Common Murder

by Val McDermid

  “Partly it’s fear,” she replied. “I said to you earlier that I’d be a fool if I knew who had killed Crabtree and tried to kill Deborah and persisted in keeping my mouth shut. Well, I think that now I know, and I’m ready to talk.”

  If she expected him to show signs of amazement or shock, she was disappointed. His eyebrows twitched slightly and he simply said, “That’s assuming the two incidents are directly related.”

  Lindsay was puzzled. “But of course they are. You can’t seriously expect anyone to believe that there are two homicidal maniacs running around out there? Deborah was connected to Crabtree while he was alive; in my book, that makes a strong case for a connection when they’re both involved in murderous attacks in the same place within days of each other.”

  “The attack on Deborah Patterson could have been a random attack on one of the peace women by someone who’s got a grudge against the camp,” he argued mildly.

  Lindsay shook her head. “No way. If anyone was going to do that, they’d pick a spot much nearer the road, where they could make a quick getaway. The woods are really dense around where Debs was attacked. That was someone watching and waiting and biding his time, someone who knows enough about the way things work round here to know where to keep his eyes open.”

  Rigano smiled. He almost seemed to be enjoying their sparring. “All right,” he conceded. “I’ll grant you the assumption for now that the incidents were connected. Where do we go from there?”

  “Do you want the hypothesis or the evidence?”

  “I’ll have the evidence, then you can give me the theory.”

  “Item one. A cassette tape. It was among Rupert Crabtree’s papers in the RABD files. It’s not what it says on the label—it’s a recording of signals traffic on computer that would be of interest both to this country’s allies and our enemies.” She put the tape on his desk. He picked it up, studied it, and put it down again. He nodded encouragingly.

  “Item two. Debs thinks she’s being haunted by the ghost of Rupert Crabtree. She thinks she saw him walking the dog after he was dead, and she’s convinced it was Crabtree who attacked her.

  “Item three. There is someone around, the guy you called Mr. Stone, who is taking an interest in what’s going on. He’s not CID. You tell me he’s not SB. That means, given the contents of this tape, that he’s MI5 or 6. I imagine from what little I know about intelligence that he’s MI6 K Branch. They’re the ones who keep track of Soviet and satellite state agents, aren’t they?”

  A trace of the lighter side of his personality flickered across Rigano’s face as he smiled and said, “You seem to know what you’re talking about.”

  Lindsay immediately bristled. She was determined not to grant him any rights where she was concerned. “Please don’t patronize me. I’m not a little woman who needs patting on the head because she can play the big boys’ game.”

  The shutters came down over his eyes again. “That wasn’t my intention,” he replied coolly. “Is that the extent of your evidence?”

  “There’s one more thing. But that’s conjecture rather than hard fact. What if Rupert Crabtree’s gun was being carried not for defense but for attack?”

  For the first time, Rigano looked truly alert, as if she was telling him something he did not know; or something he did not want her to know. “Why should he?” he demanded.

  “If I can explain my idea about what really happened, you’ll see why he should,” Lindsay replied. “Are you prepared to hear me out?”

  He glanced at his watch. It was almost half past five. “I’ve got half an hour,” he said. “Will it take longer than that?”

  Lindsay shook her head. “It’s not a long story. It’s not a very edifying one either. Treachery and greed, that’s what we’re into here, Jack.” He nodded and sat back attentive.

  “Simon Crabtree is a computer prodigy. He’s one of those people who reads a program like you or I read a page in the newspaper. And he’s a hacker. Even when he was at school, they commented on his rare skill at busting into other people’s private programs. No one had any doubt that he should be looking at a future in computers; no one, that is, except his father, who was conservative enough to be determined that his only son should be properly qualified in something. So he refused to help Simon set up his software business.

  “I’ve seen inside that lockup and while I don’t know too much about computers, I’d say that the equipment in there must run into several thousands of pounds, easily. Maybe even five figures. Now, he wouldn’t have got that kind of money from a bank, so where did it come from?

