Common Murder

“Anyway, Rupert went off breathing fire. Next thing is, the following day, Mallard came to see Rupert, with evidence that the missing six-and-a-half grand was all present and correct. But this didn’t satisfy Rupert once he’d slept on it; he was baying for blood. He’d had time to think things through and realised that at some point Mallard must have forged Rupert’s signature to shift the cash, since a cheque required both signatures. He told Mallard he was going to raise the matter at the next meeting and let the association decide who was in the wrong. Mallard was apparently fizzing with rage and threatening Rupert with everything from libel actions to-” he broke off, then stumbled on, “to you name it.”

“Murder perhaps? Cosy little bunch, aren’t you?” Lindsay remarked. “The wonder of it is that it’s taken so long for someone to get murdered.”

He looked puzzled. “I don’t think that’s quite fair,” he protested.

“Life isn’t fair,” she retorted, getting to her feet. “At least, not for most people. Who’s got the files now, by the way? I’ll need to see them.”

He shrugged. “Mallard, I guess.”

“Could you call him and tell him Jack Rigano wants him to co-operate?” she asked.

“Look, I told you I didn’t want to be connected with you on this,” he protested.

“So tell him the request came from Rigano. Otherwise you’ve wasted your breath talking to me, haven’t you?”

He nodded reluctantly, “Okay,” he said.

Lindsay was at the door when he spoke again. “Jack says you’ll be talking to a lot of people in Rupert’s immediate circle?”

“That’s right. It all helps to build up the picture.”

“Will you be seeing his daughter Ros?”

Lindsay nodded. “I’m hoping to see her one evening this week,” she replied.

“Will you say hello from me? Tell her I hope the business is going well, and any time she’s down home, she should give me a call. We’ll have a drink for old times’ sake.”

“Sure. I didn’t realise you knew Ros Crabtree.”

“Everyone knows everyone around here, you know. Ask Judith Rowe. Ros and I were sort of pals in the school holidays when we were growing up. You know the routine-horses, tennis club.”

Lindsay grinned, remembering the summers of her youth fishing for prawns with her father in the thirty-foot boat that was his livelihood. “Not quite my routine, Carl, but yes, I know what you mean. Was she your girlfriend, then?”

He actually blushed. “Not really. We spent a lot of time together a few years ago, but it was never really serious. And then… well, Ros decided that, well, her interests lay in quite other directions, if you follow me?”

“I’m not entirely sure that I do.”

“Well, it rather turned out that she seems to prefer women to men. Shame, really. I think that’s partly why she moved away from home.”

“You mean her parents were hostile about it?”

“Good God, no! They knew nothing about it. Rupert Crabtree would never have put up the money for her restaurant if he’d thought for one minute she was gay. He’d have killed her!”

9

No, Duncan, I can’t write anything about the RABD yet. I’ve only got one guy’s word for it, and half of that’s second-hand,” Lindsay said in exasperation. “I should be able to harden up the ratepayers’ routine by tomorrow lunch-time.”

“That’ll have to do then, I suppose,” Duncan barked. “But see if you can tie it up today, okay? And keep close to the cops. Any sign of an arrest, I want to be the first to know. And don’t forget that interview with the suspect woman. Keep ahead of the game, Lindsay.”

The line went dead. Lindsay was grateful. The interview with Stanhope had produced more than she’d anticipated, and she’d spent the rest of the morning trying to set up meetings with Mallard and Warminster. But neither could fit her in till the next day which left her with a hole in the news editor’s schedule to fill and nothing to fill it with except for the one interview she didn’t want to capitalise on. The fact that she was no stranger to living on her wits didn’t mean she had to enjoy it. The one thing she wasn’t prepared to admit to herself yet was that the job was increasingly turning into something she couldn’t square either with her conscience or her principles. After all, once she had acknowledged the tackiness of the world she loved working in, how could she justify her continued determination to take the money and run?

It was half past one by the time she reached the Frog and Basset, a real ale pub about two miles out of the town in the opposite direction to Brownlow. She pushed her way through the crowd of lunchtime drinkers into the tiny snug, which had a hand-lettered sign saying “Private Meeting” on the door. The only inhabitant was Rigano, sitting at a converted sewing-machine table with the remains of a pint in front of him. He looked up at her. “Glad you could make it,” he said. “I’ve got to be back at the station for two. Ring the bell on the bar if you want a drink. Mine’s a pint of Basset Bitter.”