Val McDermid - Common Murder

“No, it’s not okay,” he retorted with ill-grace. “But it’ll have to do. I’ll have her on the dog watch for a month for this. Makes me look a bloody idiot, you know?”

“I’m sorry Duncan. You know it’s not like her to let you down.”

“She’s got some bloody bee in her bonnet about this peace camp. It was the same over that bloody murder in Derbyshire but at least she was freelance then. She owes me some loyalty for giving her a job. I’ll get no proper work out of her till this is cleared up,” he complained.

“You don’t have to tell me, Duncan,” Cordelia sympathized. “I’ll get her to call you, okay?”

Cordelia sat for a moment, the first stirrings of worry beginning. Lindsay was pathologically punctual. If her note said “home by eight,” then home by eight she’d be, or else she’d have phoned a message through. She always managed it; in the past, she’d bribed passing motorists or British Rail porters to make the phone calls on her behalf. Presumably, Lindsay was visiting Deborah, since she’d been so worried about her condition. And there was no point in fretting about that. She was only twenty-five minutes late, after all.

On an impulse, Cordelia went through to Lindsay’s desk and checked her card-index file to see if there was any contact number for the peace camp. The only number that seemed to suit her purpose was that of the pub the women used regularly. She keyed in the nine digits and when a man answered, she asked if Jane was in. She was told to hang on and, after a few minutes, a cautious woman’s voice said, “Hello? Who is this?”

“Is that Jane?” asked Cordelia. “This is Cordelia.”

“No, it’s not Jane. She’s not here. Do you need to get a message to her?”

“Yes, I do. It’s really urgent. Would you ask her to call Lindsay Gordon’s home number as soon as possible, please?”

“No problem. Lindsay Gordon’s home number,” the voice said. “A couple of the women are going back in five minutes, so they can tell Jane then. She’ll get your message in about quarter of an hour.”

Fifteen minutes stretched into twenty for Cordelia. She poured herself a glass of wine, though what she craved was a large Scotch. But she wasn’t taking the chance of being over the limit if she had to drive anywhere to rescue Lindsay from some mess or other. After twenty-five minutes, she raked around the house till she found a packet with a couple of Lindsay’s cigarettes left in it and lit one.

The phone had barely rung when Cordelia snatched it up, praying for Lindsay’s familiar voice. She was unreasonably disappointed to find Jane on the other end of the line.

“Hi, Cordelia. I got this urgent message to phone Lindsay. Is she there?”

“No,” Cordelia sighed. “The message was from me. I’m trying to track her down. She seems to have dropped out of sight, and, given the events of the last few days, I’m a bit worried. I don’t suppose you know where she’s gone to?”

“I’m sorry, love. I was hoping this message was from her, to be honest. She was supposed to come to the hospital to see Deborah tonight, but she hasn’t shown up. I took Cara in for five minutes to see her mum, and I deliberately left it till towards the end of visiting time to give Lindsay a chance to spend a bit of time with Deborah if she was up to it, but the policeman on duty said Lindsay hadn’t been at all. I was pretty amazed because the last thing she said this morning was that she’d see me there tonight,” Jane said.

“So, when was the last time you saw Lindsay?” Cordelia asked.

“This morning. Not long after nine. She’d been in to see Deborah, and I went along for moral support. She came out from seeing Deborah and asked if I could make my own way back to the camp because she’d got to go to Oxford urgently. Look, Cordelia, I wouldn’t worry about her. She’s probably been held up on something to do with work,” Jane reassured her.

“No,” Cordelia replied. “Her office is going nutso because she hasn’t been in touch with them either. It’s odd-she’s been back here and left a note since then. God knows where she’s gone now. She didn’t say why she was going to Oxford, did she? Or who she was going to see?”

“She didn’t mention any names, but she did say it was something to do with a computer,” said Jane. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”

“No, you’ve been great,” said Cordelia. “Look, if by any remote chance she turns up, will you tell her to phone the office as soon as possible, on pain of death? And me too?”

“Of course I will,” said Jane. “I hope you get hold of her soon. She’ll probably be chasing some story that’s the most important thing in the world to her right now. I’m sure she’s okay, Cordelia.”

“Yeah, thanks. See you.” Cordelia put the phone down. Oxford and computers. That could only mean Annie Norton. She trailed back to Lindsay’s desk to try and find a number for Annie. There was nothing in the card-index, and Lindsay’s address book listed Annie without a phone number. Cordelia tried directory enquiries, but wasn’t surprised, given the way her luck was running, to find that Annie was ex-directory. A trawl through Lindsay’s address book produced three other mutual friends who might be able to supply a number for Annie. Predictably, it took her three attempts to get what she wanted.

“Annie? I’m sorry to interrupt you. It’s Cordelia Brown here,” she apologised. “I was wondering if by any chance you know where Lindsay is? Did she come to see you this morning? The thing is, she’s disappeared, and her office are desperate to contact her.”

“I’m sorry, Cordelia, I really have no idea where she might be. Yes, she was here, but she left my office about half past ten, I guess. She gave me no indication of where she was heading then.” Annie sounded reluctant to continue the conversation.

“I’m sorry if this is an awkward time…” Cordelia trailed off.

“I have some people for dinner, that’s all,” said Annie.

“I’m just really worried about her, Annie. She never goes walkabout like this. Not when she’s got work on. She’s far too conscientious. Do you mind me asking, what was it she wanted to know about?”

Annie relented, touched by the concern in Cordelia’s voice. “She had left a computer tape with me for analysis, and she came round to collect the results. She did say that she intended to get back to London tonight. This attack on Deborah has taken a lot out of her. I think it frightened her badly.”

“I know that,” Cordelia replied, “but what was this tape all about? What kind of tape was it?”

“It was an ordinary cassette tape.” That made sense, thought Cordelia, remembering the tape in the stereo. “But I think you’d better ask Lindsay what it was about. I’m not in a position to discuss it, Cordelia. I’m sorry, I’m not being obstructive, just cautious. I think there are too many people involved already.”

“What do you mean, Annie? You can’t leave it at that!”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said as much as I have. Lindsay’s mixed up in something that could cause a lot of hassle. I told her she should be talking to the police about it, not me. Maybe she took my advice.”

“Jesus, Annie, what the hell’s going on? Are you saying she’s in danger?”

“Don’t worry, Cordelia. I don’t imagine for one minute that she’s in any danger. She’ll be in touch. She could be trying to phone now, for all we know. Take it easy and don’t worry. Lindsay’s a born survivor. Look, I’d better go now. Tell her to give me a call in the morning, okay?” Annie’s tone was final.

“Okay,” said Cordelia coldly. “Goodbye.” Her anger at Annie’s nonchalance had the salutory effect of making her do something to fight her own growing anxiety. She collected the mystery tape, pulled on her boots and sheepskin and ran downstairs. She climbed into the BMW and joined the night traffic. When she reached the motorway, she put her foot down and blasted down the fast lane. “Please God,” she said aloud as she drove. “Please let her be all right.” But the appalling fantasy of Lindsay’s death would not be kept at bay by words. Cordelia was near to tears when she pulled up in the car park of Fordham police station just before ten o’clock. She marched inside, determined to find out what had happened to Lindsay.