Free Hostage to Murder by Val McDermid Page B

had always been worth noticing. Bernadette Dooley was hurrying into the supermarket, making straight for the counter that sold cigarettes, confectionery and lottery tickets.
    If he leaned over in his seat, he could see her back view. She was scrabbling in her bag for her purse, pulling it out, opening it, taking out a couple of notes. She handed over the money and received a carton of 100 Silk Cut in return. Then she was turning away, pushing the cigarettes into her bag, head down, making for the door again.
    Michael was on his feet. By the time she made it to the street, he was a handful of steps behind her. He glanced quickly over his shoulder. Where the fuck was Kevin? Ah, the hell with it. Bernadette was the important one. Kevin would doubtless sit in the supermarket till it closed. Either that or he’d have the sense to make his way back to where they were staying. Wouldn’t he?
    Bernadette turned right out of the store and headed down Byres Road. The pavements were busy enough to give him cover. With the total focus of the hunter whose oblivious prey is well upwind and living on borrowed time, Michael began stalking Bernadette Dooley.
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    Rory was already settled into her booth at Café Virginia when Lindsay arrived. “Hey,” she greeted her, “You look worse than I do, and I was clubbing till gone three.”
    Lindsay squeezed out a vague smile. “I was up half the night. And not in a good way.”
    â€œMust have been something you ate, eh?”
    â€œMust have been. So, what’s doing?”
    Rory pushed a manila folder across the table as Lindsay’s cappuccino
arrived. “Take a look at that.”
    Curious, Lindsay studied the contents. The first page was a memo to herself from Rory:
    Tip re Keillor/Kilwinning. CCD, the multinational pharmaceutical and agrichemical company have a small plant on the outskirts of Kilwinning. Just over a year ago, local farmer sells biggish chunk of land to a suit from down south, who says he wants to retire and do rare breed sheep. Few months later, planning application goes in for change of use from agricultural to light industrial. Turns out land now belongs to CCD, they want to expand in unspecified ways to extend their research. Locals convinced they’re going to be poisoned with chemicals or overrun with cloned sheep. Think the local plan will keep them safe. But Chief Planning Officer David Keillor leans heavy on councillors and the change of use goes through. Source tells me that Keillor is running round in a brand new BMW 4x4, costs about a year’s salary new, and his wife has a neat wee Porsche Boxster. Source also tells me that vehicles were originally registered to CCD.
    The other documents were reports of the planning committee meetings and transcriptions of Rory’s interviews with the farmer who sold the land and various locals with an axe to grind. Lindsay digested the material then looked up and said, “And?”
    â€œWell, obviously, we need to get a look at the vehicle registration document for Keillor’s Beamer.”
    Lindsay nodded. “Obviously. So what’s been keeping you?”
    The sarcasm was gentle enough for Rory to grin. “Keillor knows me. We had a wee bit of a head to head a few years ago when he was working for the city planning department. Something to do with selling off school playing fields. So there’s no way I can get close enough. I thought maybe you’d have an idea how we could pull it off ?”
    Lindsay scooped the froth off her coffee and slowly licked it off
the spoon. “How bent do you want to get?” she asked thoughtfully.
    Rory scratched an eyebrow. “Run it past me.”
    â€œDo you happen to know if Strathclyde Police have changed their warrant cards in the past two years?”
    Before Rory could answer, Sandra breezed up to their table. “Hiya, girls.” She inclined her head towards Lindsay. “You must be Splash