Common Murder

by Val McDermid

  But the main attraction of the circus tonight was contained in the inner circle. Here there were more lights, smaller spotlights clipped on to the screens. A photographer moved round the periphery, his flash freezing for ever the last public appearance of whoever was lying dead on the wet clay. Could it be one of the women from the camp lying there? Superintendent Rigano said a few words to the man, then moved back toward the scene of the crime. The constable escorted Lindsay across the clearing, being careful, she noted, to keep between her and the tall canvas screens. Once there, he secured the attention of the superintendent, whom Lindsay recognized from their earlier encounter outside Fordham police station. “Sir, there’s a journalist here wants a word with you,” the constable reported.

  He turned to Lindsay, fine dark brows scowling over deep-set eyes. “You’re here bloody sharpish,” he said grudgingly. “Superintendent Rigano, Fordham Police.”

  “Lindsay Gordon. Daily Clarion. We met at the demonstration after Deborah Patterson’s arrest. I happened to be at the camp,” she replied. “We’re doing a feature comparing the peace camps at Brownlow and Faslane,” she lied fluently. “I saw the lights and wondered if there might be anything in it for me.”

  “We’ve got a murder on our hands,” he said in a flinty voice. “You’d better take a note. It would be a pity to screw up on a scoop.” Lindsay obediently pulled out her notebook and a pencil.

  “The dead man is Rupert Crabtree.” The familiar name shocked Lindsay. Suddenly this wasn’t some impersonal murder story she was reporting. It was much closer to home. Her surprise obviously registered with Rigano, who paused momentarily before continuing. “Aged forty-nine. Local solicitor. Lives up Brownlow Common Cottages. That’s those mock-Georgian mansions half a mile from the main gate of the camp. Bludgeoned to death with a blunt instrument, to wit, a chunk of drainage pipe which shattered on impact. Perhaps more to the point, from your side of things, is the fact that he was chairman of the local ratepayers’ association who were fighting against that scruffy lot down there. It looks as if there was a struggle before he was killed. Anything else you want to know?”

  Lindsay hoped her relationship with “that scruffy lot down there” was not too obvious and that she was putting up a sufficiently good performance in her professional role as the single-minded news reporter in possession of a hot exclusive. “Yes. What makes you think there was a struggle?”

  “The mud’s churned up quite a bit. And Crabtree had drawn a gun but not had the chance to fire it.”

  “That suggests he knew his life was at risk, doesn’t it?”

  “No comment. I also don’t want the gun mentioned just yet. Any other questions?”

  She nodded vigorously. “Who found the body?”

  “A local resident walking his dog. I’m not releasing a name and he won’t be available for interview in the foreseeable future.”

  “Any suspects? Is an arrest likely within the next few hours? And what was he doing on the common at this time of night?”

  Rigano looked down at her shrewdly. “No arrest imminent. We are actively pursuing several lines of inquiry. He was walking the bloody dog. He usually did this time of night. Well-known fact of local life.”

  “Any idea of the time of death?” she asked.

  Rigano shrugged expressively. “That’s for the doctors to tell us. But without sticking my neck out, I can tell you it was probably some time between ten and eleven o’clock. I hope you’ve got an alibi,” he said, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Come and have a quick look.” He strode off, clearly expecting her to follow. She caught up with him at the entrance to the screens.

  “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,” she said quickly.

  His eyebrows shot up. “Happy to dish the dirt, not so happy to see the nastiness?”

  Lindsay was stung by his sardonic tone. “Okay,” she said grimly. He led her through the gap in the screens.

  She would not have recognized Rupert Crabtree. He lay on his front, the wet March ground soaking the elegant camel hair coat and the pinstripe trousers. His wellingtons were splashed with vivid orange mud, as were his black leather gloves. The back of his head was shattered. Blood matted his hair and had spattered over the fragments of a two-foot-long piece of earthenware water pipe which had clearly broken under the force with which it had been brought down on the skull. A few feet away, a handgun lay in the mud. Lindsay felt sick. Rigano took her arm and steered her away. “You’ll be wanting to get to a phone,” he said, not unkindly. “If you want to check up on our progress later on, ring Fordham nick and ask for the duty officer. He’ll fill you in with any details.” He turned away, dismissing her.

