by Val McDermid
Lindsay stood up. “No,” she said. “No way. I can’t accept this. I never thought I’d be ashamed of this paper. But I am now. And I can’t go on working here feeling like that. I’m sorry. Duncan, but I quit. I resign. As of now, I don’t work for you any more.” She stopped abruptly, feeling tears beginning to choke her. She snatched up the sheaf of copy from the table where Duncan had laid it, turned, and walked out of the office. No one tried to stop her.
In the Ladies’ toilet, she was comprehensively sick. She splashed cold water on her face and took several deep breaths before heading for the offices of Socialism Today.
Here there were no security men on the door to challenge her, no secretaries to vet her. She walked straight up to the big room on the second floor where the journalists worked. Dick was perched on the corner of his desk, his back to her, a phone jammed to his ear. “Yeah, okay . . .” he said resignedly. “Yeah, okay. Tomorrow it is then. See you.” He slammed the phone down. “Fucking Trots. Who needs them?” he muttered, turning mound to reach for his mug of coffee. Catching sight of Lindsay, he actually paled. “Christ! What the hell are you doing here?”
“I’ve got a story for you,” she said, opening her bag and taking out another copy of her manuscript.
“Is it to do with the computer printout?” he demanded.
“Sort of. Among other things. Like murder, kidnap, GBH, and spying. Interested?”
He shook his head reluctantly. “Sorry, Lindsay. No can do. Listen, I had the heavies round at my place last night about you. It’s a no-no, darling. It may be the best story of the decade, but I’m not touching it.”
A sneer of contempt flickered at the corner of Lindsay’s mouth. “I expected the big boys at the Clarion to wet themselves at the thought of prosecution. But I expected you to take that sort of thing in your stride. I thought you were supposed to be the fearless guardian of the public’s right to know?”
Dick looked ashamed and sighed deeply. “It wasn’t prosecution they threatened me with, Lindsay. These are not people who play by the rules. These are not pussycats. These are people who know how to hurt you where you live. They were talking nasty accidents. And they knew all about Marianne and the kiddy. I’ll take risks on my own account, Lindsay, but I’m not having on my conscience anything that might happen to my wife and child. You wouldn’t take chances with Cordelia, would you?”
Lindsay shook hem head. Exhaustion surged over her in a wave. “I suppose not, Dick. Okay, I’ll be seeing you.”
It took her more than an hour to walk back to the empty house. She was gripped by a sense of utter desolation and frustration that she sensed would take a long time to dissipate. There had been too many betrayals in the last week. She turned into their street, just as a red Fiesta vanished round the corner at the far end of the mews behind. That unremarkable event was enough on a day like this to make her break into a run. She fumbled with her keys, clumsy in her haste, then ran upstairs. At first glance, everything seemed normal. But when she went into the living room, she realized that every cassette had been removed from the shelves above the stereo. In the study it was the same story. Lindsay crouched down on the floor against the wall, hands over her face, and shivered as the sense of insecurity overwhelmed her.
She had no idea how long she crouched there feeling utterly defenseless. Eventually the shaking stopped and she got unsteadily to her feet. In the kitchen she put some coffee on, then noticed there was a message on the answering machine. She lit a cigarette and played the tape back.
The voice sounded scared. “Lindsay. This is Annie Norton. I’ve been burgled. My car has been broken into and my office has also been turned over. I suspect this may have something to do with you since all that has been stolen are cassettes. Whoever was responsible has probably got your phone bugged, so for their benefit as well as yours, for the record, they have now got the only data I had relating to that bloody tape you brought me. I wish you’d bloody warned me you didn’t have the sense to leave this alone, Lindsay. You’d better stay away from me till this is all over—I need my security clearance so I can work. Look, take care of yourself. This isn’t a game. Be careful. Goodbye.”
It was the last straw. Lindsay sat down at the table, dropped her head in her hands, and wept till her eyes stung and her sinuses ached. Then she sat, staring at the wall, reviewing what had happened, trying to find a way forward for herself. As the afternoon wore on, she smoked steadily and worked her way down the best bottle of Burgundy she could find in the house.
By teatime she knew exactly what she had to do. She set off across the park for the phone box and started setting wheels in motion.
20
Lindsay waited patiently on hold to be connected, praying that the object of her call would still be at his desk. Even on cheap rate, the phone box was eating £1 coins at an alarming rate. While she hung on, she mentally congratulated Jane for forcing her to examine her conscience about doing something positive to support the peace camp all those months before. If it hadn’t been for those features she’d sold abroad then, she wouldn’t have built up the contacts she needed now. Her musing was cut short by a voice on the end of the phone.
“Ja?”
“Günter Binden?” Lindsay asked. “Ja. Wer ist?”
“It’s Lindsay Gordon, Günter. From London.”
Immediately the bass voice on the other end of the phone switched to immaculate English. “Lindsay! How good to hear from you. How goes it with you?”
