Hostage to Murder (6 page)

She'd limped in, her eyes roving round the bar area, taking in the décor that somehow managed to be stylish without being impersonal. Trance music played, not loud enough to make conversation uncomfortable. A handful of patrons sat on high stools at tables built on to the square pillars that supported the ceiling. A few glanced up as she walked in, but nobody gave her a second look as she made her way to the zinc-topped counter. Behind the bar, a woman with cropped black hair was stocking cold cabinets with bottled beers. As Lindsay approached, she turned and stood up. “What can I get you?” she asked.

“I'll take a cappuccino.”

The barmaid nodded and moved to the gleaming coffee machine. While she fiddled purposefully with taps and spigots, Lindsay continued to scan the place. The bar area occupied the front of the café, but beyond she could see a bigger room. Wooden booths lined the back wall, but the rest of the space was occupied with round metal tables and Italian-style chairs with slender chrome legs. At two of the tables, lone women sat with coffee cups, cigarettes and newspapers.

Lindsay paid for her drink, then said, “I'm looking for Rory McLaren.”

The barmaid smiled. “The Scarlet Pimpernel of the Merchant City.” It came out with the smoothness of a familiar line. “She's no' been in yet.”

“She's got a regular table, right?”

The barmaid leaned on the counter and pointed through to the
back room. “Farthest booth at the end. She expecting you?”

Lindsay shrugged. “I suppose that depends on how confident she is of her pulling power.”

The smile widened to a grin. “She'll be expecting you, then. Go away through. Mind you, there's no telling when she'll show up. If she's not in first thing, it could be quite a while.”

“That's OK, I'm not in any hurry.”

“Aye well, all good things come to those who wait.”

“Will you have one with me while I'm waiting?”

The barmaid raised her eyebrows. “Aye, all right. I'll have a Diet Irn-Bru, if it's all right with you.” She reached into the chill cabinet and pulled out a can, popping the top and taking a swig.

“Do you mind telling me your name? Only, I reckon there's a fair chance I'm going to be in here quite a bit, and, ‘Hey, you,' isn't really my style.”

“Oh God, not another smooth operator,” the barmaid sighed, raising her eyes to the ceiling.

Lindsay grinned. “Truly, that wasn't a line. I might be doing a bit of work with Rory, and from what she's told me, this is where it all happens.” She shrugged. “I prefer to be on friendly terms, that's all.”

“What sort of work?”

“I used to be a journalist. And Rory seems to think I could be again.” Lindsay's self-deprecating shrug was perfectly calculated.

“She can be very persuasive.”

“So I've heard. But you need to be in this game. So humour me that I can still cut the mustard and tell me your name.”

The barmaid grinned. She had a tiny diamond inlaid in her left canine. It added shock value to the smile. “I'm Annie,” she said.

“And I'm Lindsay.” She looked around. “Rory tells me she keeps pretty busy. Plenty stories coming in all the time.”

Annie nodded. “Everybody knows her in here. You'd be amazed the things she picks up just hanging out. It was slow at the start, but these days she's always got something on the go. Mind you, I'm surprised she's thinking about working with somebody else.”

“How so?”

“No disrespect, but Rory's no' exactly what you'd call a team
player. She likes her own company too much. Half the baby dykes in here are in love with her, but she never takes advantage. See Rory? She figures out what she wants and goes for it, and hell mend the hindmost. And people see that, and they trust her because of it.”

“So you'd recommend working with her?”

“You could do a lot worse.” Annie took a long swallow of her drink and put the can down behind the counter as another customer approached.

“I'll let you get on,” Lindsay said, sliding off her bar stool and making her way through to Rory's booth. She smiled at the “Reserved” sign on the table, eased herself on to the padded bench seat and stared at the pile of morning papers neatly stacked against the wall. Her morning's research had been productive, and Annie's responses had confirmed her half-made decision.

The first journalist she'd spoken to had been a former colleague on the
Standard.
Gus was now news editor for BBC Radio Scotland and although their relationship had been closer to that of sparring partners than friends, he'd seemed pleased enough to hear from her.

