Common Murder

Deborah wiped her eyes and blew her nose on Lindsay’s crumpled handkerchief, then they walked back to the camp, arm in arm. Behind her, to Lindsay’s astonishment, came Cordelia, looking cool and unflustered in a designer jogging suit and green wellies, her black hair blowing in the breeze.

As mother and daughter staged a noisy and tearful reunion, Cordelia greeted Lindsay with a warm kiss. “I couldn’t sit in London not knowing what was happening,” she explained. ”Even if there’s nothing I can do, I had to come.”

Lindsay found a smile and said, “It’s good to see you. I appreciate it. How long can you stay?”

“Till Wednesday lunchtime. Jane’s filled me in on what’s been happening. What’s the plan, now that you’ve been appointed official Miss Marple to the peace women? Do I have to rush off and buy you a knitting pattern and a ball of fluffy wool?”

“Very funny. I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to be doing. But I’ll have to speak to Debs about last night. I’ve already warned her not to talk to anyone else. Of course, Duncan wants me to do the chat with her, but the lawyer will never let us use a line of it. I suppose I should have a crack at the family, too. I’ve got a good contact, the copper who’s handling things at the moment, a Superintendent Rigano. I’m going to see him this afternoon. Let’s go and have a pint, and I’ll fill you in.”

Lindsay swallowed the emotional turmoil triggered off by Cordelia’s appearance and told her lover all she knew about the murder over a bowl of soup in the nearest pub that accepted peace women customers-nearly three miles away. Cordelia was fired with enthusiasm and insisted that they set off immediately in her car for Brownlow Common Cottages which, in spite of their humble name, were actually a collection of architect-designed mock-Georgian mansions.

There could be no mistaking the Crabtree residence. It was a large, double-fronted, two-storey house covered in white stucco with bow windows and imitation Georgian bottle-glass panes. A pillared portico was tacked onto the front. At the side stood a double garage, with a fifty-yard drive leading up to it. In front of the house was a neatly tended square lawn which had been underplanted with crocuses, now just past their best. The road outside was clogged on both sides by a dozen cars, the majority new. At the wrought-iron gate in the low, white-painted wall stood a gaggle of men in expensive topcoats. A few men and women stood around the cars looking bored. Every few minutes, one reporter peeled off from a group and ambled up the drive to ring the door bell. There was never any reply, not even a twitch of the curtains that hid the downstairs rooms from view.

“The ratpack’s out in force,” Lindsay muttered as she climbed out of the car and headed for her colleagues. She soon spotted a familiar face, Bill Bryman, the crime man from the London Evening Sentinel. She greeted him and asked what was happening.

“Sweet FA,” he replied bitterly. “I’ve been here since eight o’clock and will my desk pull me off? Will they hell! The son answered the door the first time and told us nothing doing. Since then, it’s a total blank. If you ask me, they’ve disconnected the bell. I’ve told the office it’s a complete waste of time, but you know news editors. Soon as they get promoted, they have an operation on their brains to remove all memory of what life on the road is all about.”

“What about the neighbours?”

Bill shook his head wearily. “About as much use as a chocolate chip-pan. Too bloody ‘okay yah’ to communicate with the yobbos of the popular press. Now if you were to say you were from the Tatler-though looking at the outfit, I doubt you’d get away it.” Lindsay looked ruefully at her clothes which still bore the traces of her headlong flight the night before, in spite of her efforts to clean up. “You been down the peace camp yet?” he added. “They’re about as much help as this lot here.”

“So I’d be wasting my time hanging around here, would I?”

“If you’ve got anything better to do, do it. I’d rather watch an orphanage burn,” Bill answered resignedly with the cynicism affected by hard-boiled crime reporters the world over. “I’ll be stuck here for the duration. If I get anything, I’ll file it for you. For the usual fee.”

Lindsay grinned to herself as she returned to the BMW. As they pulled away, Lindsay noticed the tall blond man she’d tagged as Special Branch when she’d seen him at the camp. He was leaning against a red Ford Fiesta on the fringes of the press corps, watching them.

“To Fordham nick,” she said to Cordelia. “And stop at the first public toilet. Desperate situations need desperate remedies.”

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