Common Murder

“That’s right. Round about when he bought it, we were having a celebratory drink in the Conservative Club. An excellent night. Didn’t get home till the small hours. I must say the hospitality was excellent. Good job I’d taken my wife along to drive me home or I’d never have made it. Sorry she’s not in, by the way, gone to visit her sister in Fordham. Now, anything else you want to know.”

It all seemed so innocent. And the alibi appeared sound. But Lindsay didn’t like what her instincts told her about Paul Warminster. “I see you’ve got a motorbike outside. Have you ever come across any of those yobs that have been attacking the peace camp?”

He looked startled. “Of course not,” he said. “Why should I have?”

Lindsay shrugged. “I just wondered. I thought since you were into direct action they might have made contact with you.”

Warminster shook his head violently. “Absolutely not. Ill-disciplined rabble.”

“How do you know that?” Lindsay demanded, pouncing on the inconsistency.

“How do I know what?”

“That they’re ill-disciplined. If you’ve got nothing to do with them, how do you know that?”

He looked angry and flustered. “Heard about it, didn’t I? Small place, Fordham, you hear things. Absurd of you to think I’d have anything to do with them. Nearly as incompetent as the RABD softies.”

“But you obviously maintain contact with some of your friends in RABD,” Lindsay probed.

“What d’you mean by that?” He was now deeply suspicious. His hostility was tipping him over the borderline of rudeness.

“I thought I saw you this morning coming out of William Mallard’s office,” she said.

“So? The man runs a business. I do business in Fordham. Hardly surprising that we do business together, is it? I can’t turn my back on every liberal I meet just because I don’t agree with their way of going about things.”

Lindsay shook her head. “There’s no need to get so het up, Mr. Warminster. I just wondered if the business you were doing with Mr. Mallard was anything to do with the funding of your direct action group.”

Her barb hit home to Warminster, leaving high spots of colour in his checks. “Rubbish,” he blustered, “absolute rubbish. Now, if you’ve nothing more to ask me, I’d be obliged if you’d let me get on. I’m a very busy man.” He got to his feet, leaving Lindsay little choice but to follow suit. Standing in the doorway he watched her into her car then turned into the house as she drove away.

An interesting encounter, thought Lindsay. Warminster might have a rock-solid alibi for Sunday night but a tie-in between himself, Mallard, and the bikers looked suspiciously probable. It seemed likely to Lindsay that someone had put those bikers up to their attacks on the camp. If it had been only a single incident, it could have been written off as drunken hooliganism. But the concerted attacks of fire-bombing, blood-throwing, and damage to the benders looked like something more sinister. And youths like that wouldn’t take those chances without some kind of incentive. Money was the obvious choice. The destination of Mallard’s funny money now seemed clear too. Driving thoughtfully back to Brownlow Common, Lindsay wondered just how much it would cost to persuade a bloodthirsty biker to make the escalation from fire-bombing to murder.

12

As Lindsay joined the tight group round the smoky fire, the conversation faltered. Nicky glowered at her and turned away, but Willow moved to one side of the crate she was sitting on and offered Lindsay a place. “We were just sorting out an action for tonight,” Deborah said, rather too brightly.

“So you’d better rush off and tell your tame policeman,” Nicky muttered loudly.

Lindsay ignored the hostility with difficulty, since it triggered her own qualms of conscience about dealing with Rigano, and asked what was planned. Willow explained. “A few of the women were in court yesterday for non-payment of fines, and they’ve been sent to Holloway as per usual. So we’re having a candle-lit procession and silent vigil round the wire tonight. There’s a couple of coachloads coming down from London. It might be quite a big action-we’ve tipped off the TV and radio news, so we’ll get some publicity.”

“And with all you journalists kicking round looking for titbits about that creep Crabtree, we might even get some decent newspaper publicity for a change,” added Nicky bitterly.

“I shouldn’t think so,” Lindsay replied acidly. “Why should a candle-lit procession alter all our preconceived notions? You don’t still believe in Santa Claus, do you, Nicky?”

“Oh, stop it, you two,” protested Deborah. “You’re like a pair of kids. If you’ve nothing constructive to say to each other, then don’t waste your breath and our time.”

Lindsay got to her feet. “I’ve got to do some work now, but I’ll be back for the demo. What time’s it all starting?”

“About seven,” Deborah answered. “Meet me at Gate Six, near Brownlow Common Cottages. Will you pass the word on to the other reporters if you see them?”