Hostage to Murder (14 page)

She walked out of the Portakabin, shaking her head in wonder. What had she just signed up to? Why did she always have to jump in at the deep end? Some people couldn't live without the edge of risk in their lives. Was that what the possibility of parenthood was turning her into? Or was it that she was starting to feel that she might as well be reckless since she didn't have much left to lose? Pushing the uncomfortable thought away, she headed back to her car.

 

Lindsay polished off the last mouthful of her baked potato with chilli and pushed the plate to one side. Working from the Café Virginia had definite advantages, she reckoned, thinking back without nostalgia to her previous life as a journalist, to canteen meals drenched in saturated fats and sandwiches gobbled on the run. She'd just opened that day's
Scotsman
when an immaculately dressed and perfectly groomed man slid into the seat opposite her. He wore an expectant expression, and although he looked familiar, Lindsay couldn't place him at once.

Seeing her confusion, he held out his hand with an accompanying smile. “Giles Graham. Lifestyle editor of the
Standard.
Our paths crossed briefly in a past life.”

“Of course,” Lindsay exclaimed. “I'm sorry, it was seeing you out of context, I couldn't make the connections.” She shook his hand. “Are you looking for Rory?”

“I am indeed. I was passing, and I thought I'd buy her a coffee. A small thank you for a tip she gave me that seems to be panning out rather nicely. But since she's not here, perhaps you'd let me buy you one instead?”

Lindsay shook her head. “I'm awash with the stuff. But don't let me stop you.”

Giles leaned round the corner of the booth and managed to catch Annie's eye. He was, she thought, the kind of man who was accustomed to catching women's eyes, regardless of their sexual
orientation. “I hear you and Rory are going to be working together,” he said. “About time she had someone with a bit of sense to temper her wilder excursions.”

“And you think I'm that person?” She could only think that Giles had somehow managed to avoid some of her more legendary exploits.

“Absolutely. You've been there, done that, sold the tee-shirt at a charity auction. Nobody knows better than Splash Gordon the kind of trouble a journalist can get into before she loses her idealism. So it seems to me that there's no better brake on Rory's excesses than someone who understands the dangers they can lead to.”

It was, she thought, charmingly put. But before she could respond, her phone rang. “Excuse me,” she said, picking it up. “Lindsay Gordon.”

“Ciao
,
bella
. It's Giulia.”

“Wow, that was quick. I take it that means you have an answer for me?”

“
Vero.
I don't think it's the one you want to hear, however. The freelance I contacted managed to track down Cavadino's mother. The family owns a café on the road from Colle Val d'Elsa to Grosseto. He got the mother into conversation, and the kid's definitely not there. The old lady was complaining about never seeing her grandchildren, especially the one in England.”

“Scotland,” Lindsay corrected automatically. She sighed. “Never mind. You did your best.”

“I'm not finished,” Giulia protested. “My boyfriend's sister-in-law, Lucia, works in the personnel department of the Foreign Ministry. I didn't want to say anything before in case she couldn't help, but now I can boast about it.” She gave her trademark giggle, a breathy sound that always reminded Lindsay uncomfortably of Jennifer Tilly in
Bound
. “Cavadino has a sister. She is married to another diplomat, a former colleague of her brother's. Apparently, sister and brother are very close.”

“And where is the sister based?” Lindsay asked eagerly.

“According to Lucia, Maria Padovani is with her husband. He's the commercial attaché at the St Petersburg consulate.”

“St Petersburg? As in Russia?”

“
Vero.
”

“Why there? Isn't the embassy in Moscow?”

“Sure. But everybody has a consulate in St Petersburg. All that shipping, you know? They have to maintain a presence to look after their commercial interests. Not to mention all those sailors who get into trouble ashore.”

“Of course, I wasn't thinking. So, what's the score with Maria Padovani? Is the boy there?”

