Deadline for Murder (9 page)

An hour and a half later, she stood with the lawyer in the police station car park, having written out a full statement of her movements the previous day.

"I don't think they're going to give up on you that easily," Carstairs said.

"No," Lindsay sighed. "It looks like I've got a burglary to solve now as well as a murder."

Lindsay drove past the floodlit car park of the
Daily Clarion
and parked on the street just past the modern skyscraper that housed the plant and offices of Scotland's top tabloid newspaper. She got out of the car, shivering as the damp evening chill made her fasten her sheepskin jacket, and walked towards the security office by the back door, the entrance used by the paper's many staff. It felt strange to be taking the familiar route back into a building that had once been as much home to her as her own flat. What felt even more strange was her certainty that inside she'd find the answers that would lead her to Alison Maxwell's killer.

Disneyland, she thought with a smile as she crossed the forecourt. That's what the printers had christened the building when it opened, moving the
Clarion
titles into the vanguard of the new technology. They'd been the first national daily paper to use computerised typesetting and full colour printing, and the initial hiccups in the system had led to the nickname, as frustrated workers had spent their shifts muttering. "This disnae work, that disnae work. This is Disnaeland."

Lindsay pushed open the door of the security office and walked into the stuffy room with its familiar odour of stale smoke, sweat, and faint but unmistakable traces of printer's ink. The big balding man sitting at the desk that looked out over the forecourt got to his feet and exclaimed, "It's wee Lindsay! How're ye doing, hen? We havenae seen you here for a few years!" He leaned forward to shake her hand, and the buttons of his shirt gaped over his enormous beer gut, revealing a grubby white vest.

"I'm fine, Willie, just fine," Lindsay replied, dredging his name up from her memory. "I've been working abroad, but I'm back in Glasgow for a while. I just thought I'd pop in and see the boys. Do I need to sign the visitors' book before I go up?"

Willie roared with laughter. "You?" he finally wheezed. "Don't be daft. I know fine who you are. You're no' some IRA terrorist, are you? Away you go and see your pals."

In the lift, instead of pressing the button for the third floor and the newsroom, Lindsay pressed the second-floor button. After she'd left the police station, she'd decided there was no time to waste in her pursuit of Alison Maxwell's murderer and Rosalind's burglar. The key to both of those lay, she believed, inside the
Clarion
building. And it was better to make a start at night when there were fewer people around. Besides, she had always got on well with the night duty librarian. She no longer had any right to use the
Clarion
library, but she couldn't see Martin refusing her.

Lindsay walked down the corridor, past the canteen where the tempting aroma of home-made soup nearly made her take a detour. Again, memory assailed her. Just after she'd first got it together with Cordelia, she'd still been working in Glasgow, and when Cordelia came up from London, they'd often spent Lindsay's meal breaks in a quiet corner of the canteen, grabbing every chance to be together. Ironic, really, thought Lindsay. It was a murder that had brought them together, and now another murder had driven them apart.

She carried on into the library. As always, the sight filled her with awe. On one side of the room, banks of ceiling-high metal cases housed quantities of newspaper cuttings, filed and cross-referenced, stored in huge mechanically driven carousels that were supposed to automatically produce the relevant cardboard folder. But this was Disnaeland, and at least one machine was usually out of order at any given time. On the other side of the room was the morgue--ordinary filing cabinets, crammed full of cuttings no longer current because they referred to events of more than fifteen years ago, or their subjects were dead. Above the filing cabinets were rows of reference books. In a small annex, there was a photocopier, a collection of back numbers of the daily and Sunday papers, and several tables where reporters could work away from the hurly-burly of the newsroom.

At a table among the filing cabinets, Martin Cameron, the night librarian, was sitting in front of a pile of the day's papers, carefully clipping items that were destined for the library's extensive files. He was so engrossed he didn't hear Lindsay enter and looked up in surprise when she rang the bell for attention. As he recognised her, his pale face lit up in a welcoming grin, and he struggled to his feet. "Lindsay Gordon!" he exclaimed. "What a nice surprise. Come on through."

