Val McDermid - Common Murder

“That’ll have to do then, I suppose,” Duncan barked. “But see if you can tie it up today, okay? And keep close to the cops. Any sign of an arrest, I want to be the first to know. And don’t forget that interview with the suspect woman. Keep ahead of the game, Lindsay.”

The line went dead. Lindsay was grateful. The interview with Stanhope had produced more than she’d anticipated, and she’d spent the rest of the morning trying to set up meetings with Mallard and Warminster. But neither could fit her in till the next day which left her with a hole in the news editor’s schedule to fill and nothing to fill it with except for the one interview she didn’t want to capitalise on. The fact that she was no stranger to living on her wits didn’t mean she had to enjoy it. The one thing she wasn’t prepared to admit to herself yet was that the job was increasingly turning into something she couldn’t square either with her conscience or her principles. After all, once she had acknowledged the tackiness of the world she loved working in, how could she justify her continued determination to take the money and run?

It was half past one by the time she reached the Frog and Basset, a real ale pub about two miles out of the town in the opposite direction to Brownlow. She pushed her way through the crowd of lunchtime drinkers into the tiny snug, which had a hand-lettered sign saying “Private Meeting” on the door. The only inhabitant was Rigano, sitting at a converted sewing-machine table with the remains of a pint in front of him. He looked up at her. “Glad you could make it,” he said. “I’ve got to be back at the station for two. Ring the bell on the bar if you want a drink. Mine’s a pint of Basset Bitter.”

Lindsay’s eyebrows rose, but nevertheless she did as he said. The barman who emerged in response to her ring scuttled off and returned moments later with two crystal-clear pints. Lindsay paid and brought the drinks over in silence. Rigano picked up his and took a deep swallow. “So was Carlton Stanhope a help?”

Lindsay shrugged. “Interesting. There seems to have been something going on between Crabtree and the treasurer, Mallard.”

Rigano shook his head. “Don’t get too excited about that. It’s only in bad detective novels that people get bumped off to avoid financial scandal and ruin.”

Stung, Lindsay replied, “Don’t get too excited about that. There are plenty of cases that make the papers where people have been murdered for next to nothing. It all depends how much the murderer feels they can bear to lose.”

“And did Carlton Stanhope come up with anyone else that you think might have something to lose?”

Lindsay shrugged. “He mentioned someone called Warminster.”

“A crank. Not really dangerous. All mouth and no action.”

“Thanks. And have you got anything for me? I could do with a bone to throw to my boss.”

Rigano took another deep swig of his beer. “There’s not much I can say. We’re not about to make an arrest, and we’re pursuing various lines of enquiry.”

“Oh come on, surely you can do better than that. What about CID? What are they doing? Who’s in charge of that end of things?”

Rigano scowled, and Lindsay felt suddenly threatened. “I’m in charge,” he answered grimly. “I’ll keep my end of the deal, don’t worry. I’ve set you up with Stanhope, haven’t I? I gave you the whereabouts of the daughter, didn’t I? So don’t push your luck.”

Frustrated, she drank her drink and smoked a cigarette in the silence between them. Then, abruptly, Rigano got to his feet, finishing his drink as he rose. “I’ve got to get back,” he said. “The sooner I do, the nearer we’ll be to sorting this business out. Keep me informed about how you’re getting on.” He slipped out of the snug. Lindsay left the remains of her drink and drove back to the camp.

She parked the car and went to the van, which was empty. She put the kettle on, but before it boiled, the driver’s door opened and Deborah’s head appeared. “Busy?” she asked.

Lindsay shook her head. “Not at all,” she replied. “Actually, I was about to come looking for you. I need your help again.”

Deborah made herself comfortable. “All you have to do is ask. Been on a shopping spree? I can’t believe all these frightfully chic outfits came out of that little overnight bag.”

“I had to find something to wear that makes me look like an efficient journo. Your average punter isn’t too impressed with decrepit Levi’s and sweatshirts. Anything doing that I’ve missed?”

“Judith is coming to see me at three o’clock.”

Lindsay poured out their coffee and said, “Is it about the assault case?”

“That’s right,” Deborah confirmed. “She wants to explain exactly what the situation is. I think she’s had some news today. Or an opinion or something. Now, what was it you wanted from me? Nothing too shocking, I hope.”

“I need you to have dinner with me tonight. In London.”

Deborah looked surprised. “I thought Cordelia was in London? Doesn’t she eat dinner any more?”

“For this particular dinner, I need you. We are going to a bijou vegetarian restaurant called Rubyfruits.”

“You’re taking me to a dykey-sounding place like that? On your own patch? And you’re not worried about who you might run into? Whatever happened to keeping it light between us?”

Lindsay grimaced. “This is business, not pleasure. Rubyfruits is run by Ros Crabtree, our Rupert’s daughter. The dyke that Daddy didn’t know about, apparently. And I need you there to tell me if you saw anything of Ros or her partner around Brownlow recently. Okay?”

As Deborah agreed, Judith’s car drew up outside.

She looked every inch the solicitor in a dark green tweed-mixture suit and a cream open-necked shirt. But behind the facade she was clearly bursting with a nugget of gossip that threatened to make her explode, and she was quite shrewd enough to realise that dumping it in Lindsay’s lap was guaranteed to provide it with the most fertile ground possible.

“You look like the cat that’s had the cream,” Lindsay remarked.

“Sorry, terribly unprofessional of me. We solicitors are not supposed to show any emotion about anything, you know. But this is such a wonderful tale of dirty linen washing itself in public, I can’t be all cool and collected about it. A wonderful piece of gossip, and the best of it is that it’s twenty-four carat truth. Now Lindsay, if you’re going to use this, you certainly didn’t get it from me, all right?”

Lindsay nodded, bored with yet another demand for anonymity. When she was a young trainee reporter, it had always made the adrenalin surge when people required to be Deep Throats. But cynical experience of the insignificance of ninety per cent of people’s revelations had ended that excitement years ago. Whatever Judith had to say might merit a few paragraphs, but she would wait and hear it before she let her pulse race.

“Rupert Crabtree’s will is with one of the partners in the building next to ours. Anyway, the junior partner is by way of being a pal of mine, and he’s managed to cast an eye over the will. And you’ll never guess who gets ten thousand pounds?”

Lindsay sighed. “Ros Crabtree? Simon?”

Judith shook her head impatiently. “No, no. They each get one third of the residue, about fifty thousand each. No, the ten thousand goes to Alexandra Phillips. Now isn’t that extraordinary?” She was clearly disappointed by the blank stares from her audience. “Oh Lindsay, you must know about Alexandra. You’re supposed to be looking into Rupert Crabtree. Has no one told you about Alexandra? Lindsay, she was his mistress.”

That last word won Judith all the reaction she could have wished. Lindsay sat bolt upright and spilt the remains of her coffee over the table. “His mistress?” she demanded. “Why the hell did nobody tell me he had a mistress?”