“Lucia said she was checking visa status for dependants. And according to the person she spoke to in the consulate, the Padovanis applied for a multi-entry diplomatic visa for their nephew soon after they arrived in Russia. They were claiming him as a dependant. Apparently the line was that his father wasn't able to look after him and he had asked them to take charge of the boy. But they don't live in the residence, so nobody really knew if the boy was there or not. Sounds like Cavadino has been planning this for a while, no?”

“He certainly set it all up well in advance,” Lindsay said. “I'll have to see what I can find out about the St Petersburg end of things. Thanks a million, Giulia. I owe you.”

“You can pay me in
frascati
in Rome.”

“It's a deal.” Lindsay hung up and gave Giles an apologetic look. “Sorry about that. A story I'm working on.”

“With a St Petersburg connection?” he asked. “I'm not fishing, just interested,” he added hastily, seeing Lindsay's look of suspicion. “I went there last year with Julia, my wife. She's an MEP, had to go there on some fact-finding mission about Russian education and I managed to ride her coat-tails. Marvellous city.”

“I've never been.”

“You should go, before the Russians get the hang of mass tourism and it gets ruined.”

I could end up there sooner than you imagine
, she thought wryly. “I don't suppose you've got any contacts there?” she asked without much hope that serendipity would weigh in on her side.

He shook his head. “Not journalists, no. I got quite pally with a chap from the British Council. He does a lot of liaison work
with the local schools and colleges, which is why we ended up spending quite a bit of time with him.”

A faint glimmer of an idea flickered at the edge of Lindsay's brain. “Do you think he might be up for a bit of intrigue?”

Giles laughed. “Probably. British Council bureaucracy doesn't exactly make for an interesting life. I expect he'd be terribly grateful for a bit of excitement. Do you want me to call him?”

In reply, Lindsay handed him her phone.

“You don't mess about, do you?” he said, amused. He looked up a number on his electronic organiser then dialled it. “Hello? Is that Gareth? Gareth, it's Giles Graham here. Julia's husband. How are things with you?” He listened politely for a minute. “Oh, we're both fine,” he continued. “Listen, Gareth, a colleague of mine has a need for a little clandestine information gathering in your fair city. And I wondered if you'd be willing to help her? . . . I'm not entirely sure, but I suspect it's not the sort of thing she could put through official channels . . . You would? Hang on, I'll pass you over to her.”

He handed the phone to Lindsay with a wink. “I think you'll be OK there.”

“Hello? Gareth, my name's Lindsay Gordon. I really appreciate you talking to me.”

“No problem,” he said, his Geordie accent immediately obvious. “A change is as good as a holiday round here. If I can do anything to help, I will.”

“Great. This is all a bit delicate, and I don't want to drop you in it professionally, so it's probably better if I don't go into the reasons why I need this information. Are you OK with that?” Lindsay's voice was warm and persuasive, honed over years of persuading the reluctant to talk.

“I suppose so,” he said dubiously. “It's not anything illegal, is it?”

“No, of course not. I just don't want to put you in an embarrassing position.”

“So what is it you want to know?”

“I'm trying to track down a six-year-old boy. I think he might be in St Petersburg, and if he is, I'm sure he'll be going to school. He's a native English speaker, which I guess would narrow the options
down quite a bit. I wondered if you could maybe let me have a list of places he could possibly be enrolled?”

“That's it? That's all you want to know? No problem. Just let me make a couple of calls. Can you ring me back tomorrow on this number? Make it around the same time, if you can.”

Lindsay punched the air and gave Giles the thumbs-up. “That's great, Gareth. I really appreciate this.”

“Like I said, no problem. You tell Giles, next time he comes, he owes me a bottle of Bowmore.”

Lindsay ended the call, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “Giles, you are a prince among men. That espresso is on me.”

People were so gullible, Michael mused. No, on second thoughts, people were so greedy. The estate agent had been a pushover as soon as the words, “I'd pay cash, of course. No need to bother the taxman, is there?” had left his mouth. You'd think with the damage Republican bombs had done over the years that any Brit with half a brain would think twice before they rented out an empty flat to a man with an accent like his. But the magic of money worked the trick every time.

