Common Murder

by Val McDermid

  Alexandra blew her nose and wiped her eyes before she turned back toward them. “He said Simon had let him down. That he wasn’t the son he wanted. He sounded very bitter, but wouldn’t say what had provoked it. He seldom discussed family matters with me, though he did say a couple of weeks ago that he’d found something out about Ros that had upset him so much he was seriously considering taking his investment out of her restaurant. I asked him what it was because I’ve known Ros since we were kids, and I suspected he’d finally found out that she’s a lesbian.”

  “You knew about that?”

  “Of course. I was one of the first people she told. I’ve not seen much of her since then, because I felt really uncomfortable about it. But I’d never have uttered a word to Rupert about it. I knew what it would do to him. But I suspect that that was at the root of his anger against Ros.

  “And he was terribly upset about the Ratepayers’ Association. He’d discovered that the treasurer was up to something fishy with the money. Instead of there being a large amount, about seven thousand in the current account, there was barely five hundred pounds. Rupert confronted the treasurer with his discovery, and he couldn’t account for the difference satisfactorily. Rupert was convinced he’d been using it to speculate in stocks and shares and line his own pockets. So he was bringing it up at the next meeting which I’m told would have been stormy, with Rupert baying for blood.”

  Suddenly her words tripped a connection lurking at the back of Lindsay’s brain. The combination of a repeated phrase and a coincidence of figures clicked into place. “Carlton Stanhope,” she said.

  Alexandra looked horrified. “Who told you?” she demanded. “No one knew. I made sure no one knew. I wouldn’t hurt Rupert like that. Who told you?”

  Lindsay smiled ruefully. “You just did. You were unlucky, that’s all. I had a talk with Canton this morning. He told me the William Mallard story. The figures he gave me were identical to those you gave me, and figures are an area where people are notoriously inaccurate. Also, you used a couple of identical phrases. It had to be you who told him. And the only person you’d be likely to tell would be someone very close to you. By the way, I wouldn’t bother trying to hide it from the police. I suspect they already know; it was they who pointed me in his direction as a source of good information on Rupert.”

  “If they question me, I’ll tell them the truth,” Alexandra said, in control of herself again. “But I don’t want to discuss it with you. I’ve said more than enough to someone who has no business interfering.”

  Lindsay shrugged. “That’s your decision. But there’s one more thing I have to ask. It’s really important. Was Rupert in the habit of carrying a gun?”

  Alexandra looked bewildered. “A gun?” she demanded incredulously.

  “I’m told, a high-standard double-nine point two two revolver, whatever that is. He was carrying it when he was killed.”

  Alexandra looked stunned. “But why? I don’t understand. Do you mean he knew he was at risk?”

  “It looks like it. Did you know he had a gun? I’m told it was registered to him. Perfectly in order.”

  Alexandra shook her head slowly. “I never saw him with a gun. My God, that’s awful. He must have been so afraid. And yet he said nothing about it. Oh, poor, poor Rupert.”

  “I’m sorry you had to know,” said Lindsay. “Look, if you change your mind and want to talk a bit more, you can always reach me through Judith,” she added, moving toward the door.

  “Oh, and by the way,” she added as Judith rose to follow her, “when did you tell Canton what Rupert had said about rethinking the future? Was it on Saturday night? Or was it Sunday morning?” She didn’t wait for the answer she suspected would be a lie. The look of fear in Alexandra’s eyes was answer enough.

  10

  Lindsay drove down the motorway at a speed that would have seemed tame in a modern high-performance car. In the soft-top sports car it was terrifying. Deborah was relieved that Lindsay’s lecture on the current state of play was absorbing enough to occupy her brain. “So you see,” Lindsay complained, “Alexandra has opened a completely new vista of possibilities. But the more I find out, the less I know. I don’t think I’m really cut out for this sort of thing. I can’t seem to make sense of any of it.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you, Lin,” Deborah said with a smile. “Just be logical about it. We now know there were a fair few people less than fond of Rupert. Let’s run through them. Think out loud.”

