Common Murder

“In that case, Deborah’s statement won’t come as a surprise to you,” Lindsay retorted. “It’s all here, Superintendent. Where she went, when, and why.” She put two files on the desk. “This one: the peace women. That one: Emma and Simon Crabtree.”

He smiled coldly. “Thank you. It might have made things a little simpler if Miss Patterson had chosen to make her statement when she was here, don’t you think?” Lindsay shrugged. “Anyway, I’ve spoken to Stanhope. He’s expecting you in the George.”

Lindsay deliberately lit a cigarette, ignoring the implicit dismissal. “Do you know where I can get hold of Rosamund Crabtree?” she enquired. “I didn’t have the chance to get that information from Mrs. Crabtree.”

“Don’t know why you want to see her,” Rigano grumbled. “The way this case seems to be breaking, we’re going to have to take another long, hard look at Miss Patterson. But if you really feel it’s necessary, you’ll probably be able to catch up with her at work. She and a partner run this vegetarian restaurant in London. Camden Town. Rubyfruits, it’s called.”

“Rubyfruits?” Lindsay exclaimed.

He looked at her uncomprehendingly. “Funny sort of name, eh?” he said.

“It isn’t that, it’s just the small-world syndrome striking again.”

“You know of it?”

Lindsay nodded. “Fairly well. We go there quite a lot.”

“You surprise me. I wouldn’t have put you down as one of the nut cutlet brigade. Anyway, you’re going to be late for Carlton Stanhope, and I wouldn’t recommend that. I’d like to hear how you get on. If you’re free at lunchtime, I’ll be in the snug at the Frog and Bassett on the Brownlow road. Now run off and meet your man.”

Lindsay got to her feet. “How will I recognise him?” she asked.

Rigano smiled. “Use your initiative. There won’t be that many people in the residents’ lounge at half past ten on a Tuesday morning, for starters. Besides, I’ve described you to him, so I don’t imagine there will be too many problems of identification.”

Lindsay scowled. “Thanks,” she muttered on her way to the door. “I’ll probably see you later in the pub. Oh, and by the way, do tell your Special Branch bloodhound to stop following me around. I’m not about to do a runner.” She congratulated herself on her smart response. She would remember that arrogance later.

Ripe for takeover by the big boys, thought Lindsay as she entered the George Hotel. The combination of the faded fifties decor and odd touches of contemporary tatt was an unhappy one. She could imagine the prawn cocktail and fillet steak menu. A neon sign that looked like a museum piece pointed up a flight of stairs to the residents’ lounge. Lindsay pushed open the creaky swing door. The chairs looked cheap and uncomfortable. The only occupant of the room was pouring himself a cup of coffee. Lindsay’s heart sank. So much for Rigano’s assumption that they’d have the place to themselves, for the young man sprawled leggily in an armchair by the coffee table didn’t look like a farmer called Carlton Stanhope.

He wore tight blue jeans, elastic-sided riding boots, and an Aran sweater. His straight, dark blond hair was cut short at the sides, longer in the back, and had a floppy fringe that fell over his forehead from the side parting. He didn’t look a day over twenty-five. He glanced over at Lindsay hesitating by the door and drawled, “Miss Gordon, do sit down and have a cup of coffee before it gets cold.”

As he registered the surprise in her eyes, he smiled wickedly. “Not what you expected, eh? You thought a Fordham farmer called Carlton Stanhope who was a sidekick of Rupert Crabtree was bound to be a tweedy old foxhunter with a red face and a glass of Scotch in the fist, admit it! Sorry to disappoint you. Jack Rigano really should have warned you.”

Lindsay’s mouth wavered between a scowl and a smile. She sat down while Stanhope poured her a cup of coffee. “Do say something,” he mocked. “Don’t tell me I’ve taken your breath away?”

“I was surprised to see someone under fifty, I must say. Other than that, though, I can’t say I’m greatly shocked and stunned. Don’t all young gentlemen farmers dress like you these days?”

“Touché,” he replied. “And since you’re not what I expected of either a journalist or a peace woman, I’d say we’re probably about quits. You see, Miss Gordon, we moderate men are just as much subject to stereotypes as you radical women.”

Lindsay felt a hint of dislike in her response to him. She reckoned he knew himself to be a highly eligible young man, but she gave him credit for trying to build on his physical charm with an entertaining line of conversation. His manner irritated rather than appealed to her, but that didn’t stop her acknowledging that it would normally find its admirers. “Superintendent Rigano seemed to think you might be able to fill me in on some background about Ratepayers Against Brownlow’s Destruction.”