  Slowly, Lindsay turned her back on the depressing camouflage of death. And at once, her mind was torn away from murder. Across the clearing, the trio she had seen earlier were returning. But now there were four people in the group. She felt a physical pain in her chest as she recognized the fourth. As their eyes met Lindsay and Deborah shared a moment of pure fear.

  5

  For a moment, Lindsay stood stock still, the journalist fighting the friend inside her. This was an important story, she had the edge on the pack, and she needed to call the office as soon as possible. Logically, she knew there was little she could do for Deborah as the police Landrover carried her off. That didn’t stop her feeling an overwhelming rage that translated itself into the desire for action. Abruptly, she turned back to the scene of the crime and found Rigano. Forcing herself to sound casual she elicited the information that Deborah had not been arrested but was assisting police with their inquiries. End message. Lindsay turned and started to run back to the van.

  Once out of the circle of light, she was plunged into darkness. Tripping over tree roots and treacherous brambles, she stumbled on, her only guide the distant glow of the campfire and the dim light from a few of the benders. At one point she plunged headlong over a rock and grimly picked herself up, covered in mud. Cursing, she ran on till she reached the camp. As she reached the benders, she realized that several knots of women had gathered and were talking together anxiously. Ignoring their questioning looks, she made straight for the van, where she burst in, gasping for breath, to find Jane sitting over a cup of coffee. She took one look at Lindsay and said, “So you know already?”

  “How’s Cara? Where is she?” Lindsay forced out.

  “Fast asleep. The coppers were very quiet, very civil. But the van mustn’t be moved till they’ve had a chance to search it.” She was interrupted by a knock on the door. Lindsay leaned over and opened it to find a policewoman standing on the threshold.

  “Yes?” Lindsay demanded roughly.

  “I’ve been instructed to make sure that nothing is removed from this van until our officers arrive with a search warrant,” she replied.

  “Terrific,” said Lindsay bitterly. “I take it you’ve no objection to me moving a sleeping child to where she won’t be disturbed?”

  The policewomen looked surprised. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t move the child. Where is she?”

  Lindsay pointed up to the curtained-off bunk. She turned to Jane and said, “I’ll take Cara to Josy’s bender. She’ll be all right there.”

  Jane nodded and added, “I’ll stay here to make sure everything’s done properly.”

  Lindsay smiled. “Thanks. I’ve got to get to the phone.” Then, with all the firmness she could muster, she said to the police officer, “I’m a journalist. I’ve got the details of the story from Superintendent Rigano, and I intend to phone my office now. I’ll be back shortly. Till then, Dr. Thomas is in charge here.”

  She climbed the ladder and folded Cara into her arms. The child murmured in her sleep but did not wake. Lindsay carried her to Josy, then ran as fast as she could to the phone box. She glanced at her watch and was amazed to see it was still only half past midnight. Her first call was to Judith Rowe. When the solicitor surfaced from sleep, she promised to get straight round to the police station and do wh
at she could.

  Next, Lindsay took a deep breath and put in a transfer charge call to the office. The call was taken by Cliff Gilbert himself. “Listen,” she said. “There’s been a murder at Brownlow Common. I’ve checked it out with the cops locally and the strength of it is that the leader of the local opposition to the women’s peace camp has been found with his head stoved in. I’ve got enough to file now, which I’ll do if you put me on to copy. I’ll also get stuck in to background for tomorrow if you think that’s a good idea.”

  Cliff thought for a moment. Lindsay could almost hear the connections clicking into place to complete the mental circuit. “You’ve got good contacts among the lesbian beanburger brigade down there, haven’t you?”

