Common Murder (12 page)

Lindsay sat musing. “Any cars pass you at all?”

“I don't remember any, but I doubt if I would have noticed. It's not exactly an unusual sight. People use these back lanes late at night to avoid risking the breathalyzer.”

Lindsay shrugged. “Oh, Debs, I don't know. I just can't seem to get a handle on this business.”

Deborah smiled wanly. “You will, Lin, you will. For my sake, I hope you will.”

Later, fortified by a huge bowl of bacon and beans, Lindsay settled down to work. It took her over an hour to transcribe the tape, using her portable typewriter. Next came the even more tedious task of typing up her notes of the camp women's alibis. It was after midnight before she could put her typewriter into its case and concentrate again on Deborah, who was curled up in a corner devouring a new feminist novel.

“You look like a woman who needs a hug,” said Deborah, looking up with a sympathetic smile.

“I feel like a woman who needs more than a hug,” Lindsay replied, sitting down beside her. Deborah put her arms round Lindsay and gently massaged the taut muscles at the back of her neck.

“You need a massage,” she said. “Would you like me to give you one?”

Lindsay nodded. “Please. Nobody has ever given me backrubs like you used to.”

They made up the bed, then Lindsay stripped off and lay face down on the firm cushions. Deborah undressed and took a small bottle of massage oil from a cupboard. She rubbed the fragrant oil into her palms and started kneading Lindsay's stiff muscles.

Lindsay could feel warmth spreading through her body from head to foot as she relaxed.

“Better?” Deborah asked.

“Mmm,” Lindsay replied. She had become aware of Deborah's body against hers. She rolled over and lightly stroked Deborah's side. “Thank you,” she said, moving into a half-sitting position where she could kiss Deborah.

Deborah slid down beside her and their two bodies interwined in an embrace that moved almost immediately from the platonic to the passionate, taking them both by surprise. “Are you sure about this, Lin?” Deborah whispered.

For reply, Lindsay kissed her again.

The morning found Lindsay in good humor as she breezed into the police station at Fordham. She had dived into the local Marks and Spencer and bought a new pair of smart mushroom colored trousers and a cream and brown striped shirt that matched her brown jacket. She felt she looked her best and was on top of things professionally. The events of the night before were fresh in her memory, and for as long as she could put Cordelia out of her mind, she felt good about what had happened with Deborah too.

Her benign mood lasted for as long as it took her to reach the reception counter. At a desk at the back of the office she spotted a now familiar blond man flicking through some papers. Lindsay frowned as the SB man glanced up at her. Pressing the bell for service, she turned her back to wait. By the time the duty constable responded, the man had disappeared.

Rigano didn't keep her waiting. As soon as she sat down in his office, he attacked. “We've turned up a witness who saw Deborah Patterson walking down the road toward the camp at approximately ten forty-five.

“In that case, Deborah's statement won't come as a surprise to you,” Lindsay retorted. “It's all here, Superintendent. Where she went, when, and why.” She put two files on the desk. “This one: the peace women. That one: Emma and Simon Crabtree.”

He smiled coldly. “Thank you. It might have made things a little simpler if Miss Patterson had chosen to make her statement when she was here, don't you think?” Lindsay shrugged. “Anyway, I've spoken to Stanhope. He's expecting you in the George.”

Lindsay deliberately lit a cigarette, ignoring the implicit dismissal. “Do you know where I can get hold of Rosamund Crabtree?” she inquired. “I didn't have the chance to get that information from Mrs. Crabtree.”

“Don't know why you want to see her,” Rigano grumbled. “The way this case seems to be breaking, we're going to have to take another long hard look at Miss Patterson. But if you really feel it's necessary, you'll probably be able to catch up with her at work. She and a partner run this vegetarian restaurant in London. Camden Town. Rubyfruits, it's called.”

“Rubyfruits?” Lindsay exclaimed. “Quick, ring Arthur Koestler.”

He looked at her uncomprehendingly. “Funny sort of a name, eh?” he said.

“It isn't that, it's just the small-world syndrome striking again.”

“You know it?”

Lindsay nodded. “Fairly well. We go there quite a lot.”

“You surprise me. I wouldn't have put you down as one of the nut cutlet brigade. Anyway, you're going to be late for Carlton Stanhope, and I wouldn't recommend that. I'd like to hear how you get on. If you're free at lunchtime, I'll be in the snug at the Frog and Bassett on the Brownlow road. Now run off and meet your man.”

Lindsay got to her feet. “How will I recognize him?” she asked.

Rigano smiled. “Use your initiative. There won't be that many people in the residents' lounge at half past ten on a Tuesday morning, for starters. Besides, I've described you to him so I don't imagine there will be too many problems of identification.”

Lindsay scowled. “Thanks,” she muttered on her way to the door. “I'll probably see you later in the pub. Oh, and by the way, do tell your Special Branch bloodhound to stop following me around. I'm not about to do a runner.” She congratulated herself on her smart response. She would remember that arrogance later.

Ripe for takeover by the big boys, thought Lindsay as she entered the George Hotel. The combination of the faded fifties decor and odd touches of contemporary tatt was an unhappy one. She could imagine the prawn cocktail and fillet steak menu. A neon sign that looked like a museum piece pointed up a flight of stairs to the residents' lounge. Lindsay pushed open the creaky swing door. The chairs looked cheap and uncomfortable. The only occupant of the room was pouring himself
a cup of coffee. Lindsay's heart sank. So much for Rigano's assumption that they'd have the place to themselves, for the young man sprawled leggily in an armchair by the coffee table didn't look like a farmer called Carlton Stanhope.

