Hostage to Murder (29 page)

“That's quite an insight for somebody that makes a cult out of not doing relationships.”

“The spectator always sees more of the game,” Rory said.

“So you haven't told her how you feel?”

“Of course I haven't.” Rory's distress was obvious to Sandra, even through the tone of irritation. She sighed. “It's chewing me up, all this pretence. I've never felt like this about anybody before, Sandra. I never let myself. But Lindsay just slipped under my guard.” She closed her eyes. “It's so fucking hard.”

“I know,” Sandra said. “So what are you going to do about it?”

Rory gave her a steady look. “Keep on lying. What else can I do?”

“You could always try telling her.”

“She doesn't need that right now. And frankly, neither do I. Just let me get through this in my own sweet way. Get it out of my system and get back to normal.”

“Oh, Rory,” Sandra said. “I'm so sorry.”

“Not half as sorry as I am.” Rory made a self-mocking snort of laughter. “I should be happy, shouldn't I? The woman I love is in my bed, waiting for me to come home and make mad, passionate love to her. And instead, I can't think of anything worse.”

Bernie grabbed the two slices out of the toaster as they popped up and slathered them with butter. She put one in front of Jack and leaned against the counter, munching the other herself, waiting for the kettle to boil for a second cup of tea. Tam tucked into his scrambled egg and mushrooms, chattering away to the boy about their plans for the weekend.

“We could go to the football, if you fancy it,” he said. “I can get tickets for the Jags, no bother. What do you say, wee man?”

Jack smiled through a mouthful of toast. “Brilliant,” he said. “Can we go swimming on Sunday?”

“We'll see,” Bernie said. “Just because you've been to Russia doesn't mean you get spoiled when you come home.”

Jack laughed, knowing he would get his own way. He usually did with his mother. Suddenly, his expression changed to one of consternation and he pointed at the window. “Tam, look behind you,” he said urgently.

Tam swung round, all senses alert. But there was nothing to be seen. When he turned back to the table, however, his last mushroom had mysteriously disappeared, and Jack's mouth looked suspiciously full. “Wait a minute,” he complained.

Jack swallowed hard. “Too late, you missed the mushroom thief.”

Tam laughed and leaned over to rumple the boy's hair. “Some
places, you'd get your hands cut off for that.”

“Are you taking me to school in the car today?” Jack asked, pulling away from Tam's hand.

“You know Tam only takes you when it's raining. And it's not raining this morning. I'm walking you.” Bernie told him. “If you don't get some exercise, your legs will wither away and fall off.”

“You're making that up,” Jack said.

“No, she's quite right, son,” Tam confirmed, a serious look on his face. He wiped his plate with his last piece of bread and stuffed it into his mouth. “I need to get on my way. I'll see youse tonight.” He jumped up and grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair, leaning down to kiss Jack on the top of his head. He swung Bernie into his arms and planted a smacker on her lips. “Have a good day,” he said over his shoulder as he hurried out.

“Are you glad to be home?” Bernie asked Jack as he drank down his milk.

He looked up at her, white moustache stretched into a smile. “You bet,” he said. “You can't read what the Russian Pokemon cards say.”

 

It took a moment for Lindsay to realise where she was when she woke. The bed felt wrong, the light was wrong, the background hum of the street outside was definitely wrong. Then memory swam into focus and the previous evening was there in the front of her mind, inescapable. She turned her head to check the other side of the bed. Rory lay sprawled on her stomach, her head turned away from Lindsay, her breathing almost inaudible. It was the only thing that didn't feel wrong, although Lindsay knew it was the one thing that should be incompatible with her desperate desire to see Sophie, to talk to her, to try to get things straight between them.

She hadn't heard Rory come home. Not surprisingly, the emotional drama of the previous evening had left her drained, and the several whiskies she'd worked her way through in the course of the evening had set the seal on a deep sleep. Secretly, she was glad Rory had let her slumber on. It would have been too easy to take the wrong sort of comfort there. It wasn't what had
happened between Lindsay and Sophie that would have made it wrong; it was her new understanding of what Rory truly felt for her.

