‘Behind bars? You mean … in prison?’ Lindsay asked, confused.
‘That’s right. She’s serving life for the murder of Alison Maxwell.’
Lindsay stared at Claire, unbelieving. ‘This has got to be some kind of sick joke,’ she muttered. Lindsay turned to Sophie. ‘Tell me she’s making this up.’
Sophie shook her head. ‘She’s telling you the truth. The trial was just before Christmas. I’m sorry, I didn’t think to tell you.’
‘Jesus,’ Lindsay sighed, dragging out the syllables. ‘Alison? What the hell happened?’
Claire took over in businesslike fashion, perhaps because she sensed that Cordelia was too shaken to deal with Lindsay. ‘Alison was found strangled in her flat. Jackie had been there with her shortly before she was killed, and in the absence of any other obvious candidate, the police chose her. Unfortunately, the jury agreed with them. Shortly after her arrest, Jackie asked me to see if I could find you. She knew you’d been involved with a couple of murder investigations before, and she was very impressed with your courage over the Brownlow Common spy scandal. And of course, because you’re gay, she thought you’d be more sympathetic. She believed that if anyone could prove her innocence, it was you. While I was searching for you, I met Cordelia. I’m sorry if our relationship outrages you, but you can hardly have expected Cordelia to take a vow of chastity till you deigned to show up.’
Lindsay stared miserably at Cordelia. It was all too much to take in. She had lost the one woman with whom she had ever formed an equal relationship; a former lover was dead; and a former colleague was in prison for her murder. Once she could have turned to Cordelia for the love and support to carry her through those moments when the roof caved in on her life. But it was too late for that now. She gradually became aware that Claire was talking to her. ‘I’m sorry,’ Lindsay said. ‘I didn’t catch what you said.’
‘I said I’d like to discuss with you the possibility of trying to clear Jackie’s name. It’s not too late for an appeal if we can dig up some fresh evidence. I’m not asking you to make any decision now – I realise this has been rather a traumatic evening. But I’d appreciate it if you’d call me tomorrow when you’ve had time to think it over.’ Claire fished in the inevitable filofax and produced a card. ‘My home and my business numbers are both there.’
Lindsay stared numbly at the card lying on the table. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d encountered someone with Claire’s thick-skinned audacity. Her nerve was breathtaking, a sharp contrast to the way Lindsay herself was feeling. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her. Coming home was supposed to feel good. But she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so bad.
Lindsay sat staring at the cigarette in her hand, watching the smoke spiral up to join the thick layer that hung below the ceiling in the crowded bar of the Tron Theatre. The noisy chatter of the literary wing of Glasgow’s renaissance could not distract her from the bleakness that filled her. She was shaken from her reverie by Sophie’s return from the bar with two spritzers, condensation already dripping down the glasses. ‘Drink up, doctor’s orders,’ Sophie said sympathetically as she sat down.
‘Thanks,’ Lindsay muttered. ‘Sorry to spoil your evening.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Sophie replied. ‘I haven’t seen a cabaret as good as that since last year’s Edinburgh Festival. I’d forgotten what a drama queen you can be. I’ll be dining out on it for months.’ In spite of herself, Lindsay smiled. ‘So, what are you going to do about it?’ Sophie added.
‘About Cordelia or about Jackie?’
‘Both.’
Lindsay sighed. ‘There doesn’t seem to be a whole lot I can do about Cordelia, does there? She’s got herself a class act to cuddle up to. Much more her speed than a toerag like me, don’t you think?’
‘More fool Cordelia, then,’ said Sophie consolingly. Privately, she thought Lindsay’s reaction to Cordelia’s new relationship was completely unreasonable, but she was too fond of her to say so yet. There would be plenty of time to thrash it out when Lindsay was feeling less raw. She tried to take her mind off the débâcle in Soutar Johnnie’s, saying, ‘But what about Jackie?’
Lindsay shrugged. ‘I don’t know. The fact that I’ve managed to dig out the truth a couple of times in the past doesn’t mean I’m some kind of private eye. You know, Sophie, I can’t seem to take it in that Alison’s dead. I mean, when I was having my own little fling with her, God knows I felt like strangling her often enough; but the difference between feeling like that and actually doing it … I can’t imagine what makes that possible. I suppose I feel like I’ve got a score to settle on Alison’s account, never mind Jackie. But I’m in such a mess about myself and my future that I don’t know how much use I’d be.’
Sophie ran a hand through her curly hair, a gesture Lindsay recognised from the days when the brown hadn’t been streaked with grey. ‘I know what you mean,’ she said with feeling. ‘But you’re not committed to anything else right now, are you? And in spite of the way you’ve been putting yourself down ever since you saw Claire and Cordelia together, you’ve got a pretty good track record when it comes to discovering things that the police have missed or ignored. And there is one other aspect of it you might not have considered. If you can get Jackie released, it might well be enough to drive a wedge between Cordelia and Claire. That would at least give you the chance to find out if the two of you have still got a future together.’
Before Lindsay could reply, a booming Liverpool accent rang across the room. ‘Bloody skinflint, Hartley. Where’s the bottle? I suppose we’ll have to buy our own drinks?’
Lindsay swung round in her seat to see Helen Christie waving from the bar, her unmistakable mane of carrot-red hair glinting under the lights. Behind her, paying for a carafe of wine, was her fellow Sister of Treachery, Rosalind Campbell. As they came over to the table, Lindsay thought it was no wonder that they struck terror into their political opponents. They looked like a pair of Valkyries striding across the bar.
‘My God,’ Helen groaned as she subsided into a chair, after planting a cursory kiss on the top of Sophie’s head. ‘What a night we’ve had! That lot couldn’t organise an explosion in a fireworks factory!’
Lindsay watched fondly as Helen and Rosalind launched into a double-act recitation of the evening’s meeting. No matter how down Lindsay felt, Helen had always had the power to make her laugh. They’d met at Oxford, the only working-class students reading English at St Mary’s College. They’d instantly formed an alliance whose main weapon had been satire, a desperate wit born of their never-admitted feelings of inferiority. After university, their ways had parted, Lindsay choosing journalism, Helen arts administration. Now, she ran her own television and film casting agency, and, with what was left from her boundless supply of energy, she had thrown herself into local politics.
But the two women had stayed in touch, and even when Helen and Sophie had set up home together eight years earlier, there had been no diminution of the close friendship that still bound Lindsay and Helen. In fact, Lindsay had gained a friend in Sophie. When Helen and Sophie had split up eighteen months before, Lindsay had feared that she would be forced to choose between her two friends. But to her amazement, the ending of their love affair had been remarkably without rancour, and they had remained the closest of friends. The only real change, as far as Lindsay could see, was that they now lived separately. Neither had formed any lasting relationship with anyone else, although, according to Sophie, Helen had recently been spending time with a young actress she’d spotted in a pub theatre group and placed in a new television series.
Lindsay suddenly became aware that Helen was looking enquiringly at her. She pulled herself back into the painful present. ‘I’m sorry,’ she confessed, ‘I didn’t catch what you said.’
‘Pearls