LITMIR.BIZ

       7

      Bernie Gourlay took the washing out of the tumble drier and began to fold it. She noticed that one of Jack’s school sweatshirts had begun to split at the shoulder seam and put it to one side to sew up later. She often heard mothers complaining about the things they had to do for their kids, but she’d never once felt like that. She knew what a miracle he was, and she counted it a privilege to be able to take care of the details of his life. She’d been conscious ever since he’d been placed in her arms that his dependency on her would wane consistently as he grew older, and she’d determined then that she would enjoy every moment, every phase of his development, but that she’d let go when she had to.

      She was, she thought, the luckiest person she knew. She’d escaped from a life that was difficult and anxious, and, although the journey hadn’t been without its ups and downs, now she’d achieved something she’d never have believed possible. Happiness. Jack was growing strong and healthy, a cheerful child whose face never seemed crossed with shadows. And she had Tam. Big, daft, lovely Tam who had swept her off her feet and never minded that Jack was another man’s son, nor that she was incapable of having more children by him. Tam, who had bought this beautiful big garden flat for them to live in, who saw to it that none of them ever went without, who worked hard to take care of them all but who never let his business interfere with enjoying his family to the full.

      Bernie glanced at the clock. Ten minutes before she had to leave and pick up Jack from school. Tam sometimes dropped him off in the mornings, but she always made sure she was there in plenty of time to pick him up. She couldn’t bear the thought of him standing at the school gates, worry at her lateness puckering his face and darkening his china-blue eyes. Soon enough, he’d be begging her to let him walk home with his pals, but for now he was still pleased to see her when the bell went.

      The electronic chirrup of the phone disturbed her cheerful thoughts. Probably Tam, she thought, reaching for the handset. It was seldom that a day passed without him calling just to say hello. Four years married, and he was still a big soft romantic at heart.

      But the voice that insinuated its way into her brain wasn’t Tam’s. It was a voice she’d often prayed she would never hear again. It was a voice whose very tone was a masquerade, disguising the viciousness behind it with a beguiling softness. Bernie wasn’t beguiled. She was terrified. She felt as if a block of ice was dissolving in her stomach, sending cold trickles through her whole body. She clung to the phone, mesmerized, unable to put it down even after the line went dead.

      Staggering slightly, she collapsed into a kitchen chair. Tears pricked her eyes and her dry lips trembled. Eventually, she got to her feet, still shaky. Although she had prayed she’d never have to put it into action, she had a contingency plan in place. She took a well-worn leather address book from a kitchen drawer and looked up an unfamiliar number. She keyed it into the phone and waited for the international connection. When the phone was answered, she gave the name of the person she desperately needed to talk to. Another pause. Then Bernie closed her eyes with relief. ‘It’s Bernadette,’ she said. Please God, let this work.

      Late the following afternoon, Lindsay drove out through the south side of the city towards the prosperous suburb of Milngavie. She never failed to be struck by the contrasts in Glasgow, even between areas that superficially seemed to have much in common. The average income in Milngavie was probably only marginally above that in the smart part of the West End where she and Sophie lived. But, culturally, it felt like a different world. The West End had traditionally been more genteel, drawing its residents from the academics at the university and the medical staff at the city’s hospitals. Now, it had added media, IT professionals and the arts to the mix, making it a place where Lindsay felt as at home as she was ever going to be.

      But Milngavie had always felt more culturally barren. The money here came from retail empires, from accountants, from people who preferred Andrew Lloyd Webber to Mozart or the Manic Street Preachers. The difference was obvious to her even in the architecture. This was the land of bungalows and detached houses, where to inhabit a semi was somehow to have failed. There was nothing here to compare with the grandeur of the red sandstone tenements of Hyndland or the imposing houses of Kelvinside. Lindsay knew she was indulging her prejudices with such facile thoughts, but she didn’t care. From everything she’d read about David Keillor, she’d have been astonished to find him living anywhere else.

      She turned into the quiet side street where Keillor lived and cruised slowly down till she spotted his house. It was a two-storey detached property in a decent-sized garden, a double garage tacked on to one side. The brilliant white harling that covered the house looked as if it had recently been repainted, and the double glazing was the expensive sort that mimicked traditional sash windows. It didn’t look as if Keillor was strapped for cash. She parked a little way past the entrance to his drive and settled back to wait.

      She’d borrowed Sophie’s car for the afternoon, knowing that the anonymous saloon her lover drove was more appropriate for what she had in mind than the classic MGB roadster she’d bought on her return to the UK. Sophie had teased her about having a mid-life crisis, but Lindsay had pointed out that she had always driven classic cars and because she’d previously owned an MGB she knew enough to carry out her own maintenance. Since she couldn’t hope to do that with a modern car crammed with electronics, she was effectively choosing the budget option, she’d argued. Sophie had just laughed and kissed her.

      If she has a baby, I’ll have to ditch the MGB, Lindsay thought sourly. She knew Sophie well enough to realize that no child of hers would be allowed on the narrow bench seat in the rear of the 1974 sports car lest it fly into the air and disappear from the rear-view mirror, bouncing down the motorway. Her life would have to change in far more profound ways, she knew that. But today what rankled was the potential loss of her car. She knew she was being childish, but she was the only person who knew that, so it didn’t count.

      Lindsay forced herself to stop thinking about the baby and concentrate instead on what she had to do. She dug into her jacket pocket and took out the small black leather wallet with the Strathclyde Police crest on it. A couple of years before, she’d been instrumental in saving an American friend, Meredith Miller, from facing a murder charge. A few weeks later, the fake warrant card had arrived in the post, along with a brief note: ‘You’re better than the real thing. I thought this might amuse you. Thanks, Meredith.’ She’d never imagined using it; but then she’d never imagined being a journalist again, particularly not in Scotland.

      She adjusted her rear-view mirror so she could see approaching traffic and settled down for a wait. She didn’t expect it to be too long. Officials like David Keillor left the office on time. It was only their minions who had to stay late to deal with their workloads. With luck, he’d be home very soon. She wanted to hit him as soon as he got out of the car, catch him on the back foot before he could settle in to his normal evening routine.

      Lindsay had guessed right. A mere twenty minutes after she’d arrived, a black 4x4 BMW rolled into sight. As the electronically operated gates opened to allow the car to enter, she was on the pavement, walking briskly on to the herringbone brick of Keillor’s driveway. His face swung towards her, a look of suspicious surprise narrowing his eyes.