Val McDermid - Common Murder

Lindsay looked doubtful. “I think I have, Bill. Most of it can be backed up by other people, and I can get hold of a copy of the computer tape that clinches it all. The cops can’t deny what has been going on, either. Superintendent Rigano should be able to back it up.”

“Rigano was one of the people who was here yesterday,” Browne said heavily. “There will be no help from that quarter. The story must be killed, Lindsay.”

“I’m sorry,” said Duncan. “I know you worked hard for it.”

“Worked hard? I nearly got myself killed for it.” Lindsay shook her head disbelievingly. “This story is dynamite,” she protested. “We’re talking about murder, spying, security breaches, GBH, and kidnapping, all going on with the consent of the people on our side who are supposed to be responsible for law and order. And you’re telling me you haven’t got the bottle to use it because those bastards are going to make life a little bit awkward for you? Don’t you care about what they’ve done to me, one of your own?”

“It’s not that we don’t care. But there’s nothing we can legitimately do,” the editor replied. “Look, Lindsay, forget the whole thing. Take a week off, get it into perspective.”

Lindsay stood up. “No,” she said. “No way. I can’t accept this. I never thought I’d be ashamed of this paper. But I am now. And I can’t go on working here feeling like that. I’m sorry, Duncan, but I quit. I resign. As of now, I don’t work for you any more.” She stopped abruptly, feeling tears beginning to choke her. She snatched up the sheaf of copy from the table where Duncan had laid it, turned, and walked out of the office. No one tried to stop her.

In the ladies’ toilet, she was comprehensively sick. She splashed cold water on her face and took several deep breaths before heading for the offices of Socialism Today.

Here there were no security men on the door to challenge her, no secretaries to vet her. She walked straight up to the big room on the second floor where the journalists worked. Dick was perched on the corner of his desk, his back to her, a phone jammed to his ear. “Yeah, okay…” he said resignedly. “Yeah, okay. Tomorrow it is then. See you.” He slammed the phone down. “Fucking Trots. Who needs them?” he muttered, turning round to reach for his mug of coffee. Catching sight of Lindsay, he actually paled. “Christ! What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’ve got a story for you,” she said, opening her bag and taking out another copy of her manuscript.

“Is it to do with the computer print-out?” he demanded.

“Sort of. Among other things. Like murder, kidnapping, GBH, and spying. Interested?”

He shook his head reluctantly. “Sorry, Lindsay. No can do. Listen, I had the heavies round at my place last night about you. It’s a no-no, darling. It may be the best story of the decade, but I’m not touching it.”

A sneer of contempt flickered at the corner of Lindsay’s mouth. “I expected the big boys at the Clarion to wet themselves at the thought of prosecution. But I expected you to take that sort of thing in your stride. I thought you were supposed to be the fearless guardian of the public’s right to know?”

Dick looked ashamed and sighed deeply. “It wasn’t prosecution they threatened me with, Lindsay. These are not people who play by the rules. These are not pussycats. These are people who know how to hurt you where you live. They were talking nasty accidents. And they knew all about Marianne and the kiddy. I’ll take risks on my own account, Lindsay, but I’m not having on my conscience anything that might happen to my wife and child. You wouldn’t take chances with Cordelia, would you?”

Lindsay shook her head. Exhaustion surged over her in a wave. “I suppose not, Dick. Okay, I’ll be seeing you.”

It took her more than an hour to walk back to the empty house. She was gripped by a sense of utter desolation and frustration that she sensed would take a long time to dissipate. There had been too many betrayals in the last week. She turned into their street, just as a red Fiesta vanished round the corner at the far end of the mews behind. That unremarkable event was enough on a day like this to make her break into a run. She fumbled with her keys, clumsy in her haste, then ran upstairs. At first glance, everything seemed normal. But when she went into the living room, she realized that every cassette had been removed from the shelves above the stereo. In the study it was the same story. Lindsay crouched down on the floor against the wall, hands over her face, and shivered as the sense of insecurity overwhelmed her.

She had no idea how long she crouched there feeling utterly defenseless. Eventually the shaking stopped, and she got unsteadily to her feet. In the kitchen, she put some coffee on, then noticed there was a message on the answering machine. She lit a cigarette and played the tape back.

The voice sounded scared. “Lindsay. This is Annie Norton. I’ve been burgled. My car has been broken into, and my office has also been turned over. I suspect this may have something to do with you since all that has been stolen are cassettes. Whoever was responsible has probably got your phone bugged, so for their benefit as well as yours, for the record, they have now got the only data I had relating to that bloody tape you brought me. I wish you’d bloody warned me you didn’t have the sense to leave this alone, Lindsay. You’d better stay away from me till this is all over-I need my security clearance so I can work. Look, take care of yourself. This isn’t a game. Be careful. Goodbye.”

It was the last straw. Lindsay sat down at the table, dropped her head in her hands and wept till her eyes stung and her sinuses ached. Then she sat, staring at the wall, reviewing what had happened, trying to find a way forward for herself. As the afternoon wore on, she smoked steadily and worked her way down the best bottle of Burgundy she could find in the house.

By teatime she knew exactly what she had to do. She set off across the park for the phone box and started setting wheels in motion.

Lindsay waited patiently on hold to be connected, praying that the object of her call would still be at his desk. Even on cheap rate, the phone box was eating £1 coins at an alarming rate. While she hung on, she mentally congratulated Jane for forcing her to examine her conscience about doing something positive to support the peace camp all those months before. If it hadn’t been for those features she’d sold abroad then, she wouldn’t have built up the contracts she needed now. Her musing was cut short by a voice on the end of the phone.

“Ja?”

“Gunter Binden?” Lindsay asked.

“Ja. Wer ist?”

“It’s Lindsay Gordon, Gunter. From London.”

Immediately the bass voice on the other end of the phone switched to immaculate English. “Lindsay! How good to hear from you. How goes it with you?”

“A bit hectic. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve got a wonderful story for you. I’m having problems getting anyone over here to print it because of the national security angle, but it’s too important a tale to ignore. So I thought of you.”

“Is it another story about the peace camp?”

“Indirectly, yes. But it’s really to do with spying and murder.”

“Sounds good. Do you want to tell me some more?”

Lindsay started to tell the too-familiar story of recent events. Gunter listened carefully, only stopping her to seek clarification when her journalistic idioms became too obscure for him to follow. Lindsay was glad she’d trusted her instincts about approaching him. As well as being the features editor of a large circulation left-wing weekly magazine that actively supported the Green Party, he had spent two years working in London and understood the British political scene as well as having a first-class command of English. When she reached her kidnapping by the security forces, he exploded.