Common Murder

by Val McDermid

  He smiled coldly. “Thank you. It might have made things a little simpler if Miss Patterson had chosen to make her statement when she was here, don’t you think?” Lindsay shrugged. “Anyway, I’ve spoken to Stanhope. He’s expecting you in the George.”

  Lindsay deliberately lit a cigarette, ignoring the implicit dismissal. “Do you know where I can get hold of Rosamund Crabtree?” she inquired. “I didn’t have the chance to get that information from Mrs. Crabtree.”

  “Don’t know why you want to see her,” Rigano grumbled. “The way this case seems to be breaking, we’re going to have to take another long hard look at Miss Patterson. But if you really feel it’s necessary, you’ll probably be able to catch up with her at work. She and a partner run this vegetarian restaurant in London. Camden Town. Rubyfruits, it’s called.”

  “Rubyfruits?” Lindsay exclaimed. “Quick, ring Arthur Koestler.”

  He looked at her uncomprehendingly. “Funny sort of a name, eh?” he said.

  “It isn’t that, it’s just the small-world syndrome striking again.”

  “You know it?”

  Lindsay nodded. “Fairly well. We go there quite a lot.”

  “You surprise me. I wouldn’t have put you down as one of the nut cutlet brigade. Anyway, you’re going to be late for Carlton Stanhope, and I wouldn’t recommend that. I’d like to hear how you get on. If you’re free at lunchtime, I’ll be in the snug at the Frog and Bassett on the Brownlow road. Now run off and meet your man.”

  Lindsay got to her feet. “How will I recognize him?” she asked.

  Rigano smiled. “Use your initiative. There won’t be that many people in the residents’ lounge at half past ten on a Tuesday morning, for starters. Besides, I’ve described you to him so I don’t imagine there will be too many problems of identification.”

  Lindsay scowled. “Thanks,” she muttered on her way to the door. “I’ll probably see you later in the pub. Oh, and by the way, do tell your Special Branch bloodhound to stop following me around. I’m not about to do a runner.” She congratulated herself on her smart response. She would remember that arrogance later.

  Ripe for takeover by the big boys, thought Lindsay as she entered the George Hotel. The combination of the faded fifties decor and odd touches of contemporary tatt was an unhappy one. She could imagine the prawn cocktail and fillet steak menu. A neon sign that looked like a museum piece pointed up a flight of stairs to the residents’ lounge. Lindsay pushed open the creaky swing door. The chairs looked cheap and uncomfortable. The only occupant of the room was pouring himself a cup of coffee. Lindsay’s heart sank. So much for Rigano’s assumption that they’d have the place to themselves, for the young man sprawled leggily in an armchair by the coffee table didn’t look like a farmer called Carlton Stanhope.

  He wore tight blue jeans, elastic-sided riding boots, and an Aran sweater. His straight, dark blond hair was cut short at the sides, longer at the back, and had a floppy fringe that fell over his forehead from its side parting. He didn’t look a day over twenty-five. He glanced over at Lindsay hesitating by the door and drawled, “Miss Gordon, do sit down and have a cup of coffee before it gets cold.”

  As he registered the surprise in her eyes, he smiled wickedly. “Not what you expected, eh? You thought a Fordham farmer called Canton Stanhope who was a sidekick of Rupert Crabtree was bound to be a tweedy old foxhunter with a red face and a glass of Scotch in the fist, admit it! Sorry to disappoint you. Jack Rigano really should have warned you.”

  Lindsay’s mouth wavered between a scowl and a smile. She sat down while Stanhope poured her a cup of coffee. “Do say something,” he mocked. “Don’t tell me I’ve taken your breath away?”

  “I was surprised to see someone under fifty, I must say. Other than that, though, I can’t say I’m greatly shocked and stunned. Don’t all young gentlemen farmers dress like you these days?”

  “Touché,” he replied. “And since you’re not what I expected of either a journalist or a peace woman, I’d say we’re probably about quits. You see, Miss Gordon, we moderate men are just as much subject to stereotyping as you radical women.”

