Common Murder (24 page)

“And appallingly, it was I who tipped Simon off that Deborah had seen him; I said she'd seen his father, but he was quicker to the point than me and immediately knew who Deborah had really got a glimpse of. He understood the significance, and decided Deborah was too high a risk to leave unattended. Hence the attack on her, and hence her conviction that Rupert Crabtree was haunting her. She must have caught
a brief, peripheral glimpse of Simon, and subconsciously identified him wrongly. I hope you've still got a guard on her.”

Rigano put his pencil down and sighed. “Very plausible,” he muttered. “Fits all the facts in your possession.”

“It's the only theory that does,” Lindsay replied sharply. “Anything else relies on a string of completely implausible coincidences.”

“I tend to agree with you,” he replied in an offhand way.

“So what are you going to do about it? You've got the evidence there,” Lindsay said, pointing at the tape. “You can get your forensic people to examine the clothes Simon was wearing that night. There must be traces.”

“I'm going to do precisely nothing about it, except to say, well done, Lindsay. Now forget it,” he said coldly.

Lindsay looked at him in stunned amazement. “What?” she demanded, outraged. “How can you ignore what I've just told you? How can you ignore the evidence I've given you? You've got to bring him in for questioning, at least!”

He shook his head. “No,” he said. “Don't you understand?”

“No, I bloody don't,” she protested bitterly. “You're a policeman. You're supposed to solve crimes, arrest the culprits, bring them to trial. You're quick enough to do people for speeding—suddenly murder is a no-go area?”

“This murder is,” he replied. “Why else do you think a uniform is in charge instead of the CID? Why else am I working with two men, a dog, and a national newspaper hack? I am supposed to fail.” Lindsay was dumbstruck. It didn't make any sense to her. “I . . . I don't get it,” she stuttered.

Rigano sighed deeply. He spoke quietly but firmly. “I shouldn't tell you this, but I feel I owe it to you after the way you've worked through this. Simon Crabtree is part of a much bigger operation that's out of my hands and way over my head. I am not allowed to touch him. If he ran amok in Fordham High Street with a Kalashnikov, I'd have a job arresting him. Now do you understand?”

Lindsay's fury suddenly erupted. “Oh yes, I bloody understand all right. Some bunch of adolescent spymasters think they can get to some tuppenny-ha'penny KGB thug via Simon Crabtree. So it's hands off Simon. And that means it's open season on Deborah. She can't be
kept under police guard for ever. Simon doesn't know he's sacrosanct, he'll have another go. And next time Deborah might not be so lucky. You expect me to stand by while an innocent woman is put at risk from that homicidal traitor? Forget it!”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“I'm a journalist, Jack,” she replied angrily. “I'm going to write the story. The whole bloody, dirty story.” She got to her feet and made for the door. As she opened it, she said, “But first of all, I'm going to talk to Simon Crabtree.”

The roar of the MG's engine was magnified by the high walls of Harrison Mews as Lindsay drew up for her showdown with Simon Crabtree. It was a cold, clear night with an edge of frost in the air and she wound down the car window to take a few deep breaths. The alleyway was gloomy, lit only by a few dim bulbs outside some of the lockups. The immediacy of her anger had subsided far enough for her to be apprehensive about what she intended to do. She cursed her lack of foresight in failing to bring along her pocket tape recorder. Although she was desperate for the confrontation, she was enough of a professional to realize that the difficulties she would encounter in getting this story into the paper would only be compounded by an unwitnessed, unrecorded interview with Simon. She could try to find the
Clarion's
backup team and enlist their help, but she knew she could only expect the most reluctant cooperation from them unless specifically ordered by Duncan. After her string of exclusives, the poor bastard who'd been sent down as backup was not going to be too inclined to help her out.

