Common Murder (9 page)

“So if you want any information from them, you're stymied. Without me, that is. I think I can deliver what you need to know from them. I'm not crazy about the position I find myself in. But they trust me, which is not something you can say about many people who have a truce with the establishment. They've asked me to act as a sort of troubleshooter for them.”

He looked suspicious. “I thought you were a reporter,” he said. “How have you managed to earn their trust?”

“The women at the camp know all about me. I've been going there for months now.”

He could have blustered, he could have threatened, she knew. But he just asked, quietly, “And what's the price?”

Glad that her first impression of him hadn't been shattered, Lindsay replied, “The price is a bit of sharing. I'm a good investigative reporter. I'll let you have what I get, if you'll give me a bit of help and information.”

“You don't want much, do you?” he complained.

“I'm offering something you won't get any other way,” Lindsay replied. She doubted she could deliver all she had promised, but she reckoned she could do enough to keep him happy. That way, she'd get what she and the women wanted.

He studied her carefully and appeared to come to a decision. “Can we go off the record?” he asked. Lindsay nodded. His response at first appeared to be a diversion. “He was an influential man, Rupert Crabtree. Knew most of the people that are supposedly worth knowing round these parts. Didn't just know them to share a pink gin with—he knew them well enough to demand favors. Being dead seems to have set in motion the machinery for calling in the favors. I'm technically in charge of the CID boys running this at local level. But CID are avoiding this one like the plague. And other units are trying to use their muscle on it.

“Our switchboard has been busy. I'm under a lot of pressure to arrest your friend. You'll understand that, I know. But I'm old-fashioned enough to believe that you get your evidence before the arrest, not vice versa. That wouldn't have been hard in this case, if you follow me.

“I happen to think that she didn't kill him. And I'm not afraid to admit I'll need help to make that stick. You know I don't need to make deals to achieve that help. Most coppers could manage it, given time
and a bit of leaning. But I don't have time. There are other people breathing down my neck. So let's see what we need for a deal.”

Lindsay nodded. “I need access to the family. You'll have to introduce me to them. Suggest that I'm not just a newspaper reporter. That I'm working on a bigger piece about the Brownlow campaign for a magazine that will feature an in-depth profile of Crabtree—a sort of tribute.”

“Are you?”

“I can be by teatime. Also point out to them that it will get the pack off their back and end the siege. I'll be taping the conversation and transcribing the tapes. You can have full access to the tapes and a copy of the transcripts.”

“Are you trying to tell me you think it was a domestic crime?”

“Most murders are, aren't they? But I won't know who might have killed him till I've found out a lot more about his life. That means family, friends, colleagues, and the peace women will all have to open up to me. In return, any of the peace women you want to talk to, you tell me honestly what it's about and I'll deliver the initial information you need. Obviously, you'll have to take over if it's at all significant, but that's got to be better for you than a wall of silence.”

“It's completely unorthodox. I can't run an investigation according to the whim of the press.”

“Without my help, I can promise you all you'll find at the camp is a brick wall. Anyway, you don't strike me as being a particularly orthodox copper.”

He almost smiled. “When do you want to see the family?” he asked.

“Soon as possible. It really will get the rest of the press off the doorstep. You'll have to tell my colleagues at the gate that the family asked expressly to talk to a
Clarion
reporter or you'll get a load of aggravation which I'm sure you could do without.”

“Are you mobile?”

“The BMW cabriolet outside.”

“The fruits of being a good investigative reporter seem sweeter than those of being a good copper. Wait in the car.” He rose. The interview was over.

Slightly bewildered by her degree of success, Lindsay found her way through the labyrinthine corridors to the car park, feeling incongruous
in her high heels after days in heavy boots, and slumped into the seat beside Cordelia, who looked at her inquiringly.

“I think perhaps I need my head examined,” Lindsay said. “The way I've been behaving today, I think it buttons up the back. I've just marched into a superintendent's office and offered to do a deal with him that will keep Debs out of prison, get me some good exclusives, and might possibly, if we all get very lucky indeed, point him in the right direction for the real villain. Talk about collaborating with the class enemy. Mind you, I expected him to throw me out on my ear. But he went for it. Can you believe it?”

Lindsay outlined her conversation with Rigano. When she'd finished, Cordelia asked, “Would he be the one who looks like a refugee from a portrait in the Uffizi?”

“That's him. Why?”

“Because he's heading this way,” she said drily as Rigano's hand reached for Lindsay's door. Lindsay sat bolt upright and wound down the window.

“Open the back door for me, please,” said Rigano. “I believe we may be able to do a deal.”

Lindsay did as she was told and he climbed in. A shadow of distaste crossed his face as his eyes flicked round the luxurious interior. “Drive to Brownlow Common Cottages,” he said. “Not too fast. There will be a police car behind you.”

Cordelia started the car, put it in gear, then, almost as an afterthought, before she released the clutch, she turned round in her seat and said, “I'm Cordelia Brown, by the way. Would it be awfully unreasonable of me to ask your name?”

“Not at all,” he replied courteously. His face showed the ghost of a smile. “I am Superintendent Giacomo Rigano of Fordham Police. I'm sorry I didn't introduce myself. I've grown so accustomed to knowing who everyone is that I forget this is not a two-way process. Because I knew who you were, I assumed you knew me too.”

“How did you know who I was?” she demanded, full of suspicion. She never seemed to remember that, as the writer of several novels and a successful television series, she was a minor celebrity. It had often amused Lindsay.

As usual, Rigano took his time in replying. “I recognized you from
your photographs.” He paused, and just before Cordelia could draw again on her stock of paranoia, he added, “You know, on your dust jackets. And, of course, from television.”