“A bit hectic. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve got a wonderful story for you. I’m having problems getting anyone over here to print it because of the national security angle, but it’s too important a tale to ignore. So I thought of you.”
“Is it another story about the peace camp?”
“Indirectly, yes. But it’s really to do with spying and murder.”
“Sounds good. Do you want to tell me some more?”
Lindsay started to tell the too-familiar story of recent events. Günter listened carefully, only stopping her to seek clarification when her journalistic idioms became too obscure for him to follow. Lindsay was glad she’d trusted her instincts about approaching him. As well as being the features editor of a large-circulation left-wing weekly magazine that actively supported the Green Party, he had spent two years working in London and understood the British political scene as well as having a first-class command of English. When she reached her kidnapping by the security forces, he exploded.
“My God, Lindsay, why isn’t your own paper publishing this? It’s dynamite.”
“That’s precisely why they’re backing off. They don’t want a legal battle right now for business reasons—the publisher wants to float the company on the stock market later this year, and he wants to present a healthy balance sheet and a good reputation. Also, they’ve got no stomach for a real fight against the Establishment. If I was offering them a largely unsubstantiated tale about a soap-opera star having a gay affair, they’d go for it and to hell with the risks. But this is too much like the real thing. But let me finish the tale. It gets better, I promise.”
Günter held his tongue till Lindsay had finished her recital. Then there was a silence. “What sort of price are you looking for?”
“If I hadn’t jacked my job in today, I’d let you have it for free. But I’m going to have to feed myself somehow, and I can’t imagine I’m going to find much work in national newspapers. Can you stretch to five thousand Deutschmarks?” Lindsay asked.
“Do you have pictures of this man Crabtree? And of Deborah Patterson?”
“I’ve got pics of Deborah, and you can get pics of both Simon and Rupert Crabtree through the local paper. I’ve got a good contact there. And you can do pics of me. What do you say, Günter?”
“How soon can I see copy?”
“I can fax it to you tonight. Have we got a deal?”
“Four thousand. That’s as high as I can go. Don’t forget, I’ve got translation to pay for to
o.”
Lindsay paused, pretending to think. “Okay,” she said. “Four thousand it is. I’ll get the copy on the fax tonight and I’ll bring the pics over myself.”
“You’re coming over?”
Lindsay nodded. “You bet. I want to be well out of the way when the shit hits the fan. And besides, I won’t believe it till I actually hold the first copy off the presses in my own hands.”
“So how soon can you get here?”
“I can get a night crossing and be with you by tomorrow afternoon. Does that leave you enough time?”
They arranged the rest of the details, then Lindsay hung up gratefully. Returning home, she picked up the bundle of copy she’d wasted her time writing for Duncan and left the house. She made for the tube station, not caring if she was being followed or not. It was already seven o’clock, and the rush hour press of bodies had dissipated. Emerging from Chancery Lane station she walked to the Clarion building. Her gamble that word of her departure wouldn’t have yet got round paid off: she walked unchallenged into the building and made her way to the busy wire room on the third floor. After a quiet word with the wire room manager, he left her with the fax machine for the price of a few pints. An hour later, she left the building and headed back to Highbury. When she emerged from the tube station, she realized she wasn’t able to face the empty house again just yet, so she walked slowly down Upper Street to the King’s Head pub. Over a glass of the house red, she turned the situation over in her mind.
The chain reaction she had set in motion would blow Simon Crabtree’s cover completely. She wished she could be a fly on the wall when it dropped on Harriet Barber’s desk. The only question mark that remained in her mind was which side would get to him first. She suspected the Soviets would be the ones to terminate him; glasnost only extended so far. And it would be expedient for MI6 to keep their hands clean for once. But she knew she’d have to keep her head down till she was sure that Simon Crabtree had met the fate he deserved. And that might take a few weeks. A fatal accident following too closely on the heels of her revelations might seem a little too convenient even for the unscrupulous intelligence community.
The only problem that remained was how to find out when Crabtree was removed from circulation. Her first thought was to enlist Jack Rigano’s help. He owed her one. As Cordelia had so forcefully reminded her, he had brought her into the frame when forces beyond his control prevented him from doing his job. But he had already stuck his neck out once for her, and the fact that it was he who had been despatched to put the frighteners on the Clarion demonstrated where his allegiance lay in the final analysis.
There was one other person Lindsay could ask. It would avoid the danger of providing an interested party with too much information. And provided the storm that the story was inevitably going to raise didn’t make him lose his bottle, he’d also be happy to supply information when there was something in it for him. Lindsay searched through the pages of her notebook till she found the page where she’d scribbled Gavin Hammill’s number. The pub phone was mercifully situated in a quiet corner, granting her some privacy.
