by Val McDermid
“I’m surprised you didn’t go down to Brownlow as soon as you heard the news. I mean, with your mother to comfort and all that . . .?” Lindsay sounded offhand.
“Acting nonchalant cuts no ice with me, darling. I can spot the heavy questions without you signposting them. Why didn’t I dash off home to Mummy? For one thing, I have a business to run. On Mondays, I go to the market and see what’s looking good. On that basis I plan the special dishes for the week. We also do all the bookkeeping and paperwork on Mondays. I simply couldn’t just vanish for the day. It’ll be hard enough fitting the funeral in. That’s not as callous as it sounds. My father cared about this business too. But more importantly than all of that, I’m not at all sure I’d be the person to comfort my mother.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m not the weepy, sentimental sort. I’m far too bloody brisk to be much of a shoulder to cry on. I’m afraid I’d be more inclined to tell her to pull herself together than to provide tea and sympathy.”
“So it’s nothing to do with her attitudes to you being a lesbian? Oh, but of course, they didn’t know, did they? Or so Carlton Stanhope reckons. Mind you, I always figure that parents know a lot more than they let on,” said Lindsay, her eyes on a distant corner of the room.
“You’ve talked to Carl?” Suddenly Ros had become guarded.
“He sends his best wishes. He’s seeing Alexandra Phillips these days, you know,” Lindsay replied.
“How nice for him. She used to be a lovely girl when I knew her. I hope she treats him better than I did. Poor Carl,” she said ruefully. “But to go back to what he said to you. He was right, as far as he was aware. They really didn’t know. I’d kept it well under wraps. Let me explain the history. After I’d decided my career lay in the catering trade, my father was always keen that I should set up in business on my own when I’d done the training and got the experience. Meg and I did a proper business plan based on the costings for this place and I presented it to him as a good investment. He lent me twenty thousand pounds at a nominal rate of interest so we could get the project off the ground. He’d never have done that much if he’d even suspected. I suppose my cover was never blown because I’d spent so much time studying and working away from home, and when I was home, there were always old friends like Carl around to provide protective coloring. It was really funny when we launched Rubyfruits—we had to have two opening nights. One with lots of straight friends that we could invite the parents to and another with the real clientele.”
Lindsay lit a cigarette. “It sounds like you had a lot to be grateful to him for?”
Ros shrugged. “In some ways. But we were never really close. He was always at arm’s length, somehow. With all of us. As if his real life happened somewhere else. The office; I suppose. Or one of his causes.” The edge of bitterness in her voice was apparent even to Ros herself. She softened her tone and added, “But I guess I owe this place to him. I’m sorry he’s dead.”
“Then he didn’t carry out his threat to take his money back?” Lindsay’s casual words dropped into a sudden well of silence. Ros’s face wouldn’t have looked out of place on Easter Island.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she declared. “No idea at all.”
“I’m told that he’d recently become disillusioned with you, that he was minded to take his money out of this business as a token of his disappointment. You really should tell me about it in case I go away with the wrong idea. And you not having much of an alibi. My news editor would like that story a lot.”
Ros stared hard at Lindsay. “Well, well,” she muttered bitterly, “So much for lesbian solidarity. You’re not the pushover I took you for, are you? Fancy me thinking that anyone who tagged along on Cordelia’s coat-tails could be toothless. All right. Since you obviously know enough to make a bloody nuisance of yourself, I’d better tell you the rest.
“Ten days ago I had a phone call from my father. He informed me that he was instructing his bankers to recover the twenty thousand he’d loaned me. He refused to say why, or even to say anything else. So I rang my mother to see if she knew what the hell was going on. And she wouldn’t say either.