Lindsay slipped out of bed, trying not to disturb Rory. She scooped up her clothes and headed for the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, she was showered and dressed. Her first instinct was to head for home, to force Sophie to talk to her. It was still early enough to catch her before she left for the university. But that wouldn't get Lindsay anywhere. If she was going to stand any chance of persuading her lover that they still had a future, she'd have to wait for the first flare of Sophie's anger to subside. Better to find something more constructive to do with her time.

She left a note for Rory in the kitchen: Woke early. I've gone into the Sentinel office—I promised Bernie and Tam a set of photographs, I thought I'd go and sort it out with the picture desk. See you in Cafe V. later. Love, L. There was a lot more she wanted to say, but a scribbled note wasn't the appropriate medium. Maybe later, on the nearest they had to neutral territory, in the café.

The
Sentinel
office was still quiet when she walked on to the newsroom floor. Twenty to nine in the morning, and only the assistant news editor and a few reporters were at their desks. A couple were reading the opposition, and a third had a phone to his ear, doing the police station calls. Lindsay recognised him from her own days as a news hack and sketched a wave as she crossed to the picture desk. “Are you Gerry?” she asked the chubby, balding man flicking through the morning papers.

He looked up, appraised her as low value and returned to the
Herald.
“Aye, I'm Gerry,” he said. “Who's asking?”

“We've spoken on the phone. I'm Lindsay Gordon,” she said. “The Russian kidsnatch?”

Now she had his attention. “Oh aye. Nice pix. What can I do for you, Lindsay?”

“I wanted a set of the snaps, for the punters.”

He nodded. “No problem. Can you hang on a wee bit till some of the team crawls in? Then I'll sort you out.”

Lindsay nodded. “No problem. I'll find a quiet corner.” She
moved over to the reporters' area and sat down at a vacant desk, grabbing a couple of papers as she went. She had just opened
The Guardian
when the phones all round started ringing. Five or six of them, all at once. Even after the duty staff picked up, there were still a couple trilling out, including the one in front of her. Lindsay picked it up. She could always take a message.

The breathless voice on the end of the phone was like a time machine. Suddenly she was back at the sharp end, a young reporter who still believed that the great stories would arrive down a crackly phone line, delivered with almost incoherent urgency. She'd learned differently since then, but this time she was listening to the exception that proved the rule. “Is that a reporter I'm speaking to?” the voice said, the words tumbling over each other in its eagerness. An elderly man, by the sounds of it.

“I'm a reporter, yes,” she said calmly, automatically reaching for the pile of scrap paper on the desk and raking in her bag for a pen.

“There's been an explosion. A car bomb, by the looks of it. You should see it, it's hellish. Flames shooting up, black smoke, the whole shebang.”

Startled into alertness, Lindsay said, “Where about are you speaking from?”

“My house.”

“Where's that?”

“Kinghorn Drive. North Kelvinside.'

Cold fear gripped Lindsay. It couldn't be. It had to be a coincidence. “And you say a car blew up in the street?”

“That's right, hen. I was sitting at the window, eating my All Bran. Fellow that lives just down the street on the other side, I saw him come out the door. Got intae his Jag and boom! The whole lot went up.”

“I'll need to take your name and address,” she said, on automatic pilot now. She scribbled down the details then got off the phone. They'd need to speak to him later for eyewitness quotes. But that would keep. She jumped to her feet and hurried towards the newsdesk, suddenly aware that everyone else was doing the same thing.

Everybody was speaking at once. “Car bomb . . . West End . . . cops aren't confirming . . . ambulance on their way . . . Where's Kinghorn Drive?”

Lindsay cut through the noise. “Kinghorn Drive is where Bernie and Tam Gourlay live. The Russian kidsnatch family.”

Andy, the assistant news editor turned to her, his face blank. “You saying this is something to do with your story?”

“I don't know. It's just a funny coincidence, that's all. My caller said the car was a Jag. And Tam Gourlay drives a Jag.”

