Deadline for Murder (15 page)

"What? Three, four months later? You must be joking!"

"Interesting, Ian. You have motive, and opportunity. And as a doctor, you'd know exactly how to strangle someone most efficiently."

He looked angrily at Lindsay, speechless for once. His face was white with fear or rage. She couldn't decide which was the stronger emotion. Recovering himself, he spluttered. "You're off your rocker. Look, even supposing I had a fling with Alison Maxwell, it was long after she stopped seeing me as a doctor. I had no reason to kill her. Besides, the police got the murderer. Another one of your journalist pals. Is that what all this is about? Frame me to let your pal go scot free? Well, it won't work. I never went near her flat that day, and you can't prove I did." He spoke with the childish defiance of a small boy who's been caught stealing sweets from the local news agent.

Before Lindsay could reply, Sophie walked back across the bar. As she came into Mclntosh's sight, he pushed himself to his feet. "You bitch!" he hissed. "You fucking set me up. You haven't heard the last of this!"

Sophie stared open-mouthed at her colleague as he stumbled unsteadily away from the table and out of the bar. "Jesus Christ," she said. "You really rattled his cage."

Lindsay gazed out of the window at the disappearing form of Ian Mclntosh. "Tell me, Sophie. Did he look to you like a man with nothing to hide?"

Lindsay performed the dicing-with-death routine required of any driver attempting the first exit off the urban motorway south of the Kingston Bridge. "Shit," she yelled, as she dodged a Ford Cortina seemingly hell-bent on suicide. Quarter to nine on a Friday morning was not the best time to negotiate the complexities of the motorway bridge, she decided as she swung down the spiralling exit ramp and on to the street below. But by making an early start, she hoped to catch Barry Ostler on the hop.

Sophie had been touching in her concern, without making Lindsay feel at all claustrophobic in the way that Cordelia sometimes had. "Be careful," she had urged. "He might not be as gutless as Ian Mclntosh. I spend enough time in hospitals as it is without having to visit you."

Lindsay had put a brave face on it, dismissing Sophie's fears. But she felt far from confident at the thought of confronting Ostler. But at least this time she was well prepared, she thought as she drove through the south side streets lined with tenements. She had rung Helen the night before, driven by a vague recollection that she'd heard Ostler's name linked to the Labour Party. Helen had been extremely useful, dredging her memory for a few snippets of gossip. "Barry Ostler's a real scally," she'd said. "He's one of the rent-a-thugs on the right wing of the party. He's been responsible for spreading several of the nastier rumours that have surfaced about the Left over the past few years. You remember when there was that big scandal a couple of years back about Gordon Graham's expenses--the word then was that it was Ostler who broke into Gordon's offices to steal his papers. There was never any proof, but no one was really in any doubt. A few press leaks have been traced back to him too. You know the kind of thing--stories that are essentially true but are twisted so that they sound like there's something really nasty in the woodwork behind them. Barry Ostler's idea of party democracy is that he and his pals make all the decisions and everybody else falls into line, or else."

Interesting, Lindsay thought as she approached the area of Pollokshields where Ostler lived. She had no difficulty remembering his address, having dropped him off at home on both occasions they'd worked together. He preferred her to drive--that way he could drink all day without having to worry about being breathalysed.

She turned off the main road and threaded her way through the back streets till she found the slightly shabby 1960s block of flats where Ostler lived alone. His big silver Buick was parked outside, looking like a dinosaur among the Japanese runabouts scattered along the rest of the street. Lindsay found a nearby parking space and carefully set the car alarm. She pushed open the doors and walked up one flight of concrete stairs. The block had grown even more seedy since she'd last been here, with graffiti on the walls and the smell of stale urine in the air. Obviously Barry Ostler wasn't doing too well, or he'd have found himself somewhere more salubrious to live.

Lindsay rang the bell and waited. There was no reply, so she rang again, then banged on the door for good measure. She was soon rewarded by the door opening a crack. Barry Ostler's unshaven face appeared, his white quiff awry, eyes screwed up against the light. A blast of sour breath and stale tobacco smoke hit Lindsay as he growled, "What the hell's going on?"

"Hello, Barry,' Lindsay said with a smile. "You going to leave me standing on the landing like the rent man?"

"Lindsay Gordon? What the hell are you doing here?" he mumbled as he opened the door wider to reveal a beer-gut in an off-white singlet hanging over a pair of striped pyjama trousers.

"Did I get you out of your bed? I'm really sorry," Lindsay lied. "I just wanted a wee word with you about something. I could come back later if it's not a good time."

"You might as well come in now you're here," he said grudgingly, turning his back on her and padding down the hall in bare feet.