It was perfect. The view from the bay window of the living room couldn't be bettered. They could see the Gourlays' front door and they could catch glimpses of Bernadette as she moved across the living room. The only thing Michael had to worry about was whether Kevin had the attention span to keep a proper watch when it was his turn.

So far, there hadn't been much to see. The big fucker had gone off in his shiny maroon Jag at twenty to nine. Bernadette had emerged just before ten and Michael had followed at a discreet distance. She'd walked down to the supermarket and bought a chicken, a bag of spuds, a cabbage, a bottle of Scotch and 200 cigarettes. She'd moved like a zombie, he'd thought. If he'd jumped up in front of her and shouted, “Boo!” he didn't think she'd have broken stride.

On the way back, he'd caught himself wondering what the point
of this was. Patrick knew where she was living. He'd given her one scare already with the note he's had Michael leave on the kitchen table. Presumably, he was also leaning on her via the phone to get her to give up whatever it was she'd walked off with. But surely he must have realised by now that the softly-softly approach wasn't getting him anywhere? Michael couldn't understand why he hadn't been instructed to try a more direct method of persuasion.

However, the habit of obeying orders was ingrained in Michael. If Patrick was holding back, there had to be a reason. It was possible he wanted to front her up himself. Christ Almighty, Michael thought, if I'd robbed Patrick Coughlan and he showed up on my doorstep, I'd sign away everything I owned in the world to see the back of him. If that was the game plan, it was possible that the delay was because Patrick hadn't been able to get away. He wasn't simply a busy man; he was important too. Just because there was a ceasefire, that didn't mean Patrick could disappear on his own private business whenever it suited him.

All in good time, Michael had told himself as he watched Bernadette let herself into the home she probably still saw as a sanctuary. For now, he was content to wait.

 

Sophie had woken up feeling sick. When she passed the news on, Lindsay felt sick too. “Does that mean it's worked?” she'd asked.

“I'm not getting my hopes up,” Sophie had said. “It could be psychosomatic, it could be that I ate too much of your wonderful tomato and artichoke risotto last night.”

“And it could be that you're pregnant.” Lindsay rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed, wondering for how much longer it would just be the two of them.

“What are you so scared of, Lindsay? Are you worried I won't love you any more when the baby comes?” Sophie squirmed across the bed and put an arm round her lover's naked back.

“I suppose that's part of it. The baby will come first with you, it's the way the biology works. But mostly, it's just that I like my life the way it is. I like the choices we have. Where to live, where to go on holiday, when to go to the pictures, when to go out for dinner. We've worked hard for the right to those choices and it
feels like madness to throw all that away.” She got to her feet and padded across the room to get her dressing gown.

“We'll have different choices,” Sophie said, her voice tinged with sadness. “We'll have a lovely life, Lindsay, I promise you.”

“Yeah, but on balance, I prefer the devil I know.”

Her words came back to her as she sat in Café Virginia browsing the morning papers. She hadn't seen Rory since the previous morning, and had no idea what her business partner was up to. Presumably pursuing the Faslane story, whatever it had turned out to be. She wondered if they needed to set up an agreed system for communicating what they were up to, or whether that would feel too much like keeping tabs on each other. She was fairly sure Rory would hate to feel checked up on almost as much as she would.

So, what was she doing with her much-vaunted choices today? Not a lot, came the answer. She'd spent half an hour checking out St Petersburg on the internet, formulating ideas and discarding them as fast as she thought of them. Eventually, she'd come up with the bare bones of a plan. But she needed to know she wasn't setting herself an impossible task. Three hours till she could phone Gareth in St Petersburg, and damn all to fill them with. Lindsay needed to dig up some stories for herself, but she wasn't going to do that sitting on her backside in the café. She was about to go off in search of a newsagent that sold out-of-town weekly papers when her phone rang. She grabbed it eagerly and said, “Hello? Lindsay Gordon.”