V. McDermid - Hostage to Murder

‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ the other woman said.

‘My own fault,’ Lindsay growled, pushing herself upright, then wincing as she tried to take her weight on the damaged ankle. ‘Jesus,’ she hissed, leaning forward to probe the joint with her fingers.

‘You’ve not broken it or anything?’ The woman frowned solicitously.

‘Sprained, I think.’ She drew in her breath sharply when she touched the tender heart of the injury.

‘Have you far to go? Only, I live just the other side of the river. My car’s there. I could drive you?’

It was a tempting offer. Lindsay didn’t fancy hiking a mile on a damaged ankle. She looked up, taking in her nemesis turned Good Samaritan. She saw a woman in her late twenties with an angular face and short blonde hair cut to fashionable effect. Her eyes were slate blue, her eyebrows a pair of dark circumflex accents above them. She was dressed out of Gap and carried a leather knapsack over one shoulder. She didn’t look like an axe murderer. ‘OK,’ Lindsay said. ‘Thanks.’

The response wasn’t what she expected. Instead of the offer of an arm to help her down the hill and across the bridge, the woman looked taken aback, her eyes widening and her lips parting. ‘You’re Lindsay Gordon,’ she said, bemused.

‘Do I know you?’ Lindsay leaned against the tree, wondering if she’d taken a blow to the head she hadn’t registered at the time.

The blonde grinned. ‘We met about ten years ago. You came to the university GaySoc to talk about gays and the media. A bunch of us went out for a drink afterwards.’

Lindsay strained at the locked gates of memory. ‘Edinburgh University?’ she hazarded.

‘That’s right. You remember?’

‘I remember doing the talk.’

The blonde gave a rueful pout. ‘But you don’t remember me. Well, that’s hardly surprising. I was just a gawky wee fresher who was too overawed to open her mouth. But, hey, this is terrible. Me standing here reminiscing while you’re suffering like this.’ Now she extended her arm. ‘Lean on me. I’m Rory, by the way. Rory McLaren.’

Lindsay took the proffered arm and began to limp gingerly down the slope. ‘I’m amazed you recognized me all these years later,’ she said. The least she could do was make conversation, even though she felt more like swearing with every step.

Rory chuckled. ‘Oh, you were pretty impressive. You’re part of the reason I ended up doing what I do.’

‘Which is?’

‘I’m a journo.’

‘Oh well, never mind,’ Lindsay said, attempting a levity she didn’t feel. The last thing she needed right now was some bright and bouncy kid still jam-packed with idealism making her feel even more old and decrepit than she already did.

‘No, I love it,’ Rory assured her.

‘How do you manage that?’ They had reached the bottom of the hill and were making their way across the bridge. Moving on the flat was easier, but Lindsay was glad she’d taken up Rory’s offer, even if the conversation was depressing her.

‘It’s a long story.’

Lindsay looked up at the climb that would take them back to street level. ‘It’s a big hill.’

‘Right enough,’ Rory said. ‘Well, I started off on the local paper in Paisley, which wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs, but at least they trained me. I got a couple of lucky breaks with big stories that I sold on to the nationals, and I ended up with a staff job on the Standard .’

Lindsay snorted. ‘Working on the Standard makes you happy? God, things must have changed since my day.’

‘No, no, I’m not there any more.’

‘So where are you now?’ Even in her state of discomfort, Lindsay noticed that Rory seemed faintly embarrassed.

‘Well, see, that’s the long-story bit.’

‘Take my mind off the pain and cut to the chase.’

‘I came up on the lottery.’

‘Jammy,’ Lindsay said.

‘Aye. But not totally jammy. I didn’t get the whole six numbers, just the five plus the bonus ball. But that was enough. I figured that if I invested the lot, it would earn enough in interest to keep a roof over my head. So I jacked the job in and now I’m freelance.’

‘And that’s your idea of fun? Out there in the dog-eat-dog world?’ Lindsay tried not to sound as sceptical as she felt. She’d been a freelance herself and knew only too well how tough it was to stay ahead of the pack.

‘I figured what I needed was an angle. And I remembered something you said back at that talk at the GaySoc.’

‘This is surreal,’ Lindsay said. The word felt entirely inadequate to encompass the situation.

‘I know. Wild, isn’t it? I can’t believe this is really you.’

‘Me neither. So what did I say that was so significant it came back to you all those years later?’

‘You were talking about the ghetto mentality. How people think gays are completely different, completely separate from them. But we’re not. We’ve got more in common with the straight universe than we have dividing us. And I thought, gays and lesbians don’t just have gay and lesbian lives. They’ve got jobs. They’ve got families. They’ve got stories to tell. But most folk in our world have no reason to trust journalists. So I thought, what if I set myself up as the journalist that the gay community can trust? What a great way to get stories to come to me.’ Rory’s voice was passionate now, her excitement obvious.

‘And that’s what you did?’

‘Right. I’ve been at it over a year now, and I’ve had some fabulous exclusives. I mostly do investigative stuff, but I’ll turn my hand to anything. And I’m making a good living.’

They were almost out of the woods and on to the street. But although she desperately wanted to get the weight off her ankle, Lindsay didn’t want this conversation to end. For the first time since she’d got back from California, she was hearing someone talk about her field with something other than apathy or cynicism. ‘So how did you get started?’

Rory pulled open the gate that led out from the riverbank on to the quiet backwater of Botanic Crescent. ‘That’s my flat, on the corner there. I could fill you in over a coffee.’

‘Are you sure I’m not keeping you from anything?’

‘God, no. Have you any idea how amazing it is for me to be talking to you? It’d have to be a bloody good story to make me miss a chance like this.’

They crossed the road. Rory keyed a number into the security door of a red sandstone tenement and ushered Lindsay into a spotless tiled close. They made their way up one flight of worn stone stairs, then Rory unlocked the tall double doors that led into her first-floor flat. ‘Excuse the mess,’ she said, leading the way into the big dining kitchen at the back of the flat.

There was no false modesty behind Rory’s words. It was, as she had said, a mess. A cat sprawled on a kitchen worktop by the window, while another lay curled on one of several piles of newspapers and magazines stacked on the floor. The tinfoil containers from the previous night’s curry sat on another worktop alongside three empty bottles of Becks, while the sink was piled with dirty plates and mugs. Lindsay grinned. ‘Live alone, do you?’

‘That obvious, is it?’ Rory picked a dressing gown off one of the chairs. ‘Grab a seat. Do you want some ice for that ankle? I’ve got a gel pack in the freezer.’

‘That’d be good.’ Lindsay lowered herself into the chair. In front of her was that morning’s Herald , the cryptic crossword already completed with only a couple of jottings in the margin.

Rory rummaged in a freezer that looked like the Arctic winter, but emerged triumphant with a virulent turquoise oblong. ‘There we go.’ She handed it to Lindsay and crossed to the kettle. ‘Coffee, right?’