Hostage to Murder (15 page)

“Lindsay? It's Gareth here. I got your number off Giles, I hope you don't mind?”

“Not at all, no.”

“Only, I've got that information for you, but I've got to go to a meeting this afternoon, so I thought I'd better get back to you before then.”

“That's great,' Lindsay said, elation swelling inside her. “What's the score?”

“There's three schools that could take an English-speaking six-year-old. I can email you the details, it would be easier than trying to spell them out to you.”

Lindsay's heart sank. “Three?”

“Yes. They're all fairly central, and they're all much of a muchness when it comes to the quality of teaching, as far as I can gather.”

“Is there any one in particular that caters to the diplomatic community?” Lindsay asked, desperate to narrow down the search.

“I don't know about catering to the diplomatic community specifically, but there are a couple of people here with kids who send them to the international school on Konstantinogradskaya Ulitsa. I've heard that quite a few of the kids there have parents who are EU diplomats.”

“That's brilliant, Gareth.” She gave him her email address. “I really appreciate you going to this much trouble.”

“It was no trouble. I'll email those details to you right away.”

Lindsay hung up. She dialled a new number and waited.

“Gourlay's Garage, your first choice for previously-owned vehicles, how may I help you?” She recognised the voice of Tam's receptionist.

“Can I speak to Tam, please? It's Lindsay Gordon.”

The line went hollow as she was put on hold. Then Tam Gourlay's voice boomed in her ear. “Have you got some news for me?”

“I've got a pretty good idea where Jack is.”

The roar of delight nearly blew the electronics in Lindsay's phone. “That's fantastic! Amazing! So where is he?”

“I think the chances are strong that he's in St Petersburg.”

A moment of stunned silence followed by, “You mean, in Russia?”

“That's right.”

“What the fuck's he doing in Russia?” Tam sounded genuinely bewildered.

“Bruno's sister is married to another Italian diplomat. They've had it set up officially for ages for Jack to go and live with them. I can't see any reason for that unless they were planning to look after him once Bruno had snatched him. Even if it's only for a short time, until the fuss dies down.”

“Fuck. What do we do now? I mean, Russia. I don't even know how you get there. Or how long it takes.”

“Well, funnily enough, I've got one or two ideas about that. It's going to be risky, and it's going to cost a lot of money.”

“I told you,” Tam interrupted. “Money is not an issue here. All I want is to see Bernie happy again.”

“OK. So, this is what I'm thinking.” Lindsay leaned back in the booth and outlined her plan.

 

Two hours later, the MGB was powering up the long rise of the Rest and be Thankful. Blessedly, there hadn't been much traffic on the Loch Lomond road and she'd made good time. With luck and a continued absence of caravans and motor homes, she'd be at her parents' house in an hour and a half. The heather was turning purple on the hills, and the familiar grandeur of the landscape made Lindsay feel at home as the city never would. She recognised her membership of the national trait of sentimentality for her native land, but she didn't care. The sense of ownership she felt driving through Argyll to the Kintyre peninsula was something that could never be taken from her.

Sophie hadn't been best pleased when she'd called to tell her she was going up to Invercross overnight. It wasn't that she minded Lindsay being away; she minded not coming with her. “We don't see enough of your parents,” she'd said plaintively. “Tell them to come down and visit soon.”

Aye, right
, Lindsay thought, knowing how little time her fisherman father was ever prepared to spend away from the sea. Her mother enjoyed the opportunity for shopping in the big city, but watching her father fret always spoiled Lindsay's joy in her mother's pleasure. “We'll go up for a weekend soon,” she promised Sophie.

“A shame it couldn't wait till the weekend this time,” Sophie said.

“You know how stories don't wait.” Well, it was almost the truth

“I know. It's good to see you enjoying yourself again, Lindsay. I'm really glad you're working with Rory.” They'd left it at that, neither mentioning what was uppermost in both their minds.

