Hostage to Murder

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

“One of my favorite authors, Val McDermid is an important writer—witty, never sentimental, taking us through mean streets with the dexterity of a Chandler.”

 

“If you haven't discovered this award-winning trailblazer in lesbian detective fiction you're missing out on a good one.”

 

“There is no one in contemporary crime fiction who has managed to combined the visceral and the humane as well as Val McDermid . . . . She's the best we've got.”

 

“Val McDermid is one of the bright lights of the mystery field.”

 

“McDermid's a skillful writer—comparisons with such American novelists as Sara Paretsky and Sue Grafton are appropriate.”

 

“Lindsay Gordon has got a heart of gold and a nose for trouble.”

 

“Lindsay Gordon is smart, tenacious, daring, lusty, loyal, and classconscious to the bone.”

Also by Val McDermid

 

 

Lindsay Gordon novels
Report for Murder
Common Murder
Deadline for Murder
Conferences are Murder
Booked for Murder

 

Kate Brannigan novels
Star Struck
Blue Genes
Clean Break
Crack Down
Kick Back
Dead Beat

 

Tony Hill and Carol Jordon novels
The Mermaids Singing
The Wire in the Blood
The Last Temptation
The Torment of Others

 

Non-fiction
A Suitable Job for a Woman

I had no plans to write another Lindsay Gordon novel until the British Council invited me to Russia. But I fell in love, and wanted to share my delight. Among those who contributed to the Russian end of this book are Kate Griffin, my minder, who showed me the ropes; Volodya Volovik, who shared his affection for his adopted city of St Petersburg; Seamus Murphy, whose enthusiasm took me places I'd never otherwise have seen; Irina Savelieva, who interpreted the dark and dangerous for me; Varya Gornestaeva, without whom none of it would ever have happened; Sasha Gavrilov for the encouragement and the good company; Marna Gowan, who exploited her contacts shamelessly; Maxim Shvedov, for all the St Petersburg sailing info; and Stephen Dewar who explained the intricacies of Russian customs and immigration. To all of you, thanks for being such generous companions.

Leslie Hills, who has forgotten more than I know about story structure, helped me hone the plot. Thanks for seeing me through the dark night of the soul and for always travelling off limits with me.

Thanks too to Brigid and Lisanne, who always believed in Lindsay.

He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune.

 

“Of Marriage and the Single Life”
Francis Bacon

A murder of crows swore at each other in the trees that lined the banks of the River Kelvin. A freezing drizzle from a low sky bleached the landscape to grey. Nothing, Lindsay thought, could be further from California. The only thing in common with the home she'd left three months before was the rhythm of her feet as she ran her daily two miles.

On mornings like this, Lindsay found it hard to remember that she'd once loved this city. When she'd come back to Scotland after university and journalism training, she'd thought Glasgow was paradise. She had money in her pocket, she was young, free and single and the city had just begun the process of reinvigoration that had, by the millennium, made it one of the most exciting cities in Britain. Now, fifteen years later, there was no denying it was a good place to live. The cultural life was vibrant. The restaurants were cosmopolitan and covered the whole range from cheap and cheerful to glamorous and gourmet. There were plenty of beautiful places to live, and more green spaces than most cities could boast. Some of the finest countryside in the world was within an hour's drive.

And all she could think of was how much she wanted to be somewhere else. Seven happy and successful years in California had left her feeling that this long narrow land was no longer full of possibilities for her. Partly, it was the weather, she thought,
wiping the cold mixture of sweat and rain from her face. Who wouldn't long for sunshine and the Pacific surf on a morning like this?

Partly, it was that she missed her dog. Mutton had always accompanied her on her runs, his black tail wagging eagerly whenever she walked downstairs in her jogging clothes. But she couldn't contemplate putting him in quarantine kennels for six months, so he'd been handed over to some friends in the Bay Area who guaranteed him a happy life. He'd probably forgotten her already.

But mostly, it was not having anything meaningful to do with her days. Lindsay would never have described herself as someone who was defined by her job, but now that she had none, she had come to realise how much of her identity had been bound up in what she did for a living. Without some sort of employment, she felt cast adrift. When people asked, “And what do you do?” she had no answer. There were few things she hated more than the sense of powerlessness that provoked in her.