Fifteen love, thought Lindsay in surprise. They drove off and Lindsay swiveled round in her seat. “What's the deal, then?”

“I've just spoken to Mrs. Crabtree. She wasn't keen, but I've persuaded her. I'll take you there and introduce you to her. Then I'll leave you to it. On the understanding that I can listen to the tapes afterward and that you will give me copies of the transcript as agreed. In return, I need to know who was at the peace camp last night and where each woman was between ten and eleven. If you can give me that basic information, then I know who I need to talk to further.”

“Okay,” Lindsay agreed. “But it'll be tomorrow before I can let you have that.”

“Then tomorrow will have to do. The people who want quick results will have to be satisfied with the investigation proceeding at its own pace. Like any other investigation.”

“Yes, but to people round here, he's not quite like any other corpse, is he?” Cordelia countered.

“That's true,” Rigano retorted. “But while this remains my case, he will simply be a man who was unlawfully killed. To me, that is the only special thing about him.”

That must endear you to your bosses, Cordelia thought. Just what is Lindsay getting into this time? Maverick coppers we don't need.

Cordelia steered carefully through the crowd of journalists and vehicles that still made the narrow road in front of Brownlow Cottages a cramped thoroughfare. Lindsay noticed the blond watcher was no longer there. At the end of the Crabtrees' drive, Rigano wound down the window and shouted to the constable on duty there, “Open the gate for us, Jamieson!”

The constable started into action, and as they drove inside, Lindsay could see the looks of fury on the faces of her rivals. As soon as the car stopped, Rigano got out and gestured to Lindsay to follow him. He was immediately distracted by journalists fifty yards away shouting their demands for copy, Lindsay took advantage of the opportunity to lean across and say urgently to Cordelia, “Listen, love, you can't
help me here. I want us to work as a team like we did before. Would you go back to the camp and see if you can get Jane to help you sort out this alibi nonsense that Rigano wants? And make it as watertight as possible. Okay?”

“We have a deal,” said Cordelia, with a smile. “As the good superintendent says.”

“Great. See you later,” Lindsay replied as she got out of the car and joined Rigano standing impatiently on the doorstep.

“Mrs. Crabtree's on her own,” he remarked. “There were some friends round earlier but she sent them away. The son, Simon, is out. He apparently had some urgent business to see to. So you should have a chance to do something more than ask superficial questions to which we all know the answers already.”

He gave five swift raps on the door knocker. Inside, a dog barked hysterically. As the door opened Rigano insinuated himself into the gap to block the view of the photographers at the end of the drive. Using his legs like a hockey goalkeeper he prevented an agitated fox-terrier taking off down the drive to attack the waiting press eager to snatch a picture of Rupert Crabtree's widow. Lindsay followed him into a long wide hallway. Rigano put his hand under Mrs. Crabtree's arm and guided her through a door at the rear of the hall. The dog sniffed suspiciously at Lindsay, gave a low growl, and scampered after them.

Lindsay glanced quickly around her. The occasional tables had genuine age, the carpet was dark brown and deep, the pictures on the wall were old, dark oils. This was money, and not
arriviste
money either. Nothing matched quite well enough for taste acquired in a job lot. Half of Lindsay felt envy, the other half contempt, but she didn't have time to analyze either emotion. She reached into her bag and switched on her tape recorder, then entered the room behind the other two.

She found herself in the dining room, its centerpiece a large rosewood drum table, big enough to seat eight people comfortably. Against one wall stood a long mahogany sideboard. The end of the room was almost completely taken up by large french windows which allowed plenty of light to glint off the silver candlesticks and rosebowl on the sideboard. On the walls hung attractive modern watercolors of cottage gardens. Lindsay took all this in and turned to the woman
sitting at the table. Her pose was as stiff as the straight-backed chair she sat in. At her feet now lay the dog, who opened one eye from time to time to check that no one had moved significantly.

“Mrs. Crabtree, this is Miss Lindsay Gordon. Miss Gordon's the writer I spoke to you about on the phone. She's to write a feature for
Newsday.
I give you my word, you can trust her. Don't be afraid to tell her about your husband,” Rigano said.

Emma Crabtree looked up and surveyed them both. She looked as if she didn't have enough trust to go round, but she'd hand over what she had in the full expectation that it would be returned to her diminished. Her hair was carefully cut and styled, but she had not been persuaded either by husband or hairdresser to get rid of the gray that heavily streaked the original blonde. Her face showed the remnants of a beauty that had not been sustained by a strong bone structure once the skin had begun to sag and wrinkle. But the eyes were still lovely. They were large, hazel, and full of life. They didn't look as if they had shed too many tears. The grief was all being carried by the hands, which worked continuously in the lap of a tweed skirt.

She didn't try to smile a welcome. She simply said in a dry voice, “Good afternoon, Miss Gordon.”

Rigano looked slightly uncomfortable and quickly said, “I'll be on my way now. Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Crabtree, I'll be in touch.” He nodded to them both and backed out of the room.

Emma Crabtree glanced at Lindsay briefly, then turned her head slightly to stare through the windows. “I'm not altogether sure why I agreed to speak to you,” she said. “But I suppose the superintendent knows best and if that's the only way to get rid of that rabble that's driving my neighbors to distraction, then so be it. At least you've not been hanging over my garden gate all day. Now, what do you want to know?”

Her words and her delivery cut the ground from under Lindsay's feet. All the standard approaches professing a spurious sympathy were rendered invalid by the widow's coolness. The journalist also sensed a degree of hostility that she would have to disarm before she could get much useful information. So she changed the tactics she had been working out in the car and settled on an equally cool approach. “How long had you been married?” she asked.