Hostage to Murder (33 page)

“I'm sorry. I've behaved badly and you don't deserve that.”

“I know I don't. Which is why you'll never get the chance to repeat it. I'm not going to let you talk your way back into my life. It's over, and you better get used to the idea.” Sophie turned away dismissively. She sat down and picked up a discarded medical journal from the table, flicking through the pages without seeing a word.

“Please,” Lindsay said. This time, there was no disguising the pain in her voice. “Look, I did a stupid, stupid thing. I never meant to hurt you and I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am for what I've done. But you can't throw everything away just because I made one dumb mistake.”

“Watch me,” Sophie said. “Lindsay, sleeping with someone else doesn't come into the category of mistake. Mistake is when you put black socks in with a white boil wash. Mistake is when you put salt instead of sugar in the custard. This was not a mistake. It was a calculated bit of pleasure-taking and to hell with the consequences. Well, here are the consequences. And if you don't like them, that's tough. You should have thought about that before you seized the moment with the blonde.”

Lindsay walked round the sofa to face Sophie. “I know I did wrong. But please. I want us to be together. You said you wanted us to be a family. That's what I want too.”

Sophie barely glanced up. “You think I want to bring up my child with a liar and a cheat?”

“I'm not a liar,” Lindsay protested. “If I was a liar, you'd be none the wiser.”

“OK, I'll grant you that. But you're a cheat. And I could never trust you again. Which is the bottom line.”

Impulsively, Lindsay dropped to her knees. She almost passed out with the pain that flashed across her ribs. She folded her arms protectively over her abdomen and gasped. “Oh fuck.”

Sophie couldn't help herself. In an instant, she was on the floor beside her. “Lindsay, what is it? What's wrong?”

Lindsay leaned against the sofa, her face grey and sweating. “I
got beaten up, OK? It's none of your business, remember?” Somehow, she pushed herself upright and slumped into the seat. “I'll be fine in a minute. Then I'll go.” She closed her eyes, waiting for the nausea to pass.

When she opened them again, Sophie was still kneeling on the floor, unable to hide her concern. “How did you get beaten up?” she demanded.

“Sticking my nose in where it wasn't wanted. I seem to be doing that a lot today.” She got to her feet unsteadily. “You're all I ever wanted, Sophie. I'll never forgive myself for forgetting that, even for a moment.”

Sophie watched as Lindsay staggered across the room. She listened to the sound of drawers opening and closing, then slowly got to her feet.
Only Lindsay could refuse to trade on having had the crap beaten out of her,
she thought with rueful affection. She met Lindsay in the bedroom doorway, carrying a gym bag. “I'll arrange to come for the rest of my stuff when I've sorted myself out with somewhere to live,” she said, her voice dull.

“Don't do anything hasty,” Sophie said. “Give me some time, Lindsay. Call me next week, OK?” The spark of hope that flared in Lindsay's eyes was hard to resist, but Sophie was determined not to cave in so easily.

Lindsay nodded and reached out a tentative hand to Sophie's belly. “You take care now. Take care of both of you.”

“Don't worry about us. Just try and stay alive, Lindsay. Don't piss anybody else off between now and then.”

She couldn't quite unravel the curious expression that crossed Lindsay's face. “I'll do my best,” she said.

 

Patrick Coughlan paced the floor of his room. One Devonshire Gardens was reputedly the finest hotel in the city, but its luxury was wasted on him tonight. He'd thought that Tam Gourlay's death would settle Bernadette's hash once and for all. But she was acting as if she still had rights. Well, if she was relying on her journalist pals this time, she'd be in for a rude surprise. According to Michael, the Gordon bitch wouldn't be so keen to muscle in on his business a second time.

But that still left the problem of the boy. Bernadette had conceded that she would have to hand him over, but she claimed she couldn't make the arrangements while she was still under police protection. He could see the force of that, but it worried him all the same. She'd already tried to thwart him with that stupid kidnap ploy, and he supposed he should be grateful to the Gordon bitch and her sidekick for making sure Bernadette hadn't got away with it. She'd better not try it again.

