Hostage to Murder (26 page)

Sophie smiled. “And it doesn't occur to you to wonder why that might be?”

“If I said the candlelight is flattering, that would spoil the moment,” Lindsay teased. “I suppose it's because I haven't seen you for the best part of a week.”

Sophie shook her head. “Try again.”

Lindsay struggled. There was nothing obvious; no new hairstyle, no tinted eyelashes, no sunbed tan. “A clue?”

“What makes women bloom?”

Lindsay's stomach flipped and settled with the dead weight of a stone. “It worked?” she said, feeling the ground beneath her feet plummeting away from her.

“It worked. I'm pregnant.”

 

Lindsay was waiting outside Café Virginia when it opened the next morning. After her father had left, the house had felt too claustrophobic to contain her. She'd gone for a short run, her ankle still too fragile for anything sufficiently cathartic. Then she'd showered and taken the bus into town, reluctant to meet Rory outside a work context.

She needn't have worried. By half past eleven, there was still no sign of her business partner. Lindsay felt faintly disconsolate. Her story on the rescue of Jack Gourlay had made the splash and spread of the
Standard
and she wanted to share her moment of glory. She also wanted to lay her head on the table and weep because Sophie's news had left her in the grip of a profound panic that threatened to engulf her. She couldn't deny that a small part of her rejoiced for Sophie's triumphant delight, but mostly she was scared of what this would mean.

It was so early. So much could still go wrong. Sophie could easily miscarry. There could be a problem with the foetus. Then there were all the things that could turn nasty during pregnancy. Sophie might be blooming now, but there was no guarantee that would last. And then, if she somehow made it to term, birth was still such a bloody, dangerous business. Lindsay didn't even want to look at what lay beyond birth. How could she be a parent when she couldn't even organise her own life in a sane and sensible fashion? What would she do if Sophie stopped loving her?

None of it bore thinking about.

So Sandra Singh's arrival felt like a small gift from the gods. Sandra plonked herself down opposite Lindsay and wrestled her cigarettes out of her bag. “Hiya,” she said. “I see Splash Gordon's back with a vengeance,” she added, prodding the pile of newspapers on the table. “Nice one.”

“It's always encouraging to get a good show,” Lindsay admitted.

“Especially when it involved taking as many chances as this one did. Though we did have a lot of fun in between the scary bits.”

Sandra raised her eyebrows. “So I hear. Rory and I went out clubbing last night. She told me all about it.”

“Ah,” said Lindsay.

“Don't worry, she's not a blabbermouth. But we're best pals, we tell each other everything. And it stops there. Your secret's safe with me.” She shook her head as her coffee arrived. “My, but you like to live dangerously.”

“Sometimes you just have to get on the rollercoaster,” Lindsay said. “Life's hardly worth living if you don't take the odd risk.”

Sandra spooned sugar into her coffee and stirred it. “Maybe. But I can't help thinking it might have been better all round if you hadn't got on this particular fairground ride. I don't think it's passed its health and safety inspection. And I hate to see anybody get hurt needlessly.”

Uh oh,
Lindsay thought.
The gypsy warning from the best friend. Break her heart, I'll break your legs.
“I hear what you're saying, and I think your concern is commendable. But there's no reason why anybody should get hurt, Sandra.”

“That's easier said than done. There's more to Rory than meets the eye, you know.”

Lindsay's smile was entirely spontaneous and it lit her eyes. “I think I'd worked that one out for myself. Sandra, trust me. I'm not going to break her heart.”

Sandra gave her an odd look. But before she could say more, Rory herself appeared, looking hangdog and hungover. “What the fuck was I drinking last night?” she groaned as she eased herself into the booth.

“You ended up on tequila slammers with wee Ian Harvey,” Sandra said. “That was after five gin and tonics, two Zombies, several bottles of that disgusting lemon alcopop and a rum and Coke.”

Rory groaned. “I wish you hadn't told me that. Now I know it's going to get worse before it gets better.”

