Common Murder

  The heaviness of the traffic and the search for her destination forced her to shelve the question. But as she pulled into a back alley with a roughly painted signboard saying “Harrison Mews: Megamenu Software this way,” she noticed the red hatchback drive slowly past the narrow entrance. She parked the car up against the wall opposite Unit 23 and pondered. If the blond man was SB, then it went a long way toward explaining why a uniformed copper like Rigano had been left in charge of a major murder investigation instead of a plainclothes CID officer. But since the powers that be were so firmly convinced that Brownlow Common women’s peace camp was a nest of subversives with sufficient resources to undermine the whole of western democracy, Lindsay supposed it wasn’t really so amazing that the SB were taking such a keen interest in a murder that seemed to have some of its origins in the camp.

  Lindsay got out of the car and surveyed Megamenu Software’s premises. They scarcely inspired confidence. The double doors had been given a cheap and cheerful coat of pale green paint which was already beginning to flake off. There was a large sign in the same style as the one at the mouth of the alley, proclaiming “Megamenu Software: we turn your needs into realities.” Plenty of scope for a good PR officer, thought Lindsay cynically, when the budget eventually ran to it. But as she rang the bell beside the small door set in one of the larger pair, she noted with some surprise that no expense had been spared on security. The several locks all looked substantial and in spite of the peeling paint, the doors were solid. She didn’t have time to speculate further, for the door was opened abruptly by Simon Crabtree.

  He frowned and demanded,” “What do you want?”

  “A few words,” Lindsay replied. “Won’t take long, I promise.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say to the press,” he retorted angrily. “You’ve had enough mileage out of my mother. Bloody vultures.”

  Lindsay smiled wryly. “Fair enough. But I’m not really here in my role as bloody vulture. Think of me as a seeker after truth. Your father has been murdered and the police seem keen to put one of my oldest friends in the frame for it. I know she didn’t do it, and I’m trying to prove that. All I want is a bit of information.”

  “Why should I help you? You and your bloody friends are no business of mine.” He started to close the door, but Lindsay leaned gently against it.

  “You don’t owe me anything; but I’d have thought you owe your sister,” she replied.

  He was clearly taken aback. “Ros? What’s she got to do with it?”

  “I spent yesterday evening at Rubyfruits. She understood the importance of what I’m trying to do. If you rang her, I’m sure she’d tell you to help. And from what I hear, you’ve got a few debts to pay in that area.”

  His frowned deepened. “You’d better come in, I suppose.”

  She followed him inside. It was her turn to be taken aback. Inside the shabby lockup was a complete high-tech environment. The walls were painted matt gray. There was sound-absorbent carpet tile on the floor and the ceiling was covered with acoustic tiling, relieved only by discreet, low-level lighting. One wall was lined with filing drawers. There were four desks, each with a different type of computer terminal on it, including a small portable one, and two expensive-looking, ergonomically designed desk chairs. Several other pieces of equipment, including a standard cassette player and three printers, were sitting on the desks. In the background, baroque music played softly. Simon stood looking truculently at her as she walked round, desperately trying to memorize the names on the computers.

  “Quite a setup you’ve got here,” she said admiringly. “You must be doing well to afford all this.”

  “I’m good with computers,” he said.

  “What sort of software do you produce, then?”

  “Mainly programs for managers. So they can interpret what’s going on in the business. Now, what did you mean about my sister?”

  “People like me and Ros live our lives on the edges of society. That makes it that little bit harder to achieve things. Ros has managed to get something together. And you blew it out of the water for her by telling your father what the score was. In my book, that means you owe her. And because she perceives herself as being part of a group, that means you owe the women she identifies with. Like my friend Deborah. If you don’t agree with that analysis, ring up Ros and ask her yourself.” Lindsay stopped abruptly, challenging him to make the phone call she knew would have her thrown out instantly.

  Her gamble on his sense of guilt paid off. His scowl didn’t lift, but he said grudgingly, “And what would you want to know?”