  Lindsay felt a hint of dislike in her response to him. She reckoned he knew himself to be a highly eligible young man; but she gave him credit for trying to build on his physical charm with an entertaining line in conversation. His manner irritated rather than appealed to her, but that didn’t stop her acknowledging that it would normally find its admirers. “Superintendent Rigano seemed to think you might be able to fill me in on some background about Ratepayers Against Brownlow’s Destruction.”

  “Jack says you’re doing the investigative crime reporter bit over Rupert’s death. He seems to think you’re a useful sort of sleuth to have on his side, so I suppose I’m the quid pro quo,” he observed.

  “I appreciate the help,” she responded. “I’m sure you’ve got more important things to be doing—drilling your barley or whatever it is farmers do in March.”

  “Lambing, actually. My pleasure, I assure you. Now, what exactly is it you want to know?”

  “I’m interested in RABD. How did you come to get involved with it?” Lindsay asked. She found her cigarettes and offered Stanhope the packet. He dismissed it with a wave of his hand as he began his story.

  “Let’s see now . . . I got involved shortly after it was formed. That must have been about six or seven months ago, I guess. I hadn’t been back in the area long. My father decided he wanted to bow out of the day-to-day hassle of running the farm, so he dragged me back from my job with the Forestry Commission to take over what will one day be mine. That is, what the bank and the taxman don’t get their hands on.

  “Anyway, to cut a long story short, I was appalled when I arrived back home and found these women camped on the common. I mean, Brownlow Common was always a place where people could walk their dogs, take their sprogs. But who’d actually want to take their offspring for a walk past that eyesore? All that polythene and earth-mother cooking pots and lesbians hugging each other at the drop of a hat or any other garment. Grotesque, for those of us who remember what a walk on the common used to be like.

  “Also, say what you will about the Yanks, their base has brought an extraordinary degree of prosperity to Fordham. It’s cushioned the local people against the worst excesses of the recession. And that’s not something to be sneezed at.”

  He paused for breath, coffee, and thought. Lindsay dived in. “Was it actually Rupert Crabtree who recruited you, then?”

  “I don’t know if recruit is quite the word. You make him sound like some spymaster. I was having dinner with my parents at the Old Coach restaurant, and Rupert was there with Emma—Mrs. Crabtree, you know? Anyhow, they joined us for coffee and Emma was complaining about how ghastly it was to have this bloody camp right on the doorstep and Rupert was informing anyone who’d care to listen that he was going to do something about it and that anyone with any civic pride left would join this new organization to get rid of the women at the camp for good and all.”

  Lindsay looked speculatively at the handsome, broad-shouldered young man. It would be nice to shake that self-assurance to its roots. But not today. “That sounds a bit heavy duty,” she simply said.

  “Oh no, nothing like that. No, RABD was all about operating within the law. We used the local press and poster and leaflet campaigns to mobilize public opinion against the camp. And of course, Rupert and a couple of other lawyers developed ways of harassing them through the courts using the bylaws and civil actions. And whenever they staged big demos, we’d aim to mount a token counterdemonstration, making sure the media knew.”

  “In other words, peaceful protest within the law?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Just like the peace women, in fact?” Avoiding Stanhope’s glance Lindsay screwed out her cigarette in the ashtray. “So, tell me about the in-fighting at RABD.”

  He looked suddenly cautious. “We don’t want all this to become public knowledge.”

&nb
sp; Lindsay shrugged. “It already is. All sorts of rumors are flying round,” she exaggerated. “It’s better to be open about these things, especially when the world’s press is nosing about, otherwise people start reading all sorts of things into relatively minor matters. You don’t want people to think you’ve got something to hide, do you?”

  Stanhope picked up the coffee jug and gestured toward Lindsay’s cup “More coffee?” He was buying time. When Lindsay declined the offer he poured coffee into his own cup. “It’s not quite that simple, though, is it?” he demanded. “We’re talking about a murder investigation. Something one would happily have gossiped about in a private sort of way last week can suddenly take on quite extraordinary connotations after a man has been murdered. I know I seem to take everything very lightly, but in fact I feel Rupert’s death strongly. We didn’t always see eye to eye—he could be bloody irritating, he was so arrogant at times—but he was basically an absolutely straight guy and that’s something I find I have to respect. So I’m wary of pushing something he cared about into an area where it could become the subject of public scorn.”