“So I jumped on the bike and bombed down to the old homestead where I squeezed out of Mamma what it was all about. To cut a long story short, it was all down to my perfectly bloody little brother. You know he’s got this business in computer software? Well, he had to start it on a shoestring, against my father’s advice. Father wanted different things for Simon, and that was the end of the story as far as he was concerned. He wouldn’t even listen when one of Simon’s teachers came to see him and told us that Simon was the best computer programmer he’d ever encountered. Apparently, he was hacking into other people’s systems by the time he was in the third form. Anyway, Simon got off the ground somehow and he’s at the stage now where it’s make or break, expand or fold, and he needs an injection of cash. God knows where he got the money to get this far, but he was determined that the next chunk of capital should come from Father, on the basis that he’d lent me money for the business and it was only right that he should do the same for Simon.
“Dad refused absolutely. He said I’d proved myself, which Simon still had to do before he could come chasing around for hard-earned handouts. Mum said they were going at it hammer and tongs then Simon blew a fuse and said something along the lines of how appalling it was that Father was prepared to finance a pair of lesbians running a restaurant for queens and he wouldn’t finance his only son in a legitimate business. Mum says there was a ghastly silence then Simon walked out. Father apparently wouldn’t say a thing, just went off in the car. She thinks he came up here to see for himself. And the next day—bombshell.”
“I thought it must have been something like that,” Lindsay said. “So I suppose that put you right in the cart.”
“Until the death of my father, that’s what you’re getting at, isn’t it? Not quite that easy, I’m afraid. You see, we’ve been doing better than we projected. It knocked some of our personal plans on the head, like new furniture for the flat, but we’ve simply transferred to a bank loan. We can just afford the extra interest. Any money from my father’s will, unless he’s cut me out of that too, will be an absolute godsend, there’s no getting away from that. But we could have managed without it. I had no need to kill him. Now, you’ve got what you came for. Is there anything else before I get you the bill?”
“Just one thing. Any idea why your father was carrying a gun?”
“Carrying a gun? I knew nothing about that. No one said anything to me about a gun!”
“The police are trying to keep it fairly quiet. A point two two revolver.”
“I can’t begin to think why he had his gun with him. He used to be a member of a small-arms shooting club at Middle Walberley. But he hadn’t been for . . . oh God, it must be eight years. He gave it up because he didn’t have time enough for practicing and he could never bear to do anything unless he did it to perfection. I didn’t even know he’d kept his gun. I can’t believe he had enemies—I mean, not the sort you’d have to arm yourself against. Wow, that really is weird.” For the first time, she looked upset. “Somebody must have really got to him. That’s horrible.” She swallowed the remains of her brandy and got to her feet. “I’ll get Meg to bring your bill.” She vanished through the swing door at the back of the restaurant followed by Meg, whose eyes had never left them during the interview.
Lindsay rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. Deborah reached out and took her hand. Before they could speak, Meg re-emerged from the kitchen and strode over to them. By now, they were the center of attention for the few diners remaining. “Have this meal on me,” Meg said angrily. “Just so long as you don’t come back here again. Now go. I mean it, Lindsay. Just get out!”
11
The head office of Mallard and Martin, Estate Agents, Auctioneers and Valuers, was at the far end of the main street in Fordham. The retail developers who have turned
every British high street into undistinguished and indistinguishable shopping malls had not yet penetrated that far down the street, and the double-fronted office looked old-fashioned enough to appeal to the most conservative in the district. Lindsay, dressed to match the office in her new outfit, studied the properties in the window with curiosity. She noticed several houses in the vicinity of Brownlow Common were up for sale. But their prices didn’t seem to be significantly lower than comparable houses in other areas. She pushed open the door and as she entered, a sleek young woman in a fashionably sharp suit rose and came over to the high wooden counter.
“Can I help you?” she inquired.
“I’m due to see Mr. Mallard,” Lindsay explained. “My name’s Lindsay Gordon.”
