Common Murder (25 page)

The room was almost exactly what Lindsay expected. The walls were painted white. The floor was covered with gray vinyl tiles, pitted with cigarette burns. A couple of bare fluorescent strips illuminated a large metal table in the middle of the room. The table held a telephone and a couple of adjustable study lamps clamped to it. Behind the table stood three comfortable-looking office chairs. Facing it, a metal-framed chair with a vinyl-padded seat and back was fixed to the floor. “My God, what a cliché this room is,” said Lindsay.

“What makes you think you deserve anything else?” Stone asked mildly. “Sit in the chair facing the table,” he instructed. There seemed no point in argument, so she did as she was told. He unlocked the cuffs again and this time fastened her to the solid-looking arm of the chair.

A couple of hours had passed since she had been really frightened,
and she was beginning to feel a little confidence seeping back into her bones. “Look,” she said. “Who are you, Stone? What's going on? What am I here for?”

He smiled and shook his head. “Too late for those questions, Lindsay. Those are the first things an innocent person would have asked back in that alley in Fordham. You knew too much. So why ask questions now when you know the answers already?”

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered. “You people have got minds so devious you think everyone's part of some plot. When you hemmed me in that alleyway, I was too bloody stunned to come up with the questions that would have made you happy. Why have I been brought here? What's going to happen to me?”

“That rather depends on you,” he replied grimly. “Don't go away, now,” he added as he left the room.

She was left alone for nearly half an hour, by which time all her determined efforts to be brave had gone up in the smoke of her third cigarette. She was scared and she had to acknowledge the fact, although her fear was tempered with relief that it was Rigano's masters rather than Simon Crabtree's who were holding her. She wouldn't give much for her chances if it had been the other way round.

Lindsay had just lit her fourth cigarette when the door opened. She forced herself not to look round. Stone walked in front of hem and sat down at one corner of the desk, facing her. He was followed by a woman, all shoulders and sharp haircut, who stood behind the desk scrutinizing Lindsay before she too sat down. The woman was severely elegant, in looks as well as dress. Her beautifully groomed pepper-and-salt hair was cut close at the sides, then swept upward in an extravagant swirl of waves. Extra strong hold mousse, thought Lindsay inconsequentially; if I saw her in a bar, I'd fancy her until I thought about running my fingers through that. The woman had almost transparently pale skin, her eyes glittered greenish blue in her fine-boned face. She looked about forty. She wore a fashionably cut trouser suit in natural linen over a chocolate brown silk shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons. As she studied Lindsay, she took out a packet of Gitanes and lit one.

The pungent blue smoke played its usual trick on Lindsay, flashing into her mind's eye a night in a café in southern France with Cordelia,
playing pinball, smoking and drinking coffee, and listening to Elton John on the jukebox. The contrast was enough to bring back her fear so strongly she could almost taste it.

Perhaps the woman sensed the change in Lindsay, for she spoke then. “Mr. Stone tells me you are a problem,” she said. “If that's the case, we have to find a solution.” Her voice had a cool edge, with traces of a northern accent. Lindsay suspected that anger or disappointment would make it gratingly plaintive.

“As far as I'm concerned, the problems are all on your side. I've been abducted at gunpoint, threatened with a knife, the victim of an act of criminal damage, and nobody has bothered to tell me by whom or why. Don't you think it's a little unreasonable to expect me to bend over backward to solve anything you might be considering a problem?” Lindsay demanded through clenched teeth, trying to hide her fear behind a show of righteous aggression.

The woman's eyebrows rose. “Come, come, Miss Gordon. Let's not play games. You know perfectly well who we are and why you're here.”

“I know he's MI6 K division, or at least I've been assuming he is. But I don't know why the hell I've been brought here like a criminal, or who you are. And until I do, all you get from me is my name.”

The woman crushed out her half-smoked cigarette and smiled humorlessly at Lindsay. “Your bravado does you credit. If it helps matters any, my name is Barber. Harriet Barber. The reason you've been brought here, in your words like a criminal, is that, according to the laws of the land, that's just what you are.

“You are, or have been in unauthorized possession of classified information. That on its own would be enough to ensure a lengthy prison sentence, believe me, particularly given your contacts on the left. You were apprehended while in the process of jeopardizing an operation of Her Majesty's security forces, another matter on which the courts take an understandably strong line. Superintendent Rigano really should have arrested you as soon as you tossed that tape on his desk.”

Thanks a million, Jack, Lindsay thought bitterly. But she recognized that she had begun marginally to relax. This authoritarian routine was one she felt better able to handle. “So am I under arrest now?” she asked.

Again came the cold smile. “Oh no,” said Harriet Barber. “If you'd been arrested, there would have had to be a record of it, wouldn't there?”

The fear was back. But the moment's respite had given Lindsay fresh strength. “So if I'm not under arrest, I must be free to go, surely?” she demanded.

“In due course,” said Stone.

“Don't be too optimistic, Mr. Stone,” said Barber. “That depends on how sensible Miss Gordon is. People who can't behave sensibly often suffer unfortunate accidents due to their carelessness. And someone who drives an elderly sports car like Miss Gordon's clearly has moments when impulse overcomes good sense. Let's hope we don't have too many moments like that tonight.”

There was a silence. Lindsay's nerve was the first to go and she said, struggling to sound nonchalant, “Let's take the posturing as read and come to the deal. What's the score?”

“There's that unfortunate bravado again,” sighed Barber. “We are not offering any deal, Miss Gordon. That's not the way we do things here. You will sign the Official Secrets Act and will be bound by its provisions. You will also sign a transcript of your conversation with Superintendent Rigano this evening, as an insurance policy. You will hand over any copies of that tape still in your possession. And then you will leave here. You will not refer to the events of this evening or to your theories about the murder of Rupert Crabtree to anyone. On pain of prosecution. Or worse.”