  “It’s my belief that it came from a foreign power. Almost inevitably the Soviets or an East European Soviet satellite. That cassette you’ve got there contains a recording of signals traffic from a US military base. I don’t know enough about these things to swear that it comes from Brownlow, but the chances are that it does, given that I found it among Rupert Crabtree’s papers. What I think happened was this. I think that either Simon was scouted by the Soviets, who learned about his hacking skills and his need for capital; or he approached them with the revelation that he had the key to hack into the base’s signals computer. I don’t think it’s been going on too long, if that’s any consolation, because he’s only had the business up and running for a few months.

  “I’m a bit hazy about what happened to put Rupert Crabtree on to the trail; I’d guess that maybe he saw his son behaving suspiciously, or saw him with someone he shouldn’t have been with. Either way, he got hold of this tape. I’m still guessing here, but I think he probably did what I did—took it to someone who knows how to crack computer codes and discovered just what I did—that it’s top-secret signals traffic. Only, for him, the discovery must have been utterly devastating. Here he is, a pillar of the community, a man in the vanguard of an anti-left-wing campaign, and his son’s spying for the Ruskies. Also, to be fair, I think from what I’ve learned about him that it wouldn’t just have been the personal disgrace that would have upset him.

  “I think he was a patriotic man who genuinely loved his country. I could never have agreed with his politics, but I don’t think he was your stereotype fascist on a power trip. I believe that the discovery of what Simon was doing must have shattered him. And something had really got to him, according to Alexandra Phillips. Are you with me so far?”

  Rigano said seriously, “It’s a very interesting hypothesis. I think your analysis of Crabtree’s character is pretty much on the ball. But do go on. I’m fascinated. You’ve obviously done a lot of digging that you haven’t told me about.”

  Lindsay smiled. “Isn’t that what journalists are supposed to do?”

  He frowned. “In theory. But not when they’ve struck deals with me. Anyway, carry on.”

  “Crabtree’s options once he had discovered Simon’s treason were fairly limited. He’d realize at once he couldn’t ignore it and carry on as if nothing had changed. He couldn’t come to you lot because that would completely destroy his life. It would bring his world crashing down about him, and once the press started digging, it would expose all sorts, like his relationship with Alexandra, like RABD’s connections with the violent right. It would make it almost impossible for him to go on practicing locally. The shame for him and his wife would have been too much and he was too old to think about starting elsewhere.

  “He could have confronted Simon with his knowledge and ordered him to stop, with the blackmail that if he didn’t he would go to the authorities. But there’s no way that could have been done effectively—Rupert had no way of checking that Simon had really stopped. And Simon probably knew his father well enough to realize that he wouldn’t have carried through his bluff. So there would have been a stalemate. And it wouldn’t have taken much imagination on Crabtree’s part to work out what his fate would probably be once Simon reported back to his control that his father knew he was spying.

  “The only other option was to dispose of the son whose treachery was putting his family and his
country at risk.”

  Rigano picked up a pencil and started doodling on a sheet of paper by his phone. He looked up. “Tell me more,” he said.

  “Not much more to tell, is there? Crabtree had a gun. He was licensed for it. He knew how to shoot. But I’d guess that he probably didn’t intend to use it unless he had to. He’d have tried to divert suspicion to the peace women so he’d likely have used the gun as a threat and then killed Simon some other way. He arranged to meet Simon on the common to have a private talk. When he pulled the gun, Simon panicked and overpowered him. Then, realizing there was nothing else for it, he killed him.

  “Then that cool young man went home, bringing the bemused and terrified family dog, which of course explains why the dog was on the doorstep and not howling over the corpse of his master as one would expect. Then Simon stripped off his muddy bike leathers, and put up a good show for when the police arrived. That, by the way is when Deborah saw him. You must have noticed that he’s physically, if not facially, very like his father. Deborah knew Crabtree but not Simon, and she thought it was the father and not the son she saw outlined against the night sky. It was only much later that she realized he must already have been dead by then.