“Oh yes, he’s expecting you. Do come through.” The woman raised a flap in the counter and showed Lindsay through into Mallard’s own office. He got up as Lindsay was ushered in and genially indicated a chair. Mallard was a short, chubby man in his fifties, almost completely bald. He wore large, gold-rimmed spectacles and tufts of gray hair stuck out above his ears, making him look like a rather cherubic owl. He smiled winningly at Lindsay. “Now, young lady,” he said cheerfully, “you’re a reporter, I think you said?”
“That’s right. But I’m not just looking for stories. I believe Carlton Stanhope rang to pass on Superintendent Rigano’s request?”
“He did indeed.” He smiled. “Always delighted to help an attractive, young lady like yourself. Mr. Stanhope tells me you’ve been able to give the police some assistance concerning dear Rupert’s death? A dreadful tragedy, quite, quite dreadful.”
Lindsay decided she did not care for this bouncing chauvinist piglet. But his seeming garrulity might be something she could turn to her advantage. She smiled at him. “Absolutely. I have been able to come up with some quite useful information so far. And of course, not all of it is passed directly to the police. I mean, a lot emerges in these affairs that has no bearing on the main issue. It would be a pity to cloud matters with irrelevant information, wouldn’t it? So if people are open with me, I can often get to the bottom of things that would otherwise cause a lot of wasted police time. If you see what I mean?” She let the question hang in the air.
“So you want to find out how well I knew Rupert, who his friends were, if he made enemies through RABD, that sort of thing? That’s what Mr. Stanhope said,” Mallard replied hastily.
“Not exactly,” Lindsay replied. “Though I would like to look through the RABD records. I think Mr. Stanhope arranged that with you?”
Mallard nodded vigorously. “They’re all upstairs in a little office I put at the disposal of the organization. You can take as long as you want, you’ll have the place to yourself. We’ve got nothing to hide, you know, though obviously we don’t want our future plans made public. That would put an end to our strategies against those . . . those harpies down there,” he said, his geniality slipping as he referred to the peace women.
“I rather thought there were one or two matters you’d prefer to keep to yourself, Mr. Mallard,” Lindsay remarked idly.
“No, no, we’re not at all secretive. We’re perfectly open, no conspiracies here.”
An odd thing to say, Lindsay thought. “No conspiracies, perhaps, but one or two disagreements.”
“Disagreements?” He looked apprehensive.
“Paul Warminster?”
“Oh, that,” he muttered, looking uncomfortable. “Yes, that was a little unfortunate. But then, it only supports what I was saying to you about being open. We’re not extremists in RABD, just people concerned about our local community and the environment our families live in. We don’t want to be involved in anything at all violent. That’s what Paul Warminster felt we should be doing. He wanted us to be some kind of vigilante band, driving these awful women away by force. We were glad Rupert had the strength to stand up to him. That sort of woman isn’t going to go away because you throw them out physically. If we’d gone ahead and taken violent action, the next day there would have been twice as many of them. No, Rupert was right.”
“And do you think Paul Warminster resented what he did?”
“No question about that, young lady. He was furious.”
“Furious enough for murder?”
Mallard’s smile this time was sickly. “I’m sure nobody in our circle, not even someone with Paul Warminster’s views, would resort to murder.” He made it sound like a social solecism.
“But someone in Rupert Crabtree’s circle did just that.”
Mallard shook his head. “No. Those women are to blame. It certainly wasn’t Paul Warminster. He had nothing to gain. Even with Rupert out of the way, he’ll never win control of RABD and its membership. He must know that. He’s not a fool.”
“I’m happy to take your word for it,” Lindsay flattered. “Now, if I might see those papers?” She got to her feet.
“Of course, of course,” he said, rising and bustling her out of the room. They climbed two flights of stairs, Mallard chatting continuously about the property market and the deplorable effect the peace camp was having on house prices in the neighborhood of the common.
“But houses at Brownlow seem about the same price as similar houses near by,” Lindsay commented.
“Oh yes, but they used to be the most highly sought-after in the area, and the most expensive. Now it takes a lot of persuasion to shift them. Well, here we are.”
