Common Murder (3 page)

Judith was about to continue, but Lindsay interrupted. “Of course I will. She should know that, for God's sake. Now, what's point two?”

Judith grinned. “Point two is that we believe bail will be set at
a fairly high level. What I need is someone who will stand surety for Deborah.”

Lindsay nodded. “That's no problem. What do I have to do?”

“You'll have to lodge the money with the court. A check will do. Can you be there tomorrow?”

“Provided I can get away by half past two. I'm working tomorrow night, you see. I start at four.” She arranged to meet Judith at the magistrates' court in the morning, and the solicitor got up to leave. The night briefly intruded as she left, reminding them all of the freezing February gale endured by the women outside.

“She's been terrific to us,” said Jane, as they watched Judith drive away. “She just turned up one day not long after the first court appearance for obstruction. She offered her services any time we needed legal help. She's never taken a penny from us, except what she gets in legal aid. Her family farms on the other side of town and her mother comes over about once a month with fresh vegetables for us. It's really heartening when you get support from people like that, people you'd always vaguely regarded as class enemies, you know?”

Lindsay nodded. “That sort of thing always makes me feel ashamed for writing people off as stereotypes. Anyway, I'd better go and phone Cordelia before she starts to worry about me. Will you hold the fort for ten minutes?”

Lindsay jumped into the car and drove to the phone box where the incident between Deborah and Crabtree had taken place though it was too dark to detect any signs of the scuffle. A gust of wind blew a splatter of rain against the panes of the phone box as she dialed the London number and a sleepy voice answered, “Cordelia Brown speaking.”

“Cordelia? It's me. I'm down at Brownlow Common on a job that's got a bit complicated. I'm going to stay over. Okay?”

“What a drag. Why is it always you that gets stuck on the out-of-towners?”

“Strictly speaking, it's not work that's the problem.” Lindsay spoke in a rush. “Listen, there's been a bit of bother between one of the peace women and a local man. There's been an arrest. In fact, the woman who's been arrested is Deborah Patterson.”

Cordelia's voice registered her surprise. “Deborah from Yorkshire? That peace camp really is a small world, isn't it? Whatever happened?”

“She's been set up, as far as I can make out.”

“Not very pleasant for her, I should imagine.”

“You've hit the nail on the head. She's currently locked up in a police cell, so I thought I'd keep an eye on little Cara till Debs is released tomorrow.”

“No problem,” Cordelia replied. “I can get some more work done tonight if you're not coming back. It's been going really well tonight, and I'm reluctant to stop till my eyes actually close.”

Lindsay gave a wry smile. “I'm glad it's going well. I'll try to come home tomorrow afternoon before I go to work.”

“Okay. I'll try to get home in time.”

“Oh. Where are you off to? Only, I thought you were going to be home all week.”

“My mother rang this evening. She's coming up tomorrow to do the shops and I promised I'd join her. But I'll try to be back for four.”

“Look, don't rush your mother on my account. I'll see you tomorrow in bed. I should be home by one. Love you, babe.”

A chill wind met her as she stepped out of the phone box and walked quickly back to the car. She pictured her lover sitting at her word processor, honing and refining her prose, relieved at the lack of distraction. Then she thought of Deborah, fretting in some uncomfortable, smelly cell. It wasn't an outcome Lindsay had anticipated all those years before when, a trainee journalist on a local paper in Cornwall, she had encountered Deborah at a party. For Lindsay, it had been lust at first sight, and as the evening progressed and drink had been taken, she had contrived to make such a nuisance of herself that Deborah finally relented for the sake of peace and agreed to meet Lindsay the following evening for a drink.

That night had been the first of many. Their often stormy relationship had lasted for nearly six months before Lindsay was transferred to another paper in the group. Neither of them could sustain the financial or emotional strain of separation, and soon mutual infidelities transformed their relationship to platonic friendship. Not long after, Lindsay left the West Country for Fleet Street, and Deborah announced her intention of having a child. Deborah bought a ruined farmhouse in North Yorkshire that she was virtually rebuilding single-handed. Even after Lindsay moved back to Scotland, she still made regular visits to
Deborah and was surprised to find how much she enjoyed spending time with Deborah's small daughter. She felt comfortable there, even when they were joined for the occasional evening by Cara's father Robin, a gay man who lived near by. But Lindsay and Deborah never felt the time was right to revive their sexual relationship.

After she had fallen for Cordelia, Lindsay's visits had tailed off, though she had once taken Cordelia to stay the night. It had not been a success. Deborah had been rebuilding the roof at the time, there was no electricity, and the water had to be pumped by hand from the well in the yard. Cordelia had not been impressed with either the accommodation or the insouciance of its owner. But Lindsay had sensed a new maturity in Deborah that she found appealing.

Deborah had clearly sensed Cordelia's discomfort, but she had not commented on it. She had a willingness to accept people for what they were, and conduct her relationships with them on that basis. She never imposed her own expectations on them, and regarded her reactions to people and events as entirely her responsibility. It would be nice, thought Lindsay, not to feel that she was failing to come up to scratch. Time spent with Deborah always made her feel good about herself.

Back at the van, she brought in a bottle of Scotch from the car and poured a nightcap for herself and Jane.

“Are you all right, Lindsay?” Jane asked.

