Common Murder

Lindsay looked around her, taking it all in. The scene of the murder was like a three-ring circus. The outer ring took the form of the five vehicles and a thinly scattered cordon of uniformed police constables. Over by one of the Landrovers, a policewoman dispensed tea from a vacuum flask to a nervous-looking man talking to the uniformed superintendent whom Lindsay recognised from the demonstration outside the police station. She crossed her fingers and hoped the victim was no one from the camp.

The temporary arc lights the police had rigged up gave the scene the air of a film set, an impression exaggerated by the situation, part of a clear strip about fifteen yards wide between a high chain-link fence and a belt of scrubby woodland. It was far enough from any gates to be free of peace campers. The lamps shone down on the second ring, a shield of tall canvas screens hastily erected to protect the body from view. Round the screen, scene-of-crime officers buzzed in and out, communicating in their own form of macabre shorthand.

But the main attraction of the circus tonight was contained in the inner circle. Here there were more lights, smaller spotlights clipped on to the screens. A photographer moved round the periphery, his flash freezing forever the last public appearance of whoever was lying dead on the wet clay. Could it be one of the women from the camp lying there? Superintendent Rigano said a few words to the man, then moved back towards the scene of the crime. The constable escorted Lindsay across the clearing, being careful, she noted, to keep between her and the tall canvas screens. Once there, he secured the attention of the superintendent, whom Lindsay recognised from their earlier encounter outside Fordham police station. “Sir, there’s a journalist here wants a word with you,” the constable reported.

He turned to Lindsay, fine dark brows scowling over deep-set eyes. “You’re here bloody sharpish,” he said grudgingly. “Superintendent Rigano, Fordham Police.”

“Lindsay Gordon, Daily Clarion. We met at the demonstration after Deborah Patterson’s arrest. I happened to be at the camp,” she replied. “We’re doing a feature comparing the peace camps at Brownlow and Faslane,” she lied fluently. “I saw the lights and wondered if there might be anything in it for me.”

“We’ve got a murder on our hands,” he said in a flinty voice. “You’d better take a note. It would be a pity to screw up on a scoop.” Lindsay obediently pulled out her notebook and a pencil.

“The dead man is Rupert Crabtree.” The familiar name shocked Lindsay. Suddenly, this wasn’t some impersonal murder story she was reporting. It was much closer to home. Her surprise obviously registered with Rigano, who paused momentarily before continuing. “Aged forty-nine. Local solicitor. Lives up Brownlow Common Cottages. That’s those mock-Georgian mansions half a mile from the main gate of the camp. Bludgeoned to death with a blunt instrument, to wit, a chunk of drainage pipe which shattered on impact. Perhaps more to the point, from your side of things, is the fact that he was chairman of the local ratepayers’ association who were fighting against that scruffy lot down there. It looks as if there was a struggle before he was killed. Anything else you want to know?”

Lindsay hoped her relationship with “that scruffy lot down there” was not too obvious and that she was putting up a sufficiently good performance in her professional role as the single-minded news reporter in possession of a hot exclusive. “Yes. What makes you think there was a struggle?”

“The mud’s churned up quite a bit. And Crabtree had drawn a gun but not had the chance to fire it.”

“That suggests he knew his life was at risk, doesn’t it?”

“No comment. I also don’t want the gun mentioned just yet. Any other questions?”

She nodded vigorously. “Who found the body?”

“A local resident walking his dog. I’m not releasing a name, and he won’t be available for interview in the foreseeable future.”

“Any suspects? Is an arrest likely within the next few hours? And what was he doing on the common at this time of night?”

Rigano looked down at her shrewdly. “No arrest imminent. We are actively pursuing several lines of enquiry. He was walking the bloody dog. He usually did this time of night. Well-known fact of local life.”

“Any idea of the time of death?” she asked.

Rigano shrugged expressively. “That’s for the doctors to tell us. But without sticking my neck out, I can tell you it was probably some time between ten and eleven o’clock. I hope you’ve got an alibi,” he said, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Come and have a quick look.” He strode off, clearly expecting her to follow. She caught up with him at the entrance to the screens.

“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,” she said quickly.

His eyebrows shot up. “Happy to dish the dirt, not so happy to see the nastiness?”

Lindsay was stung by his sardonic tone. “Okay,” she said grimly. He led her through the gap in the screens.