V. McDermid - Final Edition

‘I might not have a law degree, but I do have a qualification in Scots law for journalists, Claire. I’m well aware of the standard of proof required by the courts,’ Lindsay retorted, feeling patronised by Claire’s spelling out of the situation.

Claire flushed. ‘Very well. What do you plan to do next?’

‘I want to see Jackie as soon as that can be arranged. In the meantime, I’m going to take a look at the flats where Alison lived. I’ve borrowed a set of keys from a friend of mine who lives in the block. I want to refresh my memory on the layout. I’ll ring Jim Carstairs and arrange a time to see the papers. And I’ll look up a few contacts from my Clarion days. I’ll call you tomorrow evening and let you know how I’m going on.’

‘Where can I reach you?’ Claire asked. ‘Cordelia told me you rented your flat out when you moved to London three years ago.’

‘Yes. Unfortunately, the students who are in it now have a lease that doesn’t run out till July. So I’m staying with a friend.’ Lindsay scribbled down Sophie’s number on a sheet from her notebook. She got to her feet. ‘Goodbye, Claire. I’ll see myself out.’

Lindsay drove out of the city centre with a sour taste in her mouth. How could Cordelia have fallen for a pretentious yuppie like Claire Ogilvie? To distract herself, she studied Great Western Road as she drove out towards Alison’s flat in Hyndland. There had been a few changes here in recent years. It all looked smarter, somehow, the last-ditch hippy emporia of the seventies having finally vanished, overtaken by bookshops, up-market restaurants and interesting food shops. I like being back, she thought with surprise as she swung left off the main road and headed for Caird House. The flats were a ten-storey modern block, built by a housing association in the late seventies. Alison’s flat was on the sixth floor, two below Rosalind’s.

Lindsay left her car in one of the visitors’ parking bays, then walked down the ramp and past the barrier into the residents’ underground car park. It was almost empty in the late afternoon. Like Claire’s Merchant City eyrie, these were flats for single professionals, or couples without children. At this time of day, they would all be at work. Lindsay crossed the garage and examined the door. Unlike the ground floor entrances, this one had no entryphone, just the same seven-lever mortice lock as the other outside doors. Presumably only residents were expected to come in from the garage. Lindsay tried the key that Rosalind had given her and entered the block.

She noticed the two lifts, but ignored them and headed for the fire escape stairs. She climbed up one level and emerged through a heavy swing door into the foyer. There were two outside exits, one on either side of the block, each leading to a small landscaped parking area. Through the far door, she could just see the nose of her own car. There were no flats on the ground floor, merely boxroom storage areas and the collection area where the rubbish chutes deposited their contents. Lindsay pushed the fire door open again and climbed the stairs. She’d always used the lifts before, and wanted to see for herself how likely it was that Jackie might have been spotted from the outside as she’d sat on the stairs smoking. Small frosted glass windows provided the only daylight, killing that possibility. Overhead, fluorescent strips hummed. At the sixth floor, Lindsay emerged on to a familiar landing.

There were four flats on each landing, one at each corner of the central core. Two had one bedroom, the others had two, she remembered. Ahead of her lay Alison’s front door. 6A. How many times had she stood here in a fever of anticipation, desperate for the satisfaction she knew she’d find on the other side of that cherry-red door?

Lindsay turned away, aware for the first time of the depth of her sorrow for Alison. She examined the landing more carefully. Beside the lifts was another door. Curious, she opened it. Inside, there was just room for a person to stand. In the wall was a large, square hole with a sign above it saying ‘Rubbish Chute’. Cautiously, Lindsay stuck her head into the gap. It was pitch black. Presumably this was the chute that carried bin bags from the flats down to the huge bins in the ground floor storeroom.

Lindsay withdrew and thoughtfully returned to the landing. She pressed the lift button and waited a few seconds for it to arrive. The double doors slid back, revealing a woman standing in the cramped compartment. As she saw Lindsay she gasped in surprise.

Lindsay stepped into the lift and said nonchalantly, ‘Hello, Ruth, I didn’t realise you still lived here.’

‘Lindsay. What a surprise. I heard you’d left the country after … But … what on earth were you doing on the landing there? You hadn’t come to see … I mean, you did know about … ?’

Same old Ruth, thought Lindsay. Congenitally incapable of finishing her sentences. ‘I got back a couple of weeks ago,’ Lindsay said. ‘I only heard about Alison last night. I guess I just wanted to make a sort of pilgrimage. For old times’ sake, you know?’

Ruth Menzies gulped and nodded vigorously. ‘I know what you mean. Antonis and I were thinking of selling up and moving out, you know? I couldn’t face all the memories, it was all too … But anyway, we decided to stay a bit longer and see how …’ The lift slid to a smooth halt and the doors opened.

‘Nice to see you, Ruth,’ said Lindsay pleasantly. ‘Maybe we could get together some time and talk about old times?’ The lift stopped at the ground floor and Lindsay stepped out.

Ruth’s answer was cut short as the lift doors closed and carried her down to the basement. Lindsay walked back to her car, musing on the coincidence that had thrust her back into contact with Ruth. The mousey-haired art gallery owner had been Alison Maxwell’s closest friend for years. About the only friend who hadn’t been one of her lovers, Lindsay wouldn’t mind betting. They’d been friends since schooldays, she seemed to remember, the classic pairing of the siren who needs the mouse to show her off to full advantage. Alison had been more than a little put out when insignificant little Ruthie had returned from a buying trip to Athens with a husband in tow. And not just any husband, but a handsome, dashing Greek three years her junior, who was determined to put Ruth’s money to good use while he wrote the Great European Novel. Lindsay wondered idly if he’d managed to put pen to paper yet.

On her way back to Sophie’s flat, Lindsay made a detour to Wunda Wines, a discount warehouse in Partick, where she bought a couple of bottles of crisp white Tokai di Aquilea to go with dinner. Even that little taste of the Veneto was better than nothing, she reflected as she drove back. She parked behind a Mercedes coupé and hurried towards the tenement entrance. She had only taken a few steps when she was brought up short by the sound of a familiar voice calling her name. A moment later, Cordelia was by her side.

Lindsay struggled to find something to say that wouldn’t betray the confusion of emotions that were churning inside her. It didn’t matter how many times she told herself it was over, her heart hadn’t got the message yet. ‘I like the new car,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Very tasty. Must be more money in the book business than I thought. Or was it another windfall from a rich relative?’ she added, feeling ashamed as soon as the words were out of her mouth. She’d never been able to forgive Cordelia for the ostentatious luxury of her London home, bought with the money her grandmother had left her.

Cordelia failed to respond to Lindsay’s barb. ‘I had to get rid of the BMW. Some joyriders smashed into it outside the house one night, and the steering was never the same afterwards. When I sold the film rights for Ikhaya Lamaqhawe , I treated myself to the Merc,’ she replied. ‘But I didn’t drive over here to discuss cars. Claire told me where you were staying. I need to talk to you.’