Deadline for Murder (11 page)

Lindsay's fury had subsided by the time she returned to Sophie's. The sudden recollection of a thought that had drifted across her mind as she'd been dropping off to sleep drove thoughts of Cordelia far away. Fraser had been too quick off the mark with Alison Maxwell's name. He was Special Branch, not CID. He would normally have had no involvement in a routine homicide like Alison's. Yet as soon as she'd mentioned murder in connection with Caird House, he'd known instantly whose murder she was talking about.

Could there be any link between Ros's burglary and Alison's death? It seemed too much of a coincidence that the break-in had happened on the very day that Lindsay had started her enquiries, and at a time when she was actually in the building. But the idea of Ros and Alison as lovers was ridiculous, even to Lindsay's suspicious mind. Although her two closest friends, Helen and Sophie, were gay, Ros herself had never been interested in women except as friends. Lindsay had sat through too many slightly drunken conversations with the three women to believe that even Alison Maxwell's charisma could have disrupted Ros's lifelong exuberant heterosexuality. Besides, there was nothing in Alison's notes that sounded even remotely like Ros.

If there was a link, it had to be Harry. The idea of some sexual connection between them seemed unlikely. Perhaps they shared a lover? Could Harry Campbell be the "political hot potato" of Alison's dossier? As Lindsay threw herself down on the couch, the headline of an article about vaccines in a medical journal lying on the side table caught her eye. "I wonder," she muttered aloud.

Harry had visited the AIDS clinic for his test. But if anyone was a candidate for the terrifying virus, it had to be Alison, given the extent of her promiscuity. Could Alison have seen him there? Could she even have been blackmailing him? Lindsay wouldn't put it past her.

It was about time she started asking some questions. Lindsay leaned over and picked up the phone. She dialled a number and drummed her fingers impatiently on the arm. "Come on Ros," she muttered to herself. "Answer the goddamn phone." On the seventh ring, Rosalind answered. "Hi, Ros, it's Lindsay."

"Have you got some news for me?" Rosalind demanded eagerly.

"Not yet, but I'm working on it. Hopefully tomorrow."

"Oh."

Lindsay didn't need to see Rosalind to sense her disappointment. "Don't worry, it's all under control," she lied uncomfortably. "How were things at work?"

"Don't ask. I feel like a haddock. By half past nine this morning, I was gutted, filleted and battered. On a popularity rating of one to ten with my minister, I come around minus ninety-nine."

"Poor you," Lindsay sympathised. "Have you spoken to Harry yet? Do you know exactly what was taken?"

"I finally got hold of him about midnight last night. He's in a hell of a state. You can imagine--he's phoning me every hour to see if there's any news. He's convinced his perfect little world is going to come crashing round his ears any minute now. He's going to try to get up here tomorrow, and he'll want to have a chat with you. As to what's missing--I was more or less right. There were photographs of various rent boys. And I don't mean happy family snaps. There were a couple of letters from Tom. And Harry's appointment card for the AIDS clinic and the counselling service. Luckily for him the tests were negative. But in the wrong hands, the combination of the pictures, the letters and the very fact that he's had the test makes for a very unpleasant conclusion." There was a note of desperation in Rosalind's voice that Lindsay found hard to reconcile with her normal cool control.

In response, she tried to fill her own voice with confidence and certainty. "Well, I'll do everything I can. I should be able to find out where the
Clarion's
story came from. Once I've got that sussed, then we can't be too far away from our burglar."

"I appreciate all you're doing, Lindsay. Just make it as quick as you can, eh?"

"Will do. Listen, Ros, I need some more help on the Maxwell investigation..." Lindsay let her unspoken request hang in the air.

Rosalind sighed. "Sure. What can I do for you?"

"It's all a bit delicate. I'm trying to track down the people Alison was sleeping with around the time of her death. I've got good reason to believe that one of them was Donald Mottram. Didn't you go out with his brother a few years ago?"

"That's right. Duncan and I were together for about six months... God, it must be four years ago now. But we've stayed vaguely in touch."

"How well do you know Donald?" Lindsay asked, lighting a cigarette. Old habits die hard, she thought ruefully to herself. She could survive for days at a time in her outdoor routine in Italy without recourse to a cigarette. But put a phone in her hand, and it was second nature to have a cigarette in the other. Lindsay shook herself mentally and listened to Rosalind's response.