  Lindsay hastily searched for a question that would justify her presence. “I wanted to know about his routine with the dog—was it something he always did at around the same time? Would someone have been able to rely on him being on the common with the dog at that time?”

  Simon shrugged. “Not really. Rex always gets a walk any time between ten and midnight, depending on all sorts of things like the weather, what’s on the box, who’s at home. It wasn’t always my father who took him out. I did sometimes too. So if someone had been lying in wait, they might have had to hang around for hours on more than one occasion. If I’d been home earlier on Sunday, it could just as well have been me that walked him.”

  “So you think it’s more likely that he met someone by arrangement?”

  “Not necessarily. It might have been a chance meeting that turned nasty.”

  Lindsay recalled Crabtree’s distinctive figure. “Your father would have been easy to recognize at a distance and chase after if you were looking for a chance encounter. After all, Deborah thought she spotted him from quite a way off on the night he died, when he was walking the dog,” she added. “And she wasn’t even on the common. She was walking back from the phone box.” Simon shrugged. “But he was carrying a gun, Simon,” Lindsay continued. “Surely that suggests he was expecting trouble?”

  Simon paused to think. “Yes, but maybe he was just expecting trouble in a general way and had started carrying the gun when he took Rex out last thing.”

  Lindsay shook her head in disbelief. “This is rural England, not the New York subway. People don’t wander round with guns just because they think someone might give them a hard time. If he was genuinely afraid of being attacked, if he’d been threatened in any serious way, surely he’d have gone to the police?”

  Simon shrugged. “Don’t ask me. It would probably have given him a buzz to confront someone with his gun and then turn them over to the cops. And I think he was genuinely frightened by those peace women. Especially after that one attacked him.”

  Lindsay shook her head. “I can’t believe he thought the peace women were coming after him,” she said. “It must have been something else. He said nothing?”

  “No. And if you’ve no more questions, I’d appreciate the chance to get back to work,” he replied.

  “Okay. Thanks for the time. I’m sure Ros will appreciate your solidarity,” she threw over her shoulder as she left.

  Back in the car, she scribbled down the names of the computers she had seen and drove off, keeping an eye out for the red Fiesta. But her rear-view mirror was clear, so she stopped at the first phone box she came to. Typically, it was prepared to allow 999 calls only. Three boxes later, she found one that would accept her money, and she dialed an Oxford number. She was quickly connected with a friend from her student days, Annie Norton, a whizzkid in computer research.

  After an exhaustive exchange of gossipy updates while she pumped coins into the box, Lindsay wound her way round to the point of the call. “Annie, I need your help on an investigation I’ve got tangled up with,” she tossed into a gap in the conversation.

  “If it’s anything to do with Caroline Redfern’s much publicized love-life, my lips are sealed,” Annie replied.

  “No, this is serious, not chitchat. It’s about computers. I’ve acquired a cassette tape that I think is a computer program. It could have been made on any one of four computers, and I n
eed to know what it says. Can you help?”

  “A cassette tape? How extraordinary. We’re talking real computers here, are we, not video games?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Hmm. No indication of what language it’s in?” Annie asked.

  “English, I suppose.”

  “No, no, what computer language—BASIC, FORTRAN, ALGOL, etc., etc.”

  “Oh,” said Lindsay, bewildered. “No, nothing at all, unless there’s a computer language called ‘Sting: The Dream Of The Blue Turtles.’”

  “You what? Are you serious?”

  Lindsay laughed. “No, that’s what’s written on the cassette, that’s all.”

  “And what computers are we talking about?”

  “An Apple Macintosh, an IBM, an Apricot, an Amstrad, and a Tandy.”

  “A Tandy? Little laptop job, would fit in a briefcase? With a flip-up screen?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Annie sighed in relief. “That explains the tape. It’s probably been transferred from one of the other machines,” she mused. “It should be fairly simple to run it through our Univac and read it for you. When can you get it to me?”

