Hostage to Murder (9 page)

Rory gave an exasperated little smile. “Lindsay, meet Sandra. Sandra is a factual programmes producer/director up the road at STV. She hates her boss, she likes boys that are barely old enough to shave and she thinks that since my mammy's dead, she should poke her nose into my business all the time.”

Lindsay moved up the bench to make room for Sandra. “Good to meet you. It's nice to know there's somewhere I can go to get the dirt if I need an edge.”

Sandra shook her head at the available seat. “I'm not stopping. I was passing and I thought I'd just say hello. You girls plotting?”

Lindsay said, “Yes,” at the precise moment Rory said, “No.”

“I'll take that as a yes, and leave you to it. Catch you later.” With a wave of her slender fingers, she was off.

Rory raised her eyes heavenwards. “Something else.”

“Clearly. So, do you have an answer?”

Rory looked momentarily bewildered. “An answer?”

“Warrant cards.”

“Right. Eh, not as far as I know. Why?”

“I think this comes into the category of what you don't know can't hurt you. Have you got an address for Keillor? There isn't one in the file.”

Rory dug around in her backpack and produced a battered filofax. She rummaged around inside and finally unearthed a torn scrap of paper. She tore a sheet out of the notebook on the table and scribbled down an address in Milngavie. “You sure you don't want to talk it through?” she said almost wistfully as she handed it over.

“I'm sure. If it all goes horribly wrong, at least you'll be able to
put your hand on your heart and say it was nothing to do with you.”

“Well, damn,” Rory said. “Haven't you figured out yet that I like trouble?”

“All the more reason not to tell you what I've got in mind,” Lindsay said dryly. “I can get into enough trouble for both of us, all by myself.”

Rory grinned. “Oh good. You know, I think we're going to be pure dead brilliant together.”

Lindsay's smile didn't make it to her eyes. It wasn't so long ago that she would have said the same thing about her and Sophie. Now, she really wasn't sure any more.

Bernie Gourlay took the washing out of the tumble drier and began to fold it. She noticed that one of Jack's school sweatshirts had begun to split at the shoulder seam and put it to one side to sew up later. She often heard mothers complaining about the things they had to do for their kids. But she'd never once felt like that. She knew what a miracle he was, and she counted it a privilege to be able to take care of the details of his life. She'd been conscious ever since he'd been placed in her arms that his dependency on her would wane consistently as he grew older, and she'd determined then that she would enjoy every moment, every phase of his development, but that she'd let go when she had to.

She was, she thought, the luckiest person she knew. She'd escaped from a life that was difficult and anxious, and although the journey hadn't been without its ups and downs, now she'd achieved something she'd never have believed possible. Happiness. Jack was growing strong and healthy, a cheerful child whose face never seemed crossed with shadows. And she had Tam. Big, daft, lovely Tam who had swept her off her feet and never minded that Jack was another man's son, nor that she was incapable of having more children by him. Tam, who had bought this beautiful big garden flat for them to live in, who saw to it that none of them ever went without, who worked hard to take care of
them all but who never let his business interfere with enjoying his family to the full.

Bernie glanced at the clock. Ten minutes before she had to leave and pick up Jack from school. Tam dropped him off in the mornings, but she always made sure she was there in plenty of time to pick him up. She couldn't bear the thought of him standing at the school gates, worry at her lateness puckering his face and darkening his china blue eyes. Soon enough, he'd be begging her to let him walk home with his pals, but for now, he was still pleased to see her when the bell went.

The electronic chirrup of the phone disturbed her cheerful thoughts.
Probably Tam,
she thought, reaching for the handset. It was seldom that a day went by without him calling just to say hello. Four years married, and he was still a big soft romantic at heart.

But the voice that insinuated its way into her brain wasn't Tam's. It was a voice she'd often prayed she would never hear again. It was a voice whose very tone was a masquerade, disguising the viciousness behind it with a beguiling softness. Bernie wasn't beguiled. She was terrified. She felt as if a block of ice was dissolving in her stomach, sending cold trickles through her whole body. She clung to the phone, mesmerised, unable to put it down even after the line went dead.