  “Okay,” Lindsay replied. “One: his son Simon. For reasons unknown, he was in bad odor. It sounds like more than his assertion of the right to independence by opening up his computer firm. But how much more, we don’t know. Yet.

  “Two: his daughter Ros. For some unspecified reason, Rupert was seriously considering disinvestment. Now that may or may not be an effective weapon in the war against apartheid, but it sure as hell must be a serious threat to a small restaurant just finding its feet. Hopefully tonight will answer our questions about Ros. But the middle classes being what they are, five will get you ten that Daddy’s disenchantment with daughter was deviance of the dykey variety.

  “Three: Emma Crabtree. Our Rupert marched off on Saturday to think about his future. What we don’t know is whether he told Emma about Alexandra; whether he’d decided he wanted a divorce and whether that prospect would have delighted or dismayed a woman who isn’t the most obviously grieving widow I’ve ever encountered. A lot of questions there.

  “Four: Alexandra. She’s scared of his temper, she’s afraid that he’s not going to let her go without a very unpleasant fight. And she’s had enough of him, she wants Stanhope. Personally, I’m disinclined to suspect her, though she seems to have no alibi. She did genuinely seem too taken aback by the gun to be a real candidate.” She paused to gather her thoughts.

  “Go on,” Deborah prompted.

  “Five: Carlton Stanhope. Alexandra undoubtedly told him of Crabtree’s reaction. He may have figured that making an enemy of as powerful a bastard as Crabtree was not a good move and that murder might even have been preferable. Or it may have been that he felt the one sure way of keeping Alexandra was to get rid of the opposition. Depends how badly he wants Alexandra. I have to say that the bias I feel in her favor operates in the opposite direction as far as he’s concerned. I took a real dislike to him, and he’s got no alibi either.

  “And finally, our two prize beauties from RABD. Mallard might have thought, knowing what a fair man Crabtree was, that his peculations would die with his chairman. And Warminster sounds dotty enough to opt for violence as a means of securing his takeover of RABD. What do you think, Debs?”

  Deborah thought for a moment. “You realize you haven’t established opportunity for any of them?”

  “That is a bit of a problem. I know the police have been pursuing their own inquiries. Maybe I can persuade Rigano that it’s in the best interests of his investigation to swap that info for what I’ve got. Such as it is. Mind you, by the time I’ve flammed it up a bit, maybe he’ll buy it as a fair exchange.”

  “You also left me off the list of suspects. I should be on it.”

  Lindsay laughed. “Even though you didn’t do it?”

  “You don’t know that because of facts. You only know it because of history and because we’re lovers again. Don’t discount the theory that I might have seduced you in order to allay your suspicions and get you on the side of my defense. So I should be on that list till you prove I didn’t do it.”

  Lindsay looked horrified. “You wouldn’t!”

  “I might have. If I were a different person.”

  “Okay,” Lindsay conceded with a smile. “But I don’t reckon that you had put Rupert Crabtree into such a state of fear that he was carrying a gun to protect himself. He must have been armed because he feared a murderous attack.”

  “Or because he intended to kill the person he was meeting.”

  Lindsay threw a quick glance at Deborah, caught off guard by this
flash of bright logic. She forced herself to examine Deborah’s fresh insight.

  Eventually, she countered it, tentatively at first and then more assuredly as she reached the end of the motorway and followed the route to Camden Town. “You see,” she concluded, “he didn’t need to kill you. He was going to get all the revenge he needed in court.”

  Deborah pondered, then blew Lindsay’s hypothesis into smithereens as they approached Rubyfruits. “Not necessarily,” she said thoughtfully. “Everyone says he was a fair man. He also had a degree of respect for the law, being a solicitor. Now, supposing in the aftermath of the shock of the accident, he genuinely thought I had attacked him, and on the basis of that genuine belief he gave the statement to the police that triggered the whole thing off. In the interim, however, as time has passed, his recollection has become clearer and he’s realized that he actually tripped over the dog’s lead and I had nothing to do with it. Now, what are his options? He either withdraws his evidence and becomes a laughing-stock as well as exposing himself to all sorts of reprisals from a libel suit—”

  “Slander,” Lindsay interrupted absently.