She lifted the flap in the counter and threaded her way through the filing cabinets to his side. She'd known Martin for Years, and he'd always been her favourite among the bunch of oddballs who seemed to find their way behind the counter of newspaper libraries. They all had their foibles. Martin's had been importuning night-shift journalists into chess games which he won with depressing regularity. "Hi, Martin," Lindsay said. "Good to see you. How are you?"

He shrugged. "I can't complain. Well I could, but you don't want to hear my problems. What brings you back to this den of vice?"

"I need some help, and I thought you might be able to oblige," Lindsay said, perching on the edge of his desk.

"For you, Lindsay, anything!" Martin laughed. "I'd guessed it wasn't just my company you were after."

"Don't be daft," Lindsay said. "Seeing you is a bonus."

Martin smiled. "You always were a smooth operator. So what can I do for you?"

"I'd like you to have a look at the files relating to Jackie Mitchell's trial. And Alison Maxwell's by-line files," Lindsay said.

Martin's eyebrows rose. But years of servicing the seemingly bizarre demands of journalists had rendered him immune to any serious curiosity. "Nasty business, that was," he said. "You always did ask for funny things. Everything from famous murder cases of the fifties to the life and career of Tallulah Bankhead, as I recall," he said over his shoulder as he walked towards the cuttings store. He pressed a button, and the hydraulics shuddered into noisy life. A few moments later, he returned with a bulging folder. "That's the stuff about the murder and the trial. You can get started on that while I find Alison's stuff in the morgue."

Martin began searching through one of the filing cabinet drawers while Lindsay took out her notebook and started reading the files of cuttings from the
Clarion
and other papers relating to Alison's murder and to Jackie's trial. It was full of sickening detail, and Lindsay noticed with distaste how the tabloids had gone to town on Jackie and Alison's sex lives. It was the kind of thing that was routine procedure in cases like this. She'd done it herself on occasion. But it left a nasty taste in the mouth when the stories referred to people she knew. She was glad she'd taken the decision not to earn her living like that any more. She'd grown tired of having to justify to herself the things she did in the name of journalism.

Lindsay worked through the file, noting down various details that were new to her. But she found little to suggest any new avenues to explore.

"There's Alison's files. Do you want a coffee?" Martin asked as he deposited two thick manila envelopes in front of Lindsay.

"I could murder a mug of canteen soup," she replied, glad of the chance to be left alone with Alison's cuttings. She knew exactly what she was looking for, and judging by what she'd read and been told, no one else had found it. Although Lindsay had discovered its existence years before, she believed it would still be there.

Martin left the library, and Lindsay immediately opened the two envelopes. She hastily flicked through the first bundle, which consisted entirely of yellowing clippings from the second half of Alison's career at the
Clarion
. Impatiently, Lindsay pushed them aside and started to search the other bundle. These clippings were older, the paper more brittle, and there were a few photographs and photostat sheets of typewritten copy among them. But there was still no sign of what Lindsay was looking for. She went through the pile again, this time opening out the larger cuttings that had been folded up to fit the envelope.

She struck gold on her third attempt. As she unfolded a cutting about Scottish rock bands, a slim white envelope fell out. Across the front was typed "Confidential background," and the flap was tucked in at the back. Thank God Alison hadn't changed her habits! Without opening it, Lindsay stuffed the envelope in her pocket. When Martin returned with her soup, she was seemingly engrossed in a feature about comedian Billy Connolly.

"Mmm," said Lindsay, drinking a mouthful of the rich chicken broth. "That was just what I needed, I didn't realise how hungry I was till I walked past the canteen."

"Found what you were looking for?" Martin asked as he settled down with his pile of papers again.

"Yes, thanks. You're a star, Martin. Who's on duty upstairs tonight?" Lindsay asked as she packed the cuttings back into their envelopes.

Martin told her, and at the name of Blair Craigie, Lindsay's ears pricked up. Blair had been her shift partner for the six months before she'd moved to London, and the close working relationship that had developed between them had spilled over into their private lives. They had often spent their days off walking in the mountains round Loch Lomond and the Trossachs. "Great," she said. Borrowing Martin's phone, she rang the newsdesk upstairs and spoke to Blair. He was due for a meal break in half an hour, and they arranged to meet in a pub some distance away from the office to avoid being sucked into a convivial journalistic gathering that would prevent them talking properly to each other.

