Common Murder (20 page)

Deborah hustled Lindsay along the muddy clearing by the fence for half a mile till they reached their agreed station, a corner of the fence near a deep drainage ditch. They kissed goodbye, then Lindsay walked on round the corner to her position.

She turned toward the base, where the buildings and bunkers were floodlit against the enemy—not the red menace, but the monstrous regiment, she thought. She turned back and peered toward the nearest flame. She could just make out the silhouette of the next woman in the vigil and in the distance she could hear the faint sound of singing. She knew from experience that it would soon work its way round to her like Chinese whispers. She had been pleasantly surprised to see that for once the police and military presence were fairly low-key. She hadn't seen any journalists, but assumed they would all be down by the main gates, reluctant to stagger through the mud unless it became absolutely necessary. She smiled wryly. At least her story would have the unmistakable air of verisimilitude.

She took her Zippo lighter from her jacket pocket and flicked the flame into life. She hadn't remembered to ask Debs for a candle, so the lighter would have to do. She stamped her feet to keep the circulation going and started mentally planning her story.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a short scream, which was cut off by a squelching thud and the sound of crashing in the undergrowth. It came from Deborah's direction. Before she had time to think, she was charging back round the corner in the fence toward her lover. In her panic, she forgot about the drainage ditch and plunged headlong into it, twisting her ankle in an explosion of pain as she fell. But instead of landing in muddy water, she fell on something soft and yielding. Lindsay pushed herself away and fumbled with the lighter which she'd somehow managed to hang on to. The little flare of light was enough to show her a sight that made her heart lunch.

Deborah lay face down in the ditch, blood flowing from a gaping wound in the left side of her head. “Oh my God,” moaned Lindsay, as she struggled upright. “Debs, Debs,” she cried, fighting back tears of panic as she grabbed her by the shoulders. She remembered all the rules of first aid that instruct not to move victims with head wounds. But Deborah would drown if left lying face down in the mud. So she pulled at her left shoulder till she managed to turn her on her side. Lindsay pulled her scarf off and gently wiped the mud from Deborah's face. She gritted her teeth and cleared the silt from her nose and mouth and checked if she was still breathing by putting her ear to Deborah's mouth. She could feel nothing. “Debs, Debs, breathe, you bastard, breathe,” she muttered desperately, pummeling Deborah's chest. After a few moments that felt like an eternity, she was rewarded by a spluttering cough as Deborah retched. Lindsay, herself facing nausea, checked her lover was still able to breathe in spite of her unconsciousness, then stood upright, yelling for help at the top of her voice.

It seemed hours before another couple of women appeared with a torch, looking bewildered.

“Get help, get help!” Lindsay almost screamed. “Debs has been attacked. Get the bloody police. We need an ambulance.”

The next half hour was a blur of action as first police and then ambulancemen arrived and rushed Deborah to hospital. Lindsay realized how serious the situation was when a young constable helped her into the ambulance and she found herself racing through the lanes with flashing lights and siren.

At Fordham General, the stretcher on which Deborah's immobile body lay was immediately hurried away on a trolley with the policeman still in attendance. Lindsay sat, exhausted, wet, and filthy, on the steps of the casualty unit, smoking a battered cigarette. She was numb with fear for Deborah. One of the ambulancemen stopped to speak to her on the way back to his vehicle. “You did well, back there,” he said. “Your friend might have died if you hadn't got her head out of the mud. Just as well you kept your head.”

Lindsay shook her head. “I didn't keep my head. I panicked. I just acted on pure instinct. I was so afraid I'd lost her. How is she? Do you know?”

He shrugged. “Not out of the woods yet. But they're good in there. You should go inside in the warm, you'll get a chill out here. Get yourself a cuppa.”

Lindsay nodded wearily. “Yeah.” She got to her feet as he climbed back into the ambulance. As she turned to go a heavy hand clapped her on the shoulder. It belonged to a reporter she recognized by sight.

“What's the score?” he demanded. “We heard someone had been attacked, but the cops are saying nothing.” Lindsay stared at him uncomprehendingly. “Come on, Lindsay,” he pressed. “Don't be selfish. I've only got half an hour to close copy time on the next edition. You've had every bloody other exclusive on this job. Give us a break.”

She wanted more than anything to put a fist in his face. Instead, she simply said, “Fuck off,” and turned on her heel, shaking his hand loose. But the incident had reminded her that there was something she could do to put a bit of distance between the attack and her emotions. She walked like a zombie into the hospital, asked a passing nurse where the nearest phone was, and transferred the charges to the
Clarion
newsdesk. Luckily, Cliff Gilbert took the call himself.

“Lindsay here, Cliff,” she said, speaking very slowly. “Listen. I'm in no fit state to write copy, but there's a very good story going on here and I've got chapter and verse on it. If I give you all the facts, can someone knock it into shape?”

“What?” he exclaimed. “What the hell's the matter with you? Are you pissed?”

“Look, someone's just tried to kill one of my best friends. I'm exhausted, I'm wet, I'm probably in shock, and I'm at the end of my rope. I need help.”

