Bloom’s mouth twisted in a wince. ‘Don’t get mad?’
Lindsay nodded. ‘Must have seemed like a good idea at the time. So what’s all this about, Ms Bloom? What are you doing here? What’s your connection to Meredith? And why are we standing in the middle of a beach when we live in a world that has more phones, faxes and modems than hot dinners?’
Sandra looked faintly embarrassed. ‘I don’t know exactly what it is that Ms Miller does for a living …’
Lindsay interrupted with a snort of ironic laughter. ‘Join a very large club.’
‘… but whatever it is, it’s made her rather paranoid about normal methods of communication,’ she continued regardless.
Lindsay nodded. ‘Right. I remember the lecture. Menwith Hill, Yorkshire, England. One of the biggest listening posts in the world, run to all intents and purposes by the US government. Who routinely monitor phone calls, faxes and computer traffic. I’ve always found it hard to get my head round the idea. I mean, the sheer volume of it. Some days I don’t have time to read my own e-mail. The thought of ploughing through everybody else’s … Anyway, yeah, it’s starting to make sense. Okay, I understand why Meredith wouldn’t want to entrust anything sensitive to any form of telecommunication. And given the news in today’s paper, I don’t have to be what’s-her-name with the crystal ball on the national lottery to figure out it must be something to do with Penny. So what’s going on?’
Sandra pushed her hair back from her face in what was clearly a regular time-buying gesture. ‘Ms Miller and her lawyer have sent me over from London …’
‘Hang on a minute,’ Lindsay butted in again. ‘What’s with the “lawyer” bit? I didn’t even know Meredith was in London, never mind that she’d got herself a lawyer.’
‘Ms Miller has a lawyer because she seems to think she’s about to become the police’s number one suspect in their inquiry into the murder of Penny Varnavides,’ Sandra blurted out in a rush, clearly deciding it was the only way to tell Lindsay anything without interruption.
Lindsay found herself staggering slightly at the abrupt news. Mutton scrambled to his feet and thrust a wet nose into her hand. ‘Can we walk while we talk? My muscles need to warm down properly or I’ll cramp up,’ she stalled, turning so she and Sandra faced back up the beach. Sandra fell in by her side. A few steps further on, Lindsay said, ‘The paper here said there were no suspicious circumstances. What changed?’
‘The police found out about the murder method in Ms Varnavides’ new book.’
‘Which is?’
‘The killer reads a warning in the newspaper from a chain of – is it “convenience stores” they call them over here?’
‘That’s right, if you mean off-licences.’
‘This warning tells customers to keep wheat beer refrigerated in prolonged spells of warm weather to prevent secondary fermentation and possible explosive accidents. So the killer puts half a dozen bottles of wheat beer on top of the fridge at head height. Then he knocks one to the floor, where of course it breaks explosively. He snatches up a shard of glass and when his victim comes rushing through to see what’s going on, he thrusts it into her neck. Then he pulls it out, wipes it clean of his fingerprints and lets her bleed to death. Then he shakes up another bottle and opens it so that she’s sprayed with beer as if she’d been caught in the actual explosion.’ Her delivery was precise and measured. That made it easier for Lindsay to tune out the thought that it was her friend who had been killed in this ruthless way. She imagined Sandra’s reports would be masterpieces of concision.
‘Yeah, right,’ Lindsay sighed. ‘I can see why they might have changed their minds. But that still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here, stalking me like some trainee assassin,’ she added, trying to get rid of the sinking feeling in her stomach with smart-mouthed defiance.
‘I’m here to bring you back to England,’ Sandra said baldly.
Lindsay shook her head. ‘No way.’ She’d been right to feel apprehensive. For once, being right didn’t make her feel any better.
‘Ms Miller has hired me to persuade you to come back and help her,’ Sandra said woodenly.
‘So far, you’re not doing too well. What does she need me for? She’s already got a private eye.’
‘We don’t do this kind of work. Our speciality is white collar fraud. I wouldn’t know where to begin on a murder investigation. Ms Miller seems to think you would.’
Lindsay shook her head. ‘I’m not a hired gun. I’m a journalist, not a private eye. Besides, I’ve been away from England a long time. I’m not what Meredith needs.’
‘She thinks you are.’
Lindsay shook her head violently. ‘No way. You’ve had a wasted journey, Ms Bloom.’ Then she turned away and started to run back towards the safety of her own four walls.
The high whine of the jet engine dropped a little as the plane hit its cruising height and levelled out. Lindsay pressed a button in the armrest and exchanged the operatic aria in her headphones for contemporary Irish music. At least flying Aer Lingus meant there was a decent choice of in-flight music, she thought. And the music was the perfect distraction to avoid having to think about why she had agreed to a marathon journey back to London, changing at Dublin, in the charmless company of Sandra Bloom.
Ten minutes after Lindsay had made it back home, the dogged private eye had rung the doorbell. Lindsay had tried to ignore it, continuing on her journey to the fridge for a cold beer, but Mutton refused to play. He ran to the front door, snuffling eagerly round the edges, then barking loudly, tail wagging as he scented his newest friend. He turned to look expectantly at Lindsay, uncapping her beer and ostentatiously ignoring the dog. He gave a soft whimper then turned back to the door, outlining its edges with anxious snorts and anguished yelps.
‘All right,’ Lindsay sighed. She took a long swig of beer, then crossed to the door. She yanked it open and immediately said, ‘I told you no, and I meant it.’
Sandra Bloom nodded agreement. ‘I know. But Ms Miller is adamant that you’re the only person who can help her. She stressed that she wants you to come not only because of your investigative skills but also because you’re a friend and that means she can trust you with things she’d be wary of explaining to a stranger.’
Lindsay cast her eyes upwards. ‘Emotional blackmail now, is it? I suppose you’d better come in. The neighbours think we lower the tone enough as it is without having private eyes leaning on the doorbell.’
Sandra Bloom had been an investigator for long enough not to care how ungracious an invitation might be as long as it was forthcoming. She followed Lindsay inside and took in a living area with polished wood-block floors, dark squashy sofas and brilliantly coloured Georgia O’Keefe prints splashed across white walls. She decided not to comment on its attractiveness, knowing instinctively her target would dismiss it as merely another ploy. ‘I realise you feel pressured,’ she said as Lindsay threw herself down on the nearest sofa, scowling.
‘Good.’
‘But Ms Miller is in a very vulnerable emotional state. Her lover –’
‘Former lover,’ Lindsay interrupted.
‘Her lover until very recently,’ Sandra Bloom corrected her precisely, ‘has been murdered in a particularly calculated and cold-blooded way. She’s on her own in a strange city, thousands of miles from her friends. And as if that isn’t enough, she’s a suspect in the murder inquiry. And you’re the only person she thinks can help her.’
‘But I’m not,’ Lindsay protested. ‘What has she told you about me?’
‘Very little. She did say that although you weren’t