Lindsay was changing down to negotiate a series of bends when
the phone rang. She pulled over into a viewpoint and picked up the phone. “Hello? Lindsay Gordon.”

“Hey, partner, where are you?” Rory sounded cheerful. “I just got this bizarre message from Giles saying I better catch you before you went chasing off to Russia. What's going on?”

“I'm on the A83, west of Arrochar, heading down towards Loch Fyne. Which, as far as I'm aware, is not the way to Russia.”

“What are you doing there?”

“I'm on my way to Invercross, to visit my parents.”

“Invercross? Where the hell is that?”

“Half way down the Mull of Kintyre, on the west side. Where I grew up. Possibly one of the most beautiful places on the planet.”

Rory snorted. “Compared to Castlemilk, almost anywhere qualifies for that description. So what's all this about Russia?”

“I think I've tracked down Jack Gourlay. It's looking likely that he's in St Petersburg.”

“Wow! Bizarre. So, is Bernie going to court to get him back?”

Lindsay took a deep breath. “Not exactly.”

Rory picked up on the hesitation. “Oh no. Don't tell me. Big Tam wants to play at
Where Eagles Dare.
”

“Something like that. So, do you fancy a trip to Russia?”

The first thing Lindsay noticed about Pulkovo Airport was the cigarette smoke. Accustomed to American airports where no tobacco had burned for years, she was taken aback to see people smoking everywhere. It reinforced what had already struck her on the approach to the runway—that she was heading somewhere very foreign indeed. This wasn't a landscape she'd seen anywhere else in Europe. From the plane window, it looked like Legoland: the buildings neat, square blocks, anywhere from six to twelve storeys high, laid out in grids. Sticking up apparently at random were factory chimneys, red and white striped, also like something from a child's construction kit, plumes of smoke coming out of them at right angles in the stiff wind. There seemed to be nothing organic about this landscape; it was as regimented as humans could make it.

Then, as the plane dipped down, Rory pointed out a landing strip exclusively for helicopters. There were dozens of them, in various liveries. “It's a flock of petrol budgies,” she exclaimed.

As the plane approached the runway, silver birch trees took over. As far as the eye could see, ghostly white trunks stood in the dimming afternoon light, topped by naked branches like a very bad perm, the chimney stacks sticking out of them, still red and white, still spewing out ribbons of white smoke across a sky the blue of robin's eggs.

When the wheels touched down on the tarmac, the Russians on board applauded loudly. “Tells you all you need to know about Aeroflot,” Lindsay commented.

“Where do we go?” Rory asked anxiously as they emerged into the terminal building. She'd admitted to being less than intrepid when it came to abroad, and being confronted with signs in Cyrillic everywhere clearly wasn't helping her confidence.

“Follow the crowd,” Lindsay said. “We've all got to jump through the same hoops.” They descended a flight of stairs and found themselves in a high-ceilinged immigration hall, queues snaking the length of the room. Lindsay headed for what looked like the shortest line, and resigned herself to a long wait. In the week since she'd discovered Jack Gourlay's whereabouts, she'd set herself a crash course in figuring out Russia, and she knew getting through immigration could take a while.

She'd thought the whole process would be nightmarish and complicated, but the travel agent had made it all look desperately simple. Arranging visas had taken no more than a couple of days once they'd filled in the forms and supplied passport photographs. The hotel booking was confirmed and the flights arranged. But a lot of what happened now they were here would be up to her. She'd learned the alphabet, the words for “please” and “thank you” and the invaluable sentence, “I don't speak Russian.” She'd studied a street map of the city, got her head round the metro system and read the
Rough Guide
.