Lindsay followed him, closing the door behind her. The flat smelled of too many cigarettes and fry-ups. The frowsty hall led straight into an untidy living room, with several empty beer cans and the remains of a Chinese takeaway littering the floor round a single armchair that faced the television. Lindsay perched gingerly on the edge of a sofa whose Dralon cover felt slightly tacky to the touch.

"There's no milk so I cannae offer you a coffee," he said brusquely as he lit a cigarette and shook with a spasm of coughing. "So what the hell brings you out here at this time of the morning?" he finally gasped.

"I want the stuff that was nicked from Harry Campbell's desk," Lindsay said bluntly.

Ostler ran his hand over his stubbly chin and gave the chesty wheeze that passed for laughter with him. His gut wobbled sickeningly in rhythm with the wheeze. Lindsay struggled to keep a sneer from her face as he recovered himself and said, "Christ, I see your interviewing technique hasnae improved any. Lindsay, I don't have a fucking clue what you're on about."

"Okay, Barry. I thought maybe we could do this the quick way, but you've obviously got some time to kill. Let me tell you a wee story. On Monday afternoon, there was a burglary in North Kelvinside. Some confidential Scottish Office papers were stolen from a senior civil servant. Also on the missing list are the contents of a desk belonging to Harry Campbell, MP for Kinradie. The next day, the Scottish
Daily Clarion
had a cracking splash based on those Scottish Office papers. Now, I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but it seems to me that whoever gave that nice wee exclusive to the
Clarion
has either got Harry Campbell's papers or else knows where they are. Does that seem about right to you so far?"

Ostler took a long drag on his cigarette. "So far, so good, Enid Blyton. But what has all that got to do with me?"

"I've got proof that it was you who sold the story to the
Clarion
."

He looked shrewdly at her. "You're bullshitting me, wee lassie. How can you have something that doesn't exist?"

"Oh, it exists, all right. Because it was you who sold the story, Barry. So that means you've either got Harry Campbell's papers or you know who does. And Harry wants those papers back very badly. That's why I'm here." Lindsay pulled open her handbag and, under the guise of removing her own cigarettes, checked that her tiny voice-activated tape recorder was working.

"Even supposing it was me who gave the story to the
Clarion
, why the hell should I help you? I mean, if Harry Campbell wants those papers back so badly, they must be worth something. Maybe even another splash in the
Clarion
, eh?" Ostler said craftily, lighting another cigarette.

"They are worth something, Barry," Lindsay replied. "Shall I tell you exactly what they're worth?"

He nodded, appearing vastly amused. "You tell me."

"They're worth about six months. That's what you'll get if I tell the police it was you who leaked the story to the
Clarion
."

"Now wait a minute," he said apprehensively. "Just wait a minute. What are you saying?"

"I've had the police on my back. For some reason, they seem to think it was me who leaked the story. After all, I've got more of a track record than you when it comes to breaking stories that embarrass the government. It would make my life a lot easier if I didn't have the Special Branch breathing down my neck. If I give them you on toast, and tell them where the evidence is that ties you to the burglary, everybody will be happy. Well, me and the police'll be happy, anyway."

Ostler shook his head slowly. "And I always thought you were such a nice wee lassie. Fancy you threatening to shop a fellow journalist just to get a wee bit of peace and quiet. And how much work do you think you'd get in this city if you did that?"

Lindsay shrugged. "To tell you the truth, Barry, I've been thinking lately that maybe journalism isn't really my game. So being on the blacklist wouldn't exactly break my heart. But I'll do you a deal. You hand over the papers and I won't shop you."

"Lindsay, I'd gladly give you Harry Campbell's
billets doux
if I had them. But what I haven't got, I can't part with," Ostler countered, spreading his hands in an exaggerated Latin shrug.

"But you know where they are," Lindsay said flatly.

"Now, how would I know that?"

"Because whoever gave you the prison privatisation story also has Harry Campbell's papers. And only someone who had seen those papers or had had them described to him would refer to them as
billets doux
. I never gave you any indication of what those papers were. You just gave yourself away, Barry," Lindsay observed.

"Maybe, but a good journalist never reveals his sources."

"Well, that lets you off the hook, Barry. Not even your best friend would describe you as a good journalist. Look, I've not got all day. I've told you the deal. You can come across now and I won't tell the police it was you. Or you can sit there on your big fat principles and wait for the Special Branch to come knocking. What's it to be?" Lindsay was almost beginning to relish her role as the tough nut.

