Booked for Murder (3 page)

A woman. Height around five six, hair shoulder length and midbrown. A large leather satchel slung over one hip. Shorts, lightweight shirt and sandals, but the skin too pale to be a Californian. Mutton bounded up to the woman, barking cheerfully. At once, she stopped and crouched to pat him. “English,” Lindsay grunted to herself. She slowed till she was barely faster than walking pace. The woman looked up, met her eyes and straightened up. By then, only a dozen yards separated them.

“Lindsay Gordon.” It was a statement, not a question. Two words were enough to confirm Lindsay's presumption that those pale limbs didn't belong to an American. Mutton dropped on to his stomach on the sand, head down between his front paws.

Lindsay paused, hands on hips, breathing slightly harder than she needed to. If she was going to have to take off, better that the other woman thought she was more tired than she was. “You have the advantage of me, then,” she said, a frosty imitation of Mel Gibson's proud Scottish dignity in
Braveheart
.

“Meredith Miller sent me. I . . . I'm afraid I have some bad news.”

The accent was Estuary English. It had never been one of Lindsay's favorites, always reminding her of spivvy Tory MPs on the make. Distance hadn't lent it enchantment. She wiped away the sweat that had sprung out on her upper lip. She cocked her head to one side and said, “I know Penny's dead, if that's what you mean. It made the papers. Who
are
you?”

The woman opened her satchel and Lindsay rose on to the balls of her feet, ready for fight or flight. The past she'd tried so hard to bury in California had conditioned her responses more than she liked to admit. Especially when she was dealing with people with English accents. But nothing more threatening than a business card emerged from the bag. Lindsay took it and read, “DGM Investigations. Sandra Bloom, senior operative.” There was an address with an East London postcode that would have rendered the whole card a joke before Canary Wharf started to fill up. Now, it signalled that Sandra Bloom's
company thought they were out at the leading edge of private investigation, light years away from the bottle of bourbon and the trilby.

“DGM?” Lindsay asked.

Sandra Bloom's mouth twisted in a wince. “Don't get mad?”

Lindsay nodded. “Must have seemed like a good idea at the time. So what's all this about, Ms. Bloom? What are you doing here? What's your connection to Meredith? And why are we standing in the middle of a beach when we live in a world that has more phones, faxes and modems than hot dinners?”

Sandra looked faintly embarrassed. “I don't know exactly what it is that Ms. Miller does for a living . . .”

Lindsay interrupted with a snort of ironic laughter. “Join a very large club.”

“. . . but whatever it is, it's made her rather paranoid about normal methods of communication,” she continued regardless.

Lindsay nodded. “Right. I remember the lecture. Menwith Hill, Yorkshire, England. One of the biggest listening posts in the world, run to all intents and purposes by the US government. Who routinely monitor phone calls, faxes and computer traffic. I've always found it hard to get my head round the idea. I mean, the sheer volume of it. Some days I don't have time to read my own e-mail. The thought of ploughing through everybody else's . . . Anyway, yeah, it's starting to make sense. Okay, I understand why Meredith wouldn't want to entrust anything sensitive to any form of telecommunication. And given the news in today's paper, I don't have to be what's-her-name with the crystal ball on the national lottery to figure out it must be something to do with Penny. So what's going on?”

Sandra pushed her hair back from her face in what was clearly a regular time-buying gesture. “Ms. Miller and her lawyer have sent me over from London . . .”

“Hang on a minute,” Lindsay butted in again. “What's with the ‘lawyer' bit? I didn't even know Meredith was
in
London, never mind that she'd got herself a lawyer.”

“Ms. Miller has a lawyer because she seems to think she's about to become the police's number one suspect in their inquiry into the murder of Penny Varnavides,” Sandra blurted out in a rush, clearly
deciding it was the only way to tell Lindsay anything without interruption.

Lindsay found herself staggering slightly at the abrupt news. Mutton scrambled to his feet and thrust a wet nose into her hand. “Can we walk while we talk? My muscles need to warm down properly or I'll cramp up,” she stalled, turning so she and Sandra faced back up the beach. Sandra fell in by her side. A few steps further on, Lindsay said, “The paper here said there were no suspicious circumstances. What changed?”