Lindsay headed back to her car, waving a farewell to Willie as she passed the security office. She drove up the Clydeside Expressway and turned off at Partick. She cruised up Byres Road and parked outside Tennants Bar. She pushed open the door and stopped in astonishment. They'd renovated Tennants! She could remember when the spit-and-sawdust pub had been the most basic of hostelries. They hadn't even had a ladies' toilet. When women were caught short, they had to go into the pub next door. It created a problem near closing time, for the neighbouring pub shut half an hour before Tennants. But now, the bar was carpeted, the furnishings were new, and she could see a sign saying "Ladies' Toilet." Lindsay walked up to the bar and bought a pint of lager.

She didn't have long to wait. Before she was half way down her glass, Blair arrived. He waved and headed straight for the bar, arriving minutes later at her table clutching two pints. He put the glasses down and swept her into his arms in a bear hug. "When did you get back?" he demanded.

Breathlessly, Lindsay said, "A few days ago. How's tricks?"

"You see it all," he said expansively, running a hand over his sandy curls.

"That bad, eh? So, what's been happening?" Lindsay settled back in her seat to catch up on the newspaper gossip that she'd missed in her absence. Why is it, she wondered with amusement, that whenever two or more journalists get together, there isn't a reputation left intact by the end of the encounter?

"I think that's about it," Blair said as he wound up. "Oh no, wait a minute. Did you hear about Alistair McGrath's company medical?"

Lindsay shook her head. "Tell me," she said.

"Well, the doctor examined him, and he was asking him all the questions about medical history, smoking and all that. So he says, 'And what do you drink?' Quick as a flash mad McGrath says, 'What have you got?' " Blair convulsed with laughter as he reached the story's punchline.

When Lindsay stopped laughing, she said, "Time to be serious. I need your help, Blair."

His eyebrows rose, and he stroked his moustache. "I hear that people who help you these days have a way of getting into bother," he said carefully. "Mind you, we've pulled each other out of the shit enough times. What's the problem?"

"Bill Grace's story this morning. About Jedburgh and the prisons. I need to know where he got it from."

Blair whistled softly. "Christ, Lindsay, that's a tall order. You'll have to form an orderly queue behind the Special Branch."

"That's exactly why I need to know. The Branch picked me up this afternoon because they've got a bee in their bonnet that I was the person who leaked the documents to Bill."

"But what's it got to do with you?"

"The story was based on a leaked Scottish Office draft report that was stolen yesterday afternoon. Unluckily for me, I happened to be in the building where the burglary took place. And with my track record..." Lindsay tailed off.

"I see. Christ, you've only been back five minutes and already you're causing mayhem. So you want to know who gave Bill his info so you can get yourself out of the firing line."

"Not exactly," she replied. "Whoever did that burglary also walked away with some other bits and pieces that he'd no right to. The woman who was burgled happens to be a friend, and I promised I'd try to get them back for her. Look, you know me. I'm not going to grass Bill's source to the police. I believe in protecting sources as much as anybody. It's purely so that I can get this other stuff back."

Blair looked doubtful. "I don't know, Lindsay. It all sounds a bit iffy to me. Why don't you ask Bill yourself?"

Lindsay sighed. "I don't think he'd tell me. We always got along all right, but we were never what you'd call buddies. He always treated me like a silly wee lassie who didn't really understand what being a hotshot reporter was all about. Anyway, I didn't want you to ask him straight out and drop yourself in it. Just a few discreet inquiries, that's all."

Blair shrugged. "Okay. But no promises. Where can I reach you?"

Lindsay gave him Sophie's number. "Another thing ..." she said.

"Oh God. What now?" Blair groaned. "Don't tell me, let me guess. You want me to rob a bank riding blindfold on a unicycle?"

"The unicycle comes later. Jackie Mitchell has asked for my help. She claims she's innocent."

"And you fell for that? Christ, Lindsay, I didn't think you were that naive. Haven't you read the court reports?"

Lindsay smiled wryly. "Yes, Blair, I've read the court reports. And I admit that on the face of it, it looks like she did it. But I don't see how making a few inquiries can do any harm. And I promised I'd do what I could. I just wanted to ask you what the gossip was about Alison round the time of her death."