  “The best. The prime suspect seems to be an old pal of mine.”

  “What shift are you on tomorrow?”

  “Day off.”

  “Fine. Take a look at it if you don’t mind and check in first thing with Duncan. I’ll leave him a note stressing that I’ve told you to get stuck in. And Lindsay—don’t do anything daft, okay?”

  “Thanks, Cliff. How much do you want now?”

  “Let it run, Lindsay. All you’ve got.”

  There followed a series of clicks and buzzes as she was connected to the copytaker. She recited the story off the top of her head, adding in as much as she knew about Crabtree and his connection with the camp. “A brutal murder shocked a women’s peace camp last night,” she began.

  Then, at nearly two o’clock she made her final call. Cordelia’s sleepy voice answered the phone. “Who the hell is it?”

  Lindsay swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat at the sound of the familiar voice. She struggled with herself and tried to sound light. “It’s me, love. Sorry I woke you. I know you’ll be tired after driving back from your parents’, but I’m afraid I’ve got a major hassle on my hands. There’s been a murder down here. Rupert Crabtree the guy whose face Debs is supposed to have rearranged—he’s been killed. The cops have pulled Debs. I don’t think they’re going to charge her. I know I said I’d be home tomorrow lunchtime, but I don’t know when the hell I’ll make it now.”

  “Do you want me to come down?”

  Lindsay thought for a moment. The complication seemed unnecessary. “Not just now, I think,” she replied. “There’s nothing either of us can really do till I know more precisely what’s happening. I simply wanted to tell you myself so you wouldn’t panic when you heard the news or saw the papers. I’ll ring you later today, all right?”

  “All right,” Cordelia sighed. “But look after yourself, please. Don’t take any chances with a murderer on the loose. I love you, don’t forget that.”

  “I love you too,” Lindsay replied. She put the phone down and walked back to the camp. She opened the door to the van, forgetting momentarily about the police. The bulky presence of two uniformed men searching the van startled her.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she demanded angrily.

  “We’ll be as quick as we can,” said the older of the two, a freckle-faced, gray-haired man with broad shoulders and a paunch. “We have a warrant. Your friend said it was all right,” he added, nodding toward Jane.

  “I’d forgotten you’d be doing this.” Lindsay sighed as she collapsed into the comfortable armchair-cum-driver’s seat.

  True to the constable’s word, they departed in about fifteen minutes with a bundle of clothing. Lindsay poured a large whisky for Jane and herself.

  “I could do without another night like this,” Lindsay said. “I don’t know what it is about my friends that seems to attract murder.”

  Jane looked puzzled. “You mean this happens often?”

  “Not exactly often. About two years ago, a friend of mine was arrested for a murder she didn’t commit. Cordelia and I happened to be on the spot and got roped in to do the Sam Spade bit. That’s when the two of us got together—a mutual fascination for being nosey parkers.”

  “Well, I hate to say it, but I’m glad you’ve had the experience. I think you could easily find yourself going through the same routine for Deborah.”

  Lindsay shook her head. “Different kettle of fish. They’ve not even arrested Debs, never mind charged her. I’m pretty sure they don’t have much to go on. It’s my guess that Debs will be back here by lunchtime tomorrow if Judith’s got anything to do with it. Let’s face it, we all know Debs is innocent and I’m sure the police will find a more likely suspect before the day’s out. They’ve just pulled her in to make it look good to anyone who’s got their beady eyes on them. Now I’m going to bed, if you’ll excuse me.”

  In spite of Lindsay’s exhaustion she did not fall asleep at once. Crabtree’s murder had set her thoughts racing in circles. Who had killed him? And why? Was it anything to do with the peace camp, or was Debs’ connection with him purely coincidental? And what was going to happen to Debs? Lindsay hated being in a position where she didn’t know enough to form reasonable theories, and she tossed and turned in Debs’ bed as she tried to switch off her brain. Finally she drifted into a deep and dreamless sleep, which left her feeling neither rested nor refreshed when she awoke after nine.