She lit a cigarette and contemplated her options. Behind her apprehension lay the deep conviction of all journalists, that somehow they were immune from the risks faced by the rest of the world. It was that same conviction that had made her face a killer alone once before. She could dive in now, feet first; the chances were that Simon would deny everything. Even if he admitted it, she'd have no proof. Then he'd tip off his masters, she'd be in the firing line, and as sure as the sun rises in the morning, Duncan would send her back anyway with a photographer to get pictures and a witnessed interview. It wouldn't matter so much then if he denied it; the office lawyer would be satisfied that he'd been given a fair crack of the whip. The other alternative was to leave it for now, go and visit Debs in hospital, go
home and talk it over with Cordelia, and discuss the best approach with Duncan in the morning. Then everyone would be happy. Everyone except Lindsay herself, in whom patience had never been a highly developed character trait.

Sighing, she decided to be sensible. She wound up the window but before she could start the engine, she saw a Transit van turn into the alleyway and drive toward her. Only its sidelights were on, and it was being driven up the middle of the roadway, making it impossible for Lindsay to pass. Instinctively, she glanced in the rearview mirror. In the dim glow of her taillights, she saw a red Fiesta, parked diagonally across her rear, preventing any escape by that route. The Transit stopped a few feet from her shiny front bumper and both doors opened. There was nothing accidental about this, she thought.

Two men emerged. One was around the six foot mark, with the broad shoulders and narrow hips of a body builder. He had thinning dark hair cut close to his head, and his sharp features with their five o'clock shadow were exaggerated by the limited lighting. He looked like a tough Mephistopheles. The other was smaller and more wiry, with a mop of dark hair contorted into a curly perm. Both wore leather bomber jackets and training shoes. All this Lindsay absorbed as they moved toward her, understanding at once that something unpleasant was going to happen to her. She discovered that she couldn't swallow. Her stomach felt as if she'd been punched in the middle of a period pain. Almost without thinking, Lindsay locked the driver's door as Curly Perm tried the passenger door and Mephistopheles reached her side of the car. He tried the handle, then said clearly and coldly, “Open it.”

Lindsay shook her head. “No way,” she croaked through dry lips. She was too scared even to demand to be told what was going on.

She saw him sigh. His breath was a white puff in the night air. “Look,” he said reasonably. “Open it now. Or else it's a brick through the window. Or, since you've done us the favor of bringing the soft-top, the Stanley knife across this very expensive hood. You choose.”

He looked completely capable of carrying out his threat without turning a hair. Unlocking the door, Lindsay suddenly ached for a life with such certainties, without qualms. Immediately, he wrenched the door open and gestured with his thumb for her to get out. Numbly, she shook her head. Then, behind her, another voice chimed in.

“I should do as he asks if I were you.” Lindsay twisted in her seat and saw Stone leaning against the car. Somehow it came as no surprise. She even felt a slight sense of relief. At least she could be sure which side had her. You bastard, Jack Rigano, she thought.

Stone smiled encouragingly. “I assure you, you'll be out of that car one way or another within the next few minutes. It's up to you how painless the experience will be. And don't get carried away with the notion of extracting a price in pain from us. I promise you that your suffering will be immeasurably greater. Now, why don't you just get out of the car?” His voice was all the more chilling for having a warm West Country drawl.

Lindsay turned back to Mephistopheles. If he'd stripped naked in the interval, she wouldn't have noticed. What grabbed her attention was the short-barreled pistol which was pointing unwaveringly at her right leg. The last flickering of defiance penetrated her fear and she said abruptly, “Because I don't want to get out of the bloody car.”

Curly Perm marched round the back of the car, past Stone. He took something from his pocket and suddenly a gleaming blade leapt forward from his fist. He leaned into the car as Lindsay flinched away from him. He looked like a malevolent monkey. He waved the knife in front of her, then, in one swift movement, he sliced her seat belt through the middle, leaving the ends dangling uselessly over her. He moved back, looking speculatively at the soft black vinyl roof.

“The first cut is the deepest,” said Stone conversationally. “He's very good with the knife. He knows how to cause serious scars without endangering your life. I wonder if Deborah Patterson would be quite so keen then? Or indeed, that foxy lady you live with. Don't be a hero, Lindsay. Get out of the car.”