  “Okay, okay, slander suit, to being accused of wasting police time, all thanks to me. Or he perjures himself, probably an equally unthinkable option for a man like him. His self-esteem is so wounded by this dilemma that he becomes unhinged and decides to kill me in such a way that he can claim self-defense. So he starts carrying the gun, biding his time till he gets me alone. Think on that one, Lin. Now, we’re here. Let’s go eat.” And so saying, she jumped out of the car.

  Lindsay caught up with her on the cobbled road outside the restaurant which occupied the ground floor of a narrow, three-story brick building in a dimly lit side street near the trendy Camden Lock complex of boutiques, restaurants, and market stalls. It stood between a typesetting company and a warehouse. A red Ford Fiesta turned into the street and they both stepped back to avoid it as it cruised past the restaurant. Lindsay grabbed Deborah’s arm. “As a theory, it’s brilliant,” she blurted out. “But in human terms, it stinks. You didn’t do it, Debs.”

  Deborah smiled broadly and said, “Just testing.” She pushed open the door and moved quickly into the restaurant to avoid Lindsay’s grasp. They were greeted by a young woman with short blonde hair cut in a spiky crest.

  “Hello, Lindsay,” she said cheerfully. “I kept you a nice table over in the corner.”

  “Thanks, Meg.” They followed her, Lindsay saying, “This is Debs, Meg. She’s an old friend of mine.”

  “Hi Debs. Nice to meet you. Okay. Here’s the menu, wine list. Today’s specials are on the blackboard, okay?” And she was gone, moving swiftly from table to table, clearing and chatting all the way to the swing doors leading into the kitchen.

  Deborah looked around, taking in the stripped pine, the moss green walls and ceiling, and the huge photographs ranging predictably from Virginia Woolf to Virginia Wade. She noticed that the cutlery and crockery on each table was different and appeared to have come from junk shops and flea markets. The background music was Rickie Lee Jones turned low. The other tables were also occupied by women. “I can just see you and Cordelia here,” Deborah commented. “Very designer dyke.”

  “Cut the crap and choose your grub,” Lindsay ordered.

  “Get you,” muttered Deborah. They studied the menus and settled for Avocado Rubyfruits. (“Slices of ripe avocado interleaved with slices of succulent Sharon fruit, garnished with watercress, bathed in a raspberry vinaigrette’) followed by Butter Beanfeast (“Butter beans braised with organically grown onions, green peppers, and chives, smothered in a rich cheese sauce, topped with a gratinée of stoneground whole-meal bread-crumbs and traditional farm cheddar cheese’) with choose-your-own salads from a wide range of the homely and the exotic colorfully displayed on a long narrow table at the rear of the room. To drink Lindsay selected a bottle of gooseberry champagne.

  “My God,” Deborah exploded quietly when Meg departed with the order, “I hadn’t realized how far pretentiousness had penetrated the world of healthy eating. This is so over the top, Lin. Are there really enough right-on vegetarian women around to make this place a going concern?”

  “Don’t be too ready to slag it off. The food is actually terrific. Just relax and enjoy it,” Lindsay pleaded.

  Deborah shook her head in affectionate acceptance and sat back in her chair. “Now tell me,” she demanded, “Since you hang out so much in this bijou dinette, how come you don’t have the same intimate relationship with Ros Crabtree that you have with Meg?”

  “It’s very simple. Meg runs around serving at table. Meg answers the phone when you book. Meg stands and flatters over your coffee. Ros, on the other hand, must be grafting away in the kitchen five nights a week. She’s too busy cooking to socialize, even with people she knows. And by the end of the evening, I’d guess she’s too exhausted to be bothered making polite social chitchat with the customers. It’s hard work cooking for vegetarians. There’s so much more preparation in Butter Beanfeast than in Steak au Poivre.”

  Before Deborah could reply, their avocados appeared. Deborah tried her food suspiciously, then her face lit up. “Hey this is really good,” she exclaimed.

  When Meg returned to clear their plates and serve the champagne, Lindsay made her move.

  “That was terrific, Meg. Listen, we’d like to have a word with Ros. Not right now, obviously, but when she’s through in the kitchen. Do you think that’ll be okay?”