  After a quick shower, she emerged into a mild spring day with cotton-wool clouds scudding across the sky to find the camp apparently deserted. Puzzled, Lindsay glanced over at the big bender used for meetings; it seemed that was where the women had gathered. She decided to take advantage of the quiet spell by phoning the office and checking the current situation with the police.

  Her first call was to the police HQ in Fordham. She asked for Rigano and was surprised to be put straight through to him. “Superintendent Rigano? Lindsay Gordon here, Daily Clarion. We met last night at Brownlow . . .”

  “I remember. You were quick off the mark. It’s been hard to get away from your colleagues this morning. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I wondered where you were up to. Any imminent arrest?”

  “You mean, are we going to charge your friend? The answer is, not at the moment. Off the record, we’ll be letting her go later this morning. That’s not to say I’m convinced of her innocence. But I can’t go any farther till I’ve got forensics. So you can say that at present good old Superintendent Rigano is following several lines of inquiry, but that the woman we have been interviewing is being released pending the outcome of those inquiries. Okay?”

  “Fine. Do you mind if I drop in on you later today?”

  “Please yourself,” he said. “If I’m in, I’ll see you. But I don’t know what my movements will be later, so if you want to take a chance on missing me, feel free.”

  Lindsay put the phone down, thoughtful. Her experience with the police during the Paddy Callaghan case had fueled her ingrained mistrust of their intelligence and integrity. But in her brief encounter with Rigano she had felt a certain rapport which had not been dispelled by their telephone conversation. She had surprised herself by her request to call in on him and now she felt slightly bewildered as to what on earth she would find to discuss with him once Debs was released.

  But that was for later. Right now she had the unpleasant task of talking to Duncan Morris, the Daily Clarion’s news editor and the man responsible for her move to London. She put the call in and waited nervously to be connected to her boss. His voice boomed down the line at her. “Morning, Lindsay,” he began. “I see from the overnight note that you’re back in that nest of vipers. Still, you did a good job last night. We beat everyone else to the draw and that’s the way I want to keep it. It’s of interest for us in terms of the link with the peace camp, okay, so let’s keep that in the front of our minds. What I want from you by noon is a good background piece about the camp, a few quotes from the loony lefties about this man Crabtree and his campaign. I don’t have to spell it out to you?” Lindsay fumed quickly as the venom of his prejudices ran over her. “I also want to be well up on the news angles too. Try for a chat with the widow and family or his colleagues. And try to overcome your natural
prejudices and stay close to the cops. Now, what’s the score on all that?”

  Lindsay somehow found her tongue. She was aware that she should know better than to be surprised by Duncan’s about-turn when faced with a strong news story, but she still couldn’t help being a little taken aback that he was now hassling her for a background piece on the camp. She stammered, “The cops are releasing the woman they held for questioning. She’s Deborah Patterson, the woman charged with assaulting him last month. I don’t know what the legal implications are as yet—I should imagine that with his death the prosecution case automatically falls, but whether that releases us immediately from sub judice rules, I don’t know.

  “As far as the news feature’s concerned, no problem. Also, I’m hoping to see the copper in charge of the case again this afternoon, so I can let you have whatever he says. I’ll try the family but I don’t hold out much hope. They’re a bit too well clued-up about Her Majesty’s gutter press to fall for the standard lines. But leave it with me.”

  “Fine. Normally on one this big, I’d send someone down to help you out, but you’re the expert when it comes to the lunatic fringe, so I’ll leave you to it.” Patronizing shit, she thought, as he carried on. “We’ve got a local snapper lined up, so if you’ve got any potential pics, speak to the picture desk. Don’t fall down on this one, Lindsay. File by noon so I can see the copy before I go into morning conference. And get a good exclusive chat with this woman they’re releasing. If the lawyers say we can’t use it, we can always kill it. Speak to you later.”