  Lindsay groaned inwardly. Scruples were the last thing she needed. She had to get something out of Stanhope to provide a fresh lead for the next day’s paper, at the very least. And she needed to get it fast, before Duncan could start screaming for copy on Debs. She had foolishly thought that an interview set up by Rigano, with all the force of his authority, would be an easy answer. She set about overcoming Stanhope’s objections. It took less persuasion than she anticipated and she suspected he had simply put her through the hoops in order to salve his conscience. And she managed to elicit the useful information that he had been alone in the lambing shed at the time of the murder.

  “There were two things that might interest you,” he said. “One, a lot of people knew about. The other, only a handful of people. So, while I don’t mind what you do about the first matter, I want to be left well out of anything to do with the second. Okay?”

  Lindsay nodded. “Okay.”

  “I really don’t want to be brought into this as your source. I mean it,” he added.

  “I said okay,” Lindsay replied. “I’ll cover your back.”

  He sighed. “The first concerns a man called Paul Warminster. He’s local. He owns a couple of gents’ outfitters in Fordham. He joined RABD shortly after I did and was always mouthing off against the women. He wasn’t happy with the way our campaign was being run.

  “He said we should take the fight into the enemy territory instead of simply reacting to them. He always speaks in that sort of jargon. I suspect he must have been in the Pay Corps or something like it in the war. He thought we should be actively banning them from shops, pubs, cinemas, the lot. He thought also that we should be harassing them in the town—insulting them, jostling them, generally making life hard for them.

  “Rupert always managed to keep the lid on him till about a month or so ago. Paul stood against him in the election for chair and made the most scurrilous attack on him. He ended up by saying that Rupert was so wishy-washy that he was lucky the motorbike gangs weren’t throwing pigs’ blood on his house. That, I’m afraid, was his big mistake. Our group has always utterly repudiated the thugs who terrorize the women at the camp. But I’d certainly heard mutterings that perhaps Paul wasn’t as quick to condemn as one would expect, if you catch my drift. As I said, this was all common knowledge.

  “Well, Rupert was duly re-elected with a thumping majority and he announced that since Paul’s policies and attitudes had been so soundly defeated at the ballot box, it would seem there was no place for him within the group. It didn’t actually leave Paul any option except resignation. So out he stormed, making sure we all knew he was right and Rupert was wrong. He didn’t actually make any threats, but the inference was there to be taken.”

  “Okay, Mr. Stanhope. And the second incident?”

  “Call me Carl, please. I’m not old enough yet for Mr. Stanhope.” He radiated charm at her.

  She felt like throwing up over his clean jeans. But she didn’t even grind her teeth as she said, “Okay, Carl. The second incident?”

  “Look, I really meant what I said about keeping my name out of this. If I thought you’d drop me in it I’d shut up now . . .”

  “No, no,” said Lindsay, “I’ll forget you told me. Just give me the details.”

  “I was told this by someone I can’t name. But I’m certain it’s true, because it’s referred to in the agenda for next week’s meeting, though not in any detail that would make clear what it’s about. William Mallard is the treasurer of RABD. He’s a local estate agent. We’re quite a wealthy organization. We need to be because we try to fight civil court actions, which costs an arm and a leg. But we are a popular cause locally, and all our fund-raising is well supported by the locals. And we’ve had some financial donations from outside the area too.”

  “So at any given time, there’s a few hundred in the kitty, is that what you’re trying to say?” Lindsay interjected, frustrated.

  “More like a few thousand,” he said. “Rupert was a bit concerned that we weren’t using our money properly—you know, that we should be keeping it in a high interest account instead of a current one. Mallard wouldn’t agree. Now, being an awkward sort of bloke Rupert thought his reaction was decidedly iffy. So, armed with the latest treasurer’s report, he zapped off to the bank and demanded a chat with the manager. The upshot was that instead of there being about seven thou. in the account, as the report stated, there was barely five hundred.

