for the first time of the depth of her sorrow for Alison. She examined the landing more carefully. Beside the lifts was another door. Curious, she opened it. Inside, there was just room for a person to stand. In the wall was a large, square hole with a sign above it saying ‘Rubbish Chute’. Cautiously, Lindsay stuck her head into the gap. It was pitch black. Presumably this was the chute that carried bin bags from the flats down to the huge bins in the ground floor storeroom.
Lindsay withdrew and thoughtfully returned to the landing. She pressed the lift button and waited a few seconds for it to arrive. The double doors slid back, revealing a woman standing in the cramped compartment. As she saw Lindsay she gasped in surprise.
Lindsay stepped into the lift and said nonchalantly, ‘Hello, Ruth, I didn’t realise you still lived here.’
‘Lindsay. What a surprise. I heard you’d left the country after … But … what on earth were you doing on the landing there? You hadn’t come to see … I mean, you did know about … ?’
Same old Ruth, thought Lindsay. Congenitally incapable of finishing her sentences. ‘I got back a couple of weeks ago,’ Lindsay said. ‘I only heard about Alison last night. I guess I just wanted to make a sort of pilgrimage. For old times’ sake, you know?’
Ruth Menzies gulped and nodded vigorously. ‘I know what you mean. Antonis and I were thinking of selling up and moving out, you know? I couldn’t face all the memories, it was all too … But anyway, we decided to stay a bit longer and see how …’ The lift slid to a smooth halt and the doors opened.
‘Nice to see you, Ruth,’ said Lindsay pleasantly. ‘Maybe we could get together some time and talk about old times?’ The lift stopped at the ground floor and Lindsay stepped out.
Ruth’s answer was cut short as the lift doors closed and carried her down to the basement. Lindsay walked back to her car, musing on the coincidence that had thrust her back into contact with Ruth. The mousey-haired art gallery owner had been Alison Maxwell’s closest friend for years. About the only friend who hadn’t been one of her lovers, Lindsay wouldn’t mind betting. They’d been friends since schooldays, she seemed to remember, the classic pairing of the siren who needs the mouse to show her off to full advantage. Alison had been more than a little put out when insignificant little Ruthie had returned from a buying trip to Athens with a husband in tow. And not just any husband, but a handsome, dashing Greek three years her junior, who was determined to put Ruth’s money to good use while he wrote the Great European Novel. Lindsay wondered idly if he’d managed to put pen to paper yet.
On her way back to Sophie’s flat, Lindsay made a detour to Wunda Wines, a discount warehouse in Partick, where she bought a couple of bottles of crisp white Tokai di Aquilea to go with dinner. Even that little taste of the Veneto was better than nothing, she reflected as she drove back. She parked behind a Mercedes coupé and hurried towards the tenement entrance. She had only taken a few steps when she was brought up short by the sound of a familiar voice calling her name. A moment later, Cordelia was by her side.
Lindsay struggled to find something to say that wouldn’t betray the confusion of emotions that were churning inside her. It didn’t matter how many times she told herself it was over, her heart hadn’t got the message yet. ‘I like the new car,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Very tasty. Must be more money in the book business than I thought. Or was it another windfall from a rich relative?’ she added, feeling ashamed as soon as the words were out of her mouth. She’d never been able to forgive Cordelia for the ostentatious luxury of her London home, bought with the money her grandmother had left her.
Cordelia failed to respond to Lindsay’s barb. ‘I had to get rid of the BMW. Some joyriders smashed into it outside the house one night, and the steering was never the same afterwards. When I sold the film rights for Ikhaya Lamaqhawe, I treated myself to the Merc,’ she replied. ‘But I didn’t drive over here to discuss cars. Claire told me where you were staying. I need to talk to you.’
Lindsay felt anger rising up inside her. Hadn’t Cordelia made her position clear enough the night before? ‘What is there to say?’ she demanded abruptly. She wanted this conversation over with. The longer it went on, the more upset she was going to become. ‘You’ve obviously made your choices,’ she snapped.
‘At the time, it was the choice between loneliness and having someone to share things with. I missed you so much, Lindsay. And the months kept going by … well, I decided I couldn’t go on hurting forever. Then I met Claire.’ In spite of the conciliatory tone of her words, Cordelia’s face was set in a stubborn expression of self-righteousness.
‘Fine,’ said Lindsay, cutting Cordelia off. ‘I’ll see you around.’ She moved forward, but Cordelia was in front of her, barring her path.
‘Wait,’ she said urgently. ‘Claire says you’ve agreed to try to clear Jackie. I wanted to offer my help.’
‘That’s very noble of you.’ Lindsay snorted derisively, refusing to let herself be moved. ‘Aren’t you worried about the competition if Jackie gets out?’
Cordelia flinched, but didn’t rise. ‘We used to work well together on this kind of thing. I know you like bouncing your ideas off someone. Look, Lindsay, we might not be lovers any more, but I know the way your mind works. Let me help.’
In spite of herself, Lindsay was touched by Cordelia’s offer. ‘Okay, let me think about it. I’m not making any promises, but I’ll think about it.’
Cordelia smiled and Lindsay felt as if she would burst into tears. ‘Thanks,’ Cordelia said. ‘You can get me at Claire’s if you want to talk.’ Then, with the impeccable sense of timing that always left people wanting more, she walked briskly back to her new Mercedes without a backward glance.
Close to tears, Lindsay stumbled blindly into the close and ran up the stairs to the first-floor flat. She walked into the hall, but before she could reach her room, Helen’s voice rang out. ‘Lindsay? Is that you? Thank God you’re back. Rosalind’s flat’s been burgled!’
Less than an hour after she had left Caird House, Lindsay was heading back there, this time with Helen. ‘I told Rosalind I’d find you and bring you round as soon as you got back,’ Helen announced for the third time. ‘I knew you’d be going back to Sophie’s flat, so I thought I’d wait for you there. I still have a key, so I can feed her bloody tropical fish when she’s away.’ Why me, thought Lindsay wildly. Answering her unspoken question, Helen continued. ‘With you being there this afternoon, Rosalind thought you might have noticed somebody hanging around. And besides,’ she added mysteriously, ‘there are things involved that I don’t think Rosalind will be too happy to tell the police about.’
‘What do you mean?’ Lindsay asked.
‘Oh, I’ll leave Rosalind to tell you all about it. It’ll be better coming from her. How did you get on with Claire? Tell all!’
Lindsay gave Helen a brief rundown on her day, punctuated at regular intervals with Helen’s sharp exclamations. When she reached the meeting with Cordelia, Helen exploded in righteous anger as incandescent as her flaming red hair. ‘The nerve of the woman!’ she declared. ‘I hope you sent her away with her guts in a paper bag!’
Lindsay drew up in Caird House car park, saying, ‘What’s the point, Helen? She’s got every right to her own life. I was the one who did the walking.’ She got out and slammed the car door, adding as they walked over to the flats, ‘I don’t think I was doing her much good by the end. As soon as I left, her writer’s block disappeared, and she wrote the best book of her career, by all accounts. I guess she’s better off without me.’
Before Helen could reply, Lindsay used Rosalind’s spare keys to let them into the block and headed straight for the lifts. ‘It’s the eighth floor, isn’t it?’ she asked, her finger hovering over the button.
‘That’s right,’ Helen replied,