‘She ever talk about them with you and Sophie?’
Lindsay shook her head. ‘She once asked Sophie for some background information about HIV, but even then she didn’t explain why she wanted to know. We had to wait till the book came out before we knew what it was all in aid of.’
‘Exactly. She always said if she talked about it too much, she got bored with the story, then she couldn’t be bothered to write it.’ Meredith’s words clearly jogged a painful memory, for her eyes glittered with tears again. ‘I can’t believe it, you know? It’s like some sick joke. Like the phone’s going to ring and she’s going to say, “Hey, have you suffered enough yet?”’ She clenched her eyes shut, but tears still seeped through.
Unsure what to do for the best, Lindsay stood up and crossed to Meredith’s side, putting a careful arm round her shoulder. ‘I know,’ she said softly. ‘Just when you think you’ve learned everything there is to know about pain, something creeps up on you and lets you know you’re only a beginner. And everybody tells you you’ll be all right, that time’s a healer. I’ll tell you something, Meredith. I don’t think it ever gets better. It just gets different.’
Meredith half turned and buried her face in Lindsay’s chest, her body jerking with sobs. As she wailed, Lindsay simply held her close, one hand rubbing her back, trying not to think about Penny. Or her own Frances, all those years ago. It couldn’t last for ever, she told herself.
Eventually, cried out, Meredith pulled away and blurted, ‘I miss her so much,’ her voice choked with emotion. She pulled herself upright and staggered across the room into the hallway. Lindsay, hesitantly taking a step or two after her, was reassured by the sound of running water. She went back to her seat and waited. Long minutes passed, then Meredith returned, her eyes even more bloodshot, her face glowing from the scrubbing she’d clearly given it.
‘Okay,’ she said briskly. ‘This is not getting you any closer to finding Pen’s killer. What do we do now?’
‘Who had a motive?’ Lindsay demanded. ‘Apart from you, that is?’
Lindsay hadn’t expected London temperatures to be nearly as high as California’s. She was still dressed for the air-conditioned coolness of the plane, she thought, shrugging her shoulders to unstick shirt from skin. In this heat, jeans and cotton twill were not the ideal outfit for climbing four flights of narrow, dusty stairs with the smell of urine from the entrance still pungent. She wondered how many prospective clients were put off by the approach to Catriona Polson’s office. Then she remembered that those climbers would be pre-published authors full of hope. ‘None,’ she muttered under her breath as she rounded the curve of the stairs and reached the final landing.
In contrast to the understated brushed-steel plaque on the downstairs wall and the ambience of a stairway which clearly doubled as a hostel for the homeless, the offices of Polson and Firestone indicated that somewhere on their client list there were some major earners. Even when Lindsay had left Britain, before Soho went up-market and sexually ambivalent, office suites in the area had commanded high rents. Now that the district was almost chic, it must take a sizeable bank balance to secure the whole top floor of a building with a view of Soho Square.
The offices lay behind tall double doors of pale grey wood and brushed steel. Lindsay opened the right-hand door and walked into a reception area that was still lurking in the previous decade. The bleached grey wood was the keynote, looking like the ghost of trees. What wasn’t wood was leather or brushed steel. Including the receptionist, Lindsay thought grimly. She was glad she’d employed a ruse to ensure Catriona Polson would be in. Looking at hair blue-black as carbon steel and a jaw with a higher breaking strain than a girder, she knew she was about to be given the brush-off for having the temerity to arrive without an appointment or three chapters and a synopsis. The sweat on her forehead from the sudden transition to air conditioning didn’t make her feel any more confident of success.
Lindsay had felt slightly guilty about ringing up and pretending to be an American publisher’s assistant breathlessly booking a noon phone call to Ms Polson, but not guilty enough to miss making sure she wouldn’t have a wasted journey. The receptionist’s grim glare gave her immediate absolution. She smiled. Nothing altered. The receptionist continued to stare at the screen of her computer. Lindsay cleared her throat. The receptionist’s plum-coloured mouth puckered. Lindsay found herself irresistibly thinking about cat’s bottoms. Then the lips parted. ‘Can I help you?’ haughtily, in a little girl voice that would have shattered crystal.
‘I’d like to see Ms Polson. No, I don’t have an appointment. I know she’s in the building and I’m absolutely positive she’s not in a meeting.’ Lindsay’s smile grew wider as her voice became more honeyed.
The receptionist’s whole face tightened, eyeliner and mascara almost meeting in a smudge of black. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said smugly. ‘She’s expecting an important phone call.’
Lindsay assumed her Southern belle accent. ‘I know, cher. I was the one booked the call. I just wanted to be good and sure Miz Polson would be here to see me.’ Then she grinned. ‘Would you tell her I’m representing Meredith Miller?’
The receptionist did her cat’s bottom impression again. But she condescended to pick up the phone. ‘Name please?’ she demanded as she keyed in a number.
Resisting the temptation to respond with her Sean Connery impersonation, Lindsay simply gave her name. The receptionist spoke into the phone. ‘Catriona? I’ve got a person here called Lindsay Gordon who says she’s representing Meredith Miller. She also says she made a hoax phone call to us earlier, booking your call from New York … She says she wanted to make sure you’d be here …’ She flicked an ostentatious glance up and down Lindsay’s outfit. ‘No, she’s definitely not from the tabloids …’ A malicious smile crept across her face at those final words. She replaced the handset. ‘Ms Polson will be right with you.’
Lindsay perched on the edge of the desk to irritate the receptionist while she searched her business card wallet for something appropriate. When she found it, she slipped it into her breast pocket for later. Just then, the inner door opened. Now Lindsay realised why all the doors in Polson and Firestone reached right up to the Victorian ceilings. Any lower and Catriona Polson would have been perpetually banging her head. She was one of the tallest women Lindsay had ever seen, and she must have been aware of the effect she had on people meeting her for the first time. Yet there was nothing apologetic or clumsy about the way she carried her six feet plus. Lindsay imagined with relish the effect on some of the more effete males of the publishing world whom she’d met. She wore a swirling skirt of Indian cotton, flat strappy sandals and a loose embroidered cotton camisole. Flyaway blonde hair was cut in a twenties bob and framed a round face that looked as if its normal expression was cheerful and welcoming. Right now, wariness was the predominant aspect.
She peered down at Lindsay without stooping. ‘Ms … Gordon, was it?’
Lindsay nodded. ‘Catriona Polson?’
‘That’s me. When you say you represent Meredith Miller, in what capacity are we talking here?’ Her voice was firm and clipped, her accent straight out of a girls’ school story.
Wishing she had a discreet card saying, ‘Private Investigator’, Lindsay said, ‘I think it would be better if we conducted our business in private.’
Catriona frowned. ‘I’m not at all sure we have any business. All I know about you is that you perpetrated a time-wasting hoax on my company and you claim to “represent” someone who is not one of our clients and who, as far as I am aware, has nothing to do with publishing.’
It was hard not to feel intimidated by the whole package. Lindsay struggled to maintain any sense of control over the confrontation. Just then, the outside door opened and a middle-aged man in a leather jacket came in. Shit or bust, she thought, dredging up an ancient memory of an interview with a private eye. ‘I’m a legal agent acting on