Common Murder

The phone went dead. “Just what I love most,” Lindsay muttered. “Writing for the wastepaper bin.” She walked back to the van and made herself some coffee and toast before she sat down and began to put her feature together. She had only written a few paragraphs when there was a knock at the van door.

  “Come in,” she called. Jane entered, followed by Willow and another woman whom Lindsay knew only by sight.

  “The very people I wanted to see,” she exclaimed. “My newsdesk has said I can do a piece about the camp reaction to Crabtree’s campaign. So I need some quotes from you about how you are here for peace and while you didn’t have any sympathy for his organization, you wouldn’t ever have stooped to violence, etc., etc. Is that all right?”

  Willow grinned. “We’ll have to see about that,” she replied. “But first, we’ve got something to ask you. We’ve just had a meeting to discuss this business. We’ve decided we need to safeguard our interests. Already there have been reporters round here and we don’t like the attitude they’ve been taking. That leaves us with a bit of a problem. We need someone who can help us deal with the situation. It’s got to be someone who understands why none of us could have done this, but who also knows the way the system works. It looks like you’re the only one who fits the bill.”

  The third woman chimed in. “It wasn’t a unanimous decision to ask you. Not by a long chalk. But we’re stuck. Personally, I don’t feel entirely happy about trusting someone who works for a paper like the Clarion, but we don’t have a lot of choice. Deborah’s already been picked up, and even if she’s released without charges, the mud’s been slung and it will stick unless we can get our point of view across.”

  Lindsay shrugged. “I do know how the media works. But it sounds more like you’re looking for a press spokeswoman, and that’s not a job I can really do. It gives me a serious conflict of interest.”

  The third woman looked satisfied. “I thought you’d say that,” she said triumphantly. “I knew that when the chips were down you’d know which side your bread was buttered.”

  Needled, Lindsay said, “That’s really unfair. You know I want to do everything I can. Deborah’s been my friend for years. Look, I can help you project the right kind of image. But don’t expect miracles. What I do need if I’m going to do that is total cooperation. Now I know there are women here who would die before they’d help a tabloid journo, but from those of you who are willing to help I need support.”

  Jane replied immediately. “Well, I for one am willing to trust you. The articles you’ve written abroad about the camp have been some of the most positive pieces I’ve seen about what we’re doing here. You’re the only person capable of doing what we need that we can any of us say that about.”

  “I’ll go along with that,” Willow added. “I’ll pass the word around that you’re on our side.”

  “Care to supply some quotes before you go?” Lindsay asked as Willow and the other woman seemed about to leave.

  “Jane can do that. She’s good with words,” Willow said over her shoulder as they went out, closing the van door on Jane and Lindsay.

  “There was something else I wanted to discuss with you,” Jane said hesitantly. “I know a lot of the women would disagree with me, so I didn’t raise it at the meeting. But I think we need someone to investigate this on our behalf. We are going to be at the center of suspicion over this, and while they’ve got us as prime candidates, I don’t think the police will be looking too hard for other possible murderers. Will you see what you can find out?”

  For the second time that morning, Lindsay was taken aback. “Why me?” she finally asked. “I’m not any kind of detective. I’m a journalist, and there’s no guarantee that my interests aren’t going to clash with yours.”

  Jane parried quickly. “You told me you’d cleared a friend of a murder charge. Well, I figure if you did it once, you can do it again. Those features you wrote for the German magazine seem to have a feel for the truth, even if you don’t always choose to report it. You can talk to the cops, you can talk to Crabtree’s family and friends. None of us can do that. And you’re on our side. You can’t believe Deborah’s guilty. You of all people can’t believe that.”

  Lindsay lit a cigarette and gazed out of the window. She really didn’t want the hassle of being a servant of two masters. Jane sat quiet but Lindsay could feel the pressure of her presence. “All right,” she said, “I’ll do what I can.”

