Hostage to Murder (5 page)

Michael didn't mind. His idea of being a soldier wasn't pretending to be a librarian in North London or working on a building site in Derby while other people did the dirty work. He liked what he'd spent the past fifteen years doing. Ceasefire didn't suit him and he knew it.

He sat in the chair facing Patrick, his eyes calm and watchful. Dressed in an olive green combat jacket and blue jeans, he would have fitted in perfectly with any group of squaddies in a bar anywhere. Entirely self-contained, he cleaned his nails with the blade of a penknife, an absent-minded habit that he was unaware was marked down on the file MI5 had held on him for some years.

Kevin O'Donohue was the gopher. A thin, wiry greyhound, he fetched and carried without the wit to question what or why. Loyal to the point of stupidity, he was reliable only in the sense
that he didn't have enough brains to act on his own initiative. He did what he was told, and mostly he did it well enough. Michael tolerated him for his sister's sake. Geraldine got Kevin's share of intelligence in the genetic share-out. It wasn't imbecility that had got her caught in the aftermath of the Docklands bomb. Just bad luck. Michael hadn't seen her for three years, but he'd kept his word and made sure Kevin was sorted. Kevin, of course, had no idea of this pact.

Kevin looked like a harmless rodent, which was appropriate enough. Coarse auburn hair badly cut so it emphasised the jut of his forehead, the sort of freckles that looked like a nasty rash and the fashion sense of Man at Millett's told any casual encounter all they needed to know. He fidgeted in his chair, nervous in the presence of Patrick, who always made him feel like he was about to make his first confession all over again.

“I've a wee job for you,” Patrick said. “It's what you might call private enterprise. You'll need to keep your mouths shut, but you'll be well looked after.”

Michael nodded. “Whatever you say, Patrick.”

“It's a matter of finding somebody I have an interest in.” Patrick pushed a photograph across the desk. Michael leaned forward and picked it up. He gave it the hard stare, then off-handed it to Kevin.

“She used to work downstairs,” Michael said, his voice as uninterested as if he'd been asked the time.

“That's right. She did a disappearing act six, seven years ago with something that belongs to me. I've had the word out in a quiet sort of a way, and now I've got intelligence that she's in Glasgow.”

“And you'd like us to find her for you.” It wasn't a question.

“D'you have an address, then?” Kevin asked.

Patrick ignored him. “She was seen at the weekend in a supermarket at the top of Byers Road. Behind the Grosvenor Hotel. It's the only lead I've got. Obviously she's not going to be using her own name, so there's no point in looking in the phone book or the voter's roll.”

Michael folded his knife shut. “We'll manage,” he said.

Patrick opened his desk drawer and took out a brown envelope.
“I don't want you using any of our people over there. So you'll need a float. Theresa's got tickets downstairs for tonight's ferry.”

“What about a car?” Michael asked.

Patrick raised one finger and smiled approvingly. “There's a British driving licence in the envelope. You can use it to hire a car if you need one.”

Michael pocketed the envelope without looking at the contents. “Daily calls?”

“At least. You've got a clean mobile, haven't you?”

Michael's grin would have put Red Riding Hood's granny to shame. “Clean, not cloned,” he said.

“Any questions?” Patrick asked, his voice a silky challenge.

“What are we supposed to do when we find her?” Kevin asked, oblivious.

“Whatever Patrick tells us,” Michael sighed. He got to his feet. “I'll be in touch,” he said.

Patrick inclined his head. “I can't wait.” If they'd seen the look in his eyes, anyone with any sense would have already left town.

 

Lindsay stared out of the window of the cab, taking in nothing of the late morning bustle of Great Western Road. Normally, she'd have used the Clockwork Orange, Glasgow's underground system, to go into the city centre, but her ankle was stiff and swollen and today she cared more about comfort than being environmentally friendly.