She was in luck. The Fordham reporter was at home for the evening. After the formalities, Lindsay explained what she wanted. “I’m going to be out of the country for a while,” she said. “But I need someone to keep an eye on Simon Crabtree for me. I just want to know what he’s up to, and if anything untoward happens to any member of the family. If you hear anything at all, especially if he drops out of sight for a few days, you can get in touch with me via a guy in Cologne called Günter Binden.”
She gave him Günter’s office and home numbers and explained that Günter’s magazine would pay him a generous credit for any material he supplied. “They’re very generous payers, Gavin,” she added. “And they never forget a good source. If you do the biz for them, they’ll put work your way. Oh, and if anybody asks why you’re interested, don’t mention my name.”
“Of course not, Lindsay. Thanks for thinking of me.”
“Don’t mention it. See you around.”
The final phone call she made was to reserve a ticket for herself and the van on the midnight crossing to Zeebrugge. The train or the plane would have been more comfortable, but she wanted to be self-sufficient and mobile once she was out of the country.
She wished she could take Cordelia with her, turn the trip into a break for both of them. But she knew it wouldn’t work out like that, even supposing Cordelia was able and willing to get to Dover for the midnight ferry. Lindsay knew that the divisions between them needed time and energy from both sides before they could be healed. A mad dash across Europe followed by all the hassles of getting this story on to the streets was no basis for a major reconciliation. Besides, Lindsay didn’t know how long she would have to stay away, and Cordelia had other commitments.
It was a quarter past eight when she reached home. She would have to leave in three quarters of an hour. The clothes she had thrown into the washing machine earlier would be dry in half an hour, and it would take her only ten minutes to pack. She had half an hour to write an explanation of her absence for Cordelia. The word processor would be quicker, if more impersonal. But getting the words right was the most important thing.
She started by explaining where she was going and why. That was the easy bit. Now came the part where years of working with words were no help at all.
“I’m going to have to keep my head down after this piece is published. The security services will want to bring charges, and I don’t think it will be safe for me to come home till after Simon Crabtree is no longer a threat. I’m going to stay abroad for a while, but I don’t know yet where I’ll be. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve sorted things out and maybe you can join me for a while. I’m sorry—I really wanted to spend some time with you. I love you. Lindsay.”
She scowled at the screen, deeply dissatisfied with what she had written. But there was no time now for more. She got up and stretched while the letter printed out, then left it by the answering machine. The next fifteen minutes were a whirlwind of throwing clothes, books, papers, and maps into a couple of holdalls. She went through to the lounge to pick up some tapes for the journey, forgetting the raid that had left the shelves empty. When she saw the spaces where her music had been, she swore fluently. The shock gave her the extra kick of energy she needed to get out into the night and off to the ferryport.
Three nights later, Lindsay stood in the press hall in Cologne watching the massive presses flickering her image past her eyes at hundreds of copies a minute. Günter approached, clutching a handful of early copies from the run and an opened bottle of champagne. He thrust a magazine at Lindsay, who stared disbelievingly at the cover. Her own picture was superimposed on a wide-angled shot of the base at Brownlow Common with the peace camp in the foreground. A slow smile spread across her face and she took a long, choking swig from the offered bottle of champagne. “We did it,” she almost crowed. “We beat the bastards.”
EPILOGUE
Excerpts from the Daily Clarion, 11 May 198-.
MISSILES TO GO The Pentagon announced last night that the phased withdrawal of cruise missiles from Brownlow Common will begin in November . . .
DOUBLE TRAGEDY FOR SPY MURDER FAMILY The man at the center of a German magazine’s revelations about Russian spies at American bases in the UK died in a freak road accident last night.
His death was the second tragedy within two months for his family. His father, solicitor Rupert Crabtree, was brutally murdered eight weeks ago.
Simon Crabtree, who had been officially cleared by British security forces of any involvement in espionage, died instantly when his motorbike skidded on a sharp bend and plowed into the back of a tractor.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to: Helen for keeping us laughing at Greenham; Andrew Wiatr for advice on computers (any errors are mine); Diana for all the constructive criticism; Lisanne and Jane for their hard work; John and Senga, Laura and Ewan for their hospitality at
the crucial point; Sue Jackson for her inimitable skills; Henry the lawyer for letting me pick his brains; and Linzi.
Val McDermid is the author of twenty-four best-selling novels, which have been translated into thirty languages and have sold over ten million copies. She has won many awards internationally, including the CWA Gold Dagger for best crime novel of the year and the LA Times Book of the Year award. She has a son and a dog, and lives in the north of England.
For the latest news and reviews, visit:
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Copyright © 1989 by Val McDermid
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Bywater Books First Ebook Edition: April 2012
Bywater Books First Edition: February 2005
Common Murder was originally published in Great
Britian by The Women’s Press, Ltd in 1989.
Common Murder was first published in the United
States of America by Spinsters Ink in 1995.
Cover designer: Bonnie Liss (Phoenix Graphics)