  By noon Lindsay had dictated her story and spoken to Duncan who, never satisfied, started to pressurize her about an interview with Deborah. Disgruntled, she was walking back from the phone box when a car pulled up alongside. Suddenly Lindsay found herself enveloped in a warm embrace as Deborah jumped out of the car. Nothing was said for a few moments. Judith leaned over from the driver’s seat and called through the open door, “I’ll see you up at the camp,” before driving off.

  “Oh, Lin,” Deborah breathed. “I was so afraid. I didn’t know what was going on. The bastards just lifted me, I couldn’t even do anything about Cara. I’ve been so worried. I haven’t slept, haven’t eaten—Thank God you had the sense to get Judith on to it straight away. God knows what I wouldn’t have confessed to otherwise, just to get out of there. There was a big blond Special Branch bloke, but he was no big deal, they’re always too busy playing at being James Bond. But the superintendent is so fucking clever. Oh Lin . . .” And the tears came.

  Lindsay stroked her hair. “Dry your eyes, Debs. Come on, Cara will be wanting you.”

  Deborah wiped her eyes and blew her nose on Lindsay’s crumpled handkerchief then they walked back to the camp arm in arm. As soon as they came into view, Cara came charging toward them. Behind her, to Lindsay’s astonishment, came Cordelia, looking cool and unflustered in a designer jogging suit and green wellies, her black hair blowing in the breeze.

  As mother and daughter staged a noisy and tearful reunion, Cordelia greeted Lindsay with a warm kiss. “I couldn’t sit in London not knowing what was happening,” she explained. “Even if there’s nothing I can do, I had to come.”

  Lindsay found a smile and said, “It’s good to see you. I appreciate it. How long can you stay?”

  “Till Wednesday lunchtime. Jane’s filled me in on what’s been happening. What’s the plan now that you’ve been appointed official Miss Marple to the peace women? Do I have to rush off and buy you a knitting pattern and a ball of fluffy wool?”

  “Very funny. I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to be doing. But I’ll have to speak to Debs about last night. I’ve already warned her not to talk to anyone else. Of course, Duncan wants me to do the chat with her, but the lawyer will never let us use a line of it. I suppose I should have a crack at the family too. I’ve got a good contact, the copper who’s handling things at the moment, a Superintendent Rigano. I’m going to see him this afternoon. Let’s go and have a pint and I’ll fill you in.”

  Lindsay swallowed the emotional turmoil triggered off by Cordelia’s appearance and told her lover all she knew about the murder over a bowl of soup in the nearest pub that accepted peace women customers—nearly three miles away. Cordelia was fired with enthusiasm and insisted that they set off immediately in her car for Brownlow Common Cottages which, in spite of their humble name, were actually a collection of architect-designed mock-Georgian mansions.

  There could be no mistaking the Crabtree residence. It was a large, double-fronted two-storey house covered in white stucco with bow windows and imitation Georgian bottle-glass panes. A pillared portico was tacked on to the front. At the side stood a double garage, with a fifty-yard drive leading up to it. In front of the house was a neatly tended square lawn which had been underplanted with crocuses, now just past their best. The road outside was clogged on both sides by a dozen cars, the majority new. At the wrought-iron gate in the low, white-painted wall stood a gaggle of men in expensive topcoats. A few men and women stood around the cars looking bored. Every few minutes, one reporter peeled off from a group and ambled up th
e drive to ring the door bell. There was never any reply, not even a twitch of the curtains that hid the downstairs rooms from view.

  “The ratpack’s out in force,” Lindsay muttered as she climbed out of the car and headed for her colleagues. She soon spotted a familiar face, Bill Bryman, the crime man from the London Evening Sentinel. She greeted him and asked what was happening.

  “Sweet FA,” he replied bitterly. “I’ve been here since eight o’clock, and will my desk pull me off? Will they hell! The son answered the door the first time and told us nothing doing. Since then it’s a total blank. If you ask me, they’ve disconnected the bell. I’ve told the office it’s a complete waste of time, but you know news editors. Soon as they get promoted, they have an operation on their brains to remove all memory of what life on the road is all about.”

  “What about the neighbors?”