Gus didn't like Rory. He thought she was a chancer who pushed the very limits with her stories and who didn't care whose toes she trampled on when she was on the chase. But then, Gus had never liked women, least of all dykes. If that was the worst he could find to say about Rory, Lindsay reckoned her potential workmate was probably almost as good as she'd said she was.

Lindsay's second call was to Mary Salmond. They'd both been active in the Journalists' Union at the same time, and Mary was now Women's Editor of the
Reporter.
She'd sounded positively delighted to hear Lindsay's voice and immediately insisted they have lunch together to catch up. Lindsay reluctantly agreed; she'd always found Mary far too Edinburgh earnest for her taste. But she wanted information, and she'd have to pay for it.

Mary had gushed at the mention of Rory's name. “She's done awfully well since she went freelance,” she said. “Awfully well indeed. She's done the odd piece for me, always her own ideas, and her copy's a joy. She writes to length, she pitches it at the
right level for my readers and she's got the knack of getting doors to open for her.”

“What's she like personally?”

“I wouldn't say I knew her that well. She seems very private, never really gives much away. She's not one of those freelances who's always trying to freeload in the pub, you know the kind?”

Lindsay knew the kind. “But you like her?”

“Oh yes, I like her fine. She's very pally with Giles Graham, you know Giles? Such a sweetie. If Giles likes her, she must have something going for her, I've always thought he's an awfully good judge of character. I've seen her about with Sandra Singh as well. You won't know Sandra, she's a factual programmes producer at STV, after your time. Does that help?”

It had helped. Lindsay had instinctively liked Rory, but she was too shrewd an operator herself to trust her future to someone she knew nothing about. Now she knew enough to take a chance. She picked the top paper off the pile and began browsing. After an hour, she ordered a burger and fries. The burger turned out to be a very poor relation of what she was accustomed to in California, but the chips were glorious—fat chunks of real potato, golden brown and crunchy, the way she liked them and had seldom found them in America.
That would be how I stayed so slim over there,
she thought. She decided she'd give Rory till she'd finished her lunch, then she'd leave her a note and go. It really didn't do to seem too keen, after all.

A shadow crossed the page she was reading and Lindsay looked up to see Rory standing before her, laptop slung over one shoulder, a delighted grin on her face. “Couldn't stay away, huh?” Rory asked, sliding into the seat opposite Lindsay.

“Well, I could hardly go running, could I?”

Rory winced. “How is the ankle?”

“Sore. But not as swollen as it was. A week or so and it'll be back to normal.”

“That's the official clinical view from the resident medic?”

Lindsay snorted. “Given Sophie's area of expertise, she'd take one look at a swollen ankle and probably tell me I was suffering from pre-eclampsia.”

Annie arrived carrying a couple of cappuccinos. “There youse go. You want something to eat, Rory?”

“I'll take a plate of stovies, Annie.”

The barmaid nodded and left them to it.

“Three cappuccinos in one day. I'll be jazzed till bedtime at this rate,” Lindsay said.

“Would you rather have something else? Only, Annie said that's what you were on.” Rory looked momentarily anxious.

She's trying to make an impression,
Lindsay thought wryly. “No, that's fine. I suspect I'm going to have to have my wits about me to deal with you anyway.”

“So, you've decided to take me up on my suggestion?” Rory kept her eyes on her coffee, but Lindsay could sense the eagerness underlying the question.

“I'm giving it serious consideration. But if it's going to stand any chance of working, we've got to be up front with each other.” Rory's head came up as she registered the seriousness of Lindsay's tone. The banter was over, and it was time to get down to business.

“Point taken. So, what do you want to know?”

Lindsay sucked some foam off her cappuccino and wiped her top lip clean. “My big reservation is that initially, stories would only be coming my way on the basis of your reputation. Which obviously means you get first pick of whatever lands on the table. I have no idea what that means for me. If I'm just going to be running around doing the dross that doesn't interest you or that you think isn't worth your time and attention, then, frankly, I'm not interested.”