Annie dumped a cappuccino in front of her and shook her head in disgust. “You need a Bloody Mary,” she said.

Rory shuddered. “No, don't. Remember we've got a Human Rights Act now.”

“Look, Lindsay got the splash and spread,” Sandra said, waving the paper in front of her.

Rory managed a wan smile. “That should put you back on the map, babe. Me, I wouldn't have touched the story, but you were right to go with your instincts.”

Sandra finished her coffee and her cigarette. “I'm out of here,” she announced. “I've got to meet some guy at the modern art gallery. Apparently he makes sculptures out of sex toys. Which probably means he'll win the Turner Prize next year.”

They watched her leave in silence. Then Rory looked blearily at Lindsay. “You're awful quiet for a woman who should be celebrating her return to the big league. Is it just out of respect for my hangover ? Or is there something I should know about?”

“There is something. But it's not what you think,” Lindsay added hastily, seeing the hurt spring up in Rory's eyes. “This is not about us.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Sophie's pregnant.”

Rory's eyebrows arched. “Is she sure?”

“She's a fucking obstetrician, Rory. Of course she's sure,” Lindsay snapped.

“OK, OK, don't take it out on me.” She reached across the table and covered Lindsay's clenched fist with her hand. “How are you feeling about it?”

Lindsay sighed. “I don't know. Scared, mostly. It's like everything in my life is going to change, and I have no idea how. I feel like I've got no choices, no control over what happens next. And I've just got to go with it.”

“Sounds about right to me. Because you're not about to leave her, are you?”

“No, I'm not. I know you're the last person I should be saying this to, but I love her. I can't face the thought of losing her.”

Rory shook her head. “Who else would understand that better than me? Of course you're scared. Anybody in your shoes would be. She's sprung this on you, backed you into a corner and given you no choice about something that is totally life changing. But you've got nine months to get your head round the idea. And for what it's worth, I think you'll make a great parent.”

“Thanks. Look, can we talk about this another time? I just wanted you to know, but I think I'm still in a state of shock.”

“Sure.” Rory rubbed her eyes then yawned. “I'm supposed to be meeting Giles for lunch. Do you think I'll live that long?”

Lindsay grinned. “Probably. I'm going to stay here and plough through the local papers. And maybe a punter will bring me a wee titbit of a story, given that we've been away for the best part of a week and there must be something somebody's dying to tell us.”

Rory stretched and yawned again. “Oh God, I'd better go.” She slid out of the seat and turned to go.

“You really shouldn't have got so drunk,” Lindsay said, amusement in her voice.

Rory glanced over her shoulder. “You shouldn't have made me miss you.” She poked her furred tongue out at Lindsay. “Only joking. But it was worth it for the look on your face.”

Only joking?
Lindsay thought. She fervently hoped so. Because the only way she was going to be able to keep her own divided emotions under control was by convincing herself that Rory did
not, would not, could not feel the same turbulent surge of emotion and desire that had her in its grip. Believing that, Lindsay could stick to the conviction that revelation would only lead her to rejection. Keep it light, that was the way to deal with it.

How hard could that be?

 

Patrick Coughlan stared at the newspaper spread across his desk. He'd been relieved when Michael had called him the previous evening to report that Bernadette had turned up at Glasgow Airport with the boy and her husband and that they'd gone straight home. The couple of days she'd been out of his reach had made him edgy and tense, something which both his staff and his perpetually embittered wife Mary could attest to. Knowing she was back where he could put his hand on her whenever he wanted to was satisfying.

But he'd been horrified by Michael's call suggesting he get hold of a copy of that morning's
Scottish Daily Standard
. He'd sent one of his counter girls straight down to the big newsagent's in town to pick up a copy. And there she was, plastered all over the paper again, complete with the dramatic story of her husband's rescue of the boy from a Russian park. The man clearly had more balls than brains, Patrick thought. He supposed he should be grateful to Tam Gourlay for doing his work for him, because there was no denying that any threat to the boy was what kept Bernadette firmly in line.

