Deadline for Murder (17 page)

Sophie closed the door behind Ruth and Antonis with a huge sigh of relief. "That," she complained as she returned to the living room, "was above and beyond the call of duty." She collapsed on the sofa with a groan. "They are dire!"

"I know," Lindsay commiserated. "I'm sorry. Let me get you another brandy."

"Please," Sophie begged. "Promise me we don't have to have them round for dinner ever again."

"I promise. I'll tell you something, though. That Antonis is a very cool customer. If I hadn't known he was one of Alison's lovers, I'd never have guessed from that performance," Lindsay announced as she poured Sophie's drink.

"And he trotted out his alibi as if he'd been waiting for months to get the chance to parade it before someone. Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

"It sure does. Maybe I should take a little look at Antonis' movements. Though I don't quite know how I'm going to manage it. You performed beautifully, by the way," Lindsay congratulated her as she handed her a glass of brandy.

"Perhaps I've finally found my natural role in life. Ms. Nasty to your Ms. Nice. So, what do you think? Any closer to an answer?"

Lindsay shrugged. "What is it the song says? 'There are more questions than answers, And the more I find out, the less I know!' " She paced the floor as she worked through the facts she had gathered. Past experience had taught her that the best way to order her thoughts was to bounce them off someone. And when it came to providing her with stimulating responses, Sophie had already proved herself that evening.

"Claire has no alibi, and she has motive," Lindsay began, ticking people off on her fingers as she paced. She worked her way through Claire, Jimmy Mills, Ian Mclntosh, Ruth and Antonis, and concluded, "What we are distinctly lacking is any proof."

"What about the thumbprint that you told me about? Couldn't we get prints from all those suspects and see if any of them match?" Sophie suggested.

Lindsay sighed. "I guess it might have to come to that. But I can't see the police being very cooperative. And I really haven't the faintest idea if you can get freelance fingerprint experts to check out any prints we might obtain by subterfuge. I don't know, Sophie. I'm completely confused." She threw herself down on the sofa beside Sophie.

Sophie tickled the back of her neck, sending shivers of pleasure down Lindsay's spine. "The darkest hour is just before the dawn," she consoled. "Come on, let's go to bed. Maybe sleeping on it will help to clarify your thoughts."

Lindsay grinned. "Personally, I've always found that vigorous physical activity is a great mental catalyst."

"So go out for a jog!"

At was loathe at first sight. Lindsay hadn't been in Harry Campbell's company for five minutes before she knew for certain they would never be friends. When she arrived at Rosalind's flat, he was sitting at the kitchen table, nervously drumming his fingers while Rosalind waited on him. As Lindsay entered, he half-rose from his chair and offered her his hand.

"Lindsay? I'm glad to meet you. Rosalind has told me so much about you. I understand we're deeply indebted to you for all your hard work in tracking down our burglar. Well, let me say now, we won't forget what we owe you. Coffee? Orange juice? Rosalind, see to our guest, will you?" he smarmed.

Lindsay shook the warm, soft palm he held out, and before Rosalind could do anything, she helped herself to orange juice and coffee. Being with her big brother might reduce Rosalind to the level of obedient schoolgirl, but Lindsay didn't want to be part of it. She sat down and appraised Harry Campbell. Leaving aside the possibility that he was Alison's "political hot potato," if he was going to be by her side on the showdown with Alex McNaught, she wanted to know exactly what she was getting into.

He was in his late thirties, though he looked younger. His pepper and salt hair was neatly barbered, as was the still dark moustache, which Lindsay guessed was there to hide the weakness of his thin mouth. His eyes were dark blue rather than violet like Ros's, but they had the disconcerting habit of sliding away from direct contact. He was, she supposed, fairly handsome in an almost feminine way. But there was nothing arch or camp in his manner or his dress. He wore a crisp white shirt with a tweed tie and tweed trousers. The matching suit jacket was slung over the back of the kitchen chair on which he sat. If he hadn't been a politician, he might have been deputy headmaster at a country primary school. He wasn't a natural number one, Lindsay decided almost immediately.

Before he could launch into his party political broadcast, Lindsay turned to Rosalind and commented on her success in restoring the flat to its previous state of neatness.

"Helen helped me," Rosalind said. "I don't know what I'd have done without her. Actually, once we'd cleared up the mess, it didn't take too long."

Harry was clearly impatient of such domestic chit-chat. "So," he said portentously. "You're the young woman who succeeds where our incompetent police force fails? Tell me, how did you discover the culprit's identity?"

"I'd rather not say," Lindsay replied coldly. "I promised I wouldn't reveal my source. But the information is sound."

"Oh, I'm not doubting that for a moment," Harry said hastily. "I was just curious."

"Lindsay has all sorts of contacts," Rosalind said as she put a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of Harry. The smell made Lindsay feel vaguely nauseous after her overindulgence the night before. "What would you like to eat, Lindsay? We've got eggs, bacon, mushrooms, sliced sausage, black pudding, potato scones..."