“The police found out about the murder method in Ms. Varnavides' new book.”

“Which is?”

“The killer reads a warning in the newspaper from a chain of—is it ‘convenience stores' they call them over here?”

“That's right, if you mean off-licences.”

“This warning tells customers to keep wheat beer refrigerated in prolonged spells of warm weather to prevent secondary fermentation and possible explosive accidents. So the killer puts half a dozen bottles of wheat beer on top of the fridge at head height. Then he knocks one to the floor, where of course it breaks explosively. He snatches up a shard of glass and when his victim comes rushing through to see what's going on, he thrusts it into her neck. Then he pulls it out, wipes it clean of his fingerprints and lets her bleed to death. Then he shakes up another bottle and opens it so that she's sprayed with beer as if she'd been caught in the actual explosion.” Her delivery was precise and measured. That made it easier for Lindsay to tune out the thought that it was her friend who had been killed in this ruthless way. She imagined Sandra's reports would be masterpieces of concision.

“Yeah, right,” Lindsay sighed. “I can see why they might have changed their minds. But that still doesn't explain what you're doing here, stalking me like some trainee assassin,” she added, trying to get rid of the sinking feeling in her stomach with smart-mouthed defiance.

“I'm here to bring you back to England,” Sandra said baldly.

Lindsay shook her head. “No way.” She'd been right to feel apprehensive. For once, being right didn't make her feel any better.

“Ms. Miller has hired me to persuade you to come back and help her,” Sandra said woodenly.

“So far, you're not doing too well. What does she need me for? She's already got a private eye.”

“We don't do this kind of work. Our specialty is white collar fraud. I wouldn't know where to begin on a murder investigation. Ms. Miller seems to think you would.”

Lindsay shook her head. “I'm not a hired gun. I'm a journalist, not a private eye. Besides, I've been away from England a long time. I'm not what Meredith needs.”

“She thinks you are.”

Lindsay shook her head violently. “No way. You've had a wasted journey, Ms. Bloom.” Then she turned away and started to run back towards the safety of her own four walls.

Chapter 2

T
he high whine of the jet engine dropped a little as the plane hit its cruising height and levelled out. Lindsay pressed a button in the armrest and exchanged the operatic aria in her headphones for contemporary Irish music. At least flying Aer Lingus meant there was a decent choice of in-flight music, she thought. And the music was the perfect distraction to avoid having to think about why she had agreed to a marathon journey back to London, changing at Dublin, in the charmless company of Sandra Bloom.

Ten minutes after Lindsay had made it back home, the dogged private eye had rung the doorbell. Lindsay had tried to ignore it, continuing on her journey to the fridge for a cold beer, but Mutton refused to play. He ran to the front door, snuffling eagerly round the edges, then barking loudly, tail wagging as he scented his newest friend. He turned to look expectantly at Lindsay, uncapping her beer and ostentatiously ignoring the dog. He gave a soft whimper then turned back to the door, outlining its edges with anxious snorts and anguished yelps.

“All
right
,” Lindsay sighed. She took a long swig of beer, then crossed to the door. She yanked it open and immediately said, “I told you no, and I meant it.”

Sandra Bloom nodded agreement. “I know. But Ms. Miller is adamant that you're the only person who can help her. She stressed
that she wants you to come not only because of your investigative skills but also because you're a friend and that means she can trust you with things she'd be wary of explaining to a stranger.”

Lindsay cast her eyes upwards. “Emotional blackmail now, is it? I suppose you'd better come in. The neighbors think we lower the tone enough as it is without having private eyes leaning on the doorbell.”

Sandra Bloom had been an investigator for long enough not to care how ungracious an invitation might be as long as it was forthcoming. She followed Lindsay inside and took in a living area with polished wood-block floors, dark squashy sofas and brilliantly colored Georgia O'Keeffe prints splashed across white walls. She decided not to comment on its attractiveness, knowing instinctively her target would dismiss it as merely another ploy. “I realize you feel pressured,” she said as Lindsay threw herself down on the nearest sofa, scowling.