But Patrick was far from happy. He had a sneaking suspicion that Bernadette was trying to outflank him. Perhaps she thought that if she kept herself in the public eye, it would make him back off.

She couldn't be more wrong, he decided grimly. If she wanted to play this game out in the full glare of the media, so be it. He'd give them something to write about. Something she couldn't argue with. Something that would surely make her hand over what was rightfully his. Something very special indeed.

 

Rory groaned. “It's not nice to mock the afflicted, Giles,” she complained, warily sipping the glass of brandy he'd insisted she drink.

“I'm not mocking, Rory,” Giles said. “I'm telling you the truth. Madonna and Guy are absolutely not buying a house in Drymen.”

“Oh well, you lose some and you lose some.” But even through her bleariness, Rory could tell there was more that Giles wasn't telling her. There was a twinkle in his eye that suggested there was more to come. “What?” she said. “You're not telling me the whole story here.”

Giles nodded. “Well spotted. Your tip did check out, in the sense that I managed to find three top notch estate agents who finally admitted that yes, they'd been showing properties to Madonna. So I got on to her people, and they were adamant that I was mistaken. So I gave them a list of dates when my contacts said that Madonna had been in Glasgow looking at Scottish estates. And her PA came back with a list of other places where she'd definitely been on those dates.”

Rory had perked up at the sniff of a mystery. “How very curious,” she said.

“So while you were in Russia, I made some other calls and I found an estate agent in Perth who had been approached by someone purporting to be representing Madonna. They'd made arrangements to view an estate near Gleneagles. So I turned up with a pic man and we fronted up the alleged Madonna and her PA, who had, incidentally, stayed the previous night in a suite at Gleneagles at the estate agency's expense.” He paused for effect.

Rory leaned forward. “And? Come on, the suspense is killing me.”

Giles grinned. “ ‘Madonna' turned out to be an unemployed actress from Edinburgh. She and her mate had hit on this scheme for getting freebies from estate agents. They've been swagging nights in luxury hotels, free meals, limos, the lot, from these estate agents desperate to flog their prestige properties to a celeb client. A lovely little con, really.”

Rory burst out laughing. “Gotta love it,” she said. “So what happens now?”

‘We're running the story across six and seven tomorrow.”

“And what about the women? Are the agents going to have them prosecuted for fraud?”

Giles shrugged. “I suspect the estate agencies will let it lie. It makes them look too silly if they go to the cops. So, although it didn't quite stand up, we ended up with something even better.”

“You know, that story is the best hangover cure I've come across in ages.” She raised her glass. “You made my day, Giles.”

“All part of the service. Now, tell me all about Russia.”

Lindsay's prediction had come true. Just after the lunchtime rush, a middle-aged man with cropped hair and the smartest leather jacket she'd seen in a long time eased into the booth opposite her. “Are you Rory McLaren?” he asked.

“I'm her business partner. Lindsay Gordon. Anything you were going to tell Rory, you can tell me.”

He looked slightly dubious. “I don't know. The friend who told me I could trust Rory, he didn't say anything about you.”

Lindsay gave him her most reassuring smile. “That's probably because we've not been working together very long. Look, I understand your reluctance, and if you want to come back another time when Rory's here, I'm not going to be offended. But you're here now. You might as well do what you came for.”

“I need to be sure you'll keep me out of this,” he said. “It could cost me my job if it comes back on me.”

Sensing a thaw, Lindsay nodded. “You don't have to worry about that. I've been keeping confidential sources under wraps for years.” She pulled a self-mocking face. “It's got so my girlfriend complains I won't even tell her where I get my gossip from.”

Forty minutes later, Lindsay was in possession of the bare bones of a story that she thought could be dynamite. Her source was a Senior House Officer at a city hospital, and he was concerned because surgical equipment designated for single use only
was being employed several times. “It's not hygienic, and with some pieces of equipment, it's just not safe,” he'd told her. “We've already had a couple of near-tragedies on the operating table, and it's only a matter of time before somebody dies.” He'd given her several leads to follow up, and she was looking forward to bottoming the story.