His matter-of-fact air and the use of her first name were far more frightening than the flick-knife or the gun. The quiet menace Stone gave off was another matter. Lindsay knew enough about herself to realize that he was the one whose threats had the power to invest her life with paranoid nightmares. Cooperation seemed the best way to fight her fear now. So she got out of the car. “Leave the keys,” said Mephistopheles as she reached automatically for them on the way out.

As she stood up, Stone moved forward and grasped her right arm above the elbow. Swiftly, he fastened one end of a pair of handcuffs
round her wrist. “Am I under arrest, or what?” she demanded. He ignored the question.

“Over to the van, please,” he said politely, betraying his words by twisting her arm up her back. Stone steered her round to the back of the Transit. Curly Perm opened the doors and illuminated the interior with a small torch. Lindsay glimpsed two benches fixed to the van's sides, then she was bundled inside and the other shackle of the cuffs was fixed to one of the solid steel struts that formed the interior ribs of the van. The doors were hastily slammed behind her, casting her into complete darkness, as she asked again, “What's going on? Eh?” There were no windows. If she stretched out her leg as far as she could reach, she could just touch the doors. She could stand almost upright, but couldn't quite reach the opposite side of the van with her arm. It was clear that any escape attempt would be futile. She felt thankful that she'd never suffered from claustrophobia.

Lindsay heard the sound of her MG's engine starting, familiar enough to be recognizable even inside the Transit. Then it was drowned as the van's engine revved up and she was driven off. She had to hold on to the bench to keep her balance as the van lurched. At first, she tried to memorize turnings, but realized very quickly that it was impossible; the darkness was disorientating. With her one free hand she checked through the contents of her pockets to see if she had anything that might conceivably be useful. A handkerchief, some money (she guessed at £30.57), a packet of cigarettes, and her Zippo. Not exactly the Count of Monte Cristo escape kit, she thought bitterly. Why did reality never provide the fillips of fiction? Where was her Swiss army knife and her portable office with the scissors, stapler, adhesive tape, and flexible metal tape measure? In her handbag, she remembered, on the floor of the MG. Oh well, if she'd tried to bring it, they would have taken it from her, she decided.

The journey lasted for over an hour and a half. Debs would be wondering why she hadn't appeared, thought Lindsay worriedly. And Cordelia would soon start getting cross that she wasn't home when she said she'd be. They'd probably each assume she was with the other and feel betrayed rather than anxious; no hope of either of them giving the alarm. She was beginning to wonder exactly where she was being taken. If it was central London, they should have been there by
now, given the traffic at that time of night. But there were none of the stops and starts of city traffic, just the uninterrupted run of a motorway or major road. If it wasn't London, it must be the other direction. Bristol? Bath? Then it dawned. Cheltenham. General Communications Headquarters. It made a kind of sense.

The van was behaving more erratically now, turning and slowing down at frequent intervals. At 8:12 p.m., according to Lindsay's watch, it stopped and the engine was turned off. She could hear indeterminate, muffled sounds outside, then the doors opened. Her eyes adjusted to the surge of light and she saw they were in an underground car park. The MG was parked opposite them, the red Fiesta next to it. Stone climbed into the van and unlocked the handcuff linking Lindsay to the van. He snapped it round his left wrist and led her out into the car park.

The four of them moved in ill-assorted convoy to a bank of lifts. Stone took a credit-card-sized piece of black plastic from his pocket and inserted it in a slot, which swallowed it. Above the slot was a gray rubber pad. He pressed his right thumb to the pad, then punched a number into a console. The slot spat the black plastic oblong out and the lift doors opened for them. Curly Perm hit the button marked 5 and they shot upward silently. They emerged in an empty corridor, brightly lit with fluorescent tubes. Lindsay could see half a dozen closed doors. Stone opened one marked K57 and ushered Lindsay in. The other two remained outside.