“Good.”

“But Ms. Miller is in a very vulnerable emotional state. Her lover—”

“Former lover,” Lindsay interrupted.

“Her lover until very recently,” Sandra Bloom corrected her precisely, “has been murdered in a particularly calculated and cold-blooded way. She's on her own in a strange city, thousands of miles from her friends. And as if that isn't enough, she's a suspect in the murder inquiry. And you're the only person she thinks can help her.”

“But I'm not,” Lindsay protested. “What has she told you about me?”

“Very little. She did say that although you weren't a detective, you'd solved murders before.”

Lindsay took another long pull at her bottle of beer. “Look,” she said. “I'm a journalist by trade. I don't even do that any more. I teach kids how to be journalists because I realized I couldn't do the job any more. It was costing me too much to burst into people's lives and turn them upside down. Yes, I got caught up in murder investigations a couple of times and managed to uncover some stuff that the police didn't. But none of that makes me competent to sort out Meredith's problems.”

“You're probably right,” Sandra Bloom said sympathetically. “It takes a lot of skill and experience to be a good detective. You might have the rudiments of the skills, but you certainly haven't got the experience. Frankly, I think Meredith Miller would be better off hiring almost any private investigator in London. That's what I told her lawyer. But Ms. Miller wasn't having any. It was Lindsay Gordon or nobody.”

Lindsay's scowl deepened. “I told you, emotional blackmail doesn't work.”

“Fair enough.” Sandra Bloom's smile was placatory. “And I fully appreciate why you don't want to get involved. It can get hairy out there on the streets. You don't want to be out on the front line unless you really know how to handle yourself. No, better Ms. Miller has nobody out there batting for her than she has somebody who doesn't know what the hell to do next.”

The smile was starting to make Lindsay feel patronized rather than soothed. “I didn't say I was totally clueless,” she muttered.

“Of course not,” Sandra continued blithely. “But you said yourself, you're a long way off being a pro. But you appreciate I had to come and double check.” She took a step towards the front door. “I can go back now with a clear conscience. Once she realizes that she can't count on having an investigator who's one of her closest friends, I know she'll settle for a regular firm of private investigators. I know a couple we can recommend to her. Thanks for your time, anyway.” Another step towards the door. “I'll tell Ms. Miller that you fully sympathize, but you're unable to help.”

Lindsay dropped her empty bottle on the floor with a clunk. She sighed. “OK. You win. I'll come back. You can stay here tonight, and first thing tomorrow, we'll sort out a flight.”

Sandra Bloom's smile quirked upwards at one corner. It was the only sign that she'd succeeded in a carefully worked-out plan. “Not quite,” she said. “I've got reservations for an overnight flight.”

Lindsay looked at her watch. “Tonight? No chance. I've got to discuss this with my partner, I've got to pack, I've got arrangements to cancel . . .”

“And Ms. Miller could be under arrest by morning.”

Lindsay stood up and glowered at Sandra Bloom. “Have you ever met my partner? Sophie Hartley?”

Sandra Bloom shook her head, puzzled. “Why? Should I have?”

“I think the two of you took the same guilt-tripping course,” Lindsay growled, picking up the bottle and stomping through to the kitchen.

 

Five hours later, she was in flight. Because college had broken up for the summer, she had no teaching burden to rearrange. Writing the book could wait; she'd reached the point where any distraction was welcome. It had taken less than half an hour to pack the assortment of light and heavy clothes an English summer normally demands. Lindsay's attempts to contact Sophie had taken rather longer since Sod's Law—anything that can go wrong will go wrong—was the only exception to itself, operating like clockwork as usual. Inevitably, Sophie and her cronies hadn't been in their usual restaurant, so Lindsay hadn't been able to speak to her lover. She'd ended up leaving a written explanation stuck to the tin of camomile tea that she knew Sophie would hit as soon as she came home. Hopefully, Sophie wouldn't be too upset, given that their own summer trip to the UK was due to start in a week's time anyway.