Val McDermid - Common Murder

Lindsay scowled. “Thanks,” she muttered on her way to the door. “I’ll probably see you later in the pub. Oh, and by the way, do tell your Special Branch bloodhound to stop following me around. I’m not about to do a runner.” She congratulated herself on her smart response. She would remember that arrogance later.

Ripe for takeover by the big boys, thought Lindsay as she entered the George Hotel. The combination of the faded fifties decor and odd touches of contemporary tatt was an unhappy one. She could imagine the prawn cocktail and fillet steak menu. A neon sign that looked like a museum piece pointed up a flight of stairs to the residents’ lounge. Lindsay pushed open the creaky swing door. The chairs looked cheap and uncomfortable. The only occupant of the room was pouring himself a cup of coffee. Lindsay’s heart sank. So much for Rigano’s assumption that they’d have the place to themselves, for the young man sprawled leggily in an armchair by the coffee table didn’t look like a farmer called Carlton Stanhope.

He wore tight blue jeans, elastic-sided riding boots, and an Aran sweater. His straight, dark blond hair was cut short at the sides, longer in the back, and had a floppy fringe that fell over his forehead from the side parting. He didn’t look a day over twenty-five. He glanced over at Lindsay hesitating by the door and drawled, “Miss Gordon, do sit down and have a cup of coffee before it gets cold.”

As he registered the surprise in her eyes, he smiled wickedly. “Not what you expected, eh? You thought a Fordham farmer called Carlton Stanhope who was a sidekick of Rupert Crabtree was bound to be a tweedy old foxhunter with a red face and a glass of Scotch in the fist, admit it! Sorry to disappoint you. Jack Rigano really should have warned you.”

Lindsay’s mouth wavered between a scowl and a smile. She sat down while Stanhope poured her a cup of coffee. “Do say something,” he mocked. “Don’t tell me I’ve taken your breath away?”

“I was surprised to see someone under fifty, I must say. Other than that, though, I can’t say I’m greatly shocked and stunned. Don’t all young gentlemen farmers dress like you these days?”

“Touché,” he replied. “And since you’re not what I expected of either a journalist or a peace woman, I’d say we’re probably about quits. You see, Miss Gordon, we moderate men are just as much subject to stereotypes as you radical women.”

Lindsay felt a hint of dislike in her response to him. She reckoned he knew himself to be a highly eligible young man, but she gave him credit for trying to build on his physical charm with an entertaining line of conversation. His manner irritated rather than appealed to her, but that didn’t stop her acknowledging that it would normally find its admirers. “Superintendent Rigano seemed to think you might be able to fill me in on some background about Ratepayers Against Brownlow’s Destruction.”

“Jack says you’re doing the investigative crime reporter bit over Rupert’s death. He seems to think you’re a useful sort of sleuth to have on his side, so I suppose I’m the quid pro quo,” he observed.

“I appreciate the help,” she responded. “I’m sure you’ve got more important things to be doing-drilling your barley or whatever it is farmers do in March.”

“Lambing, actually. My pleasure, I assure you. Now, what exactly is it you want to know?”

“I’m interested in RABD. How did you come to get involved with it?” Lindsay asked. She found her cigarettes and offered Stanhope the packet. He dismissed it with a wave of his hand as he began his story.

“Let’s see now… I got involved shortly after it was formed. That must have been about six or seven months ago, I guess. I hadn’t been back in the area long. My father decided he wanted to bow out of the day-to-day hassle of running the farm, so he dragged me back from my job with the Forestry Commission to take over what will one day be mine. That is, what the bank and the taxman don’t get their hands on.

“Anyway, to cut a long story short, I was appalled when I arrived back home and found these women camped on the common. I mean, Brownlow Common was always a place where people could walk their dogs, take their sprogs. But who’d actually want to take their offspring for a walk past that eyesore? All that polythene and earth-mother cooking pots and lesbians hugging each other at the drop of a hat or any other garment. Grotesque, for those of us who remember what a walk on the common used to be like.

“Also, say what you will about the Yanks, their base has brought an extraordinary degree of prosperity to Fordham. It’s cushioned the local people against the worst excesses of the recession. And that’s not something to be sneezed at.”

He paused for breath, coffee, and thought. Lindsay dived in. “Was it actually Rupert Crabtree who recruited you, then?”

“I don’t know if recruit is quite the word. You make him sound like some spymaster. I was having dinner with my parents at the Old Coach restaurant, and Rupert was there with Emma-Mrs. Crabtree, you know? Anyhow, they joined us for coffee, and Emma was complaining about how ghastly it was to have this bloody camp right on the doorstep, and Rupert was informing anyone who’d care to listen that he was going to do something about it and that anyone with any civic pride left would join this new organization to get rid of the women at the camp for good and all.”

Lindsay looked speculatively at the handsome, broad-shouldered young man. It would be nice to shake that self-assurance to its roots. But not today. “That sounds a bit heavy duty,” she simply said.

“Oh no, nothing like that. No, RABD was all about operating within the law. We used the local press and poster and leaflet campaigns to mobilise public opinion against the camp. And of course, Rupert and a couple of other lawyers developed ways of harassing them through the courts using the by-laws and civil actions. And whenever they staged big demos, we’d aim to mount a token counter-demonstration, making sure the media knew.”

“In other words, peaceful protest within the law?”

“Absolutely.”

“Just like the peace women, in fact?” Avoiding Stanhope’s glance Lindsay screwed out her cigarette in the ashtray. “So, tell me about the infighting at RABD.”

He looked suddenly cautious. “We don’t want all this to become public knowledge.”

Lindsay shrugged. “It already is. All sorts of rumours are flying round,” she exaggerated. “It’s better to be open about these things, especially when the world’s press is nosing about, otherwise people start reading all sorts of things into relatively minor matters. You don’t want people to think you’ve got something to hide, do you?”

Stanhope picked up the coffee jug and gestured towards Lindsay’s cup. “More coffee?” He was buying time. When Lindsay declined the offer he poured coffee into his own cup. “It’s not quite that simple, though, is it?” he demanded. “We’re talking about a murder investigation. Something one would happily have gossiped about in a private sort of way last week can suddenly take on quite extraordinary connotations after a man has been murdered. I know I seem to take everything very lightly, but in fact I feel Rupert’s death strongly. We didn’t always see eye to eye-he could be bloody irritating, he was so arrogant at times-but he was basically an absolutely straight guy, and that’s something I find I have to respect. So I’m wary of pushing something he cared about into an area where it could become the subject of public scorn.”

Lindsay groaned inwardly. Scruples were the last thing she needed. She had to get something out of Stanhope to provide a fresh lead for the next day’s paper, at the very least. And she needed to get it fast, before Duncan could start screaming for copy on Debs. She had foolishly thought that an interview set up by Rigano, with all the force of his authority, would be an easy answer. She set about overcoming Stanhope’s objections. It took less persuasion than she anticipated, and she suspected he had simply put her through the hoops in order to salve his conscience. And she managed to elicit the useful information that he had been alone in the lambing shed at the time of the murder.