V. McDermid - Hostage to Murder

He’d thought of having the window bricked up and replacing it with another Degas. But it didn’t do to let people think you weren’t keeping an eye on them. Information had always been a commodity in Belfast; and if you didn’t yet have the information, it was almost as important to make it look as if there was no reason why you shouldn’t. So the window stayed.

Patrick lowered himself gingerly into the chair, a martyr to his back as well as his country. Settled, he reached for the phone and pushed a single button on the speed dialler.

‘Sammy?’ Patrick said.

‘Patrick. How’re ye?’

‘Well, Sammy. And yourself?’

‘Ah well, no complaints, you know?’

‘And the family?’ The rituals had to be observed.

‘They’re all doing fine. Geraldine’s got herself a nice wee job with the Housing Corporation.’

‘Good for her. She’ll do well there, so she will. So, Sammy, what can I do for you?’

‘Well, Patrick, it might be that I can do something for you.’

Patrick opened the humidor on his desk and selected a King Edward half-Corona. ‘Is that so, Sammy?’ he said, tucking the phone into his neck while he lit the cigar.

‘Have you still an interest in Bernadette Dooley?’

Patrick clenched the phone in his fist. Only a lifetime of dissimulation allowed him to sound unruffled. ‘Now there’s a name I’ve not heard in years,’ he said genially. But his heart was jittering in his chest, the surge of memory flashing a slideshow of images across his mind’s eye.

‘Only, when she went missing, I seem to remember you were pretty keen to find out where she’d gone.’

‘I’m always concerned about my employees, Sammy. You know that.’

‘Oh aye,’ Sammy said hastily. ‘I know that, Patrick. But I didn’t know if you were still interested?’

He couldn’t maintain the pretence of disinterest any longer. ‘Where is she, Sammy?’

Patrick heard the sound of a cheap lighter clicking. ‘I was in Glasgow last weekend – a cousin of the wife’s wedding. Anyway, I went into a supermarket to get some drinks in, and I saw Bernadette. Not to speak to, like, but it was definitely her, Patrick.’ Sammy spoke rapidly.

‘Was she working there?’

‘No, no, she was walking out with her shopping. I was at the checkout, in the middle of paying, there was nothing I could do …’

‘What supermarket would that be, now?’ Patrick said, as if it were a matter of supreme indifference.

‘I’m not sure of the name of it, like, but it’s right at the top of Byres Road. Behind the Grosvenor Hotel. That’s where the wedding was, you see. I didn’t know if you were still interested, but I thought, no harm in letting your man know.’

‘I appreciate that, Sammy. There’s a twenty-pound bet for you in the shop next time you’re passing.’ It would cost him nothing. Sammy McGuire was one of life’s losers. ‘Take care now.’

Patrick terminated the connection. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the Degas, two frown lines between his eyebrows. Few people had ever touched his heart; Bernadette Dooley had been the only one of those who had ever dared to betray him. Even now, the thought of what he had lost when she had disappeared gave him physical pain. For seven years, he’d dreamed of finding her again, convinced that their paths would have to cross sooner or later. Not a day had passed without consciousness of what had gone when she had vanished from his life. At last, he had a chance to regain the peace of mind she had stolen from him. He flicked the intercom. ‘Theresa, Sammy McGuire’s due a twenty on the house. He’ll be by later on.’

Then he hit the speed dialler again. The other end answered on the second ring, if silence could be called answering. ‘Michael?’ Patrick said softly.

‘No, it’s Kevin.’

Patrick stifled a sigh. The way it worked, you had to find a place for the stupid ones because it was bad politics to turn them away. So you put one thick one on every team and hoped the others would keep him out of trouble. Funny, it always was a him that was the thicko. You could get away with it without too many problems usually, because one dummy in a cell of four or five wasn’t too much of a liability. But in a team of two … it might be a different story. Patrick hoped not, for all sorts of reasons. ‘Put Michael on,’ he said wearily.

A long moment of silence, then Michael’s hard voice cut through the ether. ‘Patrick,’ he said.

‘Come in. I’ve got something for you.’ Patrick put the phone down. Only then did he realize his cigar had gone out.

The headlights turned into the drive. Lindsay checked that it was Sophie’s car and reached for the phone. ‘Carry out, please,’ she said when it was answered. By the time the front door closed, she was listening to the invariable, ‘Twenty-five minutes, Mrs Gordon.’ She twisted round on the window seat so she was half-facing the door. She heard Sophie’s briefcase hit the floor, heard the snick of the cloakroom door shutting, then her partner’s voice.

‘I’m home,’ Sophie called. Her shoes clicked on the wooden flooring as she turned into the kitchen. ‘Lindsay?’ She sounded puzzled.

‘I’m through here.’

Sophie appeared in the doorway, still elegant after a day’s work in a tailored suit and plain silk shirt. She had the grace not to ask why Lindsay wasn’t in the kitchen as usual, putting the finishing touches to dinner. ‘Hi, darling,’ she said, the smile reaching her tired eyes. Then she took in the bandaged ankle propped on a cushion and raised her eyebrows, concern on her face. ‘What on earth have you been doing to yourself?’

‘It’s just a sprain.’

Sophie crossed the room and perched by Lindsay’s foot, her hand drawn irresistibly to the neatly wrapped crepe bandage that swaddled the injured ankle. ‘Suddenly you’re the doctor?’

‘I’m the one with the sports injuries experience.’ Lindsay grinned. ‘Trust me, it’s a sprain.’

‘What happened?’ Sophie tenderly stroked Lindsay’s leg.

‘I wasn’t paying attention. I was running up the hill to the Botanics and I crashed into somebody.’

Sophie shook her head, indulgent amusement on her face. ‘So how much havoc did you create?’

‘None. She was absolutely fine. She ended up driving me home.’

‘Lucky for you her car was there.’

Lindsay shrugged. ‘She lives across the river. It was easier to give in and hobble there than to risk doing myself serious damage by walking all the way home.’

‘Still, it was nice of her to take the trouble.’ Sophie began gently massaging the relaxed curve of Lindsay’s calf.

Lindsay leaned back against the folded wooden shutter. ‘Aye, it was. And then she propositioned me.’

Sophie’s hand froze and her eyes widened. ‘She what?’

Lindsay struggled to maintain a straight face. ‘She made me the kind of offer you’re not supposed to be able to refuse, especially when it comes from a cute blonde baby dyke.’

‘I hope this is your idea of a joke,’ Sophie said, her voice a dark warning.

‘No joke. She asked me if I wanted to come and work with her.’

Sophie cocked her head to one side, not sure how much her lover was playing with her. ‘She offered you a job? On the basis of crashing into you and watching you sprain your ankle? She’s looking for a bull in a china shop?’

‘On the basis that I am still apparently a legend in my own lunchtime and she’s got a very healthy freelance journalism business that could use another pair of hands.’ Lindsay let her face relax, her eyes sparkling with the delight of having wound Sophie up.

Sophie gave Lindsay’s knee a gentle punch. ‘Bastard,’ she said. You had me going for a minute there.’ She ran a hand through her silvered curls. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she sighed. ‘Only you could manage to turn a jogging accident into a job opportunity. But how did she know you were a journalist? Is she someone you used to work with?’