Common Murder

Rigano shook his head. “This is bloody silly. This is not the Soviet Union. People don’t get bumped off because they possess inconvenient knowledge. You’re both making a melodrama out of a molehill. Do you really think that any newspaper’s going to print her story? For a kick-off, no one would believe her. And besides, you can easily shut up any attempts at publication.

“There’s no need to threaten Miss Gordon with dire consequences, because she’d never get any editor to take the chance of using this stuff. She’s got no evidence, except the computer tape and that means bugger all at the end of the day. All you need from her is her signature on the OSA and the return of the tape. You don’t need threats.”

“But what about Deborah?” Lindsay interrupted. “Crabtree’s going to walk away from all this believing she knows something that can put him away. You can’t protect her twenty-four hours a day forever.”

Rigano looked puzzled. “I still don’t bloody see why you people want Crabtree free. He’s a bloody spy as well as a murderer.”

Barber frowned. “He has uses at present. He will eventually pay the price for his activities. That I can guarantee.”

Rigano jumped on her words. “So surely until that happens, you people can put Deborah Patterson into a safe house.”

Lindsay shook her head. “I can’t trust them to look after her. Their organization’s probably penetrated at every level already without Simon Crabtree hacking his way in. Besides, this lot would do a double-cross tomorrow if it fitted their notion of national security.”

“And there’s the impasse, Superintendent,” Barber said. “She doesn’t trust us, and we don’t trust her.”

Rigano thought for a moment, then said slowly, “There is one way.”

Cordelia counted the cigarettes left in the packet. She fiddled with the radio tuner, trying to find a station that would take her mind off the terrifying possibilities that kept running through her head. She looked at her watch, comparing the time with the dashboard clock. He’d been in there for more than an hour. She lit another cigarette that she knew she wouldn’t enjoy and stared back at the dark cluster of buildings in deep shadow under the severe overhead lights that led from the road. As she watched, a tall man came out of the main gate and started walking in her direction. She paid little attention until he stopped by her car, expectantly. Wary, she pressed the switch that lowered the window until a two-inch gap appeared. She could see a blond head of hair above a windproof jacket. His eyes glittered as he asked brusquely, “Cordelia Brown?”

“Yes,” she answered. An edginess in his manner urged her to caution.

“I have a message for you.” He handed her a note.

Cordelia recognized her lover’s familiar handwriting, and her stomach contracted with relief. She forced herself to focus on the words and read, “Give the copy of the computer tape to the man who delivers this if you’ve got it. It’s all right. L.” She looked up at the man’s impassive face. “What’s going on? Am I going to see her soon?” she pleaded.

“Looks like it,” he said. His voice was without warmth. “The tape?”

She fumbled in her bag and handed him the unlabelled cassette.

“The note as well, please.”

“What?” she asked, puzzled.

“I need the note back.” Reluctantly, she handed him the scrap of paper.

Cordelia watched him walk towards the gate and gain admission. Unnerved by the brevity of the encounter she lit another cigarette and searched the radio wavebands again.

The digital clock on the dashboard showed 2:01 when the barrier at the gate rose. Cordelia stared so hard into the pool of light by the gate that she feared the sight of Rigano’s car followed by Lindsay’s MG was a mirage. She sat bolt upright in her seat, then hurriedly got out of the BMW. When the other two cars reached her, they stopped, and their drivers emerged. Lindsay and Cordelia fell into each other’s arms. For once, no words came between them as they clung desperately to each other. Rigano cleared his throat noisily and said, “You promised them I’d have the print-out by ten. We’d better get a move on, hadn’t we?”

Lindsay disengaged herself from Cordelia’s arms and rubbed her brimming eyes. “Okay, okay,” she said. “And we have to work out the details of how you keep your end of the bargain. We’d better go back to London in convoy. I hope you’re going to give us the benefit of the blue flashing light.”

“Is someone going to explain what’s been going on?” Cordelia demanded. “I’ve been sitting here like a lemon half the night going out of my mind with worry.”

“Later,” said Lindsay.

“No,” said Rigano. “No explanations. That’s the deal, remember.”

Dawn was fading the streetlights into insignificance by the time they reached Highbury. Cordelia drove off to garage her car while Lindsay went indoors to collect the printout. When she returned, Rigano took the papers, saying, “What arrangements do you want me to make?”