  “I could drop it off in an hour or so—I’m only down the road in Fordham.”

  “Tremendous. We could have dinner together if you fancy it.”

  Lindsay was tempted. She had reached the point where she wanted more than anything to walk away from the conflict of interests with the peace camp, the police, and the job. She felt guilty about two-timing Cordelia, and was unsure how she felt about Debs. But she had promised to be at the vigil and she had to keep that promise. She could just fit in the round trip to Oxford if she didn’t hang about too long with Annie. “Sorry,” she said. “But I’m working tonight. Maybe when I pick it up again, yeah? How long will it take you?”

  “Hard to say. A day? Two, maybe, if it’s not something obvious. If the person who’s made it is a real computer buff, which he or she presumably is, if they really use those four systems to their full potential, then it could be a bit subtle. Still, a nice bit of hacking makes a pleasant change. I’ll see you again in about an hour, then. You know where to find me?”

  “Sure, I remember. I’ll be with you soon as possible.” Lindsay rang off and was about to leave the box when she realized she hadn’t spoken to Cordelia since her angry departure on Monday. Her mind had been too occupied with Crabtree and Debs for her to pay attention to her lover’s needs. It wouldn’t be an easy call, for Lindsay knew she’d have to lie about what had happened with Debs. The phone wasn’t the place for confessions. And Cordelia would be quite justifiably hurt that Lindsay hadn’t made time for her. Especially with Deborah Patterson back on the scene. The stab of guilt made her rake through her pockets for more change and she hastily dialed their number. On the fourth ring, the answering machine picked up the call. “Oh shit,” she muttered as she listened to her own voice instructing her to leave a message. After the tone, she forced a smile into her voice and said, feeling foolish as she always did on their own machine, “Hello, darling, it’s me. Wednesday afternoon. Just a check call to let you know I’m okay. Duncan’s leaving me here on the murder story because of my peace camp contacts, so God knows when I’ll be home. Probably not till after the funeral, or an arrest, whichever comes first, I’ll try to ring tonight. Love you. Bye.” She put the phone down with relief and set off for Oxford.

  13

  Deborah was waiting impatiently by the Gate Six encampment for Lindsay. Already, most of the women taking part in the vigil were in place. The traffic on the main road back from Oxford and the need to change into more suitable clothes had delayed Lindsay enough for her to have missed the procession, but she could see that there were not sufficient numbers there to encircle the base holding hands, so they had spread out along as much of the perimeter as they could cover, with gaps of about fifty yards between them. The flicker of candles, feeble against the cloudy winter night, was gradually spreading.

  Deborah hustled Lindsay along the muddy clearing by the fence for half a mile till they reached their agreed station, a corner of the fence near a deep drainage ditch. They kissed goodbye, then Lindsay walked on round the corner to her position.

  She turned toward the base, where the buildings and bunkers were floodlit against the enemy—not the red menace, but the monstrous regiment, she thought. She turned back and peered toward the nearest flame. She could just make out the silhouette of the next woman in the vigil and in the distance she could hear the faint sound of singing. She knew from experience that it would soon work its way round to her like Chinese whispers. She had been pleasantly surprised to see that for once the police and military presence were fairly low-key. She hadn’t seen any journalists, but assumed they would all be down by the main gates, reluctant to stagger through the mud unless it became absolutely necessary. She smiled wryly. At least her story would have the unmistakable air of verisimilitude.

  She took her Zippo lighter from her jacket pocket and flicked the flame into life. She hadn’t remembered to ask Debs for a candle, so the lighter would have to do. She stamped her feet to keep the circulation going and started mentally planning her story.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a short scream, which was cut off by a squelching thud and the sound of crashing in the undergrowth. It came from Deborah’s direction. Before she had time to think, she was charging back round the corner in the fence toward her lover. In her panic, she forgot about the drainage ditch and plunged headlong into it, twisting her ankle in an explosion of pain as she fell. But instead of landing in muddy water, she fell on something soft and yielding. Lindsay pushed herself away and fumbled with the lighter which she’d somehow managed to hang on to. The little flare of light was enough to show her a sight that made her heart lunch.