He realized from her voice as much as her words that Lindsay was serious. “Okay, Lindsay,” he said. “I'm sorry. I'll put you on to Tony and you tell him what he needs for the story. No problem. Do you need backup? I can get someone down there in an hour. Or a local freelance—”

“I don't want anyone else, Cliff. Maybe you should get some more cover down here, though. I'm through for tonight. Now give me Tony.” A series of clicks followed, and Lindsay found herself talking to Tony Martin, one of her reporting colleagues. Cliff had obviously warned him what to expect, for his voice was quiet and coaxing. Lindsay forced the lid on her emotions and stumbled through the events of the evening. At the end of her recital, he asked for the number of the police station and the hospital. Her mind was a blank.

“Never mind,” he said. “Listen, I'll make sure they put your by-line on this. It's a helluva story. I hope your mate pulls through. But you go and get yourself a stiff drink. You sound as if you need one. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” she sighed, and put the phone down. Through the door of the booth, she could see other reporters arriving. She knew she couldn't cope with them now, so she turned back to the call box and dialed home. Cordelia picked up the phone on the third ring. Lindsay's voice shook as she said, “It's me. Can you come down?”

“What?” Cordelia demanded. “Now? Whatever's the matter? You sound terrible. What's going on?”

“It's Debs. She's . . . she's been attacked. Someone tried to kill her. I'm at the hospital now. I found her. I really could do with you being here.”

There was incredulity in Cordelia's voice. “Someone tried to kill Deborah? How? What happened?”

“There was a candle-lit vigil. We were by the fence, about fifty yards from each other. Someone hit her on the head and left her drowning in a ditch,” Lindsay said, on the verge of tears.

“That's awful! Are you okay?”

“Physically, yes. But I'm absolutely drained. I thought she was dead, Cordelia,” Lindsay wailed, tears finally coursing down her face. She sobbed helplessly, oblivious to Cordelia's words.

When she managed to control herself again, she could hear her lover's voice soothing her, saying, “Calm down, it'll be okay. Why don't you come home now? There's nothing more you can do there tonight. I'd come down and get you, but I've had too much wine.”

“I can't,” Lindsay said numbly.

“Why ever not?” Cordelia asked. “Look, you'd be better off here. You can have a nice hot bath and a drink and try to get a decent night's sleep. Come home, Lindsay. I'll only worry about you otherwise.”

“I just can't,” Lindsay replied. “There's too much going on here for me to walk away from it all. I'm sorry. I'll ring you in the morning, okay. Thanks for listening. Goodnight, love.”

“I'll come down first thing, how's that?”

“No, it's okay, leave it. I'm not sure what I'll be doing or where I'll be. I'll speak to you soon.”

“Be careful, Lindsay, please. Ring me in the morning.”

Bleakness descended on Lindsay. She stared across the busy casualty department in time to see Rigano shoulder his way through the flapping celluloid doors and head for the desk. He was immediately surrounded by reporters. She became aware that the phone was squawking.

“Lindsay? Are you there?”

“Yes, I'm here. Bye.”

She put the phone down, feeling utterly defeated. She left the phone booth but could not face the mêlée round the information desk. She leaned against the wall, shivering slightly in spite of the airless warmth of the hospital. Rigano, whose eyes had been sweeping the room for her, picked her up almost immediately.

“That's it for now,” he said brusquely to the crowd of reporters and strode over to her, followed at a few paces by her colleagues. He took her by the elbow and piloted her into a corridor. He stopped briefly and said firmly to their followers. “Go away. Now. Or I'll have the lot of you removed from the hospital altogether.” Reluctantly, they backed off and he steered Lindsay into an alcove with a couple of chairs. They sat down.

“She's going to be all right,” he said. “There's a hairline fracture of the skull and a big superficial wound. She's lost quite a bit of blood and had stitches, but they say there's no brain damage.”

The relief was like a physical glow that spread through Lindsay. “When can I see her?” she asked.

“Tomorrow morning. Come round about nine and they'll let you in. She'll still be heavily sedated, so they tell me, but she should be awake. It'll be a while before we can get any sense out of her, though, so I need to know anything you can tell me about the attack.”

Lindsay shrugged. “I don't know anything. I don't even know what she was hit with. What was it?”

“A brick,” he replied. “There's any number of them lying around. You use them to pin down the corners of your benders.”

“That's ironic,” said Lindsay, stifling the hysterical giggle she felt bubbling inside her. “I really can't tell you anything. I heard a short scream—not a long-drawn-out one, quite brief—and a squelch that must have been Debs falling into the ditch. Then I heard what sounded like someone trying to run off through the woodland.”

“Can you say in what direction?”

“Not really. It seemed to be more or less dead ahead of me as I ran toward the ditch, but that's the vaguest of impressions and I wouldn't swear to it. I wish I could tell you that I'd seen someone, but even if he'd still been there, I doubt if I would have seen him. There was really no light to speak of.”

“Him?”

“Well, it wouldn't have been one of us, would it?”

It was Jane who woke Lindsay at eight the next morning with a pot of hot coffee. Settling herself down on the end of the bunk, she waited patiently for Lindsay to surface. Brought back to the camp by one of Rigano's men, Lindsay had needed several large whiskies before sleep had even seemed a possibility. Now she was reaping the whirlwind.

Jane smiled at her efforts to shake off the stupor and said, “I thought I'd better make sure you were up in time to get to the hospital.
I've already rung them—Deborah is out of danger and responding well, they said. Translation—she's been sedated to sleep but her vital signs are looking good. They say it's okay for you to go in, but they don't think Cara should visit yet.”

“How is Cara?” asked Lindsay, who felt as if her limbs were wooden and her head filled with cotton wool.