lindsay groaned. “You're so bossy.”

Rory chuckled. “Nothing like flipping the butch. You didn't mind me bossing you a wee while ago. Come on, tell me. It can't be that terrible.”

“The one on my jaw I got when I tripped over a wall and landed face first on a broken bottle.”

“Aw,” Rory complained. “That's really boring.”

“If it helps, I was being chased by a guy with a baseball bat at the time,” Lindsay said, wincing at the memory.

“Now, that's much better. What about this one?” She kissed the circular scar lightly. “Wounded in a duel over a beautiful blonde? Stabbed by a jealous lover?”

Lindsay's face darkened. “I got shot by a murderous little shit who didn't take kindly to the idea of being found out by me.”

“Bastard,” Rory said lazily, apparently unsurprised by the notion that someone might have taken a pot-shot at her new lover. “It looks nasty.”

“It didn't hit anything important. I just lost a lot of blood. And my left shoulder hurts when the weather's damp.”

“Ouch. I tell you, by October, you'll be
really
sorry you left California. So what happened to the shooter?” Rory ran the palm of her hand over Lindsay's body, letting her fingers trail tantalisingly over her stomach.

Lindsay shuddered with a pleasure that took all the pain out of the recollection. “Life for murder, ten years for attempted murder on me. You probably remember the case. Penny Varnavides' murder?”

Rory nodded. “Only vaguely. She was killed a wee while before I won the money. I didn't know what I was going to do with it, so I rented a cottage on Skye for a month to try and figure out my future. I didn't touch a newspaper or listen to a news bulletin. I
must have missed the trial. Which would be why I never realised you were involved in that.”

“So now you know.” Lindsay rolled over suddenly and pinned Rory to the bed, her knee between Rory's thighs. “Act two?”

“Mmm. I never had you pegged as a woman who would be turned on by talk of violence.” Rory's voice was teasingly sexy.

“Trust me, it's not the past that's turning me on.”

 

Nine o'clock in Glasgow, and Bernie Gourlay was alone with a glass of Johnnie Walker and a half-smoked cigarette. She'd been a prisoner of fear for so long now she had almost forgotten it was possible to entertain any other emotion. It had hit her all the harder because for years she thought she'd escaped the cold claw of terror. How stupid had that been, she told herself bitterly.

She should have known Patrick would never have resigned himself to letting her out of his grasp. But as time had passed and he hadn't materialised in her new life, she'd allowed herself to be lulled into a false sense of security. She had her fallback plan in place, so she thought. And for whole months at a time, she'd been free of the very thought of him. But now he was back, and there was no telling how bad things would get before they righted themselves. If they ever could.

It had been bad enough when she'd only had Jack to be afraid for. At least she'd had Tam's strength to draw on. But now Tam had gone off on this crazy mission to get her son back, and all she could feel was anxiety. She knew she should be proud that he loved her enough to take such insane risks for her happiness, but instead she was overwhelmed with guilt that she'd brought this nightmare to his door in the first place.

No outcome offered her any relief. If they failed to snatch Jack successfully, Tam could end up in a Russian jail. Even if he avoided that worst case scenario, she knew he would never forgive himself for letting her and Jack down. Remorse like that could be slow poison to a relationship, her presence in his life a constant reminder of his perceived inadequacy. And if they did bring him home, what prospects were there of happiness with Patrick
Coughlan on the horizon? Patrick would do whatever it took to get his own back. Neither compunction nor compassion were concepts he'd ever embraced.

Bernie crushed out her cigarette as the phone started ringing. She turned her head and stared at it. It couldn't be Tam; as far as she knew, he was on a chartered yacht somewhere between Helsinki and St Petersburg. There was nobody else she wanted to talk to, and at least one voice she definitely didn't want to hear.

She drained her whisky in one swallow and waited for the ringing to stop.

 

When the alarm clock drilled through her dreams at half past six, Lindsay had been asleep for less than four hours. But when her eyes snapped open, she was as alert as if she'd had a full night's sleep. Great sex would do that every time, she thought, turning her head to watch Rory struggle into wakefulness. “So, do you still respect me?” she said.

Rory yawned. “I think so. But I might have to fuck you again to make sure.” She snuggled into Lindsay's side, her fingers slithering down her stomach. “Do you do mornings?”

Lindsay squirmed away. “Any other morning, but not this one. We've got work to do, remember?”

“Bo-ring.” Rory planted a warm kiss on her shoulder. “OK, Splash, you win. Race you to the shower.” She rolled over and jumped out of bed.

Lindsay laughed. “We've got two showers, dozo.”

“Damn,” Rory said, heading for the en suite.

Half an hour later, they had said goodbye to Sasha and set off down the Seventh Line towards the Vasileostravskaya metro station, fuelled only by a snatched cup of execrable coffee in the hotel breakfast room. As they passed a street kiosk selling fruit, Rory looked longingly at the peaches and bananas. “I don't suppose you could manage to buy us a couple of bananas?” she asked wistfully.

“Absolutely right. I'm keeping my powder dry for the metro station. Besides, I don't know how you can think about eating. My stomach's churning like a cement mixer.”

“I always eat when I'm nervous. And believe me, I'm nervous,” Rory replied. The morning was warm and humid, the sky a washed-out blue. The metro station was on the corner of Sredny Prospekt, an ugly glass and concrete structure that glared across at the McDonald's diagonally opposite. “Soviet architecture meets Western capitalism,” Lindsay commented as they climbed the short flight of stairs that led into the station.