V. McDermid - Final Edition

The following day, ashamed of having given in to Alison’s blackmail, Lindsay had left town for a few days, making the excuse of a feature she wanted to research in Aberdeen. By the time she had returned, Alison had been absorbed in someone new, and had lost all interest in Lindsay, much to her relief. Being dropped from Alison’s social circle had left a gap at first, but Lindsay was grateful to have survived relatively unscathed. As the months passed and she observed her former lover wreaking havoc in other people’s lives, Lindsay vowed never to let her fantasies run away with her again.

Since she’d moved away from Glasgow, Alison had been no more than a distant memory. But the news of her death had brought these memories to life. There had been so much life in Alison. It might not have been a desirable vivacity, but nevertheless, Lindsay felt herself diminished by Alison’s death. They had hit the heights together, after all. And she’d been a bloody good journalist. The same skills that she used to wind her lovers round her little finger were invaluable when it came to persuading interviewees to open up to her. Alison might have been a bitch, thought Lindsay sadly, but she didn’t deserve to die like that. And however hard she tried, Lindsay couldn’t picture Jackie Mitchell as her killer. Jackie had been a hard-nosed journalist, but underneath, like so many of them, she was soft-centred and weak. Nothing Lindsay had learned about the murder seemed to fit her image of Jackie.

Rosalind had provided a surprising amount of information about Alison Maxwell’s murder. Surprising, that is, until Lindsay had remembered that Rosalind’s compact modern flat was in the same block as the dead woman’s apartment. As a result, Rosalind had taken a keen interest in the progress of the investigation and trial. The training and experience she’d acquired over her years in the civil service had stood her in good stead when it came to reporting her version of events to Lindsay. She had run through everything she knew in a crisp, factual way, making Lindsay feel like a Scottish Office Minister on the receiving end of some vital briefing. No wonder politicians felt inferior to their senior civil servants! And no wonder Rosalind had climbed to the rank of Principal Officer.

All the evidence against Jackie had been circumstantial, Rosalind had reported. She had never denied that she had been in Alison’s flat on the afternoon of the murder. She had never denied that they had been to bed together. She had never denied her ownership of the scarf that had strangled Alison. But from the moment of her arrest till now, convicted and sentenced, she had vigorously denied killing her. The point at issue, according to Rosalind, was whether Jackie was telling the truth about the time of her departure.

‘Jackie was seen by Alison’s mother leaving the building by the side door at five minutes to six. Mrs Maxwell was trying to gain admittance to the block. We have security entryphones, and there was no response from Alison’s flat. Mrs Maxwell had to wait another fifteen minutes before someone arrived who could let her into the building. They went up in the lift together. Mrs Maxwell went straight to Alison’s flat, where the front door was ajar. She walked as far as the bedroom door, saw her daughter and started screaming,’ Rosalind explained.

‘Jackie maintained at the time, and later, that she had left the flat nearly half an hour before the body was discovered. She had walked down the fire escape stairs rather than take the lift, and stopped to have a cigarette and a think. The police took the not unreasonable view that this was scarcely normal behaviour. And of course, once they had Jackie in custody, and had satisfied the Procurator Fiscal that the case against her covered all the eventualities, the investigation stopped dead.’

It didn’t leave too many avenues for exploring, Lindsay thought to herself as she finished her coffee. But Rosalind had been able to give her a spare set of keys to the building and her flat. Later this afternoon, Lindsay would take advantage of that to have a good look around and refresh her memory about the layout of the block that had once been almost as familiar as her own tenement. But first, she had to face Claire.

She glanced in the full-length mirror in the hall as she reached for her heavy sheepskin jacket. If Cordelia was going to be at Claire’s, Lindsay wanted to look her best. All the exercise and healthy eating in Italy had left her nearly a stone lighter, and her tight Levis emphasised the fact. But her thick Aran sweater did her no favours. Impatiently, Lindsay pulled it off and surveyed herself in the loose but flattering scarlet polo shirt she was wearing underneath. She’d probably freeze to death, but at least she was looking pretty good. She shrugged into her jacket, determined to show Cordelia exactly what she was missing!

Lindsay managed to find a free parking meter by the river, a couple of streets away from Claire’s flat. She set the alarm on her ancient MGB roadster then strode briskly through the misty winter air, casting a jaundiced eye on the cold grey waters of the Clyde. Not an improvement on the blue of the Adriatic, she thought. At times like this, she wished she’d never left Italy. Fancy thinking coming home would solve anything.

Following Claire’s detailed instructions, she turned into a narrow alleyway which opened out into a small courtyard with several staircases leading off it. Originally, these had been the semi-slum homes of the ill-paid clerks who had tended the fortunes of the Victorian merchants and shipping magnates who had once made the city great. Over the years, the properties had deteriorated, till they were precariously balanced on the edge of demolition. But in the nick of time, a new prosperity had arrived in Glasgow and the property developers had snapped up the almost derelict slums and renovated them. Now, there were luxury flats with steel doors and closed circuit video security systems where once there had been open staircases that rang with the sounds of too many families crammed into too small a space. Lindsay surveyed the clean, sandblasted courtyard with an ironic smile, before pressing the buzzer for Claire’s flat and glowering at the camera lens three feet above her head.

The speaker at her ear crackled, and she could just make out Claire’s voice. ‘It’s Lindsay,’ she said, and was rewarded by the angry buzz of the door release. Lindsay mounted the stairs to the third landing, where Claire stood by her open front door. Lindsay took in the details of her appearance that she had been too upset to notice the night before. The most striking thing about her was her height. She was nearly six feet tall, and her body had all the willowy sinuousness of a model. Her fine white-blonde hair was beautifully cut, like the severely tailored grey herringbone woollen suit she wore. She looked like a recruitment poster for law graduates.

‘Come in,’ Claire greeted her. ‘You’re very punctual.’

Lindsay bit back a sarcastic retort and followed her through a spacious hallway furnished with a small Turkish carpet and several pale wood bookcases. In an alcove, behind glass doors, was a collection of Oriental porcelain. Claire showed her into a huge square room with two bay windows which overlooked the river. The room must originally have been the living rooms of two separate flats, Lindsay thought to herself. Two families would have occupied the space now filled with Claire’s Scandinavian pine furniture and colourful wall hangings. Even the stereo system and the CD collection were housed in tailor-made glass-fronted pine units. It could have come straight from the pages of the kind of glossy magazine Lindsay couldn’t imagine wanting to write for. Cordelia would feel right at home here, she thought bitterly, taking in the Cartier briefcase standing beside the sofa. The room’s designer consumerism epitomised everything that had disturbed Lindsay about their life together. But Cordelia had never shared her discomfort.