  Deborah lay face down in the ditch, blood flowing from a gaping wound in the left side of her head. “Oh my God,” moaned Lindsay, as she struggled upright. “Debs, Debs,” she cried, fighting back tears of panic as she grabbed her by the shoulders. She remembered all the rules of first aid that instruct not to move victims with head wounds. But Deborah would drown if left lying face down in the mud. So she pulled at her left shoulder till she managed to turn her on her side. Lindsay pulled her scarf off and gently wiped the mud from Deborah’s face. She gritted her teeth and cleared the silt from her nose and mouth and checked if she was still breathing by putting her ear to Deborah’s mouth. She could feel nothing. “Debs, Debs, breathe, you bastard, breathe,” she muttered desperately, pummeling Deborah’s chest. After a few moments that felt like an eternity, she was rewarded by a spluttering cough as Deborah retched. Lindsay, herself facing nausea, checked her lover was still able to breathe in spite of her unconsciousness, then stood upright, yelling for help at the top of her voice.

  It seemed hours before another couple of women appeared with a torch, looking bewildered.

  “Get help, get help!” Lindsay almost screamed. “Debs has been attacked. Get the bloody police. We need an ambulance.”

  The next half hour was a blur of action as first police and then ambulancemen arrived and rushed Deborah to hospital. Lindsay realized how serious the situation was when a young constable helped her into the ambulance and she found herself racing through the lanes with flashing lights and siren.

  At Fordham General, the stretcher on which Deborah’s immobile body lay was immediately hurried away on a trolley with the policeman still in attendance. Lindsay sat, exhausted, wet, and filthy, on the steps of the casualty unit, smoking a battered cigarette. She was numb with fear for Deborah. One of the ambulancemen stopped to speak to her on the way back to his vehicle. “You did well, back there,” he said. “Your friend might have died if you hadn’t got her head out of the mud. Just as well you kept your head.”

  Lindsay shook her head. “I didn’t keep my head. I panicked. I just acted on pure instinct. I was so afraid I’d lost her. How is she? Do you know?”

  He shrugged. ??
?Not out of the woods yet. But they’re good in there. You should go inside in the warm, you’ll get a chill out here. Get yourself a cuppa.”

  Lindsay nodded wearily. “Yeah.” She got to her feet as he climbed back into the ambulance. As she turned to go a heavy hand clapped her on the shoulder. It belonged to a reporter she recognized by sight.

  “What’s the score?” he demanded. “We heard someone had been attacked, but the cops are saying nothing.” Lindsay stared at him uncomprehendingly. “Come on, Lindsay,” he pressed. “Don’t be selfish. I’ve only got half an hour to close copy time on the next edition. You’ve had every bloody other exclusive on this job. Give us a break.”

  She wanted more than anything to put a fist in his face. Instead, she simply said, “Fuck off,” and turned on her heel, shaking his hand loose. But the incident had reminded her that there was something she could do to put a bit of distance between the attack and her emotions. She walked like a zombie into the hospital, asked a passing nurse where the nearest phone was, and transferred the charges to the Clarion newsdesk. Luckily, Cliff Gilbert took the call himself.

  “Lindsay here, Cliff,” she said, speaking very slowly. “Listen. I’m in no fit state to write copy, but there’s a very good story going on here and I’ve got chapter and verse on it. If I give you all the facts, can someone knock it into shape?”

  “What?” he exclaimed. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Are you pissed?”

  “Look, someone’s just tried to kill one of my best friends. I’m exhausted, I’m wet, I’m probably in shock, and I’m at the end of my rope. I need help.”

  He realized from her voice as much as her words that Lindsay was serious. “Okay, Lindsay,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’ll put you on to Tony and you tell him what he needs for the story. No problem. Do you need backup? I can get someone down there in an hour. Or a local freelance—”