"Not too well, I'm afraid. I know him to say hello to in the street."

"But not well enough to set up a meeting with him?"

"Afraid not. But why don't you just make an appointment to see him professionally?" Rosalind suggested. "It wouldn't be unreasonable for you to need to see a tax specialist. You've been working abroad, you've no idea what your tax position is on your foreign earnings. You can tell him I recommended you--he sorted out a problem with the Inland Revenue for me a couple of years ago."

"That's a good idea. But how do I get him talking about Alison?"

"You're the journalist. I thought your forte was getting people to talk about things they didn't want to discuss?" Rosalind teased.

"Miracles take longer," Lindsay muttered. "By the way," she added, trying to sound nonchalant. "Did Harry know Alison at all?"

"Harry?" Ros's astonishment was obvious even in one word. "I don't think so, Lindsay. He certainly never mentioned her to me. I suppose they might have had a nodding acquaintance from the lift or something, but I don't think he knew her at all."

"I just wondered if her murder had unsettled him at all," Lindsay said lamely.

Ros laughed. "It did. He got very jittery about us all being murdered in our beds. I think he's been rather more discriminating about who he brought home since then. Why d'you ask?"

"It's probably nothing. It just seemed odd to me that the burglary happened just after I started looking into Alison's death. Must just be a coincidence."

"It struck me last night, actually. But I can't for the life of me see what the connection could be."

"You're probably right. If anything occurs to you, let me know. And thanks for the suggestion about Donald. I'll get back to you." Lindsay rang off and pondered. She made a mental list of things to do in the morning. First, make an appointment with Donald Mottram. Second, get hold of Jimmy Mills and pump him about Alison. She vaguely remembered him from her days at the
Clarion
, but she'd have to work up an excuse for seeing him. Third, arrange a meeting with Ruth and Antonis. And she'd have to pump Sophie about Alison's gynaecologist. It was all becoming very complicated.

Lindsay rolled off the couch and poured herself a whisky, wandering through to the kitchen to top it up with water. She felt restless and uneasy. Until she had more information, she was deadlocked. She glanced at the kitchen clock. Ten past eight. Too late to go to the theatre or the cinema. Idly, she wondered where her friends were. Helen was probably out socialising or talent-spotting at some avant-garde play in a church hall with an audience comprising three old biddies and the cast's lovers. Sophie would be at the hospital, dealing somehow with a level of human misery Lindsay could only guess at. How she coped with the tragedy of the AIDS babies without cracking up Lindsay couldn't fathom.

"A good read, that's what I need to take my mind off all the hassle," Lindsay told herself, striding through to Sophie's study. The small, high room was lined with built-in bookshelves filled with medical textbooks and modern novels. It also contained a desk, a computer, a filing cabinet, and a single divan bed. Lindsay started looking for something appealing that she hadn't read. Her absence from Britain for so long meant there was a considerable backlog of new novels for her to work her way through, and Sophie was always well-supplied with the latest fiction. As she scanned the shelves, one book seemed to leap out to catch her eye. In bold black capitals on a gold spine, Lindsay read IKHAYA LAMAQHAWE: CORDELIA BROWN. As if she were mesmerised, Lindsay lifted her hand slowly and took the book from the shelf. Lindsay stared bleakly at the dustcover with its embossed three-quarter profile of a black woman, head back, fear straining her skin taut over her jaw and neck.

Lindsay subsided on to the divan and forced herself to open the book. Carefully, as if she were handling a delicate mediaeval manuscript, Lindsay turned the pages. She read the dedication with a wry smile. "To all those who have the courage to fight for truth and against oppression wherever it is found, no matter what the personal cost." Perhaps she hadn't been so far from Cordelia's thoughts after all.

Taking a deep breath, Lindsay began to read the novel. She knew ten pages into it that it was good, no doubt about that. The writing was taut. Not a word was wasted. And the atmosphere was extraordinary. Lindsay could almost smell the world that her former lover had created so painstakingly. She shook her head in amazement. Cordelia had somehow managed to get under the skin of South Africa from thousands of miles away.