It had been a long night. They'd talked for more than an hour after Sophie's bombshell, and it hadn't got any better from Lindsay's point of view. The revelation that had shocked her most of all was that Sophie had already identified a possible donor, had approached him and had secured his agreement. Fraser Tomlinson was a researcher in Sophie's department, a gay man in a steady relationship. He and his boyfriend Peter had been to the house for dinner, and Lindsay had found them pleasant company. According to Sophie, Fraser was HIV negative, his family medical history gave no grounds for serious concern and he had no desire to play any role in the life of any child that might result from the
donation of his sperm. It was so cut and dried, it had left Lindsay lost for words.

“And when were you thinking of starting?” she'd managed at last.

“I'm due to ovulate in a couple of days time,” Sophie had said. “The best chance is to bracket the ovulation. I was planning to have the first go tomorrow night, then again two nights later.”

Lindsay swallowed hard. “I can see why you wanted to bring it up now.” Involuntarily, she moved so her body no longer touched Sophie's.

“I'm sorry to spring it on you like this. But we've talked and talked and got nowhere. I realised that we were never going to get anywhere unless I did something about it. Lindsay . . .” Sophie's voice was a plea. “Every time I bleed, it feels like a lost opportunity. I can't afford to wait. I've done the blood tests. So far, my hormone levels are OK. But every month that goes past takes me nearer the point where they're not going to be OK any longer. I've got a donor now, I'm not prepared to hang on until you come round to feeling positive about this.”

“Fine. So we do it tomorrow night. What's the drill? Is there an etiquette here? Our place or theirs?”

“Fraser and Peter will come round here. What I hoped was that you would be here for me.”

“You want
me
to do the thing with the turkey baster?”

“It won't be a turkey baster, for God's sake. It'll be a sterile syringe.” Sophie reached for Lindsay's hand. “Please, Lindsay. I need you now more than I ever did.”

Lindsay, who had always found it impossible to hold out against Sophie for any length of time, let her hand be held. “Fine. Whatever. Now, can I go to sleep?”

The end of the conversation had not led directly to sleep. Lindsay had lain awake long after Sophie's breathing became deep and regular. There was a hollow feeling in her stomach, a nameless grief that ached inside her. Something had shifted inside her tonight with the knowledge that she could never give Sophie enough to satisfy her. She had thought their life together was
good, their relationship solid. Now, it felt as if her house was built on sand. Maybe it was true that she hadn't been hearing Sophie. But it was just as true that Sophie hadn't been hearing her.

She'd mooched around the house after Sophie had left for work, unable to settle to anything. She couldn't be bothered answering the morning's e-mails. She was impatient with the newspapers and their flood of irrelevancies. Finally, stir crazy, she'd decided to pay a visit to Café Virginia. Perhaps Rory McLaren had something to offer that would make her feel better about herself. But first, she had a couple of phone calls to make. Lindsay might have been out of the game for a long time, but she still knew one or two of the faces that counted. She wasn't going to hitch her wagon to Rory McLaren's star until she had confirmed that the world's estimate of the young freelance bore some relationship to the reality. In her early years as a national newspaper journalist, she'd wasted too much time chasing the fantasies of freelances keen to make an easy buck not to take any of the breed at their word.

 

On the other side of the city centre, Rory was swanning into the offices of the
Scottish Daily Standard
. The security men didn't care that she'd stopped working there six months before. They figured she'd had a better motive to blow the place up when she was on the staff than she ever could have as a freelance. She took the lift up to the editorial floor and walked into one of the side offices off the features area.

Giles Graham, lifestyle editor and secretly agony aunt of the
Standard
was stretched out on his sofa, reading the pained letters of his correspondents and eating very low fat cottage cheese and chives from the tub with a plastic spoon. Rory could never figure out how a man who managed such fastidious elegance in every other area of his life he could be taken for a gay man still managed such disgusting eating habits.

“That's disgusting,” she said, crossing the room to sit in the swivel chair behind a worryingly tidy desk.