Lindsay's reply was drowned out by a roar outside louder, even, than the stormy weather. It was a violent sound, rising and falling angrily. Lindsay leapt to her feet and pulled back the curtain over the van's windscreen. Fear rose in her throat. The black night was scythed open by a dozen brilliant headlamps whose beams raked the benders like prison-camp searchlights. The motor bikes revved and roared in convoluted patterns round the encampment, sometimes demolishing benders as they went. As Lindsay's eyes adjusted to the night, she could make out pillion riders on several of the bikes, some wielding stout sticks, others swinging heavy chains at everything in their path. It was clearly not the first time the women had been raided in this way, for everyone had the sense to stay down inside the scant shelter the benders provided.

Lindsay and Jane stood speechless, petrified by the spectacle. The van's glow seemed to exert a magnetic effect on three of the bikers
and their cyclops lamps swung round and lit it up like a follow-spot on a stage.

“Oh shit,” breathed Lindsay as the bikes careered toward the van. She leaned forward desperately and groped round the unfamiliar dashboard. What felt like agonizing minutes later she found the right switch and flicked the lights on to full beam. The bikes wavered in their course and two of them peeled off to either side. The third skidded helplessly in the mud and slithered into a sideways slew on the greasy ground. The rider struggled to his feet, mouthing obscenities, and dragged himself round to his top-box. Out of it he pulled a large plastic bag which he hurled at the van. The women instinctively dived for the floor as it slammed into the windscreen with a squelching thud. Lindsay raised her head and nearly threw up. The world had turned red.

All over the windscreen was a skin of congealing blood with lumps of unidentifiable material slowly slithering down on to the bonnet. Jane's head appeared beside her. “Oh God, not the pigs' blood routine again,” she moaned. “I thought they'd got bored with that one.”

As she spoke, the bikes revved up again, then their roar gradually diminished into an irritated buzz as they left the camp and reached the road.

“We must call the police!” Lindsay exclaimed.

“It's a waste of time calling the police, Lindsay. They just don't want to know. The first time they threw blood over our benders, we managed to get the police to come out. But they said we'd done it ourselves, that we were sensation seekers. They said there was no evidence of our allegations. Tire tracks in the mud don't count, you see. Nor do the statements of forty women. It doesn't really matter what crimes are perpetrated against us, because we're subhuman, you see.”

“That's monstrous,” Lindsay protested.

“But inevitable,” Jane retorted. “What's going on here is so radical that they can't afford to treat it seriously on any level. Start accepting that we've got any rights and you end up by giving validity to the nightmares that have brought us here. Do that and you're halfway to accepting that our views on disarmament are a logical position. Much easier to treat us with total contempt.”

“That's intolerable,” said Lindsay.

“I'd better go and check that no one's hurt,” Jane said. “One of
the women got quite badly burned the first time they fire-bombed the tents.”

“Give me a second to check that Cara's okay and I'll come with you,” Lindsay said, getting up and climbing the ladder that led to Cara's bunk. Surprisingly, the child was still fast asleep.

“I guess she's used to it by now,” Jane said, leading the way outside.

It was a sorry scene that greeted them. The headlights of several of the women's vehicles illuminated half a dozen benders now reduced to tangled heaps of wreckage, out of which women were still crawling. Jane headed for the first aid bender while Lindsay plowed through the rain and wind to offer what help she could to two women struggling to salvage the plastic sheeting that had formed their shelter. Together all three battled against the weather and roughly reerected the bender. But the women's sleeping bags were soaked and they trudged off to try and find some dry blankets to get them through the night.

Lindsay looked around. Slowly the camp was regaining its normal appearance. Where work was still going on, there seemed to be plenty of helpers. She made her way to Jane's bender, fortunately undamaged, and found the doctor bandaging the arm of a woman injured by a whiplashing branch in the attack on her bender.

“Hi, Lindsay,” Jane had said without pausing in her work. “Not too much damage, thank God. A few bruises and cuts, but nothing major.”

“Anything I can do?”

Jane shook her head. “Thanks, but everything's under control.”

Feeling slightly guilty, but not wanting to leave Cara alone for too long, Lindsay returned to the van. She made up the double berth where Jane had shown her Deborah normally slept.

But sleep eluded Lindsay. When she finally dropped off, it was to fall prey to confusing and painful dreams.

Cara woke early, and was fretful while Lindsay struggled with the unfamiliar intricacies of the van to provide them both with showers and breakfast. Luckily, the night's rain had washed away all traces of the pigs' blood. Of course, the keys of the van were with Deborah's
possessions at the police station, so they had to drive into town in Lindsay's car.

Fordham Magistrates Court occupied a large and elegant Georgian town house in a quiet cul-de-sac off the main street. Inside, the building was considerably less distinguished. The beautifully proportioned entrance hall had been partitioned to provide a waiting room and offices and comfortless plastic chairs abounded where Chippendale furniture might once have stood. The paintwork was grubby and chipped and there was a pervasive odor of stale bodies and cigarette smoke. Lindsay felt Cara's grip tighten as they encountered the usual odd mixture of people found in magistrates' courts. Uniformed policemen bustled from room to room, up and down stairs. A couple of court ushers in robes like Hammer Horror vampires stood gossiping by the WRVS tea stand from which a middle-aged woman dispensed gray coffee and orange tea. The other extras in this scene were the defeated-looking victims of the legal process, several of them in whispering huddles with their spry and well-dressed solicitors.