Hostage to Murder. V. McDermid L.

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       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 СКАЧАТЬ