Common Murder

“I wondered where you were up to. Any imminent arrest?”

“You mean, are we going to charge your friend? The answer is, not at the moment. Off the record, we’ll be letting her go later this morning. That’s not to say I’m convinced of her innocence. But I can’t go any further till I’ve got forensics. So you can say that at present good old Superintendent Rigano is following several lines of enquiry, but that the woman we have been interviewing is being released pending the outcome of those enquiries. Okay?”

“Fine. Do you mind if I drop in on you later today?”

“Please yourself,” he said. “If I’m in, I’ll see you. But I don’t know what my movements will be later, so if you want to take a chance on missing me, feel free.”

Lindsay put the phone down, thoughtful. Her experience with the police during the Paddy Callaghan case had fueled her ingrained mistrust of their intelligence and integrity. But in her brief encounter with Rigano she had felt a certain rapport which had not been dispelled by their telephone conversation. She had surprised herself by her request to call in on him, and now she felt slightly bewildered as to what on earth she would find to discuss with him once Debs was released.

But that was for later. Right now, she had the unpleasant task of talking to Duncan Morris, the Daily Clarion’s news editor and the man responsible for her move to London. She put the call in and waited nervously to be connected to her boss. His voice boomed down the line at her. “Morning, Lindsay,” he began. “I see from the overnight note that you’re back in that nest of pipers. Still, you did a good job last night. We beat everyone else to the draw and that’s the way I want to keep it. It’s of interest for us in terms of the link with the peace camp, okay, so let’s keep that in the front of our minds. What I want from you by noon is a good background piece about the camp, a few quotes from the loony lefties about this man Crabtree and his campaign. I don’t have to spell it out to you.” Lindsay fumed quickly as the venom of his prejudices ran over her. “I also want to be well up on the news angles too. Try for a chat with the widow and family or his colleagues. And try to overcome your natural prejudices and stay close to the cops. Now, what’s the score on all that?”

Lindsay somehow found her tongue. She was aware that she should know better than to be surprised by Duncan ’s about-turn when faced with a strong news story, but she still couldn’t help being a little taken aback that he was now hassling her for a background piece on the camp. She stammered, “The cops are releasing the woman they held for questioning. She’s Deborah Patterson, the woman charged with assaulting him last month. I don’t know what the legal implications are as yet-I should imagine that with his death the prosecution case automatically falls, but whether that releases us immediately from sub judice rules, I don’t know.

“As far as the news feature’s concerned, no problem. Also, I’m hoping to see the copper in charge of the case again this afternoon, so I can let you have whatever he says. I’ll try the family but I don’t hold out much hope. They’re a bit too well clued-up about Her Majesty’s gutter press to fall for the standard lines. But leave it with me.”

“Fine. Normally on one this big, I’d send someone down to help you out, but you’re the expert when it comes to the lunatic fringe, so I’ll leave you to it.” Patronising shit, she thought, as he carried on. “We’ve got a local snapper lined up, so if you’ve got any potential pics, speak to the picture desk. Don’t fall down on this one, Lindsay. File by noon so I can see the copy before I go into morning conference. And get a good exclusive chat with this woman they’re releasing. If the lawyers say we can’t use it, we can always kill it. Speak to you later.”

The phone went dead. “Just what I love most,” Lindsay muttered. “Writing for the wastepaper bin.” She walked back to the van and made herself some coffee and toast before she sat down to put her feature together. She had only written a few paragraphs when there was a knock at the van door.

“Come in,” she called. Jane entered, followed by Willow and another woman whom Lindsay knew only by sight.

“The very people I wanted to see,” she exclaimed. “My news desk has said I can do a piece about the camp reaction to Crabtree’s campaign. So I need some quotes from you about how you are here for peace and, while you didn’t have any sympathy for his organisation, you wouldn’t ever have stooped to violence, etc., etc. Is that all right?”