Common Murder

The heaviness of the traffic and the search for her destination forced her to shelve the question. But as she pulled into a back alley with a roughly painted signboard saying “Harrison Mews: Megamenu Software This Way,” she noticed the red hatchback drive slowly past the narrow entrance. She parked the car up against the wall opposite Unit 23 and pondered. If the blond man was SB, then it went a long way towards explaining why a uniformed copper like Rigano had been left in charge of a major murder investigation instead of a plain-clothes CID officer. But since the powers that be were so firmly convinced that Brownlow Common women’s peace camp was a nest of subversives with sufficient resources to undermine the whole of western democracy, Lindsay supposed it wasn’t really so amazing that the SB were taking such a keen interest in a murder that seemed to have some of its origins in the camp.

Lindsay got out of the car and surveyed Megamenu Software’s premises. They scarcely inspired confidence. The double doors had been given a cheap and cheerful coat of pale green paint which was already beginning to flake off. There was a large sign in the same style as the one at the mouth of the alley, proclaiming “Megamenu Software: We Turn your Needs into Realities.” Plenty of scope for a good PR officer, thought Lindsay cynically, when the budget eventually ran to it. But as she rang the bell beside the small door set in one of the larger pair, she noted with some surprise that no expense had been spared on security. The several locks all looked substantial and in spite of the peeling paint, the doors were solid. She didn’t have time to speculate further, for the door was opened abruptly by Simon Crabtree.

He frowned and demanded, “What do you want?”

“A few words,” Lindsay replied. “Won’t take long, I promise.”

“I’ve got nothing to say to the press,” he retorted angrily. “You’ve had enough mileage out of my mother. Bloody vultures.”

Lindsay smiled wryly. “Fair enough. But I’m not really here in my role as bloody vulture. Think of me as a seeker after truth. Your father has been murdered and the police seem keen to put one of my oldest friends in the frame for it. I know she didn’t do it, and I’m trying to prove that. All I want is a bit of information.”

“Why should I help you? You and your bloody friends are no business of mine.” He started to close the door, but Lindsay leaned gently against it.

“You don’t owe me anything; but I’d have thought you owe your sister,” she replied.

He was clearly taken aback. “Ros? What’s she got to do with it?”

“I spent yesterday evening at Rubyfruits. She understood the importance of what I’m trying to do. If you rang her, I’m sure she’d tell you to help. And from what I hear, you’ve got a few debts to pay in that area.”

His frown deepened. “You’d better come in, I suppose.”

She followed him inside. It was her turn to be taken aback. Inside the shabby lock-up was a complete high-tech environment. The walls were painted matt grey. There was sound-absorbent carpet tile on the floor and the ceiling was covered with acoustic tiling, relieved only by discreet, low-level lighting. One wall was lined with filing drawers. There were four desks, each with a different type of computer terminal on it, including a small portable one, and two expensive-looking, ergonomically designed desk chairs. Several other pieces of equipment, including a standard cassette player and three printers, were sitting on the desks. In the background, baroque music played softly. Simon stood looking truculently at her as she walked round, desperately trying to memorize the names on the computers.

“Quite a set-up you’ve got here,” she said admiringly. “You must be doing well to afford all this.”

“I’m good with computers,” he said.

“What sort of software do you produce, then?”

“Mainly programs for managers. So they can interpret what’s going on in the business. Now, what did you mean about my sister?”

“People like me and Ros live our lives on the edges of society. That makes it that little bit harder to achieve things. Ros has managed to get something together. And you blew it out of the water for her by telling your father what the score was. In my book, that means you owe her. And because she perceives herself as being part of a group, that means you owe the women she identifies with. Like my friend Deborah. If you don’t agree with that analysis, ring up Ros and ask her yourself.” Lindsay stopped abruptly, challenging him to make the phone call she knew would have her thrown out instantly.

Her gamble on his sense of guilt paid off. His scowl didn’t lift, but he said grudgingly, “And what would you want to know?”

Lindsay hastily searched for a question that would justify her presence. “I wanted to know about his routine with the dog-was it something he always did at around the same time? Would someone have been able to rely on him being on the common with the dog at that time?”