  “Rupert blew a fuse. He hared off to see Mallard and confront him. They apparently had a real up and downer. Mallard claimed he’d simply been doing what he always did with large lumps of money in his care, to wit, dumping them in high interest, seven-day accounts. But he couldn’t show Rupert the money then and there. Rupert accused him of speculating with the RABD’s money and pocketing the profits—Mallard’s known for having a taste for the stock market, you see.

  “Anyway, Rupert went off breathing fire. Next thing is, the following day, Mallard came to see Rupert, with evidence that the missing six and a half grand was all present and correct. But this didn’t satisfy Rupert once he’d slept on it; he was baying for blood. He’d had time to think things through and realized that at some point Mallard must have forged Rupert’s signature to shift the cash, since a check required both signatures. He told Mallard he was going to raise the matter at the next meeting and let the association decide who was in the wrong. Mallard was apparently fizzing with rage and threatening Rupert with everything from libel actions to—” He broke off, then stumbled on, “to you name it.”

  “Murder perhaps? Cozy little bunch, aren’t you?” Lindsay remarked. “The wonder of it is that it’s taken so long for someone to get murdered.”

  He looked puzzled. “I don’t think that’s quite fair,” he protested.

  “Life isn’t fair,” she retorted, getting to her feet. “At least, not for most people. Who’s got the files now, by the way? I’ll need to see them.”

  He shrugged. “Mallard, I guess.”

  “Could you call him and tell him Jack Rigano wants him to cooperate?” she asked.

  “Look, I told you I didn’t want to be connected with you on this,” he protested.

  “So tell him the request came from Rigano. Otherwise you’ve wasted your breath talking to me, haven’t you?”

  He nodded reluctantly. “Okay,” he said.

  Lindsay was at the door when he spoke again. “Jack says you’ll be talking to a lot of people in Rupert’s immediate circle?”

  “That’s right. It all helps to build up the picture.”

  “Will you be seeing his daughter Ros?”

  Lindsay nodded. “I’m hoping to see her one evening this week,” she replied.

  “Will you say hello from me? Tell her I hope the business is going well and any time she’s down home, she should give me a call and we’ll have a drink for old times’ sake.”
/>   “Sure, I didn’t realize you knew Ros Crabtree.”

  “Everyone knows everyone else around here, you know. Ask Judith Rowe. Ros and I were sort of pals in the school holidays when we were growing up. You know the routine—horses, tennis club.”

  Lindsay grinned, remembering the summers of her youth fishing for prawns with her father in the thirty-foot boat that was his livelihood. “Not quite my routine, Carl, but yes, I know what you mean. Was she your girlfriend, then?”

  He actually blushed. “Not really. We spent a lot of time together a few years ago, but it was never really serious. And then . . . well, Ros decided that, well, her interests lay in quite other directions, if you follow me?”

  “I’m not entirely sure that I do.”

  “Well, it rather turned out that she seems to prefer women to men. Shame, really. I think that’s partly why she moved away from home.”

  “You mean her parents were hostile about it?”

  “Good God, no! They knew nothing about it. Rupert Crabtree would never have put up the money for her restaurant if he’d thought for one minute she was gay. He’d have killed her!”

  9

  “No, Duncan, I can’t write anything about the RABD yet. I’ve only got one guy’s word for it, and half of that’s second-hand,” Lindsay said in exasperation. “I should be able to harden up the ratepayers’ routine by tomorrow lunchtime.”

  “That’ll have to do then, I suppose,” Duncan barked. “But see if you can tie it up today, okay? And keep close to the cops. Any sign of an arrest, I want to be the first to know. And don’t forget that interview with the suspect woman. Keep ahead of the game, Lindsay.”

  The line went dead. Lindsay was grateful. The interview with Stanhope had produced more than she’d anticipated and she’d spent the rest of the morning trying to set up meetings with Mallard and Warminster. But neither could fit her in till the next day which left her with a hole in the news editor’s schedule to fill and nothing to fill it with except for the one interview she didn’t want to capitalize on. The fact that she was no stranger to living on her wits didn’t mean she had to enjoy it. The one thing she wasn’t prepared to admit to herself yet was that the job was increasingly turning into something she couldn’t square either with her conscience or her principles. After all, once she had acknowledged the tackiness of the world she loved working in, how could she justify her continued determination to take the money and run?