Val McDermid - Hostage to Murder

A Lesbian Fiction Project digital edition 1.0

Copyright V. L. McDermid, 2003

First published in Great Britain 2003 by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

Published in Large Print 2003 by ISIS Publishing Ltd,

7 Centremead, Osney Mead, Oxford OX2 0ES

by arrangement with HarperCollinsPwfoAers Ltd

All rights reserved The moral right of the author has been asserted

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

McDermid, Val

Hostage to murder. - Large print ed. 1. Gordon, Lindsay (Fictitious character) -Fiction

2. Journalists - Fiction

3. Kidnapping - Fiction

4. Detective and mystery stories

5. Large type books I. Title

823.944 [F]

ISBN 0-7531-6803-0 (hb) ISBN 0-7531-6804-9 (pb)

Printed and bound by TJI Digital, Padstow, Cornwall

I had no plans to write another Lindsay Gordon novel until the British Council invited me to Russia. But I fell in love with the country and wanted to share my delight. Among those who contributed to the Russian end of this book are Kate Griffin, my minder, who showed me the ropes and found the Diet Coke;Volodya Volovik, who shared his affection for his adopted city of St Petersburg; Seamus Murphy, whose enthusiasm took me places Id never otherwise have seen; Irina Savelieva, who interpreted the dark and dangerous for me;Varya Gornestaeva, without whom none of it would ever have happened; Gavrilov and Shatalov for the encouragement and the good company; Marna Gowan, who exploited her contacts shamelessly; Maxim Shvedov, for all the St Petersburg sailing info; and Stephen Dewar who explained the intricacies of Russian customs and immigration. To all of you, thanks for being such generous companions.

Leslie Hills, who has forgotten more than I know about story structure, helped me hone the plot. Thanks for seeing me through the dark night of the soul and for always travelling off limits with me.

Thanks too to Lisanne Radice, who always believed in Lindsay.

In memory of Gina Weissand (1946-2001) who was everything a friend should be. You blessed us all, babe, and we miss you.

He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune.

Of Marriage and the Single Life

Francis Bacon

A murder of crows swore at each other in the trees that lined the banks of the River Kelvin. A freezing drizzle from a low sky bleached the landscape to grey. Nothing, Lindsay thought, could be further from California. The only thing in common with the home shed left three months before was the rhythm of her feet as she ran her daily two miles.

On mornings like this, Lindsay found it hard to remember that shed once loved this city. When shed come back to Scotland after university and journalism training, shed thought Glasgow was paradise. She had money in her pocket, she was young, free and single and the city had just begun the process of reinvigoration that had, by the millennium, made it one of the most exciting cities in Britain. Now, fifteen years later, there was no denying it was a good place to live. The cultural life was vibrant. The restaurants were cosmopolitan and covered the whole range from cheap and cheerful to glamorous and gourmet. There were plenty of beautiful places to live, and more green spaces than most cities could boast. Some of the finest countryside in the world was within an hours drive.

And all she could think of was how much she wanted to be somewhere else. Seven happy and successful years in California had left her feeling that this long narrow land was no longer full of possibilities for her. Partly, it was the weather, she thought, wiping the cold mixture of sweat and rain from her face. Who wouldnt long for sunshine and the Pacific surf on a morning like this?

Partly, it was that she missed her dog. Mutton had always accompanied her on her runs, his black tail wagging eagerly whenever she walked downstairs in her jogging clothes. But she couldnt contemplate putting him in quarantine kennels for six months, so hed been handed over to some friends in the Bay Area whod guaranteed him a happy life. Hed probably forgotten her already.

But mostly it was not having anything meaningful to do with her days. Lindsay would never have described herself as someone who was defined by her job, but now that she had none, she had come to realize how much of her identity had been bound up in what she did for a living. Without some sort of employment, she felt cast adrift. When people asked, And what do you do? she had no answer. There were few things she hated more than the sense of powerlessness that provoked in her.

In California, Lindsay had had a response, one she felt proud of, one she knew carried a degree of respect. Shed reluctantly abandoned her post lecturing in journalism at Santa Cruz to come back to Scotland because her lover Sophie had been offered the chair of obstetrics at Glasgow University. Lindsay had protested that she didnt have anything to go back for, but Sophie had managed to convince her she was mistaken. Youll walk into a teaching job in Scotland, shed said. And if it takes a while, you can always go back to freelance journalism. You know you were one of the best.

And so she had stifled her doubts for Sophies sake. After all, it wasnt her lovers fault that Lindsay had reached the age of thirty-nine without a clearly defined career plan. But now she was confronted by the cold reality of unemployment, she wished shed done more to persuade Sophie to stay in California. Shed looked around for teaching work, but vocational journalism training wasnt nearly as widespread in Scotland as it was in the US. Shed managed to secure some part-time lecturing at Strathclyde University, filling in for someone on maternity leave, but it was dead-end work with no prospects. And the idea of going back to the overcrowded world of freelance journalism with a contacts book that was years out of date held no appeal.

So her days had shrunk to this. Pounding the walkway by the river. Reading the papers. Shopping for dinner. Arranging to meet old acquaintances for drinks and discovering how much distance there was between them. Waiting for Sophie to come home and bring her despatches from the world of work. Lindsay knew she couldnt go on like this indefinitely. It was poisoning her soul, and it wasnt doing her relationship with Sophie much good either.

She reached the point where she had to turn off the walkway and head up the steep hill to the Botanic Gardens, the halfway point on her circuit. Head down, she powered up the slope, too wrapped up in her thoughts to pay heed to her surroundings. As she rounded a blind bend, she realized she was about to cannon into someone walking down the hill. She swerved, but simultaneously the other woman sidestepped in the same direction. They crashed into each other and Lindsay stumbled, smacking into a tree and falling to one knee, her ankle twisting under her. Shit, she gasped.

Oh God, Im sorry, the other woman said.

My own fault, Lindsay growled, pushing herself upright, then wincing as she tried to take her weight on the damaged ankle. Jesus, she hissed, leaning forward to probe the joint with her fingers.

Youve not broken it or anything? The woman frowned solicitously.

Sprained, I think. She drew in her breath sharply when she touched the tender heart of the injury.

Have you far to go? Only, I live just the other side of the river. My cars there. I could drive you?

It was a tempting offer. Lindsay didnt fancy hiking a mile on a damaged ankle. She looked up, taking in her nemesis turned Good Samaritan. She saw a woman in her late twenties with an angular face and short blonde hair cut to fashionable effect. Her eyes were slate blue, her eyebrows a pair of dark circumflex accents above them. She was dressed out of Gap and carried a leather knapsack over one shoulder. She didnt look like an axe murderer. OK, Lindsay said. Thanks.