He wore tight blue jeans, elastic-sided riding boots, and an Aran sweater. His straight, dark blond hair was cut short at the sides, longer at the back, and had a floppy fringe that fell over his forehead from its side parting. He didn't look a day over twenty-five. He glanced over at Lindsay hesitating by the door and drawled, “Miss Gordon, do sit down and have a cup of coffee before it gets cold.”

As he registered the surprise in her eyes, he smiled wickedly. “Not what you expected, eh? You thought a Fordham farmer called Canton Stanhope who was a sidekick of Rupert Crabtree was bound to be a tweedy old foxhunter with a red face and a glass of Scotch in the fist, admit it! Sorry to disappoint you. Jack Rigano really should have warned you.”

Lindsay's mouth wavered between a scowl and a smile. She sat down while Stanhope poured her a cup of coffee. “Do say something,” he mocked. “Don't tell me I've taken your breath away?”

“I was surprised to see someone under fifty, I must say. Other than that, though, I can't say I'm greatly shocked and stunned. Don't all young gentlemen farmers dress like you these days?”

“Touché,”
he replied. “And since you're not what I expected of either a journalist or a peace woman, I'd say we're probably about quits. You see, Miss Gordon, we moderate men are just as much subject to stereotyping as you radical women.”

Lindsay felt a hint of dislike in her response to him. She reckoned he knew himself to be a highly eligible young man; but she gave him credit for trying to build on his physical charm with an entertaining line in conversation. His manner irritated rather than appealed to her, but that didn't stop her acknowledging that it would normally find its admirers. “Superintendent Rigano seemed to think you might be able to fill me in on some background about Ratepayers Against Brownlow's Destruction.”

“Jack says you're doing the investigative crime reporter bit over Rupert's death. He seems to think you're a useful sort of sleuth to have on his side, so I suppose I'm the quid pro quo,” he observed.

“I appreciate the help,” she responded. “I'm sure you've got more important things to be doing—drilling your barley or whatever it is farmers do in March.”

“Lambing, actually. My pleasure, I assure you. Now, what exactly is it you want to know?”

“I'm interested in RABD. How did you come to get involved with it?” Lindsay asked. She found her cigarettes and offered Stanhope the packet. He dismissed it with a wave of his hand as he began his story.

“Let's see now . . . I got involved shortly after it was formed. That must have been about six or seven months ago, I guess. I hadn't been back in the area long. My father decided he wanted to bow out of the day-to-day hassle of running the farm, so he dragged me back from my job with the Forestry Commission to take over what will one day be mine. That is, what the bank and the taxman don't get their hands on.

“Anyway, to cut a long story short, I was appalled when I arrived back home and found these women camped on the common. I mean, Brownlow Common was always a place where people could walk their dogs, take their sprogs. But who'd actually want to take their offspring for a walk past that eyesore? All that polythene and earth-mother cooking pots and lesbians hugging each other at the drop of a hat or any other garment. Grotesque, for those of us who remember what a walk on the common used to be like.

“Also, say what you will about the Yanks, their base has brought an extraordinary degree of prosperity to Fordham. It's cushioned the local people against the worst excesses of the recession. And that's not something to be sneezed at.”

He paused for breath, coffee, and thought. Lindsay dived in. “Was it actually Rupert Crabtree who recruited you, then?”

“I don't know if recruit is quite the word. You make him sound like some spymaster. I was having dinner with my parents at the Old Coach restaurant, and Rupert was there with Emma—Mrs. Crabtree, you know? Anyhow, they joined us for coffee and Emma was complaining about how ghastly it was to have this bloody camp right on the doorstep and Rupert was informing anyone who'd care to listen that he was going to do something about it and that anyone with any civic pride left would join this new organization to get rid of the women at the camp for good and all.”

Lindsay looked speculatively at the handsome, broad-shouldered young man. It would be nice to shake that self-assurance to its roots. But not today. “That sounds a bit heavy duty,” she simply said.

“Oh no, nothing like that. No, RABD was all about operating within the law. We used the local press and poster and leaflet campaigns to mobilize public opinion against the camp. And of course, Rupert and a couple of other lawyers developed ways of harassing them through the courts using the bylaws and civil actions. And whenever they staged big demos, we'd aim to mount a token counterdemonstration, making sure the media knew.”

“In other words, peaceful protest within the law?”

“Absolutely.”

“Just like the peace women, in fact?” Avoiding Stanhope's glance Lindsay screwed out her cigarette in the ashtray. “So, tell me about the in-fighting at RABD.”

He looked suddenly cautious. “We don't want all this to become public knowledge.”

Lindsay shrugged. “It already is. All sorts of rumors are flying round,” she exaggerated. “It's better to be open about these things, especially when the world's press is nosing about, otherwise people start reading all sorts of things into relatively minor matters. You don't want people to think you've got something to hide, do you?”

Stanhope picked up the coffee jug and gestured toward Lindsay's cup “More coffee?” He was buying time. When Lindsay declined the offer he poured coffee into his own cup. “It's not quite that simple, though, is it?” he demanded. “We're talking about a murder investigation. Something one would happily have gossiped about in a private sort of way last week can suddenly take on quite extraordinary connotations after a man has been murdered. I know I seem to take everything very lightly, but in fact I feel Rupert's death strongly. We didn't always see eye to eye—he could be bloody irritating, he was so arrogant at times—but he was basically an absolutely straight guy and that's something I find I have to respect. So I'm wary of pushing something he cared about into an area where it could become the subject of public scorn.”