home to her as her own flat. What felt even more strange was her certainty that inside she'd find the answers that would lead her to Alison Maxwell's killer.
Disneyland, she thought with a smile as she crossed the forecourt. That's what the printers had christened the building when it opened, moving the Clarion titles into the vanguard of the new technology. They'd been the first national daily paper to use computerised typesetting and full colour printing, and the initial hiccups in the system had led to the nickname, as frustrated workers had spent their shifts muttering. "This disnae work, that disnae work. This is Disnaeland."
Lindsay pushed open the door of the security office and walked into the stuffy room with its familiar odour of stale smoke, sweat, and faint but unmistakable traces of printer's ink. The big balding man sitting at the desk that looked out over the forecourt got to his feet and exclaimed, "It's wee Lindsay! How're ye doing, hen? We havenae seen you here for a few years!" He leaned forward to shake her hand, and the buttons of his shirt gaped over his enormous beer gut, revealing a grubby white vest.
"I'm fine, Willie, just fine," Lindsay replied, dredging his name up from her memory. "I've been working abroad, but I'm back in Glasgow for a while. I just thought I'd pop in and see the boys. Do I need to sign the visitors' book before I go up?"
Willie roared with laughter. "You?" he finally wheezed. "Don't be daft. I know fine who you are. You're no' some IRA terrorist, are you? Away you go and see your pals."
In the lift, instead of pressing the button for the third floor and the newsroom, Lindsay pressed the second-floor button. After she'd left the police station, she'd decided there was no time to waste in her pursuit of Alison Maxwell's murderer and Rosalind's burglar. The key to both of those lay, she believed, inside the Clarion building. And it was better to make a start at night when there were fewer people around. Besides, she had always got on well with the night duty librarian. She no longer had any right to use the Clarion library, but she couldn't see Martin refusing her.
Lindsay walked down the corridor, past the canteen where the tempting aroma of home-made soup nearly made her take a detour. Again, memory assailed her. Just after she'd first got it together with Cordelia, she'd still been working in Glasgow, and when Cordelia came up from London, they'd often spent Lindsay's meal breaks in a quiet corner of the canteen, grabbing every chance to be together. Ironic, really, thought Lindsay. It was a murder that had brought them together, and now another murder had driven them apart.
She carried on into the library. As always, the sight filled her with awe. On one side of the room, banks of ceiling-high metal cases housed quantities of newspaper cuttings, filed and cross-referenced, stored in huge mechanically driven carousels that were supposed to automatically produce the relevant cardboard folder. But this was Disnaeland, and at least one machine was usually out of order at any given time. On the other side of the room was the morgue--ordinary filing cabinets, crammed full of cuttings no longer current because they referred to events of more than fifteen years ago, or their subjects were dead. Above the filing cabinets were rows of reference books. In a small annex, there was a photocopier, a collection of back numbers of the daily and Sunday papers, and several tables where reporters could work away from the hurly-burly of the newsroom.
At a table among the filing cabinets, Martin Cameron, the night librarian, was sitting in front of a pile of the day's papers, carefully clipping items that were destined for the library's extensive files. He was so engrossed he didn't hear Lindsay enter and looked up in surprise when she rang the bell for attention. As he recognised her, his pale face lit up in a welcoming grin, and he struggled to his feet. "Lindsay Gordon!" he exclaimed.
Disneyland, she thought with a smile as she crossed the forecourt. That's what the printers had christened the building when it opened, moving the Clarion titles into the vanguard of the new technology. They'd been the first national daily paper to use computerised typesetting and full colour printing, and the initial hiccups in the system had led to the nickname, as frustrated workers had spent their shifts muttering. "This disnae work, that disnae work. This is Disnaeland."
Lindsay pushed open the door of the security office and walked into the stuffy room with its familiar odour of stale smoke, sweat, and faint but unmistakable traces of printer's ink. The big balding man sitting at the desk that looked out over the forecourt got to his feet and exclaimed, "It's wee Lindsay! How're ye doing, hen? We havenae seen you here for a few years!" He leaned forward to shake her hand, and the buttons of his shirt gaped over his enormous beer gut, revealing a grubby white vest.
"I'm fine, Willie, just fine," Lindsay replied, dredging his name up from her memory. "I've been working abroad, but I'm back in Glasgow for a while. I just thought I'd pop in and see the boys. Do I need to sign the visitors' book before I go up?"
Willie roared with laughter. "You?" he finally wheezed. "Don't be daft. I know fine who you are. You're no' some IRA terrorist, are you? Away you go and see your pals."
In the lift, instead of pressing the button for the third floor and the newsroom, Lindsay pressed the second-floor button. After she'd left the police station, she'd decided there was no time to waste in her pursuit of Alison Maxwell's murderer and Rosalind's burglar. The key to both of those lay, she believed, inside the Clarion building. And it was better to make a start at night when there were fewer people around. Besides, she had always got on well with the night duty librarian. She no longer had any right to use the Clarion library, but she couldn't see Martin refusing her.
Lindsay walked down the corridor, past the canteen where the tempting aroma of home-made soup nearly made her take a detour. Again, memory assailed her. Just after she'd first got it together with Cordelia, she'd still been working in Glasgow, and when Cordelia came up from London, they'd often spent Lindsay's meal breaks in a quiet corner of the canteen, grabbing every chance to be together. Ironic, really, thought Lindsay. It was a murder that had brought them together, and now another murder had driven them apart.
She carried on into the library. As always, the sight filled her with awe. On one side of the room, banks of ceiling-high metal cases housed quantities of newspaper cuttings, filed and cross-referenced, stored in huge mechanically driven carousels that were supposed to automatically produce the relevant cardboard folder. But this was Disnaeland, and at least one machine was usually out of order at any given time. On the other side of the room was the morgue--ordinary filing cabinets, crammed full of cuttings no longer current because they referred to events of more than fifteen years ago, or their subjects were dead. Above the filing cabinets were rows of reference books. In a small annex, there was a photocopier, a collection of back numbers of the daily and Sunday papers, and several tables where reporters could work away from the hurly-burly of the newsroom.
At a table among the filing cabinets, Martin Cameron, the night librarian, was sitting in front of a pile of the day's papers, carefully clipping items that were destined for the library's extensive files. He was so engrossed he didn't hear Lindsay enter and looked up in surprise when she rang the bell for attention. As he recognised her, his pale face lit up in a welcoming grin, and he struggled to his feet. "Lindsay Gordon!" he exclaimed.
Similar Books