Ostler sighed and lit another cigarette from the butt of the previous one. "Okay. It was me leaked the story. But I've no idea who did the burglary. The papers were shoved through my letter box in a brown envelope on Monday night. I don't know where they came from." Lindsay stared at him, for the moment mute with a mixture of outrage and admiration at his brazen effrontery. "Sorry I can't be more help," he added urbanely.

Lindsay smiled in spite of herself. "That's life," she remarked, getting to her feet. "Well, I'd better be off now. I've got a policeman to see about this burglary. I'm sure they'll be delighted to hear who was really responsible."

Alarmed, Ostler jumped to his feet. "Now wait a minute! You said you'd do a deal."

"That's right. The deal was that I got Harry Campbell's papers back. No papers, no deal. I mean, what's in it for me otherwise?"

"But I told you," he said desperately. "I don't know where the papers came from!"

"You must think my head's full of mince, not brains," Lindsay said, moving towards the door.

"No! Wait a minute," Ostler said, sagging back into his chair like a deflated balloon. "I'll tell you. It came from a lad called Alex McNaught. He's a rent boy, hangs about on the meat-racks down Blythswood Square. I met him on a story I was doing a few months back. I thought he was a pretty smart cookie, so I told him to stay in touch. He brought the papers to me late on Monday afternoon."

"You're seriously expecting me to believe that a rent boy was smart enough to spot the implications of a bundle of Scottish Office papers? You sure you weren't there with him, turning the place over?" Lindsay asked sarcastically.

"Who are you accusing of burglary? What do you take me for?" Ostler demanded self-righteously.

"I'd rather not answer that, Barry, if you don't mind. So where do I find him?"

"I don't know," Ostler whined. "How the hell would I know?"

"You might know if you put him up to it," Lindsay said shrewdly.

"Oh for fuck's sake, Lindsay, gie's a break! I told you, I don't know where he lives." Lindsay noticed a sheen of sweat on his pasty features. A moment ago, she wouldn't have believed it was possible for him to look less appealing. Now she knew different.

"You've told me a lot of lies this morning and it's not even half past nine yet. Come on, Barry, I'm doing you a favour. Do me one," Lindsay pressed.

"Some favour," he muttered. "Okay, you win. He lives in Springburn. He's got a bedsit there. I don't know the exact address."

"You can do better than that, Barry. How about some directions?"

Ostler sighed deeply. "You're a hard bitch, Lindsay Gordon. Anyone ever tell you that? Up Springburn Road, first left after a pub called The Spring Inn. Second right and it's the third or fourth house on the left. It's got a blue door. Satisfied?"

"That better be good info, Barry. Or I'm down the road to the police first thing tomorrow. Cheerio then. It's been nice seeing you again," she threw over her shoulder as she made her way with relief out of the fetid atmosphere of Ostler's flat.

"Aye, and I hope your next shite's a hedgehog," he called as she slammed the front door behind her.

Gleeful, she ran down the stairs. At last she had something positive to tell Rosalind! But what Ostler had told her hadn't eliminated the possibility that the murder and the burglary were linked. Perhaps Alex McNaught was the connecting link. After all, Ian Mclntosh had hinted that Alison was into blackmail. What better source of compromising information than a rent boy?

Lindsay stopped at the first callbox she came to and rang Claire's office. She had a momentary pang of apprehension as she waited to be connected. Would Cordelia have said anything about her visit yesterday? "Can I see you this morning?" she asked when she was finally put through to Claire.

"I can fit you in for ten minutes in half an hour. Otherwise it will be this evening," Claire said briskly. "I'm sorry about yesterday, by the way. Cordelia said you'd had a wasted journey."

"No problem. See you in half an hour." Lindsay hung up.

Thirty minutes later, she was walking into Claire's comfortable office high above the city skyline. The lawyer was seated behind a wide and uncluttered desk, looking utterly in command of her situation. A desk lamp was switched on, making her white-blonde hair gleam ethereally. She reminded Lindsay strangely of a modern version of Joan of Arc, with her small, chiselled features. She'd look stunning in a suit of shining armour astride a white horse, she thought in surprise. "You seem to like having a view," Lindsay remarked as she settled into a tweed-upholstered sofa.

"It prevents claustrophobia," Claire remarked absently, signing a piece of paper on her desk. She put her pen down and gave Lindsay her full attention. Her face looked calm and untroubled. Whatever Cordelia had told her about Lindsay's visit, it obviously hadn't been the truth. "Now, where are you up to?" she asked tartly.

Lindsay gave Claire a swift rundown on her progress so far, while Claire jotted notes on a legal pad. Lindsay concluded by saying, "And tonight, Ruth and Antonis are coming to dinner. All I need is one shred of evidence, and this whole thing could be wrapped up by the end of the weekend. But how about you? How did you get on with Alistair?"