Common Murder (18 page)

Lindsay smiled. “Convenient. Alone, were you?” He shook his head. “My wife was in. She . . . she almost always
is
in. She has MS, you see, confined to a wheelchair.”

Nothing's ever simple, thought Lindsay. Poor woman, stuck in a wheelchair with him. She waited, then he went on. He was clearly a man who felt uncomfortable with silence.

“I put her to bed about ten. So her evidence after that could only be negative—that she didn't hear me go out or come in, that she didn't hear my car. I have no idea why I'm telling you all this,” he added petulantly.

“Haven't you, Mr. Mallard?” Lindsay inquired. “Thanks very much for your time.” She abruptly rose and walked out. The woman in the front office looked up in surprise as she swept through. Lindsay marched down the main street to the car park where she'd left the MG, irritated that she hadn't broken Mallard's self-possession. She hadn't even thought to ask him who he thought the murderer was. But she knew deep down that the only answer she would have received was the utterly predictable one: “those peace women.” And that would have made no difference to her own gut reaction to Mallard, namely that of all the people she'd spoken to so far, he was her favorite suspect. He had opportunity, she'd established that. He looked sturdy enough to cope with the means. And he had motive aplenty. A rumor with Rupert Crabtree behind it would be enough to terminate a man's
career in a small town like Fordham when that career depended on trust. And Mallard clearly couldn't afford that, especially not with a wife whose disability gave him another pressing reason for maintaining a comfortable lifestyle.

She drove off, checking her mirrors for Rigano's blond SB man. There was no sign of the red Fiesta. She pulled into the traffic to keep the appointment she'd made with Paul Warminster and following his directions, left Fordham in the opposite direction to Brownlow. Surburban streets gave way to more rural surroundings. Chocolate-box countryside, thought Lindsay, struck as she was occasionally with a sharp pang of longing for the sea lochs and mountains of her native landscape. A couple of miles out of the town, she pulled off the main road into a narrow country lane. Soon she came to a thatched cottage attached to a converted cruck barn. The garden was a mass of daffodils and crocuses with occasional patches of bright blue scilla. A powerful motorbike was parked incongruously by the side of the barn. Lindsay got out of the car and walked up a path made of old weathered brick.

The door was opened by a tall spare man in his late forties. His gingery hair was lank and graying, his face weather-beaten to an unattractive turkey red and a network of fine lines radiated from the corners of his lively blue eyes. In his tweed jacket with the leather patches he looked more like a gamekeeper than a shopkeeper. With a sudden shock, Lindsay realized this was the man she had seen leaving Mallard's office a short time earlier. Covering her confusion, she quickly introduced herself and established her bona fides with her Press card. Warminster ushered her into a chintzy, low-ceilinged living room with bowls of sweet-smelling freesias scattered around.

“So, you're writing about what local people are doing to put a stop to that so-called peace camp,” he said, settling himself in a large armchair.

Lindsay nodded. “I understand you've been quite actively involved in the opposition.”

Warminster lit a small cigar as he replied. “Used to be. Probably will be again soon.”

“Why is that?” Lindsay asked.

“Had a bit of a run-in with that chap Crabtree, the fellow who was murdered at the weekend, so I hadn't been doing too much lately.
Blighter thought he ran Fordham. Perhaps now we'll really get to grips with those left-wing lesbians,” he said.

“You weren't happy with the policies of Ratepayers Against Brownlow's Destruction, then?” Lindsay probed.

He snorted. “Could say that. Policies? Appeasement, that's what they were about. And look where that got us in the thirties. We should have been taking the war into their territory, getting them out of their entrenched positions instead of pussyfooting around being nicey-nicey to those bloody communist harridans.” Warminster was off and running in what were clearly not fresh fields. As she listened to the tirade, trying to control her feelings of disgust and anger, Lindsay gradually began to understand why violence so often seems a solution.

She pretended to take extensive notes of his speech. There was no need to interrogate Warminster. The only difficulty was getting him to stop. Eventually, he ended up with a rabble-rousing peroration. “Very stirring, sir,” Lindsay muttered.

“You think so? That's exactly what I told them on Sunday night in Berksbury. I was speaking there, you know, at the instigation of the local Conservative Party. They staged one of those debates about the issues. Had some woolly vicar in a woolly pullover from CND, the local candidate, and me. Well worth the trip, I can tell you.”

Lindsay's mind had leapt to attention as soon as Sunday was mentioned. “That was Sunday night just past?” she asked. “The night Crabtree was killed, you mean?”

“That's night. 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 oven 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 at Warminster, leaving high spots of color in his cheeks. “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 back 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 firebombing, 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 firebombing to murder.

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 nonpayment 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 tidbits 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?”

“Sure,” Lindsay said. “If that's not too much like consorting with the enemy.”

Deborah gave her a warning look and she grinned back at her as she set off for the van. Lindsay dumped her notebook on the table that dropped down and slotted into the long L-shaped bench at night to form the base of the bed. She opened the tiny fridge set next to the two-ring gas cooker and grill, and took out a pint of milk. She swigged a couple of mouthfuls, then sat down to work. She felt comfortable in the van, a big Ford Transit conversion with enough room to stand up and move around in.

She started to scribble down the outline of her story about the infighting in RABD with a sneaking feeling that she'd be lucky to get it into the paper. At the end of the day, it was just a rather silly story about a bunch of grown men behaving like schoolboys, and she suspected that Duncan's sharp news sense would come to the same conclusion. Her growing suspicion that William Mallard was somehow implicated in the murder of Rupert Crabtree was not something she could commit to paper yet. Till then, the RABD story was all she had. At least it was exclusive.

She set off for Fordham, in the MG, on a search for a phone box from which to file her copy. As she drove she remembered the computer tape she'd thrust into her briefcase. It occurred to her that she'd have to find out what computer system Simon Crabtree worked with so she could unravel the contents of the tape, since he'd sorted out Mallard's computers in the first place. The obvious way to find out was to pay a visit to his lockup garage. But that meant another fencing session with Rigano first.

Finding an empty phone box on the outskirts of the town she read over her copy laboriously, silently wishing for the next phase in computer technology that would reduce the transmission of stories to a few seconds of telephone time, thanks to portable remote terminals. The copy transmitted, she spoke to Duncan, telling him about the evening's procession at the base and squeezing from him agreement that she should file copy on it later.

She rang Rigano. After a long delay that involved explaining her identity to the switchboard, the duty officer, and Rigano's sergeant, she was finally connected to her contact. He was abrupt to the point of rudeness. “What is it?” he demanded.

“I need some help,” Lindsay replied.

“So what's new? What do you need?”

“Just an address. Simon Crabtree's computer workshop. I want to talk to him on his own territory.”

“Try the phone book. I thought you were supposed to be full of initiative.”

“I can't try the phone book if I don't know what the company's called, can I?”

There was a brief pause. “Okay. I'll leave a note for you at the front counter. I want to talk to you about what you've been up to. I suspect there's a lot you could tell me that you haven't been passing on. Ring me tomorrow morning before ten,” he said and put the phone down.

Puzzled and irritated at having to make a detour to the police station, Lindsay set off. Why didn't Rigano just give her the address over the phone? Why go to all the bother of leaving a note for her to pick up? It surely couldn't be an excuse to get her into the station so he could interview her or he wouldn't have made the arrangement for the next day's phone call. Unless that was a red herring . . . There seemed to be no easy answer.