Common Murder

“You do today,” he said. “You want my advice? Go home, burn that print-out, go to bed with Cordelia, forget you ever saw it. That’s trouble, Lindsay.”

“I thought you were a tough-shit investigative journo, the sort that isn’t happy unless you’re taking the lid off the Establishment and kicking the Official Secrets Act into touch?”

“It’s not like pulling the wings off flies, Lindsay. You don’t just do it for the hell of it. You do it when you think there’s something nasty in the woodpile. I’m not one of those knee-jerk lefties who publishes every bit of secret material that comes my way, like Little Jack Horner saying, ‘See what a good boy am I.’ Some things should stay secret; it’s when that’s abused to protect crime and pettiness and sloppiness and injustice and self-seeking that people like me get stuck in,” he replied passionately.

“Okay,” she said mildly. “Cut the lecture. But take it from me, Dick, something very nasty has been going on, and I’ve got to get to the bottom of it before it costs any more lives. If I have to use my terrifying bit of paper to get there, I’ll do it. There’s nothing wrong with my bottle.”

“I never said there was. That’s the trouble with you, Lindsay-you don’t know when it’s sensible to get scared.”

By silent consent, they changed the subject and spent half an hour gossiping about mutual friends in the business. Then Lindsay felt she could reasonably make her excuses and leave. She got back to the three-storey house in Highbury at half past two, with no recollection of the journey through North London streets. The answering machine was flashing, but she ignored it and went through to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. She had the frustrating feeling that she had all the pieces of the jigsaw but couldn’t quite arrange them in a way that made sense. While the coffee dripped through the filter, she decided to call Rigano.

For once, she was put straight through. As soon as she identified herself, he demanded, “Where are you? And what have you been up to?”

Puzzled, she said, “Nothing. I’m at home in London. I visited Deborah this morning and since then I’ve seen a couple of friends. Why?”

“I want to know what you make of your friend’s remark when you saw her in the hospital. My constable thought it might be significant.”

“I told him then I didn’t understand it,” she replied cautiously.

“I know what you told him. I don’t believe you,” he retorted.

“That’s not my problem,” she replied huffily.

“It could be,” he threatened. “I thought we were co-operating, Lindsay?”

“If I had any proof of who attacked Deborah, do you think I’d be stupid enough to sit on it? I don’t want to be the next one with a remodelled skull, Jack.”

There was a heavy silence. Then he said in a tired voice, “Got anything for me at all?”

“These bikers who have been terrorising the camp-I think Warminster and Mallard are paying them.”

“Have you any evidence of that?”

Briefly, Lindsay outlined what she had learned the day before. “It’s worth taking a look at, don’t you think? I mean, Warminster and Mallard both wanted Crabtree out of the way. Maybe they used the yobs they’d already primed for the vandalism.”

“It’s a bit far-fetched, Lindsay,” he complained. “But I’ll get one of my lads to take a look at it.”

Having got that off her chest, Lindsay got to the point of the call. “Has it occurred to you that there might be a political dimension to this situation?”

His voice became cautious in its turn. “You mean that RABD is only a front for something else? That’s nonsense.”

“I mean real politics, Jack. Superpowers and spies. The person you’re looking for didn’t really kill for personal reasons; I think we’re looking at a wider motive altogether. Somebody doesn’t want us to do that. And that’s why I think this investigation has got bogged down in trivial details about peace women’s alibis.”

“That’s an interesting point of view, but that sort of thing is all out of my hands. I’m just a simple policeman, Lindsay. Conspiracy theories don’t do much for me. I leave all that to the experts. And you’d be well advised to do the same.”

Simple policeman, my foot, thought Lindsay. “Is that a warning, Jack?” she asked innocently.

“Not at all, Lindsay. I’m just telling you as simply as I know how that this case isn’t about James Bond, it’s about savage responses to petty situations. It’s about people carrying offensive weapons for mistaken notions of self-defense. Anything else is out of my hands. Do I make myself clear?”

“So who is that blond man who keeps following me? Special Branch? MI5?”

“If you mean Mr. Stone, he’s not Special Branch. There’s no SB man around here, Lindsay. And no one is following you. I’d know about it if they were. If anyone’s being followed, it’s not you. You should stop being so paranoid.”

Lindsay almost snarled. “Haven’t you heard, Jack? Just because you stop being paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.”

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