  “And appallingly, it was I who tipped Simon off that Deborah had seen him; I said she’d seen his father, but he was quicker to the point than me and immediately knew who Deborah had really got a glimpse of. He understood the significance, and decided Deborah was too high a risk to leave unattended. Hence the attack on her, and hence her conviction that Rupert Crabtree was haunting her. She must have caught a brief, peripheral glimpse of Simon, and subconsciously identified him wrongly. I hope you’ve still got a guard on her.”

  Rigano put his pencil down and sighed. “Very plausible,” he muttered. “Fits all the facts in your possession.”

  “It’s the only theory that does,” Lindsay replied sharply. “Anything else relies on a string of completely implausible coincidences.”

  “I tend to agree with you,” he replied in an offhand way.

  “So what are you going to do about it? You’ve got the evidence there,” Lindsay said, pointing at the tape. “You can get your forensic people to examine the clothes Simon was wearing that night. There must be traces.”

  “I’m going to do precisely nothing about it, except to say, well done, Lindsay. Now forget it,” he said coldly.

  Lindsay looked at him in stunned amazement. “What?” she demanded, outraged. “How can you ignore what I’ve just told you? How can you ignore the evidence I’ve given you? You’ve got to bring him in for questioning, at least!”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said. “Don’t you understand?”

  “No, I bloody don’t,” she protested bitterly. “You’re a policeman. You’re supposed to solve crimes, arrest the culprits, bring them to trial. You’re quick enough to do people for speeding—suddenly murder is a no-go area?”

  “This murder is,” he replied. “Why else do you think a uniform is in charge instead of the CID? Why else am I working with two men, a dog, and a national newspaper hack? I am supposed to fail.” Lindsay was dumbstruck. It didn’t make any sense to her. “I . . . I don’t get it,” she stuttered.

  Rigano sighed deeply. He spoke quietly but firmly. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but I feel I owe it to you after the way you’ve worked through this. Simon Crabtree is part of a much bigger operation that’s out of my hands and way over my head. I am not allowed to touch him. If he ran amok in Fordham High Street with a Kalashnikov, I’d have a job arresting him. Now do you understand?”

  Lindsay’s fury suddenly erupted. “Oh yes, I bloody understand all right. Some bunch of adolescent spymasters think they can get to some tuppenny-ha’penny KGB thug via Simon Crabtree. So it’s hands off Simon. And that means it’s open season on Deborah. She can’t be kept under police guard for ever. Simon doesn’t know he’s sacrosanct, he’ll have another go. And next time Deborah might not be so lucky. You expect me to stand by while an innocent woman is put at risk from that homicidal traitor? Forget it!”

  “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m a journalist, Jack,” she replied angrily. “I’m going to write the story. The whole bloody, dirty story.” She got to her feet and made for the door. As she opened it, she said, “But first of all, I’m going to talk to Simon Crabtree.”

  16

  The roar of the MG’s engine was magnified by the high walls of Harrison Mews as Lindsay drew up for her showdown with Simon Crabtree. It was a cold, clear night with an edge of frost in the air and she wound down the car window to take a few deep breaths. The alleyway was gloomy, lit only by a few dim bulbs outside some of the lockups. The immediacy of her anger had subsided far enough for her to be apprehensive about what she intended to do. She cursed her lack of foresight in failing to bring along her pocket tape recorder. Although she was desperate for the confrontation, she was enough of a professional to realize that the difficulties she would encounter in getting this story into the paper would only be compounded by an unwitnessed, unrecorded interview with Simon. She could try to find the Clarion’s backup team and enlist their help, but she knew she could only expect the most reluctant cooperation from them unless specifically ordered by Duncan. After her string of exclusives, the poor bastard who’d been sent down as backup was not going to be too inclined to help her out.