“I know. You'd think people would have the good sense not to
go exploring their gay side with their brother-in-law, but they never learn,” he said languidly in the English-accented speech of the privately educated Scot. He put his lunch down on the coffee table and carefully gathered the letters together before sitting up and brushing down his immaculate navy linen shirt for invisible crumbs. “How delightful to see you, Rory. Are we having social intercourse or is there a sordid financial motive behind your visit?”

“You want social intercourse? OK. How's Julia?”

Giles smiled fondly. His wife was the Member of the European Parliament for Central West Scotland. Julia's frequent absences, he maintained, were what rendered her capable of putting up with him. “She's on a jolly in Oslo.”

“That's a contradiction in terms,” Rory observed. “Give her my love next time you pass in the night.” She leaned back in the chair and hitched her Gap-clad legs on to the desk. “I've got a very good tip for you, babe.”

Giles groaned. “Why not copy? Why do I have to do all the work?”

“Because it's not my kind of story. I do investigative journalism, remember? Stories like this are the reason I quit working for the newsdesk.”

“That and the thick end of a hundred and fifty grand,” Giles said cynically.

“The lottery was the means, not the reason, as well you know. Now, do you want this story, or do you want me to toddle round to the
Sun
?”

Giles stretched his arms along the back of the sofa, languid as a trout stream on an August afternoon. “As if,” he said. “So tell me what you know.”

“Madonna's people are having hush-hush talks with estate agents about her buying a property on Loch Lomond. In the Drymen area.”

Giles raised one eyebrow.

“Don't do that, you look like Roger Moore in a bad Bond movie,” Rory complained. “It's straight up. I got it from the horse's
mouth. Well, the groom's best mate's mouth. But I know for a fact that Struther Wilson have been approached, and if they've had the word, so have other people.”

“If it's true, it's not a bad little tale,” Giles said cautiously.

“It's me you're talking to, Giles. When you stand it up, it's a guaranteed splash and you know it.”

His smile conceded. “How much are you looking for?”

“A generous tip fee. I've got to split it with my source. I'll leave the details to your sense of propriety.”

Giles pushed his dark blond hair back from his forehead. “Very trusting.”

“Hey, I know you're the only person under this roof who knows the meaning of the word.” Rory dropped her feet to the floor and stood up. “I'll leave you to it. Some of us have got work to do.”

He snorted. “Cappuccinos to drink, more like. By the way, Sandra tells me you think you're in with a chance with the woman across the landing.”

Rory shook her head. “If you guys worked as hard at getting stories as you do at spreading gossip, I'd be out of a job. Let me know how you get on with Madonna.”

Before he could reply, Rory was out the door. She had more than cappuccino on her mind, but that was none of Giles's business. She still couldn't quite believe in her encounter with Lindsay; it felt too good to be true. Her freelance business had begun to generate more business than she could handle alone, but she hadn't wanted to share with just anyone. She'd always been a loner, hiding her self-sufficiency behind a mask of easy charm, letting few people see the vulnerability and damage behind the façade. Sandra was one of a handful who had been allowed past the barrier of her public face, but Sandra was too much in love with the buzz of television to consider giving it up for the slog of freelancing. And there was nobody else that Rory had ever seriously considered working with.

But something had sparked between her and Lindsay Gordon, and it was something more than hero worship. They'd made an instant connection, and Rory still felt faintly baffled by the speed with which she'd offered Lindsay a share in her closely guarded
world. She had no conviction that Lindsay would take up the invitation without more work on her part; her self-belief couldn't quite carry her that far. So somehow Rory was going to have to figure out how to entice her in.

 

Lindsay dipped another crispy chip into the bowl of relish and turned another page of the paper. She'd been waiting over an hour for Rory, but it hadn't been a problem. Somehow, the restlessness that had afflicted her earlier had dissipated in the congenial atmosphere of Café Virginia. And besides, she'd made good use of the time.