In California, Lindsay had had a response, one she felt proud of, one she knew carried a degree of respect. She'd reluctantly abandoned her post lecturing in journalism at Santa Cruz to come back to Scotland because her lover Sophie had been offered the chair of obstetrics at Glasgow University. Lindsay had protested that she didn't have anything to go back for, but Sophie had managed to convince her she was mistaken. “You'll walk into a teaching job in Scotland,” she'd said. “And if it takes a while, you can always go back to freelance journalism. You know you were one of the best.”

And so she had stifled her doubts for Sophie's sake. After all, it wasn't her lover's fault that Lindsay had reached the age of thirtynine without a clearly defined career plan. But now she was confronted by the cold reality of unemployment, she wished she'd done more to persuade Sophie to stay in California. She'd looked around for teaching work, but vocational journalism training wasn't nearly as widespread in Scotland as it was in the US. She'd managed to secure some part-time lecturing at Strathclyde University, filling in for someone on maternity leave, but it was dead-end work with no prospects. And the idea of going back to the overcrowded world of freelance journalism with a contacts
book that was years out of date held no appeal.

So her days had shrunk to this. Pounding the walkway by the river. Reading the papers. Shopping for dinner. Arranging to meet old acquaintances for drinks and discovering how much distance there was between them. Waiting for Sophie to come home and bring her despatches from the world of work. Lindsay knew she couldn't go on like this indefinitely. It was poisoning her soul, and it wasn't doing her relationship with Sophie much good either.

She reached the point where she had to turn off the walkway and head up the steep hill to the Botanic Gardens, the halfway point on her circuit. Head down, she powered up the slope, too wrapped up in her thoughts to pay heed to her surroundings. As she rounded a blind bend, she realised she was about to cannon into someone walking down the hill. She swerved, but simultaneously, the other woman side-stepped in the same direction. They crashed into each other and Lindsay stumbled, smacking into a tree and falling to one knee, her ankle twisting under her. “Shit,” she gasped.

“Oh God, I'm sorry,” the other woman said.

“My own fault,” Lindsay growled, pushing herself upright, then wincing as she tried to take her weight on the damaged ankle. “Jesus,” she hissed, leaning forward to probe the joint with her fingers.

“You've not broken it or anything?” The woman frowned solicitously.

“Sprained, I think.” She drew in her breath sharply when she touched the tender heart of the injury.

“Have you far to go? Only, I live just the other side of the river. My car's there. I could drive you?”

It was a tempting offer. Lindsay didn't fancy hiking a mile on a damaged ankle. She looked up, taking in her nemesis turned Good Samaritan. She saw a woman in her late twenties with an angular face and short blonde hair cut to fashionable effect. Her eyes were slate blue, her eyebrows a pair of dark circumflex accents above them. She was dressed out of Gap and carried a leather knapsack over one shoulder. She didn't look like an axe murderer. “OK,” Lindsay said. “Thanks.”

The response wasn't what she expected. Instead of the offer of an arm to help her down the hill and across the bridge, the woman looked taken aback, her eyes widening and her lips parting. “You're Lindsay Gordon,” she said, bemused.

“Do I know you?” Lindsay leaned against the tree, wondering if she'd taken a blow to the head she hadn't registered at the time.

The blonde grinned. “We met about ten years ago. You came to the university GaySoc to talk about gays and the media. A bunch of us went out for a drink afterwards.”

Lindsay strained at the locked gates of memory. “Edinburgh University?” she hazarded.

“That's right. You remember?”

“I remember doing the talk.”

The blonde gave a rueful pout. “But you don't remember me. Well, that's hardly surprising. I was just a gawky wee fresher who was too overawed to open her mouth. But hey, this is terrible. Me standing here reminiscing while you're suffering like this.” Now she extended her arm. “Lean on me. I'm Rory, by the way. Rory McLaren.”

Lindsay took the proffered arm and began to limp gingerly down the slope. “I'm amazed you recognised me all these years later,” she said. The least she could do was make conversation, even though she felt more like swearing with every step.

Rory chuckled. “Oh, you were pretty impressive. You're part of the reason I ended up doing what I do.”

“Which is?”

“I'm a journo.”

“Oh well, never mind,” Lindsay said, attempting a levity she didn't feel. The last thing she needed right now was some bright and bouncy kid still jam-packed with idealism making her feel even more old and decrepit than she already did.