Booked for Murder. V. McDermid L.
possible, not to be able to compare it with what had gone before. She was always quite fussy about retrieving first drafts. Almost neurotic.’
‘She was a perfectionist,’ Lindsay said sadly, stricken by memory of her friend. ‘She hated the idea of anyone revealing her early drafts to the world after she’d gone. I remember her talking about it one night.’
‘I don’t even have a current synopsis,’ Catriona said, sounding more cross than sad. ‘If Meredith should come across the manuscript of Heart of Glass, or the computer disk it’s on, I’d really appreciate it if she could pass it on to me.’
‘Why?’ Lindsay asked, suspecting she already knew the answer.
‘The 300 pages I saw were publishable quality,’ Catriona answered, confirming Lindsay’s guess. ‘If they came with a synopsis, her editor could probably cobble together an ending in an appropriate style.’
‘Oh, great, just what Penny would have loved,’ Lindsay said sarcastically. ‘A load of cobblers.’
‘I think I have more right to be the judge of that,’ Catriona said stiffly. ‘If Penny had doubted my judgement, she would hardly have granted me so much power as her literary executor. Penny wanted to show the world that she was more than just a writer of teenage fiction. What I’ve seen of Heart of Glass demonstrated a formidable talent, and she deserves to have that credited to her reputation. That’s what she really wanted, Ms Gordon. She wanted it so badly she could taste it.’
Lindsay looked away, realising that Penny had wanted it so badly she had even been prepared to jeopardise Meredith’s career just to generate more publicity. That indicated a raw ambition Lindsay had never recognised in Penny before. She could understand her desire for acknowledgement; what she couldn’t relate to was her willingness to sacrifice her emotional happiness and security for the fickleness of reputation. ‘Yeah, well,’ was all she said.
‘I’m not really the person you should be talking to about this,’ Catriona added casually as she lit another cigarette. ‘Penny spent a lot more time with her editor than she did with me this trip.’
‘And her editor is?’
‘Belinda Burton. Baz to her babies. Baz would have had a much clearer idea of where she was up to and where she was going. They were very close. It was a large part of the reason behind Penny’s success. The relationship between an editor and a writer is crucial. Different people work in different ways. When you link an editor and writer whose minds run along the same tracks and who like to work at the same level of detail, you’ve got a match made in heaven. A mismatch and everybody’s life is an absolute bloody misery. It’s part of my job to marry up writers with appropriate editors. Baz and Penny fit like a matching plug and socket,’ Catriona said expansively.
‘You wouldn’t be trying to divert me, would you?’
Catriona laughed. ‘No. But if you’re still fixated on the profit motive and you think that Penny dead is an appealing moneymaker, you really would be better employed talking to Baz. Penny’s royalty is ten per cent, so my cut is around one and a half per cent of the retail price. Monarch Press, on the other hand, are picking up between ten and forty per cent on every book sold. As they say on your side of the Atlantic, go figure.’
Lindsay stood up. She wasn’t entirely convinced she’d got everything out of Catriona Polson that there was to be had, but she didn’t have the right questions to elicit more. Perhaps after she’d spoken to Baz Burton, she’d have more ammunition to fire at the agent. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll talk to her. Now, wasn’t that painless?’
‘Painless but not a terribly productive use of my time,’ Catriona said dismissively, leading Lindsay out of the room and down the corridor. ‘I’m bound to say, I hope your client is paying you up front. I suspect she may end up wasting all her available cash on defence lawyers. I think you’re backing the wrong horse, Ms Gordon. Always a mistake to let sentiment stand in the way of reality, however unpalatable that may be.’
For once, Lindsay refused to let herself be wound up. She contented herself with, ‘As Arnie says, hasta la vista, baby.’ On her way out of the front door, she took out the card she’d put in her shirt pocket earlier. It was about ten years old, but that didn’t matter. She flicked it across the desk to the receptionist. ‘Have a nice day, cher,’ she said in her best Bayou accent. She didn’t wait to register the response to a card that read, ‘Lindsay Gordon, Staff Reporter, Daily Nation’.
When she left Catriona Polson’s office Lindsay felt a strange sense of dislocation, a combination of sleep deprivation and an awareness that there had been changes in the street ambience of Soho in the six years she’d been away. Seedy sex tourism had given way to café bars with fashion victims spilling out on to pavement tables, braying loudly. Surely, Lindsay thought, there couldn’t be that many jobs for film critics? What she needed was a space to call her own, somewhere she could spread her things around her and feel grounded. Meredith had offered her the second bedroom in her apartment, but Lindsay didn’t want to be constantly bound to Penny’s death.
She found a phone box near Tottenham Court Road, checked her personal organiser and punched in a local number. ‘Watergaw Films, how can I help you?’ she heard in a bright Scottish accent.
‘I’d like to speak to Helen Christie,’ Lindsay said. ‘The name’s Lindsay Gordon.’
‘One moment please.’ Then what sounded like Eine kleine Nachtmusik played on penny whistles. Lindsay gritted her teeth and waited. It would be worth the assault on her eardrums if this call gave her what she needed, and she didn’t anticipate denial. Helen had lived with Sophie for years, but she’d been Lindsay’s friend long before that. The two women had linked up years before at Oxford, the only two working-class women in their college’s annual intake. The recognition had been instant, forging an immediate friendship that time, distance and lovers had never threatened. They had discovered their common sexuality in tandem, been paralytically drunk and terminally hung over together, wept over broken hearts and celebrated famous victories by each other’s side. No matter how long the gap between their encounters, Lindsay and Helen invariably fell straight back into the easy camaraderie that had marked their relationship right from the beginning.
‘Lindsay?’ It was Helen’s familiar voice, Liverpudlian crossed with Glaswegian, untouched by anything south of the M62. ‘How’re you doing, girl?’
‘Off my head with jet lag, but otherwise okay. Listen, Helen, I need a bed a few nights sooner than we anticipated.’
‘What do you mean, jet lag? Are you here in London already?’
‘Yes. Just me. I’ll explain when I see you, it’s too complicated over the phone. Is your spare room free?’
‘Course it is. The whole house is a total tip, though, on account of I wasn’t expecting the pair of you till next week, but if you don’t mind a bit of chaos and no milk in the fridge, move on in. Sophie’ll go nutso when she sees the state of the place, but I’ve had more important things on my mind than tidying and Kirsten wouldn’t notice if the council started emptying bins into the living room, bless her,’ Helen gabbled.
‘Sophie’s not with me,’ Lindsay cut in as soon as Helen paused for breath.
‘Aw, Lindsay, you’ve not done one, have you? I know you, first sign of trouble and you’re off over the horizon. You should stay and talk it over, you know you should. You’re a million times better for her than I ever was.’
Lindsay laughed. ‘Give me some credit. I have grown up a wee bit in the last half-dozen years. There’s nothing wrong between me and Sophie, I swear. The reason I’m here early is something else entirely. Look, I’ll explain when I see you, okay? I’m running out of money here.’
‘All right. Listen, can you get yourself round to the office? Only I’ve got to leg it to an important meeting,