Final Edition. V. McDermid L.
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.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Claire asked.
‘No thanks,’ Lindsay replied. She might have to take Claire’s money, but she was damned if she would accept anything that fell outside the ambit of a purely professional relationship. At least Cordelia wasn’t here to churn up her emotions again, she thought with a mixture of relief and regret. ‘So, you said that Jackie wants my help,’ she added, perching on the edge of a pine-framed armchair.
Claire pushed her glasses up her nose in a nervous gesture. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Look, before we start, I just wanted to apologise for last night. I realise it must have been something of a shock for you, and I’m sorry if I was less than helpful.’
Lindsay shrugged. ‘What exactly did Jackie want me to do?’
Claire was clearly unsettled by Lindsay’s ungracious response to her apology, and walked over to the window to stare out at the mist-shrouded water. ‘She thought you could establish her innocence.’
‘But why? What made her think I could succeed where the police and her own lawyers had failed? Surely if there had been anything to go on you would have hired a private detective before the trial.’
Having recovered her poise, Claire turned back and sat down on the edge of the sofa. Lindsay couldn’t help picturing Cordelia curled up there beside her, watching television or just talking. She pushed the bitter thought aside and forced herself to listen to Claire. ‘We didn’t go to a conventional private detective because Jackie didn’t believe that we’d find one who would genuinely be on our side. I have to say that in my experience professionally with the breed, I wouldn’t expect to find one who was sympathetic to a gay woman. Jackie thought you’d believe her. And she thought you’d have a vested interest in finding out the truth. She knew about your own affair with Alison, knew you’d understand what she’d been put through.’
Lindsay lit a cigarette without her usual courtesy of asking permission first. Claire leapt to her feet, saying, ‘I’ll get you an ashtray.’ She disappeared through another door and returned moments later with an ostentatiously large crystal ashtray. Lindsay felt that using it would be like shouting in a museum. Claire placed it on the occasional table next to Lindsay’s chair and said, ‘Well, will you help? She didn’t do it, you know.’ There was a note of desperation in her voice that touched Lindsay in spite of herself.
Wearily, Lindsay nodded. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ she said. ‘My daily rate is £100 plus expenses. I’d expect a week’s payment in advance, as a retainer,’ she added quickly, amazed at how easily it came out.
Claire’s eyebrows rose. ‘Cordelia didn’t seem to think you’d expect to be paid,’ she said coolly. ‘But I’m used to paying for professional services. In return, I expect full reports on what you are doing.’ Claire opened her briefcase and swiftly wrote a cheque for £700. She handed it to Lindsay with a look of contempt.
‘That