Common Murder

Deborah thought for a moment. “You realise you haven’t established opportunity for any of them?”

“That is a bit of a problem. I know the police have been pursuing their own enquiries. Maybe I can persuade Rigano that it’s in the best interests of his investigation to swap that info for what I’ve got. Such as it is. Mind you, by the time I’ve flammed it up a bit, maybe he’ll buy it as a fair exchange.”

“You also left me off the list of suspects. I should be on it.”

Lindsay laughed. “Even though you didn’t do it?”

“You don’t know that because of facts. You only know it because of history and because we’re lovers again. Don’t discount the theory that I might have seduced you in order to allay your suspicions and get you on the side of my defense. So I should be on that list till you prove I didn’t do it.”

Lindsay looked horrified. “You wouldn’t!”

“I might have. If I were a different person.”

“Okay,” Lindsay conceded with a smile. “But I don’t reckon that you had put Rupert Crabtree into such a state of fear that he was carrying a gun to protect himself. He must have been armed because he feared a murderous attack.”

“Or because he intended to kill the person he was meeting.”

Lindsay threw a quick glance at Deborah, caught off guard by this flash of bright logic. She forced herself to examine Deborah’s fresh insight.

Eventually, she countered it, tentatively at first and then more assuredly as she reached the end of the motorway and followed the route to Camden Town. “You see,” she concluded, “he didn’t need to kill you. He was going to get all the revenge he needed in court.”

Deborah pondered, then blew Lindsay’s hypothesis into smithereens as they approached Rubyfruits. “Not necessarily,” she said thoughtfully. “Everyone says he was a fair man. He also had a degree of respect for the law, being a solicitor. Now, supposing in the aftermath of the shock of the accident, he genuinely thought I had attacked him, and on the basis of that genuine belief he gave the statement to the police that triggered the whole thing off. In the interim, however, as time has passed, his recollection has become clearer, and he’s realized that he actually tripped over the dog’s lead, and I had nothing to do with it. Now, what are his options? He either withdraws his evidence and becomes a laughing-stock as well as exposing himself to all sorts of reprisals from a libel suit-”

“Slander,” Lindsay interrupted absently.

“Okay, okay, slander suit, to being accused of wasting police time, all thanks to me. Or he perjures himself, probably an equally unthinkable option for a man like him. His self-esteem is so wounded by this dilemma that he becomes unhinged and decides to kill me in such a way that he can claim self-defense. So he starts carrying the gun, biding his time till he gets me alone. Think on that one, Lin. Now, we’re here. Let’s go eat.” And so saying, she jumped out of the car.

Lindsay caught up with her on the cobbled road outside the restaurant which occupied the ground floor of a narrow, three storey brick building in a dimly lit side street near the trendy Camden Lock complex of boutiques, restaurants and market stalls. It stood between a typesetting company and a warehouse. A red Ford Fiesta turned into the street, and they both stepped back to avoid it as it cruised past the restaurant. Lindsay grabbed Deborah’s arm. “As a theory, it’s brilliant,” she blurted out. “But in human terms, it stinks. You didn’t do it, Debs.”

Deborah smiled broadly and said, “Just testing.” She pushed open the door and moved quickly into the restaurant to avoid Lindsay’s grasp. They were greeted by a young woman with short blonde hair cut in a spiky crest.

“Hello Lindsay,” she said cheerfully. “I kept you a nice table over in the corner.”

“Thanks Meg.” They followed her, Lindsay saying, “This is Debs, Meg. She’s an old friend of mine.”

“Hi Debs. Nice to meet you. Okay. Here’s the menu, wine list. Today’s specials are on the blackboard, okay?” And she was gone, moving swiftly from table to table, clearing and chatting all the way to the swing doors leading into the kitchen.

Deborah looked around, taking in the stripped pine, the moss green walls and ceiling, and the high photographs ranging predictably from Virginia Woolf to Virginia Wade. She noticed that the cutlery and crockery on each table was different and appeared to have come from junk shops and flea markets. The background music was Rickie Lee Jones turned low. The other tables were also occupied by women. “I can just see you and Cordelia here,” Deborah commented. “Very designer dyke.”

“Cut the crap and choose your grub,” Lindsay ordered.