Rory looked wounded. “No, that's not how I see it at all. See, the thing is, I already get more stuff coming to me than I can deal with. I end up selling stuff on as tips that I'd rather work myself, but if I'm in the middle of something big and I get a lead on a story that's time-sensitive, I have to let it go. The way I see it, when a story comes in, whichever one of us is free to take it runs with it. Anyway, the reputation you've got, you'll be pulling stories in yourself in no time.”

Lindsay's eyebrows shot up. “The reputation I've got? Come on, Rory, I'm hardly a household name.”

“I've just been in at the
Standard,
passing a tip on to Giles Graham. He remembers exactly who you are. And you didn't even work together. Your by-line will sell stories that I'd struggle to place. Lindsay, I'm not handing out charity here. You'd be doing me a favour by coming in with me.”

Lindsay gave Rory a long, considering look. Sure, the kid was probably a bit starry-eyed about her, imagining a past crammed with glory days and twenty-two point by-lines. But surely that had to be better than trying single-handed to carve out a niche among the sceptical new faces that were running the newsdesks and magazine supplements these days?

It wasn't the hardest decision of her life. “OK. Let's give it a go. A month's trial, and at the end of it, either of us can walk away if it's not working out.”

Rory punched the air. “Yes! That's brilliant, Lindsay. Hey, you won't regret this, you know.”

I sincerely hope not,
Lindsay thought. But she stifled her remaining reservations and extended a hand across the table. “Nor will you,” she said.

“So. When do we start?”

Kevin followed Michael out into the street and sniffed the air like a dog in a new wood. “So this is Glasgow,” he said. “It's not that different, is it?” There was a note of disappointment in his voice.

Michael said nothing. He simply turned left and set off towards the bus stop he'd been told he'd find a couple of streets away. He carried his heavy holdall as lightly as if it held nothing more substantial than an evening newspaper. At the bus stop, he came to a halt, dropped his bag at his feet and lit a cigarette.

“Where is it we're going again?” Kevin asked.

“A bed and breakfast,” Michael said. “Argyle Street.”

“So what's the plan?”

“We'll take a wee look round the pubs near where she was spotted.”

Kevin's face lit up at the prospect. “Sounds good to me, Michael.”

A bus drew up and the two men boarded. It was almost empty and they had the rear area to themselves.

“We won't be drinking, Kevin. This is an operation, not a holiday,” Michael said. His tone of voice would have signalled to anyone else that this wasn't a subject for debate.

Not to Kevin. He gave the cunning smile of the truly stupid. “But we'll need to fit in, Michael. We'll stick out like a sore thumb if we just go in and order a couple of cokes.”

“That's why we won't be going in and ordering any cokes, Kevin,” Michael snarled. “You'll be going up to the bar and asking for change for the cigarette machine. Or a box of matches. Meanwhile, I'll be taking a good look around. And if I see her, we'll be stopping for a glass of stout. And we'll be making it last.”

Crestfallen, Kevin slumped in his seat, watching the unfamiliar city roll past the windows. He knew he was supposed to like Michael, for his sister's sake, but he was a moody bastard to work with and no mistake.

By closing time, Michael's mood had blackened to a pitch where even Kevin realised silence was the best option. They'd explored pubs ranging from raucous student bars with loud insistent music to more traditional pubs where old men nursed their pints with the tenderness of new mothers. Michael had cast an apparently negligent but actually sharp look over hundreds of women, none of them Bernadette Dooley.

They walked back through streets shared with drinkers heading home, the air aromatic with curry and fish suppers, to the scruffy B&B where they were inconspicuous among the transient workers and DSS claimants who made it their home. All the way back, a scowl deepened the crease between Michael's eyebrows. Kevin had lost count of the number of pubs they'd scouted out, but his pockets were bulging with boxes of matches and loose change. And not so much as a glass of stout had passed his lips.