"Just toast, please. And some Marmite, if you've got it," Lindsay replied. "Harry, what can you tell me about Alex McNaught?"

Harry flashed an uncertain look at Rosalind, who said reassuringly, as if to a small child, "It's all right, Harry. You can trust Lindsay."

"I'm sorry," he said, forcing a quick, artificial smile which revealed a row of perfect crowns. "I'm not accustomed to being able to trust members of your profession."

"Don't worry about it," Lindsay said wearily. "You're not alone. Now. About Alex McNaught?"

Harry sighed and picked at his breakfast. Finally, he said, "I met Alex about six months ago. I picked him up in the city centre and brought him back here."

"Wasn't that taking a bit of a chance?" Lindsay enquired, buttering a slice of toast and adding a thin coating of Marmite.

"As things turned out, it seems so. But I didn't think it was at the time. He didn't know who I was. I mean, he knew my name was Harry, but he didn't know I was an MP. I mean, I'm not exactly Neil Kinnock, am I? I'm hardly a household name in Kinradie, never mind Glasgow," he said bitterly.

"So you brought him back here. And?"

"Well, we went to bed together. I took some Polaroid photographs of him." Harry looked embarrassed. "Look, this is all a bit awkward, you know."

"Better me than the Special Branch," Lindsay commented, despising him for his lack of bottle.

"I suppose so. Well, I paid him and drove him back to where I'd picked him up. I saw him again a couple of times over the next six weeks or so. And that was that. He was really a rather boring boy. Not someone I'd want to spend a lot of time with."

Lindsay found a moment to wonder just why she was putting herself out for this unpleasant politician. Then she caught sight of Rosalind's worried expression and bit on the bullet. "When you say you saw him, do you mean you brought him back here for sex?" she asked bluntly.

"That's right."

"Fine," she said. "What I suggest we do is this. I think we should go round to his flat now, while there's still a chance that he'll be there. Initially, I want you to wait in the car while I see exactly what the score is. I suspect he'll want money in exchange for your things, since they could earn him a fair amount if he goes to the papers. Once I've persuaded him we can do a deal, I'll bring you in to negotiate the nuts and bolts. Then we'll take it from there. How much money have you got on you?"

Harry looked confused and pulled his wallet out of his jacket pocket. He took a quick look inside and said, "About PS50."

Lindsay shook her head. "That's not going to be nearly enough. Have you got any cash cards?"

Harry nodded reluctantly. "I've got a couple of those gold cards that let you draw PS500 at a time."

"Let's hope that'll be enough," Lindsay said.

Harry looked dismayed. "You mean he might want more than PS1,000?"

"Harry, if I had what he's got in his possession, and if you weren't Ros's brother, I could be ten grand richer by teatime. Get away with PS1,000 and you'll be doing very well. Now, when you've finished tucking in, I think we should get round to Springburn."

As she followed Ostler's directions, Lindsay broke the heavy silence in the car. "By the way Harry, did you know Alison Maxwell?"

He frowned as if trying to recall where he'd heard the name. "Maxwell? Oh yes, the woman who was murdered in Caird House. No, we'd never met."

His response seemed so natural that Lindsay was tempted to believe him. Then she remembered the necessity for all politicians, especially the ones with skeletons in the closet, to learn how to lie expertly, and reserved judgment. If there was a connection between Harry and Alison, straight questioning wasn't going to bring it to light.

She pulled up outside a three-storey detached Victorian house slotted incongruously among blocks of council flats. Its grey stucco was peeling off, giving the building a scabby, down-at-heel look. The door, once painted royal blue, was now overlaid with a layer of city grime. Leaving Harry in the car, Lindsay walked up the path and studied the house. Most of the curtains were closed, but a few were drawn back to provide unappetising glimpses of typical bed-sit land. On the door jamb were a dozen bell pushes, only a few of which had names scrawled on their labels. Lindsay scrutinised them carefully, but the name McNaught was nowhere to be seen. Undeterred, she pressed the bell marked Flat 1. There was no response, so she worked her way methodically down the bells. Eventually, Flat 5 produced a response.

The door inched open to reveal a sleepy-looking young woman in a grubby dressing gown. "What is it?" she demanded grumpily.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," Lindsay said. "But I was looking for Alex McNaught, and I didn't know which flat was his."

"Flat 9," the girl muttered crossly. "I wish they'd all put their bloody names on the bells," she added as she moved to close the door.

"I'll just come in, then," Lindsay said, moving forward forcefully. "It'll save Alex coming all the way down to open the door."

"Please yourself," the girl said with a shrug, moving back to allow Lindsay in. Before Lindsay could thank her, she retreated down the dim hallway and disappeared through a door at the far end.

Lindsay looked around her. The only light in the hall came from the dirty fan light above the door. Several doors opened off the hall, with cheap plastic numbers screwed to them. To her right was a rickety table with a scatter of mail in brown envelopes lying on it. She checked the letters and soon spotted an unemployment benefit cheque addressed to McNaught. G-day, she thought happily. If he was expecting his Giro, he might well be in a reasonably good mood.