  Bill shook his head wearily. “About as much use as a chocolate chip-pan. Too bloody “okay yah” to communicate with the yobbos of the popular press. Now if you were to say you were from the Tatler— though looking at the outfit, I doubt you’d get away it.” Lindsay looked ruefully at her clothes which still bore the traces of her headlong flight the night before, in spite of her efforts to clean up. “You been down the peace camp yet?” he added. “They’re about as much help as this lot here.”

  “So I’d be wasting my time hanging around here, would I?”

  “If you’ve got anything better to do, do it. I’d rather watch an orphanage burn,” Bill answered resignedly with the cynicism affected by hard-boiled crime reporters the world over. “I’ll be stuck here for the duration. If I get anything, I’ll file it for you. For the usual fee.”

  Lindsay grinned to herself as she returned to the BMW. As they pulled away, Lindsay noticed the tall blond man she’d tagged as Special Branch when she’d seen him at the camp. He was leaning against a red Ford Fiesta on the fringes of the press corps, watching them.

  “To Fordham nick,” she said to Cordelia. “And stop at the first public toilet. Desperate situations need desperate remedies.”

  6

  Lindsay emerged from the public toilet on the outskirts of Fordham a different woman. Before they left the camp she had retrieved her emergency overnight working bag from the boot of her car, and she was now wearing a smart brown dress and jacket, chosen for their ability not to crease, coupled with brown stilettos that would have caused major earth tremors at the peace camp. Cordelia wolf-whistled quietly as her lover got back into the car. “You’ll get your lesbian card taken away, dressing like that,” she teased.

  “Fuck off, she quipped wittily,” Lindsay replied. “If Duncan wants the biz doing, I will do the biz.”

  At the police station, Lindsay ran the gauntlet of bureaucratic obstacles and eventually found herself face to face with Superintendent Rigano. They exchanged pleasantries, then Lindsay leaned across his desk and said, “I think you and I should do a deal.”

  His face didn’t move a muscle. He would have made a good poker player if he could have been bothered with anything so predictable, thought Lindsay. When he had finished appraising her, he simply said, “Go on.”

  Lindsay hesitated long enough to light a cigarette. She needed a moment to work out what came next in this sequence of unplanned declarations. “You had Deborah Patterson in here for twelve hours. I imagine she wouldn’t even tell you what year it is.

  “They’ll all be like that,” she continued. “They’ve gone past the ‘innocents abroad’ stage down there, thanks to the way the powers that be have used the police and manipulated the courts. Now, they have a stable of sharp lawyers who don’t owe you anything. Several of the peace women have been in prison and think it holds no terrors for them. They all know their rights and they’re not even going to warn you if your backside is on fire.

  “So if you want any information from them, you’re stymied. Without me, that is. I think I can deliver what you need to know from them. I’m not crazy about the position I find myself in. But they trust me, which is not something you can say about many people who have a truce with the establishment. They’ve asked me to act as a sort of troubleshooter for them.”

  He looked suspicious. “I thought you were a reporter,” he said. “How have you managed to earn their trust?”

  “The women at the camp know all about me. I’ve been going there for months now.”

  He could have blustered, he could have threatened, she knew. But he just asked, quietly, “And what’s the price?”

  Glad that her first impression of him hadn’t been shattered, Lindsay replied, “The price is a bit of sharing. I’m a good investigative reporter. I’ll let you have what I get, if you’ll give me a bit of help and information.”

  “You don’t want much, do you?” he complained.

  “I’m offering something you won’t get any other way,” Lindsay replied. She doubted she could deliver all she had promised, but she reckoned she could do enough to keep him happy. That way, she’d get what she and the women wanted.

  He studied her carefully and appeared to come to a decision. “Can we go off the record?” he asked. Lindsay nodded. His response at first appeared to be a diversion. “He was an influential man, Rupert Crabtree. Knew most of the people that are supposedly worth knowing round these parts. Didn’t just know them to share a pink gin with—he knew them well enough to demand favors. Being dead seems to have set in motion the machinery for calling in the favors. I’m technically in charge of the CID boys running this at local level. But CID are avoiding this one like the plague. And other units are trying to use their muscle on it.