He sincerely hoped she'd learned her lesson. Killing gave Patrick no pleasure. He had always regarded it as a necessity, no more, no less. Bernadette had once meant something to him, it was true. But unlike many of his fellow countrymen, Patrick had no streak of sentimentality. If killing Bernadette was what it took to bring his son home, then he would have no compunction about ordering it done.

He wanted the boy with him. His absence had smouldered like heartburn since the day Bernadette had disappeared. Patrick had only just got used to the joyous idea of finally being a father when the bitch had snatched it away from him. She couldn't have known the pain she'd dealt him. Being a father to his own boy was the pinnacle of his ambition, and she'd wantonly deprived him of the chance to do the most decent thing he was capable of. There hadn't been a day when he hadn't wondered where his son was, whether he took after his father, what he liked and disliked. Without knowing the first thing about his son, Patrick loved him with a fierce passion. Bernadette had had no right to steal that from him.

One way or another, it would all be over soon.

 

Sophie rubbed her temples. She'd woken with a headache and it seemed determined to hang around. Possibly it was a symptom of pregnancy; more likely, it was a symptom of Lindsay. Luckily, she had a fairly quiet day ahead, the morning devoted to writing up some research in her office.

When the knock came at her door, she expected a colleague or a student. But in response to her weary, “Come in,” she was astonished to see Rory McLaren walk in. “Actually, don't bother,” she said. “Just turn round and leave.”

“Five minutes,” Rory said. “That's all I'm asking.”

“That's five more than I'm prepared to give you.” Sophie glared over her glasses. “I thought Lindsay was big enough to fight her own battles.”

“She doesn't know I'm here. She'd kill me if she knew I was. You should know that.” Rory's air of amused exasperation struck a chord with Sophie in spite of herself.

“So why are you here?”

“Two reasons. First, to apologise. And second, to intercede.”

Sophie frowned. “Five minutes. No more.” Rory moved towards the chair that faced Sophie. “No point in sitting down, Rory. You're not going to be here that long.”

Rory stopped in her tracks, looking awkward. “OK. Right. Look, I should never have slept with Lindsay. I don't make a habit of trespassing in other people's lives.”

“It's hard to imagine how I could care less about your habits. And frankly, it's not you who shouldn't have slept with Lindsay. It's her who shouldn't have slept with you.”

“What happened, it was my fault. I made all the running. She was pissed and a long way from home.” Rory looked at the floor. “I took advantage because I wanted her.”

“She could have said no,” Sophie said, not giving an inch.

“She could have. But she didn't. A moment of weakness, that's all it was. And we were both clear it wasn't going to happen again.” Rory looked up and met Sophie's hard-eyed look with a half-smile. “And if she wasn't such a fool to herself, that's where it would have ended, with you none the wiser.”

“You think it's foolish to be honest?”

Rory's eyebrows quirked upwards. “When all it does is bring everyone concerned a shitload of grief? Hey, Sophie, it's obvious that whatever I say, you're going to pick a fight with, and I can't blame you for that. Can we just get to the bottom line? Lindsay loves you. And I think you love her. If you let one colossal act of stupidity fuck that up, I think you'll both regret it for a very long time. Apart from anything else, every kid deserves two parents who love each other.”

Sophie glared at Rory. “She told you I'm pregnant?”

“Of course she told me. She was thrilled. I know she wasn't very keen on the idea to begin with, but when she realised it was a reality, she was over the moon.”

“Now I know you're full of shit.”

“It's true,” Rory protested. “That's a big part of why she's so upset now. Take her back, Sophie. She needs you.” She glanced at her watch. “That's my time up. I won't keep you any longer.” She turned away and made for the door.

Sophie chewed her lip. As Rory reached for the door handle, she said, “She's very lucky to have a friend like you. It's more than she deserves.”

Rory flashed a smile over her shoulder. “We're both more than she deserves. And also rather less.” Then she was gone.