And the style was a logical development from everything Cordelia had done before. It was so stripped down, so lacking in decoration. Yet it somehow managed to be rich at the same time, the sort of writing that forced you to read slowly because you wanted it to last. Lindsay felt a new respect. She'd always been impressed by Cordelia's careful plotting and her scrupulous use of language. But with this book, she had achieved her real potential.

The book dropped into her lap. She felt hurt that she'd been cut out of the process of creating this book and of the joy Cordelia must have felt in it. Lindsay knew her reactions were childish and maudlin, but that didn't make them any less real. She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't hear the front door opening. Sophie called out, "Anybody home?" and, seeing the light in the study, she walked in. At once, she registered the fallen book and Lindsay's misery. Dropping her briefcase, Sophie sat down by Lindsay's side and pulled her into her arms. "It hurts, doesn't it?" she murmured.

The sympathy destroyed the last remnants of Lindsay's self-control, and the tears in her eyes overflowed down her cheeks. She shook with sobs as Sophie calmly stroked her back, saying nothing, letting her cry herself out. Eventually, Lindsay pulled brusquely away, rubbing at her eyes with her fists. "I'm sorry," she gulped. "It all got too much."

"Want to talk about it?" Sophie asked.

"What's to say? Reading this, I'm not surprised I've lost her. Do you know, I didn't have the faintest idea she was working on this? She must have been researching it before I had to do a runner. But I was so wrapped up with what I was doing I never even noticed," Lindsay said unsteadily.

"No point in blaming yourself," Sophie said. "You had your own problems at the time. You were under a lot of pressure too."

"That's no excuse," Lindsay muttered. She was wallowing in self-pity, and no amount of good sense was going to interfere with her self-indulgence.

"Stop beating yourself up, Lindsay. These things happen," Sophie sighed. Then she adroitly shifted the subject, knowing it was the best way to dig Lindsay out of her gloom. "Look at me and Helen. Towards the end, we were living separate lives. Half the time, I didn't know what was happening in her world, and she was so revolted by mine that she acted like she didn't even know what I did for a living."

"But you two always seemed so supportive of each other," Lindsay said, diverted from her own misery by this revelation, just as Sophie had planned.

Sophie shrugged. "If it's supportive to say, whatever you do is all right by me, and then make no effort to find out what the other is doing, then we had a supportive relationship." Sophie got to her feet and for the first time Lindsay noticed the deep lines of exhaustion round her eyes. "Anyway, enough of my troubles. Have you eaten?" Lindsay shook her head. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm starving. Come and tell me about your day while I throw some dinner together."

"I'll give you a hand." Lindsay followed Sophie and found her pulling the crisper out of the fridge. Sophie picked up a sharp kitchen knife and started chopping vegetables into a big wooden salad bowl. Lindsay picked up a carrot and chewed it idly, feeling vaguely guilty about imposing her problems on Sophie when it was obvious she had more than enough stress in her own life. "What kind of day have you had?" she asked.

"Pretty shitty. Delivered a baby this morning, mother's an IV heroin user, virus positive, starting to develop AIDS related symptoms," Sophie said dispassionately. "We won't know if the baby's carrying the virus till the last traces of his mother's blood have left his system and we can test him, but he's not looking too good. Imagine your first experience outside the womb being heroin withdrawal," Sophie sighed as she savagely attacked a lollo rosso lettuce.

"I don't know how you do it," Lindsay said.

Sophie stopped chopping. "Matter of principle," she said. "After all, according to you journalists, AIDS is the disease that proves God's a lesbian. Least I can do is help the poor unfortunates who are stricken by it."

Lindsay looked puzzled. "I'm not with you."

"Well, the moral majority, as represented by our beloved tabloid columnists, spent a lot of time telling us that AIDS was a gay plague sent by God to punish the sodomites.
So
if AIDS is God's punishment, it must follow that the people God identifies with and loves best must be the people least at risk. And since non-drug-using lesbians are statistically the lowest risk group..."

In spite of herself, Lindsay laughed. "That's sick," she said.

"Gallows humour. One of the lesser known medical specialities. If I didn't laugh, I'd crack up completely. Now, tell me about your day. How are your inquiries going?"