Ahead of her was a flight of stairs, surprisingly elegant in spite of its shabby carpet. Obviously a remnant of the house's former glory, Lindsay thought as she climbed. On the first landing, there were three numbered doors, from six to eight, and two other doors labelled "toilet" and "bathroom." The whole place was seedy and smelled of unidentifiable cooking odours, strongly reminiscent of her student days. She took a deep breath and climbed the second flight, narrower than the first. Five doors opened off the landing, four of which were numbered. Lindsay stepped up to the door of Flat 9 and knocked loudly.

For a moment there was silence, then she heard soft footsteps cross the room. "Who is it?" a voice nervously demanded.

"A friend," Lindsay said, feeling foolishly like a player in a bad TV show.

"What friend?" came the suspicious response.

"I've got a proposition for you, Alex. A nice little earner. Barry Ostler sent me," Lindsay tried, feeling no less foolish. She heard the lock turn, then the door opened on a chain.

A thin, frightened face appeared in the crack. "Who are you? What do you want with me?"

Obviously not the usual, Lindsay thought wryly. "I need to talk to you, Alex. Can we do it privately, or do you want the whole house to know your business?" she said with a smile.

Alex looked her up and down, then, deciding she represented no threat, slipped the chain off the door and let it swing open. He stepped back and Lindsay entered his home. It was a large, square room, containing a three-quarter bed, a rather dilapidated wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a table with two kitchen chairs, and two old-fashioned armchairs. In one corner was a sink and a Baby Belling cooker. A gas fire on full was blasting out dry heat. The room was surprisingly clean, and the walls had been painted magnolia in an attempt to brighten the place up. There was a poster-sized photographic reproduction of a naked body-builder opposite the bed.

Warily, they eyed each other. He was wrapped in a sheet which did nothing to hide the fact that he was slim to the point of emaciation. Probably using speed, thought Lindsay as she caught a whiff of his rancid breath. But she could see his appeal for the men who frequented the meat-racks. He was waif-like, with tousled blonde hair and wide, hazel eyes. He had an air of corrupted innocence which Lindsay guessed would attract a man like Harry.

"What do you want, then?" he asked in a parody of aggression.

"My name's Lindsay Gordon," she said. "You've got something a friend of mine wants very badly."

"I don't know what you mean," he replied so quickly it had to be an automatic reflex.

"We're willing to pay you for it, Alex. Nobody's trying to rip you off. Whatever deal you had lined up with Barry Ostler, I'll make sure you don't lose out," Lindsay said.

"I still don't know what you're on about," he said stubbornly.

"I think you do, Alex. How much did he pay you for Rosalind Campbell's Scottish Office papers? Not much, I bet."

He looked startled and flashed a glance at his rumpled bed. "You've got the wrong guy," he stammered.

Lindsay shook her head. "No way. Look Alex, stop pussyfooting. There's no problem. All I want is to arrange the purchase of certain items in your possession. You're not going to get into trouble. Unless of course, we can't come to some sort of arrangement. Then you are going to be in so much trouble your head won't stop spinning for a week," she added pleasantly.

Alex looked scared. He retreated to the table and picked up a packet of cigarettes. He lit up, never taking his eyes off Lindsay, who followed his example. She exhaled smoke slowly and perched on the arm of one of the chairs. "It's very simple, Alex. You stole Harry Campbell's papers and photographs. He wants them back. He's sitting in my car downstairs, waiting to hear your terms. I promise you, whatever Barry Ostler said he'd give you, we'll match. But Harry's very upset. He doesn't want any publicity. So if we can't do a deal, he's going to shop you to the police for the burglary. Not to mention the fact that you're earning while signing on as unemployed. None of us wants to go down that road, do we? Now, can we talk properly?" Lindsay urged. She really didn't want to give him a bad time, but she suspected it wouldn't be necessary.

Alex nodded uncertainly. "Just suppose you're right. How much is it worth?" he said, trying to sound defiant.

"How much did Barry pay you for the Scottish Office stuff?" Lindsay asked.

"None of your business," he retorted.

Lindsay smiled. "Alex, I used to be in the newspaper business myself. I know exactly how much Barry got for that story. And I bet you didn't get more than PS100 of his PS500." The expression of surprise on his face told Lindsay all she needed to know. If she knew Barry, Alex would have been lucky to see PS50. And now she'd sown a seed of doubt in his mind about Barry's trustworthiness.

"He said the other stuff would be worth a lot more," Alex said.

"How much more? Come on, Alex, the sooner we get this settled, the sooner I can get back to my girlfriend. This is not my idea of a fun Saturday morning."

He scowled. "Barry said he'd pay me PS500," he said, obviously naming a figure off the top of his head. Lindsay almost felt sorry for him. Ostler was using him, and it was clearly a position Alex was so accustomed to it no longer surprised him.

"We're prepared to equal that, and add a little bit more on top for your trouble," Lindsay said. "How does PS750 sound to you?"

"I suppose so," he replied grudgingly. "But I'm not handing anything over till I get the money."