Common Murder. V. McDermid L.
things, is the fact that he was chairman of the local ratepayers’ association who were fighting against that scruffy lot down there. It looks as if there was a struggle before he was killed. Anything else you want to know?’
Lindsay hoped her relationship with ‘that scruffy lot down there’ was not too obvious and that she was putting up a sufficiently good performance in her professional role as the single-minded news reporter in possession of a hot exclusive. ‘Yes. What makes you think there was a struggle?’
‘The mud’s churned up quite a bit. And Crabtree had drawn a gun but not had the chance to fire it.’
‘That suggests he knew his life was at risk, doesn’t it?’
‘No comment. I also don’t want the gun mentioned just yet. Any other questions?’
She nodded vigorously. ‘Who found the body?’
‘A local resident walking his dog. I’m not releasing a name and he won’t be available for interview in the foreseeable future.’
‘Any suspects? Is an arrest likely within the next few hours? And what was he doing on the common at this time of night?’
Rigano looked down at her shrewdly. ‘No arrest imminent. We are actively pursuing several lines of enquiry. He was walking the bloody dog. He usually did this time of night. Well-known fact of local life.’
‘Any idea of the time of death?’ she asked.
Rigano shrugged expressively. ‘That’s for the doctors to tell us. But without sticking my neck out, I can tell you it was probably some time between ten and eleven o’clock. I hope you’ve got an alibi,’ he said, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. ‘Come and have a quick look.’ He strode off, clearly expecting her to follow. She caught up with him at the entrance to the screens.
‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,’ she said quickly.
His eyebrows shot up. ‘Happy to dish the dirt, not so happy to see the nastiness?’
Lindsay was stung by his sardonic tone. ‘Okay,’ she said grimly. He led her through the gap in the screens.
She would not have recognised Rupert Crab-tree. He lay on his front, the wet March ground soaking the elegant camel hair coat and the pinstripe trousers. His wellingtons were splashed with vivid orange mud, as were his black leather gloves. The back of his head was shattered. Blood matted his hair and had spattered over the fragments of a two-foot-long piece of earthenware water pipe which had clearly broken under the force with which it had been brought down on the skull. A few feet away, a handgun lay in the mud. Lindsay felt sick. Rigano took her arm and steered her away. ‘You’ll be wanting to get to a phone,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘If you want to check up on our progress later on, ring Fordham nick and ask for the duty officer. He’ll fill you in with any details.’ He turned away, dismissing her.
Slowly, Lindsay turned her back on the depressing camouflage of death. And at once, her mind was torn away from murder. Across the clearing, the trio she had seen earlier were returning. But now there were four people in the group. She felt a physical pain in her chest as she recognised the fourth. As their eyes met Lindsay and Deborah shared a moment of pure fear.
5
For a moment, Lindsay stood stock still, the journalist fighting the friend inside her. This was an important story, she had the edge on the pack and she needed to call the office as soon as possible. Logically, she knew there was little she could do for Deborah as the police Landrover carried her off. That didn’t stop her feeling an overwhelming rage that translated itself into the desire for action. Abruptly, she turned back to the scene of the crime and found Rigano. Forcing herself to sound casual she elicited the information that Deborah had not been arrested but was assisting police with their enquiries. End message. Lindsay turned and started to run back to the van.
Once out of the circle of light, she was plunged into darkness. Tripping over tree roots and treacherous brambles, she stumbled on, her only guide the distant glow of the campfire and the dim light from a few of the benders. At one point she plunged headlong over a rock and grimly picked herself up, covered in mud. Cursing, she ran on till she reached the camp. As she reached the benders, she realised that several knots of women had gathered and were talking together anxiously. Ignoring their questioning looks, she made straight for the van, where she burst in, gasping for breath, to find Jane sitting over a cup of coffee. She took one look at Lindsay and said, ‘So you know already?’
‘How’s Cara? Where is she? Lindsay forced out.
‘Fast asleep. The coppers were very quiet, very civil. But the van mustn’t be moved till they’ve had a chance to search it.’ She was interrupted by a knock on the door. Lindsay leaned over and opened it to find a policewoman standing on the threshold.
‘Yes?’ Lindsay demanded roughly.
‘I’ve been instructed to make sure that nothing is removed from this van until our officers arrive with a search warrant,’ she replied.
‘Terrific,’ said Lindsay bitterly. ‘I take it you’ve no objection to me moving a sleeping child to where she won’t be disturbed?’
The policewomen looked surprised. ‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t move the child. Where is she?’
Lindsay pointed up to the curtained-off bunk. She turned to Jane and said, ‘I’ll take Cara to Josy’s bender. She’ll be all right there.’
Jane nodded and added, ‘I’ll stay here to make sure everything’s done properly.’
Lindsay smiled. ‘Thanks. I’ve got to get to the phone.’ Then, with all the firmness she could muster, she said to the police officer, ‘I’m a journalist. I’ve got the details of the story from Superintendent Rigano, and I intend to phone my office now. I’ll be back shortly. Till then, Dr Thomas is in charge here.’
She climbed the ladder and folded Cara into her arms. The child murmured in her sleep but did not wake. Lindsay carried her to Josy, then ran as fast as she could to the phone box. She glanced at her watch and was amazed to see it was still only half past midnight. Her first call was to Judith Rowe. When the solicitor surfaced from sleep, she promised to get straight round to the police station and do what she could.
Next, Lindsay took a deep breath and put in a transfer charge call to the office. The call was taken by Cliff Gilbert himself. ‘Listen,’ she said. There’s been a murder at Brownlow Common. I’ve checked it out with the cops locally and the strength of it is that the leader of the local opposition to the women’s peace camp has been found with his head stoved in. I’ve got enough to file now, which I’ll do if you put me on to copy. I’ll also get stuck in to background for tomorrow if you think that’s a good idea.ʼn
Cliff thought for a moment. Lindsay could almost hear the connections clicking into place to complete the mental circuit. ‘You’ve got good contacts among the lesbian beanburger brigade down there, haven’t you?’
‘The best. The prime suspect seems to be an old pal of mine.’
‘What shift are you on tomorrow?’
‘Day off.’
‘Fine. Take a look at it if you don’t mind and check in first thing with Duncan. I’ll leave him a note stressing that I’ve told you to get stuck in. And Lindsay – don’t do anything daft, okay?’
‘Thanks, Cliff. How much do you want now?’
‘Let it run, Lindsay. All you’ve got.’
There followed a series of clicks and buzzes as she was connected to the copytaker. She recited the story off the top of her head, adding in as much as she knew about Crabtree and his connection with the camp. ‘A brutal murder shocked a women’s peace camp last night,’ she began.
Then, at nearly two o’clock she made her final call. Cordelia’s sleepy voice answered the phone. ‘Who the hell is it?’