They entered a small office containing a battered desk, several upright chairs, and a filing cabinet. “Here you are, m’dear,” Mallard waved vaguely around him. He unlocked the filing cabinet. “Chairman’s files and my files in the top drawers. Minutes in the second. Correspondence in the third and stationery in the bottom drawer. Look at anything you please, we’ve no guilty secrets.”
“Will you be in your office for a while? I might come across some things I want to clarify.”
“Of course, of course. I shall be there till half past twelve. I’m sure you’ll be finished by then. I’m at your disposal.” He twinkled another seemingly sincere smile at her and vanished downstairs.
Lindsay sighed deeply and extracted two bulging manila folders from the top drawer of the filing cabinet. They were both labeled “Ratepayers Against Brownlow’s Destruction. Chairman’s File.” In red pen, the same hand had written “1” and “2” on them. She sat down at the desk and opened her briefcase. She took out a large notepad, pen, and her Walkman. She slotted in a Django Reinhardt tape and started to plow through the papers.
The first file yielded nothing that Lindsay could see. She stuffed the papers back into it and opened the second file. As she pulled the documents out, a cassette tape clattered on to the desk. Curious, she picked it up. The handwritten label, not in Crabtree’s by now familiar script, said, “Sting: The Dream of The Blue Turtles.” Surprised, Lindsay put it to one side and carried on working. When her own tape reached the end, she decided to have a change and inserted the Sting tape. But instead of the familiar opening chords she heard an alien sequence of hisses, bleeps, and sounds like radio interference. Lindsay knew very little about information technology. But she knew enough to realize that although this tape was mislabeled, it was actually a computer program on tape. And fed into the right computer, it might explain precisely what it was doing in Rupert Crabtree’s RABD file. She remembered the computers she had seen downstairs and wondered if that was where Mallard stored the real information about RABD’s finances.
She worked her way quickly through the financial records, making a few notes as she went. It seemed to be in order, though the book-keeping system seemed unnecessarily complex. Finally she skimmed through the minutes and correspondence. “Waste of bloody time,” she muttered to herself as she neatly replaced everything. The cassette tape caught her eye, and she wondered again if it might hold the key to the questions Crabtree had been asking about money. She threw the computer tape into her briefcase along with her own bits and pieces and headed downstairs for the confrontati
on she’d been geared up to since breakfast. As she rounded the corner of the stairs, she noticed a man coming out of Mallard’s office. From above, she could see little except the top of his head of graying, gingery hair and the shoulders of his tweed jacket. By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, he had gone.
Mallard’s office door was ajar and she stuck her head round. “Can I come in?” she asked.
“Of course, of course, m’dear,” he answered her, beaming. “I expect you’ve had a very boring morning with our papers.”
“It has been hard work,” Lindsay admitted. “I’m surprised you haven’t got the lot on computer, with Simon Crabtree being in that line of business.”
Mallard nodded. “Couldn’t agree more, m’dear. But Rupert wouldn’t hear of it. Lawyers, you see. Very conservative in their methods. Not like us. Our front office may look very traditional. But all the work gets done in the big office at the back—where our computers are. The latest thing—IBM-compatible hard-disk drives. I actually bought them on Simon’s advice. But Rupert didn’t trust them. He said you could lose all your work at the touch of a button and he felt happier with bits of paper that didn’t vanish into thin air. Typical lawyer—wanted everything in black and white.”
“There was one other thing I wanted to ask you about.”
“Ask away, m’dear, ask away.”
“Why was Rupert Crabtree going to raise your handling of RABD funds at the next meeting?”
Mallard flushed, but managed to freeze his smile in place as he replied, “Was he?”
“You know he was. The two of you had a row about it, and he said the association should decide.”
“I don’t know where you’ve got your information from, young lady, but I can assure you nothing of the sort took place.” Mallard attempted to stand on his dignity. “We had a very harmonious relationship.”