Staggering slightly, she collapsed into a kitchen chair. Tears pricked her eyes and her dry lips trembled. Eventually, she got to her feet, still shaky. Although she had prayed she'd never have to put it into action, she had a contingency plan in place. She took a well-worn leather address book from a kitchen drawer and looked up an unfamiliar number. She keyed it into the phone and waited for the international connection. When the phone was answered, she gave the name of the person she desperately needed to talk to. Another pause. Then Bernie closed her eyes with relief. “It's Bernadette,” she said.
Please God, let this work.

 

Late the following afternoon, Lindsay drove out through the south side of the city towards the prosperous suburb of Milngavie. She never failed to be struck by the contrasts in Glasgow, even
between areas that superficially seemed to have much in common. The average income in Milngavie was probably only marginally above that in the smart part of the West End where she and Sophie lived. But culturally, it felt like a different world. The West End had always been traditionally more genteel, drawing its residents from the academics at the university and the medical staff at the city's hospitals. Now, it had added media, IT professionals and the arts to the mix, making it a place where Lindsay felt as at home as she was ever going to be.

But Milngavie had always felt more culturally barren. The money here came from retail empires, from accountants, from people who preferred Andrew Lloyd Webber to Mozart or the Manic Street Preachers. The difference was obvious to her even in the architecture. This was the land of bungalows and detached houses, where to inhabit a semi was somehow to have failed. There was nothing here to compare with the grandeur of the red sandstone tenements of Hyndland or the imposing houses of Kelvinside. Lindsay knew she was indulging her prejudices with such facile thoughts, but she didn't care. From everything she'd read about David Keillor, she'd have been astonished to find him living anywhere else.

She turned into the quiet side street where Keillor lived and cruised slowly down till she spotted his house. It was a two-storey detached property in a decent sized garden, a double garaged tacked on to one side. The brilliant white harling that covered the house looked as if it had recently been repainted, and the double glazing was the expensive sort that mimicked traditional sash windows. It didn't look as if Keillor was strapped for cash. She parked just past the entrance to his drive and settled back to wait.

She'd borrowed Sophie's car for the afternoon, knowing that the anonymous saloon her lover drove was more appropriate for what she had in mind than the classic MGB roadster she'd bought on her return to the UK. Sophie had teased her about having a mid-life crisis, but Lindsay had pointed out that she had always driven classic cars and because she'd previously owned an MGB, she knew enough to carry out her own maintenance. Since she couldn't hope to do that with a modern car crammed with electronics,
she was effectively choosing the budget option, she'd argued. Sophie had just laughed and kissed her.

If she has a baby, I'll have to ditch the MGB,
Lindsay thought sourly. She knew Sophie well enough to realise that no child of hers would be allowed on the narrow bench seat in the rear of the 1974 sports car lest it fly into the air and disappear from the rear view mirror, bouncing down the motorway. Her life would have to change in far more profound ways, she knew that. But today, what rankled was the potential loss of her car. She knew she was being childish, but she was the only person who knew that, so it didn't count.

Lindsay forced herself to stop thinking about the baby and concentrate instead on what she had to do. She dug into her jacket pocket and took out the small black leather wallet with the Strathclyde Police crest on it. A couple of years before, she'd been instrumental in saving an American friend, Meredith Miller, from facing a murder charge. A few weeks later, the fake warrant card had arrived in the post, along with a brief note. “You're better than the real thing. I though this might amuse you. Thanks. Meredith.” She'd never imagined using it, but then she'd never imagined being a journalist again, particularly not in Scotland.

She adjusted her rear view mirror so she could see approaching traffic and settled down for a wait. She didn't expect it to be too long. Officials like David Keillor left the office on time. It was only their minions who had to stay late to deal with their workloads. With luck, he'd be home very soon. She wanted to hit him as soon as he got out of the car, catch him on the back foot before he could settle in to his normal evening routine.