All that had been easy compared to explaining to Sophie why she had to go off on such a risky venture at all. Her partner had seemed emotionally vulnerable, a state Lindsay wasn't accustomed to dealing with. Sophie was the rock in their relationship, the one who was always calm in a crisis. Lindsay was the volatile one, impetuous and prey to insecurities. She didn't know how to respond when Sophie accused her of abandoning her at a crucial time. She knew she was supposed to be supportive, she just didn't seem to be able to find the necessary vocabulary. Instead, she retreated into mutinous self-justification, which only made things worse. She wasn't sure why she was behaving so badly, and she was too scared of the answers to examine her
motives too closely. When she'd left that morning, she'd found herself wondering if she could ever manage to be the person Sophie appeared to need her to be. Or if she even wanted to be.

But she couldn't think about that now. She was the pivot around whom a meticulously constructed plan had to move like clockwork. That was going to take all her concentration. She was glad Rory was there to share the load, although persuading Rory to come had been almost as hard as overcoming Sophie's objections.

“You're mad,” Rory had objected when Lindsay had first run the outline of her plan past her.

“Why?”

“For one, you don't even know for sure that Jack is in St Petersburg at all.”

“Cavadino wouldn't leave him with strangers, and he's due back at work any minute now. Besides, Maria and her husband have had Jack down on their list of dependants since they first arrived in Russia. Where else is he going to be?”

“That could be a red herring. He could be anywhere on the planet.”

“But on balance, he's more likely to be in St Pete's,” Lindsay said reasonably. “And if he's not, Tam Gourlay will be the poorer, not us. Tam's prepared to fund it, so what have we got to lose?”

“Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness?” Rory hazarded. “Lindsay, it's like a jungle on the streets of Russia. Do you really think Jack will be running around without protection? These guys shoot anybody that gets in their road. And if the Mafia don't get us, the cops probably will. I don't want to end up in a fucking gulag for kidnapping a wee boy.”

“Well, please yourself. It's a risk I'm prepared to take. If you won't come with me, I'll just have to manage without you.”

Now real concern crept into Rory's voice. “Lindsay, what are you trying to prove here? What's with the recklessness? You know yourself this is an act of total lunacy. And yet you're going at it like a bull at a gate. What's going on?”

“Nothing's going on,” Lindsay said gruffly, denying the questioning voices inside her own head yet again. “When I say I'll do
something, I do it. And I said I'd do my best to get Jack Gourlay back. So I'm going to Russia. All right? It's my life. I can take risks with it if I want. Christ, why is it all the women in my life think it's their job to tell me what I should and shouldn't do?”

Two days of frosty silence later, Rory had plonked herself down in the booth, held her hands up in capitulation and said, “OK. Count me in. All for one and one for all, right?”

“What changed your mind?”

“Sandra reminded me that you had been a better reporter than I will ever be and if you thought it was worth going for it, you were more likely to be right than a big jessie like me.”

Lindsay grinned. “Thank you, Sandra.” She remembered the moment now as the line shuffled forward at reasonable speed. Ever since she'd agreed to come, Rory had been reminding Lindsay on a more or less hourly basis of the dangers that lay ahead. But in spite of her apprehension, she was still here, at Lindsay's side.

After a twenty-minute wait, Lindsay finally handed her passport over to an unsmiling immigration official who seemed to spend forever scrutinising her seven-day visa and entering details into his computer. At last, he stamped passport and visa and she was released into the baggage hall, where a couple of carousels grunted and wheezed under their burden of luggage. The screens that should have indicated which belt carried the bags from their flight were resolutely blank. “You stay by this one and I'll go over to the other one,” Lindsay said to Rory.

Eventually, their holdalls appeared on Rory's carousel and they made their way through the green channel into a morass of people peering through the doors in an attempt to glimpse their loved ones. Lindsay pushed forward, craning her neck, trying to find their driver.

They were almost at the doors leading to the car park outside when she spotted a burly old man with a shock of silver hair resembling Boris Yeltsin's. But there the resemblance ended. This man was clear-eyed, erect and handsome, his skin the weathered tan of an outdoorsman. He spread his arms wide and shouted in a deep voice, “Lindsay! You grow more lovely with every passing
year.” He pulled her into a bear hug, smacking kisses on both cheeks.