Common Murder

“Where are you?” he said officiously.

“I’m about five minutes away from the police station,” she explained patiently. “I’d have been there by now if you hadn’t bleeped me.”

“Okay, fine. I’ve had the local lad on again. I’ve said you’re en route, and I’ve told him to link up with you. His name’s Gavin Hammill, he’s waiting for you in the lounge bar of the Griffon’s Head, in the market place, he says. He’s wearing a Barbour jacket and brown trousers. He says it’s a bit of a stalemate at present; anyway, suss it out and file copy as soon as.”

“I’m on my way,” Lindsay said.

Finding the pub was no problem. Finding Gavin Hammill was not so simple. Every other man in the pub was wearing a Barbour jacket and half of them seemed to be alone. After the second failure, Lindsay decided to buy a drink and try again. Before she could down her Scotch, a gangling youth with mousy brown hair and a skin problem inadequately hidden by a scrubby beard tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Lindsay Gordon? From the Clarion? I’m Gavin Hammill, Fordham Weekly Bugle.”

Far from relieved, Lindsay smiled weakly. “Pleased to meet you, Gavin. What’s the score?”

“Well, both lots are still outside the police station, but the police don’t seem to know quite how to play it. I mean, they can’t treat the ratepayers the way they normally treat the peace women, can they? And yet they can’t be seen to be treating them differently. It’s kind of a stand-off. Or it was when I left.”

“And when was that?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

“Come on then, let’s go and check it out. I’ve got a deadline to meet in twenty minutes.”

They walked briskly through the market place and into the side street where a two-story brick building housed Fordham police station. They could hear the demonstration before they saw the demonstrators. The women from the camp were singing the songs of peace that had emerged over the last two years as their anthem. Changing voices attempted to drown them out with “Close the camp! Give us peace!”

On the steps of the police station, sat about forty women dressed in strangely assorted layers of thick clothing, with muddy boots and peace badges fixed to their jackets, hats and scarves. The majority of them looked remarkably healthy, in spite of the hardships of their outdoor life. To one side, a group of about twenty-five people stood shouting. There were more men than women, and they all looked as if they ought to be at home watching “Mastermind” instead of causing a civil disturbance outside the police station. Between the two groups were posted about a dozen uniformed policemen who seemed unwilling to do more than keep the groups apart. Lindsay stood and watched for a few minutes. Every so often, one of the RABD group would try to push through the police lines, but not seriously enough to warrant more than the gentlest of police manhandling. These attempts were usually provoked by jibes from one or two of the women. Lindsay recognized Nicky, one of the camp’s proponents of direct action, who called out, “You’re brave enough when the police are in the way, aren’t you? What about being brave when the Yanks drop their bombs on your doorstep?”

“Why aren’t the cops breaking it up?” Lindsay asked Gavin.

“I told you, they don’t seem to know what to do. I think they’re waiting for the superintendent to get here. He was apparently off duty tonight, and they’ve been having a bit of bother getting hold of him. I imagine he’ll be able to sort it out.”

Even as he spoke, a tall, uniformed police officer with a face like a Medici portrait emerged from the station. He picked his way between the peace women, who jeered at him. “That him?” Lindsay demanded.

“Yeah. Jack Rigano. He’s the boss here. Good bloke.”

One of the junior officers handed Rigano a bullhorn. He put it to his lips and spoke. Through the distortion, Lindsay made out, “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve had your fun. You have five minutes to disperse. If you fail to do so, my officers have orders to arrest everyone. Please don’t think about causing any more trouble tonight. We have already called for reinforcements, and I warn you that everyone will be treated with equal severity unless you disperse at once. Thank you and goodnight.”

Lindsay couldn’t help grinning at his words. At once the RABD protesters, unused to the mechanics of organized dissent, began to move away, talking discontentedly among themselves. The more experienced peace women sat tight, singing defiantly. Lindsay turned to Gavin and said, “Go after the RABD lot and see if you can get a couple of quotes. I’ll speak to the cops and the peace women. Meet me by that phone box on the corner in ten minutes. We’ll have to get some copy over quickly.”

She quickly walked over to the superintendent and dug her union Press Card out of her pocket. “Lindsay Gordon. Daily Clarion,” she said. “Can I have a comment on this incident?”