“And if I don't?”

“The answer to that question is not one that will appeal, believe me. What have you to lose by cooperating with what are, after all, your own country's national interests?”

Lindsay shook her head. “If we started to debate where the national interest really lies, we'd be here a long time, Ms. Barber. I've got a more immediate concern than that. I understand that you're not going to let Simon Crabtree be charged with the murder of his father?”

“Superintendent Rigano's indiscretions were quite accurate.”

“So that means he stays free until you're ready?”

The woman nodded. “You have a good grasp of the realities, Miss Gordon.”

“Then what?”

“Then he will be dealt with, believe me. By one side or the other.”

“But not immediately?”

“That seems unlikely. He has—certain uses, shall we say?”

Lindsay lit another cigarette. “That's my problem, you see, Ms. Barber. Simon Crabtree is a murderer and I want him out of circulation.”

“I'm surprised that the Protestant ethic is still so firmly rooted in you, given how the rest of your lifestyle has rejected it. I didn't expect a radical lesbian feminist to be so adamant for justice,” Barber replied sarcastically.

“It's not some abstract notion of justice that bothers me,” Lindsay retorted. “It's life and death. The life and death of someone I care about. You see, no one's told Simon Crabtree that he's immune from prosecution. And he thinks that Deborah Patterson has information that will tie him to his father's murder and put him away. For as long as he's on the streets, Deborah Patterson is at risk, and I can't go along with any deal that means there's a chance that she's going to die. So I'm sorry, it's no deal. I've got to tell my story. I've got to put a stop to Simon Crabtree.”

“That's a very short-sighted view,” Barber responded quietly. “If you don't accept the deal, Deborah will be in exactly the same position of risk that you have outlined.”

Lindsay shook her head. “No. Even if I can't get the paper to use the story, I can get her out of the firing line. I can take her away somewhere he'll never find us.”

Harriet Barber laughed softly. “I don't think you quite understand, Miss Gordon. If you don't accept our offer, you'll be in no position to take Deborah anywhere. Because you won't be going anywhere. Accidents, Miss Gordon, can happen to anyone.”

The phone was ringing when Cordelia let herself in, but before she could reach the nearest extension, the answering machine picked up the call. No hurry, she thought, climbing the stairs. She took off her sheepskin, went into their bedroom and swapped her boots for a pair of slippers. She carried her briefcase through to her study, then headed for the kitchen. She put on some coffee to brew, and with a degree of anticipation went to read the note from Lindsay she'd spotted on her way past the memo board. She wished she'd been able to dash down to Brownlow to be with Lindsay when she'd needed her and was gratified when she found that her presumed errant lover was due home within the half hour. Only then did she play back the messages stored on the machine.

All were for Lindsay, and all were from Duncan, increasingly angry as one succeeded another. There were four, the earliest timed at noon, the latest the one she'd nearly picked up when she came in. It was all to do with some urgent query from the office lawyer about her copy, and Duncan was clearly furious at Lindsay's failure to keep in touch. Cordelia sighed. It was really none of her business, but she toyed with the idea of calling Duncan and making soothing noises while explaining that Lindsay was due back at any minute. She got as far as dialing the number of the newsdesk, but thought better of it at the last minute and replaced the receiver. Lindsay wouldn't thank her if she had the effect of irritating Duncan still further, which, knowing him, was entirely possible.

Cordelia poured herself a mug of coffee, picked up the morning paper, and ambled through to the living room. She sat down to read the paper, but decided she needed some soothing music and went over to the record and tape collection to select her current favorite, a tape Lindsay had compiled of Renata Tebaldi singing Mozart and Puccini
arias. She slotted the tape into the stereo, noting with annoyance that the power was still switched on and that there was an unidentified tape in the other deck. It aroused her curiosity, so she rewound the tape and played it back. The series of hisses and whines puzzled her, but she shrugged and put it down to some bizarre exercise of Lindsay's. She stopped the tape and went back to her coffee and paper to the strains of “Un Bel Di Vedremo.”

She was immersed in the book reviews when the phone rang again. She picked it up, checking her watch, surprised to see it was already ten past eight. “Cordelia Brown here,” she said.

“Thank Christ somebody answers this phone occasionally!” It was Duncan, sufficiently self-confident not to bother announcing his identity. “Where the hell is she, Cordelia? I've been trying to get hold of her all bloody day. She's got her bloody radiopager switched off too, the silly bitch. I mean, I told her she could have the day off, but she knows better than to do a body-swerve when she's got a story on the go. Where is she, then?”

“I really don't know, Duncan,” Cordelia replied. “But I'm expecting her back any minute. She left a note saying she'd be back by eight and she's usually very good about punctuality. I'll get her to call as soon as she gets in, okay?”

“No, it's not okay,” he retorted with ill-grace. “But it'll have to do. I'll have her on the dog watch for a month for this. Makes me look a bloody idiot, you know?”

“I'm sorry, Duncan. You know it's not like her to let you down.”

“She's got some bloody bee in her bonnet about this peace camp. It was the same over that bloody murder in Derbyshire but at least she was freelance then. She owes me some loyalty for giving her a job. I'll get no proper work out of her till this is cleared up,” he complained.

“You don't have to tell me, Duncan,” Cordelia sympathized. “I'll get her to call you, okay?”

Cordelia sat for a moment, the first stirrings of worry beginning. Lindsay was pathologically punctual. If her note said “home by eight,” then home by eight she'd be, or else she'd have phoned a message through. She always managed it; in the past she'd bribed passing motorists or British Rail porters to make the phone calls on her behalf.
Presumably, Lindsay was visiting Deborah, since she'd been so worried about her condition. And there was no point in fretting about that. She was only twenty-five minutes late, after all.