  “Our switchboard has been busy. I’m under a lot of pressure to arrest your friend. You’ll understand that, I know. But I’m old-fashioned enough to believe that you get your evidence before the arrest, not vice versa. That wouldn’t have been hard in this case, if you follow me.

  “I happen to think that she didn’t kill him. And I’m not afraid to admit I’ll need help to make that stick. You know I don’t need to make deals to achieve that help. Most coppers could manage it, given time and a bit of leaning. But I don’t have time. There are other people breathing down my neck. So let’s see what we need for a deal.”

  Lindsay nodded. “I need access to the family. You’ll have to introduce me to them. Suggest that I’m not just a newspaper reporter. That I’m working on a bigger piece about the Brownlow campaign for a magazine that will feature an in-depth profile of Crabtree—a sort of tribute.”

  “Are you?”

  “I can be by teatime. Also point out to them that it will get the pack off their back and end the siege. I’ll be taping the conversation and transcribing the tapes. You can have full access to the tapes and a copy of the transcripts.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you think it was a domestic crime?”

  “Most murders are, aren’t they? But I won’t know who might have killed him till I’ve found out a lot more about his life. That means family, friends, colleagues, and the peace women will all have to open up to me. In return, any of the peace women you want to talk to, you tell me honestly what it’s about and I’ll deliver the initial information you need. Obviously, you’ll have to take over if it’s at all significant, but that’s got to be better for you than a wall of silence.”

  “It’s completely unorthodox. I can’t run an investigation according to the whim of the press.”

  “Without my help, I can promise you all you’ll find at the camp is a brick wall. Anyway, you don’t strike me as being a particularly orthodox copper.”

  He almost smiled. “When do you want to see the family?” he asked.

  “Soon as possible. It really will get the rest of the press off the doorstep. You’ll have to tell my colleagues at the gate that the family asked expressly to talk to a Clarion reporter or you’ll get a load of aggravation which I’m sure you could do without.”

  “Are you mobile?”

  “The BMW cabriolet outside.”

  “T
he fruits of being a good investigative reporter seem sweeter than those of being a good copper. Wait in the car.” He rose. The interview was over.

  Slightly bewildered by her degree of success, Lindsay found her way through the labyrinthine corridors to the car park, feeling incongruous in her high heels after days in heavy boots, and slumped into the seat beside Cordelia, who looked at her inquiringly.

  “I think perhaps I need my head examined,” Lindsay said. “The way I’ve been behaving today, I think it buttons up the back. I’ve just marched into a superintendent’s office and offered to do a deal with him that will keep Debs out of prison, get me some good exclusives, and might possibly, if we all get very lucky indeed, point him in the right direction for the real villain. Talk about collaborating with the class enemy. Mind you, I expected him to throw me out on my ear. But he went for it. Can you believe it?”

  Lindsay outlined her conversation with Rigano. When she’d finished, Cordelia asked, “Would he be the one who looks like a refugee from a portrait in the Uffizi?”

  “That’s him. Why?”

  “Because he’s heading this way,” she said drily as Rigano’s hand reached for Lindsay’s door. Lindsay sat bolt upright and wound down the window.

  “Open the back door for me, please,” said Rigano. “I believe we may be able to do a deal.”

  Lindsay did as she was told and he climbed in. A shadow of distaste crossed his face as his eyes flicked round the luxurious interior. “Drive to Brownlow Common Cottages,” he said. “Not too fast. There will be a police car behind you.”

  Cordelia started the car, put it in gear, then, almost as an afterthought, before she released the clutch, she turned round in her seat and said, “I’m Cordelia Brown, by the way. Would it be awfully unreasonable of me to ask your name?”

  “Not at all,” he replied courteously. His face showed the ghost of a smile. “I am Superintendent Giacomo Rigano of Fordham Police. I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself. I’ve grown so accustomed to knowing who everyone is that I forget this is not a two-way process. Because I knew who you were, I assumed you knew me too.”