  She lit a cigarette and contemplated her options. Behind her apprehension lay the deep conviction of all journalists, that somehow they were immune from the risks faced by the rest of the world. It was that same conviction that had made her face a killer alone once before. She could dive in now, feet first; the chances were that Simon would deny everything. Even if he admitted it, she’d have no proof. Then he’d tip off his masters, she’d be in the firing line, and as sure as the sun rises in the morning, Duncan would send her back anyway with a photographer to get pictures and a witnessed interview. It wouldn’t matter so much then if he denied it; the office lawyer would be satisfied that he’d been given a fair crack of the whip. The other alternative was to leave it for now, go and visit Debs in hospital, go home and talk it over with Cordelia, and discuss the best approach with Duncan in the morning. Then everyone would be happy. Everyone except Lindsay herself, in whom patience had never been a highly developed character trait.

  Sighing, she decided to be sensible. She wound up the window but before she could start the engine, she saw a Transit van turn into the alleyway and drive toward her. Only its sidelights were on, and it was being driven up the middle of the roadway, making it impossible for Lindsay to pass. Instinctively, she glanced in the rearview mirror. In the dim glow of her taillights, she saw a red Fiesta, parked diagonally across her rear, preventing any escape by that route. The Transit stopped a few feet from her shiny front bumper and both doors opened. There was nothing accidental about this, she thought.

  Two men emerged. One was around the six foot mark, with the broad shoulders and narrow hips of a body builder. He had thinning dark hair cut close to his head, and his sharp features with their five o’clock shadow were exaggerated by the limited lighting. He looked like a tough Mephistopheles. The other was smaller and more wiry, with a mop of dark hair contorted into a curly perm. Both wore leather bomber jackets and training shoes. All this Lindsay absorbed as they moved toward her, understanding at once that something unpleasant was going to happen to her. She discovered that she couldn’t swallow. Her stomach felt as if she’d been punched in the middle of a period pain. Almost without thinking, Lindsay locked the driver’s door as Curly Perm tried the passenger door and Mephistopheles reached her side of the car. He tried the handle, then said clearly and coldly, “Open it.”

  Lindsay shook her head. “No way,” she croaked through dry lips. She was too scared even to demand to be told what was going on.

  She saw him sigh. His breath was a white puff in the night air. “Look,” he said reasonably. “Open it now. Or else it’s a brick through the wind
ow. Or, since you’ve done us the favor of bringing the soft-top, the Stanley knife across this very expensive hood. You choose.”

  He looked completely capable of carrying out his threat without turning a hair. Unlocking the door, Lindsay suddenly ached for a life with such certainties, without qualms. Immediately, he wrenched the door open and gestured with his thumb for her to get out. Numbly, she shook her head. Then, behind her, another voice chimed in.

  “I should do as he asks if I were you.” Lindsay twisted in her seat and saw Stone leaning against the car. Somehow it came as no surprise. She even felt a slight sense of relief. At least she could be sure which side had her. You bastard, Jack Rigano, she thought.

  Stone smiled encouragingly. “I assure you, you’ll be out of that car one way or another within the next few minutes. It’s up to you how painless the experience will be. And don’t get carried away with the notion of extracting a price in pain from us. I promise you that your suffering will be immeasurably greater. Now, why don’t you just get out of the car?” His voice was all the more chilling for having a warm West Country drawl.

  Lindsay turned back to Mephistopheles. If he’d stripped naked in the interval, she wouldn’t have noticed. What grabbed her attention was the short-barreled pistol which was pointing unwaveringly at her right leg. The last flickering of defiance penetrated her fear and she said abruptly, “Because I don’t want to get out of the bloody car.”

  Curly Perm marched round the back of the car, past Stone. He took something from his pocket and suddenly a gleaming blade leapt forward from his fist. He leaned into the car as Lindsay flinched away from him. He looked like a malevolent monkey. He waved the knife in front of her, then, in one swift movement, he sliced her seat belt through the middle, leaving the ends dangling uselessly over her. He moved back, looking speculatively at the soft black vinyl roof.

  “The first cut is the deepest,” said Stone conversationally. “He’s very good with the knife. He knows how to cause serious scars without endangering your life. I wonder if Deborah Patterson would be quite so keen then? Or indeed, that foxy lady you live with. Don’t be a hero, Lindsay. Get out of the car.”