Read Online Booked for Murder by Val McDermid - Free Book Online Page A

sentiment stand in the way of reality, however unpalatable that may be.”
    For once, Lindsay refused to let herself be wound up. She contented herself with, “As Arnie says, hasta la vista, baby.” On her way out of the front door, she took out the card she’d put in her shirt pocket earlier. It was about ten years old, but that didn’t matter. She flicked it across the desk to the receptionist. “Have a nice day, cher,” she said in her best Bayou accent. She didn’t wait to register the response to a card that read, “Lindsay Gordon, Staff Reporter, Daily Nation .”

Chapter 5
    W hen she left Catriona Polson’s office Lindsay felt a strange sense of dislocation, a combination of sleep deprivation and an awareness that there had been changes in the street ambience of Soho in the six years she’d been away. Seedy sex tourism had given way to café bars with fashion victims spilling out on to pavement tables, braying loudly. Surely, Lindsay thought, there couldn’t be that many jobs for film critics? What she needed was a space to call her own, somewhere she could spread her things around her and feel grounded. Meredith had offered her the second bedroom in her apartment, but Lindsay didn’t want to be constantly bound to Penny’s death.
    She found a phone box near Tottenham Court Road, checked her personal organizer and punched in a local number. “Watergaw Films, how can I help you?” she heard in a bright Scottish accent.
    â€œI’d like to speak to Helen Christie,” Lindsay said. “The name’s Lindsay Gordon.”
    â€œOne moment please.” Then what sounded like Eine kleine Nachtmusik played on penny whistles. Lindsay gritted her teeth and waited. It would be worth the assault on her eardrums if this call gave her what she needed, and she didn’t anticipate denial. Helen had lived with Sophie for years, but she’d been Lindsay’s friend long before that. The two women had linked up years before at Oxford, the only two working-class women in their college’s annual intake. The recognition had been instant, forging an immediate friendship
that time, distance and lovers had never threatened. They had discovered their common sexuality in tandem, been paralytically drunk and terminally hung over together, wept over broken hearts and celebrated famous victories by each other’s side. No matter how long the gap between their encounters, Lindsay and Helen invariably fell straight back into the easy camaraderie that had marked their relationship right from the beginning.
    â€œLindsay?” It was Helen’s familiar voice, Liverpudlian crossed with Glaswegian, untouched by anything south of the M62. “How’re you doing, girl?”
    â€œOff my head with jet lag, but otherwise okay. Listen, Helen, I need a bed a few nights sooner than we anticipated.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, jet lag? Are you here in London already?”
    â€œYes. Just me. I’ll explain when I see you, it’s too complicated over the phone. Is your spare room free?”
    â€œCourse it is. The whole house is a total tip, though, on account of I wasn’t expecting the pair of you till next week, but if you don’t mind a bit of chaos and no milk in the fridge, move on in. Sophie’ll go nutso when she sees the state of the place, but I’ve had more important things on my mind than tidying and Kirsten wouldn’t notice if the council started emptying bins into the living room, bless her,” Helen gabbled.
    â€œSophie’s not with me,” Lindsay cut in as soon as Helen paused for breath.
    â€œAw, Lindsay, you’ve not done one, have you? I know you, first sign of trouble and you’re off over the horizon. You should stay and talk it over, you know you should. You’re a million times better for her than I ever was.”
    Lindsay laughed. “Give me some credit. I have grown up a wee