  Meg looked surprised. “I suppose so. But . . . what’s it all about, Lindsay? Oh, wait a minute . . . You’re a reporter, aren’t you?” Her voice had developed a hostile edge. “It’s about her father, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not what you think,” Deborah protested. “She’s not some cheap hack out to do a hatchet job on you and Ros. You know her, for God’s sake, she’s one of us.”

  “So what is it all about then?” The anger in her voice transmitted itself to nearby tables, where a few faces looked up and studied them curiously.

  Deborah took a deep breath. “I’m their number one suspect. I’ve already had one night in the police cells and I don’t fancy another. Lindsay’s trying her damnedest to get me off the hook and that means discovering the real killer. I’d have thought you and Ros would be interested in finding out who killed her father.”

  “Him? The only reason I’d want to know who killed him is so that I could shake them by the hand. Look, I’m not too impressed with what you’ve got to say for yourselves, but I will go ask Ros if she’ll talk to you.” She marched off and returned a few minutes later with their main courses, which she placed meticulously before them without a word.

  They ate in virtual silence, their enjoyment dulled. Meg silently removed their plates and took their order for biscuits, cheese, and coffee.

  By half past ten and the third cup of coffee, Lindsay was beginning to despair of any further communication from the kitchen. The tension had dried up conversation between her and Deborah. The evening she’d been looking forward to had somehow become awkward and difficult. Then, a tall, broad woman emerged from the kitchen and exchanged a few words with Meg, who nodded in their direction. The woman crossed the room toward them. She was bulky, but she looked strong and sturdy rather than flabby. Her hair was short and curly, her face pink from the heat of the kitchen. Like her brother, Ros Crabtree strongly resembled their father. She wore a pair of chef’s trousers and a navy blue polo shirt. In her hand was a brandy bowl with a large slug of spirit sobbing up the sides of the glass.

  She pulled a chair up and said without preamble, “So this is the sleuth. The famous Cordelia Brown’s girlfriend. Accompanied, unless I am mistaken, by the brutal peace woman who goes around beating up helpless men.” She smiled generously. “Enjoy your dinner?”

  “As always,” Lindsay answered, stung by being defined as an adjunct to Cordelia.

  “But tonight you came for more than three courses and a bottle of country wine.”

&nbs
p; “We hoped you would help us,” Deborah stated baldly. “Lindsay’s trying to clear my name. I’m afraid that if there isn’t an arrest soon, I’ll be charged, just so they can be seen to be achieving something.”

  “We also thought you would have an interest in seeing your father’s killer arrested,” Lindsay added.

  Ros laughed. “Look, I have no feelings about my father one way or the other. I neither loved him nor hated him but I’m sorry about the way he died. I was glad to be out of his house but frankly, the notion of getting some atavistic revenge on the person who killed him leaves me unmoved. You’re wasting your time here.”

  Lindsay shrugged. “So if it matters that little to you, why not talk to me, answer my questions? It could make a lot of difference to Debs.”

  “I can’t think of anything I could tell you that would be of the slightest use. But I suppose I owe something to the woman who cost my father his precious dignity and a broken nose. Oh, the hell with it, ask what you want. If I feel like answering, I will.” She swallowed a generous mouthful of brandy, seemingly relaxed.

  “I’ll ask the obvious question first. Where were you on Sunday night between ten p.m. and midnight?” Lindsay asked.

  “Oh dear, oh dear, we have been reading all the snobbery with violence detective novels, haven’t we?” The mockery in Ros’s voice was still good-natured, but it was obvious that the veneer was wearing thin. “I was here on Sunday night. We have a flat above the restaurant. I think I was reading till about eleven. Then I went to bed and I was woken up just after midnight when my mother phoned to tell me about my father’s death.”

  “I suppose Meg can back you up?”

  “As it happens, no. Meg was on her way back from Southampton. She’d been visiting her parents. She didn’t get home till about half past midnight. So I don’t have much of an alibi, do I? No one phoned till mother, I phoned no one. You’ll just have to take my word for it.” She grinned broadly.