Andy fiddled with his stringy pony tail. “Are you free to do a shift for us? Only, I think you should go out with the first car, take a pic man.”

“I think so too,” Lindsay said grimly.

 

Kinghorn Drive was like a war zone. A pall of greasy black smoke hung in the still, damp air, trapped by the high canyons of the sandstone tenements. Already, police crime scene tape cordoned off the epicentre of the blast, keeping back the ghoulish spectators drawn to disaster like herring gulls to landfill. Lindsay let the photographer lead the way, pushing through the crowd until they could get no closer. She stared uncomprehendingly down the street where, about fifty yards away, a blackened chassis was all that remained of what she feared was Tam Gourlay's Jaguar. The cars that had been parked on either side were twisted and crumpled from the impact, their window glass shattered in sparkling shards across the road. Sniffer dogs strained at the leash as their handlers systematically swept the area. A distorted voice through a loudhailer was asking people to evacuate the buildings without panic. Anxious residents were still emerging in ones and twos, escorted away from their homes by solicitous police officers.

It was impossible to take in. Lindsay knew she should be going through the motions, finding eye witnesses and accumulating copy. But all she could do was stand and stare. As she watched, an ambulance threaded its way down from the far end of the street and stopped yards short of the bombed-out car. She watched as the door of Tam and Bernie's flat opened and two policemen emerged, almost carrying Bernie between them. A woman officer
followed, Jack a cowering bundle against her chest.

Professional responsibilities forgotten, Lindsay gave into purely human instincts. She ducked under the tape and sidestepped the flak-jacketed cop who tried to stop her. Picking up speed, she made it to Bernie's side just as they reached the ambulance. “Bernie,” Lindsay gasped. There was no response.

A police officer tried to move her to one side as they loaded Bernie in through the rear doors. “I'm a friend of the family,” Lindsay insisted.

As if to back her up, Jack raised his head and caught sight of her. He held his arms out towards her and screamed, “Where's Tam? I want Tam.” He wriggled free of the policewoman and threw himself at Lindsay, who automatically folded him into her arms and stroked his hair.

The ambulance attendant stood impatiently by the doors, waiting to close them. “Look, either get in or move away. This lady's in deep shock, she needs to see a doctor.”

Lindsay had no intention of hanging around to argue with the police. She struggled up the steps of the ambulance, made awkward by her burden, and collapsed on the seat opposite Bernie. “Bernie,” she said softly. “Bernie, I'm so sorry.”

This time, there was a reaction. Bernie looked up and mutely held her arms our to her son. He dived on to her lap and buried his face in her shoulder. The ambulance moved off, blue light flashing, the occasional two-tone blurt of the siren clearing their path. Bernie kissed Jack's hair, then stared bitterly at Lindsay.

“I as good as killed him,” she said, her voice a strained whisper. “The day I let him into my life, I as good as killed him.”

Lindsay shook her head. “You mustn't think that. Why should it be anything to do with you and Jack?”

Bernie looked at her as if she was stupid as well as culpable. “Poor, poor Tam. Never had an idea what he was getting into.”

“You mustn't blame yourself. Tam loved you; he wanted to be with you and Jack. That was all he cared about.” Lindsay didn't know what was going on here, just that she needed to keep Bernie talking.

Bernie shook her head in wonder. “I thought it was safe. But I
was wrong, God help me, I was wrong. I told him, you stood there and listened to me telling him. But the pair of you got your teeth into it, and that was that. I should have stopped it before it started. I should have thrown you out my house.”

“Are you seriously saying you think Bruno made this happen?” Lindsay didn't want to sound like a cop or a hack, but she couldn't ignore the obvious implication.

“I'm seriously saying if you and Tam had let things be, he'd still be alive now.” Her voice wobbled, but still the tears didn't come. Bernie rocked to and fro, clutching her whimpering son to her, her eyes like stones.

Lindsay told herself it was shock and hysteria talking. The notion that an Italian diplomat would even consider a car bomb a reasonable weapon in a childcare dispute was not only bizarre, it was ludicrous. There had to be another explanation. But what could it be?