Val McDermid - Common Murder

“You’d be better employed talking to those women at the peace camp. That way you’d get an interview with my father’s murderer, since the police don’t seem to be in any hurry to arrest her.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” Lindsay said.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? One of those so-called peace women had already assaulted my father. It doesn’t take much intelligence to work it out from there, does it?” Lindsay wondered if it was grief that made him appear so brusque.

“I can understand why you feel like that,” she sympathised. “I’m sure your father’s death has upset you. But at least now you’ll be able to afford to set up your business properly. That will be a kind of tribute in a way, won’t it?”

He shot a shrewd look at Lindsay. “The business is already set up. It’s going to be successful anyway. All this means is that I do things a bit quicker. That’s all. My father’s death means more to me than a bloody business opportunity. Mother, I don’t know why you brought this up.” Turning back to Lindsay he added, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave now. My mother is too tired to deal with more questioning.” He looked expectantly at his mother.

The conditioned reflex built up over the years of marriage to Rupert Crabtree came into play. Simon had come into his inheritance in more ways than one. “Yes,” she said, “I think I’ve told you all I can, Miss Gordon. If you don’t mind.”

Lindsay got to her feet. “I’d like to have a few words with your daughter, Mrs. Crabtree. When will she be home?”

“She doesn’t live here any more. We’re not expecting her till the funeral,” Simon interjected abruptly. “I’ll show you out now.” He opened the door and held it open. Lindsay took the hint and thanked the widow routinely.

In the hall, with the door closed behind them, Lindsay tried again. “Your father’s death has obviously upset you. You must have cared for him very deeply.”

His face remained impassive. “Is that what you’ve been asking my mother about? Oh well, I suppose it’s what the masses want to read with their corn flakes. You can tell your readers that anyone who knew my father will realise how deeply upset we all are and what a gap he has left in our lives. Okay?” He opened the front door and all but shoved her through it. “I’m sure you’ve already got enough to fabricate a good story,” was his parting shot as he closed the door behind her.

She flipped open her bag, switched off the tape recorder and headed off down the drive to offer a couple of minor titbits to her rivals.

Bill Bryman had offered to drive Lindsay the mile back to the peace camp principally because he thought he might be able to prise more information from her than the bare quotes she had handed out to the pack. He was out of luck. Neither gratitude nor friendship would make Lindsay part with those pearls she had that were printable. But as she left the Crabtree’s house, she noticed that the Special Branch man with the red Fiesta was back, which added indefinably to her eagerness to leave the scene. So she had frankly used Bill’s car as a getaway vehicle to escape her colleagues and any watching eyes. As soon as he pulled up near the van, she was off. There was hardly a sign of life at the camp, and she realised a meeting must be in progress. Clever Cordelia, she thought.

She struggled through the mud in her high heels to Cordelia’s car and retrieved her other clothes. Back at the van, she changed into jeans and a sweater then set off jogging down the road towards the phone box on the main road, in the opposite direction to Brownlow Common Cottages. She had deliberately chosen the further of the two boxes in the neighborhood to avoid being overheard by any fellow journalists hanging around waiting to talk to their offices. To her relief the box was empty. She rang the police at Fordham to check that there were no new developments, then got through to the Clarion’s copy room. She dictated a heavily edited account of her interview with Emma and Simon Crabtree, coupled with an update on the case.

When she was transferred to the newsdesk, Duncan ’s voice reverberated in her ear. “Hello, Lindsay. What’ve you got for me?”

“An exclusive chat with the grieving widow and son,” she replied. “Nobody else got near them, but I had to give a couple of quotes to the pack in exchange for the exclusive. You’ll see them from the agency wire services, probably. Nothing of any importance. Any queries on the feature copy I did earlier?”

“No queries, kid. Your copy has just come up on screen, and it looks okay. Any progress on the exclusive chat with the bird who broke his nose?”

Lindsay fumed quietly. How much did the bastard want? “Hey, Duncan, did you know that women get called birds because they keep picking up worms? I doubt if I’ll get anything for tonight’s paper on that. The woman concerned is still a bit twitchy, you know? First thing tomorrow, though. I’ll file it before conference. And I’ve got another possible angle for tomorrow if the lawyers won’t let us use the interview. Apparently there were one or two wee problems with Crabtree’s ratepayers’ association. Possible financial shenanigans. I’m going to take a look at that, okay?” Lindsay couldn’t believe she was taking control of the conversation and the assignment, but it was actually happening.

“Fine,” Duncan acknowledged. “You’re the man on the spot, that sounds all right to me. Stick with it, kid. Speak to me in the morning.” The line went dead. Man on the spot, indeed. She made a face at the phone and set off at a leisurely pace to the camp.

As the benders came into sight, she saw that things were no longer quite so quiet. Outside the meeting tent were several figures. As she got closer, Lindsay could distinguish Cordelia, Jane, Deborah, Nicky, and a couple of other women. There seemed to be an argument in progress, judging by the gestures and postures of the group. Lindsay quickened her pace.

“Lindsay!” Jane exclaimed. “Thank goodness you’re here. Maybe you can sort this mess out.”

Cordelia interrupted angrily. “Look, Jane, I’ve said already, there’s nothing to sort out. Just count me out in future.”

“Look, just calm down, all of you,” soothed Deborah. “Everybody’s taking this all so personally. It’s not any sort of personality thing. It’s about the principle of trust and not reneging on the people you’ve entrusted something to. You know?”

“Are you saying I’m not to be trusted?” Cordelia flashed back.

“Personally, I don’t think either of you are,” Nicky muttered.

“It’s really nothing to do with you, Cordelia,” Jane replied in brisk tones. “The women find it very hard to trust people they see as outsiders and they used up all their available goodwill on Lindsay.”

Exasperated, Lindsay demanded, “Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?”

The others looked at each other, uncertain. Cordelia snorted. “Typical,” she muttered. “Everything by committee. Look, Lindsay, it’s pretty simple. You asked me to sort out the alibis for you and your pet policeman. I figured the quickest and most logical way to do it was get everyone together. So I got Jane to call a meeting. Which eventually got itself together only to decide that I wasn’t right-on enough for them to cooperate with. So I upped and left, which is where you find us now.”

Lindsay sighed. Jane said with no trace of defensiveness, “I think that’s a bit loaded, Cordelia. The women didn’t like someone they perceive as an outsider calling a meeting and making demands. We had enough difficulties getting agreement on asking Lindsay for help. Maybe you could have been a bit less heavy. I still think they’ll be okay if you both explain to them why we need the information to protect ourselves and to protect Deborah. Right now, it’s seen as being simply a case of us doing the police’s job for them and exposing ourselves to groundless suspicion.”