Lindsay had guessed right. A mere twenty minutes after she'd arrived, a black 4x4 BMW rolled into sight. As the electronically operated gates opened to allow the car to enter, she was on the pavement, walking briskly on to the herring-bone brick of Keillor's driveway. His face swung towards her, a look of suspicious surprise narrowing his eyes.

Lindsay smiled disarmingly and walked right up to the driver's door. The window sank down a few inches. “What are you doing? This is private property,” Keillor snapped. He had the wellgroomed
appearance of a man who knows the importance of first impressions. His dark hair was cut short, the shape sharp and welldefined. His skin was lightly bronzed, his eyebrows neatly trimmed. He smelled of mint.

Lindsay produced the warrant card and held it open long enough for him to see her photograph but not much else. “DC Lindsay, Strathclyde Police. You're Mr. Keillor? Mr. David Keillor?”

His frown deepened. “Of course I am. Who else would be driving my car into my drive? What's this about?” He began to open the door, forcing Lindsay to step backwards.

“I wanted to ask you a few questions regarding an inquiry we're conducting.”

Keillor tutted as he climbed out of the car. He was surprisingly short, making his exit from the high vehicle comically awkward. “You'd better come in, then.”

Lindsay followed him round to the front door and into the hallway. “In here,” he said, ushering her into the dining room. A gleaming oval table was surrounded by six matching chairs. An antique sideboard stood against one wall, crystal glassware and silver sparkling in the late afternoon light from the bay window. Keillor gestured to a chair but remained standing as Lindsay sat down. “So what's this all about?” he demanded again.

Lindsay found his arrogance surprising. Most people, confronted by a police officer, were at the very least apprehensive, in her experience. Everybody felt a twinge of guilt about something; either that or a twinge of fear that something terrible had happened to someone they loved. But Keillor's self-confidence seemed impossible to dent. This was a man who was very sure he was untouchable. It would be a pleasure to rock that selfsatisfaction to its foundations.

“We're investigating a serious incident that happened late last night in Giffnock. A hit and run. The elderly gentleman who was knocked down is quite poorly in hospital. We have a witness who saw the vehicle. The description he gave us corresponds to your car, as do a couple of the letters of the registration. So, I've come along to ask you one or two questions and have a wee look at your vehicle. If you don't mind.”

Keillor shook his head. “Look all you like. But this is a waste of time. I was at home yesterday evening. We had friends round for dinner. They left around half past eleven then my wife and I went to bed. The car wasn't out of the garage all night. So whoever your witness saw, it wasn't me. Or my car.”

Lindsay nodded, taking her notebook out of her bag. “So you won't mind giving me the names of you dinner guests?”

Keillor sighed impatiently. “For Christ's sake.”

“We do have to take these things seriously, sir. If it had been you or your wife who'd been run over, you'd want us to do our job. The names?”

“Charles Wayne and his wife Sarah.”

“And where might I contact Mr. and Mrs. Wayne?”

“He's the managing director of CCD Scotland,” Keillor said, as if this were a fact any child should have known.

Lindsay couldn't believe her luck. Things couldn't have worked out better if she'd planned it. Whatever happened now, she could place the MD of the pharmaceutical company in David Keillor's dining room. Now she wished she'd bothered to tape the conversation. Time away from the sharp end had definitely laid a layer of rust over her skills. “So I could get him at his work?”

“I imagine so. Now, is that everything?”

“Just for the record, could I check your vehicle documents? Your insurance and your log book? And I'll need to take a look at the car.”

“Why? This is nothing to do with me.”

Lindsay shrugged. “It's procedure, sir. If you wouldn't mind getting the documents, I can be checking your vehicle. Save time that way.” She got to her feet and smiled.

“Oh, all right.” Keillor showed her out and returned indoors.