Sophie stared at the closed door for a very long time. She recognised love when she saw it. And she was afraid that Lindsay might do exactly the same. The night before, she'd come close to offering an olive branch to Lindsay. But perhaps it was already too late for them both.

 

Lindsay sat on a crumbling dry stone dyke that had once formed part of a sheep fold. Her ribs ached, there was a lump on the back of her head the size and texture of a fillet steak and her whole body was stiff. She'd slept badly, struggling to find a comfortable position in Rory's spare bed, and her eyes felt gritty and sore. Sitting in a car all morning hadn't helped. But she was here now, which was the main thing.

She'd parked on a forestry road about quarter of a mile up the hill, well hidden from anyone down the glen, and now she was biding her time. Her father's boat wasn't at the quay, which meant he was out fishing and would be gone for a few hours yet. Her mother, she knew, would leave the house within the next hour or so and walk the mile into town to perform her daily circuit of the three village shops. Fresh rolls, milk, a few vegetables, maybe a bit of meat, whatever she needed for that day's meals. Getting the messages and the local gossip would take her out of the house for long enough for Lindsay to collect what she needed.

She perched on the wall, pulling the collar of her fleece closer
to keep out the chill wind coming off the hill. Even on a grey day like this, it was hard not to be seduced by the harsh beauty of the landscape. The grass was fading as winter approached, nibbled close by Duncan Campbell's hardy mountain sheep, hefted to the hill and spared the foot and mouth cull that had devastated flocks further south. The village crouched below, grey harled cottages hugging the shoreline like a string of runners waiting for the starting pistol to throw themselves pell mell across the rippled grey steel of the quiet sea. She could identify every one of the buildings, though these days Lindsay couldn't say for certain who all the inhabitants were. At least three of the cottages had fallen to weekend visitors, and the old folks of her youth had been replaced by new faces she didn't always recognise.

She wouldn't swap with them for anything, in spite of her attachment to the land. She couldn't live here. She'd known that since her early teens. She needed wider horizons, different responsibilities.

She needed Sophie.
Please God, let her relent.
It was no consolation to realise that if Sophie refused to consider a reconciliation, Rory was waiting in the wings. Whatever her feelings for Rory, it wouldn't diminish the pain of losing Sophie.

Lindsay was spared any further introspection by the appearance of her mother at the end of the path leading from the family home to the main road. She watched her as far as the first house in the village, then Lindsay cut across the field and into the trees. She drove down to the house and let herself in. Fifteen minutes later, she was cruising down the main street, mission accomplished. She couldn't just turn round and drive back to Glasgow, however. Inevitably, someone would have clocked her car and a report of her presence would make its way back to at least one of her parents. The last thing she wanted was her father wondering what she might have been doing there. She spotted her mother outside the minimarket, chatting to a woman bent almost double over her walking frame. Lindsay recognised her primary school teacher as she parked and crossed the street.

Miss Macintyre caught sight of her and tapped her mother on the arm. “Here's your Lindsay,” she said.

Mrs. Gordon turned round, surprise on her face. “Lindsay! What a nice surprise.”

“I'm on my way to Tarbet,” Lindsay lied easily. She'd never had any problem keeping things hidden from her mother. It was an irony she was alive to that morning. She exchanged a few pleasantries with Miss Macintyre then led her mother back to the car.

“You look tired,” Mrs. Gordon said, reading the lines of strain round her daughter's eyes.

“I didn't sleep very well. I tripped on the stairs and hurt my ribs.” Half a truth was better than none.

“Have you got time to stop for your dinner? I've got some lovely prawns back at the house.”

Lindsay shook her head. “I just thought I'd stop and say hello. I'll drop you back home, then I'll need to be going.”

“You'll have time for a cup of coffee.” It was a statement, not a question.

Lindsay smiled. “That'd be nice.”

“So how's Sophie keeping?” her mother asked. Lindsay's heart sank. Maybe coffee wasn't such a good idea after all.