Common Murder
V. L. McDermid
The second novel in the Lindsay Gordon series - a gripping psychological thriller - from No.1 bestseller Val McDermid. When her former lover is accused of murder in a women’s peace camp, Lindsay must bring all of her expertise as an investigative reporter into play.A protest group hits the headlines when unrest at a women's peace camp explodes into murder. Already on the scene, journalist Lindsay Gordon desperately tries to strike a balance between personal and professional responsibilities. As she peels back the layers of deception surrounding the protest and its opponents, she finds that no one – ratepayer or reporter, policeman or peace woman – seems wholly above suspicion. Then Lindsay uncovers a truth that even she can scarcely believe.Common Murder is the gripping second novel in Val McDermid’s Lindsay Gordon series.
V.L. McDERMID
Common Murder
Contents
Dedication
For my father
1
‘This is murder,’ Lindsay Gordon complained, leaning back in her chair and putting her feet up on the desk. ‘I can’t bear it when there’s nothing doing. Look at us. Eight p.m. on the dynamic news-desk of a national daily. The night news editor’s phoning his daughter in Detroit. His deputy’s straining his few remaining brain cells with the crossword. One reporter has escaped to the pub like a sensible soul. Another is using the office computer to write the Great English Novel …’
‘And the third is whingeing on as usual,’ joked the hopeful novelist, looking up from the screen. ‘Don’t knock it, Lindsay, it’s better than working.’
‘Huh,’ she grunted, reaching for the phone. ‘I sometimes wonder. I’m going to do a round of calls, see if there’s anything going on in the big bad world outside.’
Her colleague grinned. ‘What’s the problem? Run out of friends to phone?’
Lindsay pulled a face. ‘Something like that,’ she replied. As she opened her contacts book at the page with the list of police, fire and ambulance numbers she thought of the change in her attitude to unfettered access to the office phone since she’d moved from her base in Glasgow to live with her lover Cordelia in London. She had appreciated quiet night shifts in those days for the chance they gave her to spend half the night chattering about everything and nothing with Cordelia. These days, however, it seemed that what they had to say to each other could easily be accommodated in the hours between work and sleep. Indeed, Lindsay was beginning to find it easier to open her heart to friends who weren’t Cordelia. She shook herself mentally and started on her list of calls.
On the newsdesk, Cliff Gilbert the night news editor finished his phone conversation and started checking the computerised newsdesk for any fresh stories. After a few minutes, he called. ‘Lindsay, you clear?’
‘Just doing the calls, Cliff,’ she answered.
‘Never mind that. There’s a bloody good tip just come in from one of the local paper lads in Fordham. Seems there’s been some aggro at the women’s peace camp at Brownlow Common. I’ve transferred the copy into your personal desk. Check it out, will you?’ he asked.
Lindsay sat up and summoned the few paragraphs on to her screen. The story seemed straightforward enough. A local resident claimed he’d been assaulted by one of the women from the peace camp. He’d had his nose broken in the incident, and the woman was in custody. Lindsay was instantly sceptical. She found it hard to believe that one of a group pledged to campaign for peace would physically attack an opponent of the anti-nuclear protest. But she was enough of a professional to concede that her initial reaction was the sort of knee-jerk she loved to condemn when it came from the other side.
The repercussions unfolding outside Fordham police station made the story interesting from the point of view of the Daily Clarion newsdesk. The assaulted man, a local solicitor called Rupert Crabtree, was the leader of Ratepayers Against Brownlow’s Destruction, a pressure group dedicated to the removal of the peace women from the common. His accusation had provoked a spontaneous demonstration from the women, who were apparently besieging the police station. That in its turn had provoked a counter-demonstration from RABD members outraged at the alleged attack. There was a major confrontation in the making, it appeared.
Lindsay started making phone calls, but soon hit a brick wall. The police station at Fordham were referring all calls to county headquarters. Headquarters were hiding behind the old excuse: ‘We can make no statement yet. Reports are still coming in.’ It was not an unusual frustration. She walked over to Cliff’s desk and explained the problem. ‘It might be worth taking a run down there to see what the score is,’ she suggested. ‘I can be there in an hour at this time of night, and if it is shaping up into a nasty, we should have someone on the spot. I don’t know how far we can rely on the lad that filed the original copy. I’ve got some good contacts at the peace camp. We could get a cracking exclusive out of it. What do you think?’
Cliff shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t grab me.’
Lindsay sighed. ‘On the basis of what we’ve got so far, we could be looking at a major civil disturbance. I’d hate the opposition to beat us to the draw when we’ve got a head start with my contacts.’
‘Give your contacts a bell, then.’
‘There are no phones at the camp, Cliff. British Telecom have shown an incomprehensible reluctance to install them in tents. And besides, they’ll probably all be down the copshop protesting. I might as well go. There’s sod all else doing.’
He grinned. ‘Okay, Lindsay, go and take a look. Give me a check call when you get there. I’ll see if we can get any more information over the phone. Remember your deadlines – there’s no point in getting a good exclusive if we can’t get it in the paper.’
‘What about a pic man?’
‘Let me know if you need one when you get there. I seem to remember there’s a local snapper we’ve used before.’
Five minutes later, Lindsay was weaving through the London traffic in her elderly MG roadster. She drove on automatic pilot while she dredged all she knew about the peace camp to the surface of her mind.
She’d first been to the camp about nine months before. She and Cordelia had made the twenty-mile detour to Brownlow Common one sunny May Sunday after a long lunch with friends in Oxford. Lindsay had read about the camp in one of the Sunday papers, and had been intrigued enough by the report to want to see it for herself. Cordelia, who shared Lindsay’s commitment to opposing the nuclear threat, had been easily persuaded to come along on that initial visit, though she was never to share Lindsay’s conviction that the camp was an effective form of protest. For Cordelia, the channels of dissent that came easiest were the traditional ones of letters to the Guardian and MPs. She had never felt comfortable with the ethos of the camp. Cordelia always felt that she was somehow being judged and found wanting by the women who had made that overwhelming commitment to the cause of peace. So she seldom accompanied Lindsay on later visits, preferring to confine her support to handing cash over to Lindsay to purchase whatever necessities the camp was short of, from lentils to toilet chemicals. But for that first visit, she suspended her instinctive distrust and tried to keep her mind open.
The peace camp had started spontaneously just over a year before. A group of women had marched from the West Country to the American airbase at Brownlow Common to protest at the siting of US cruise missiles there. They had been so fired by anger and enthusiasm at the end of their three-week march that they decided to set up a peace camp as a permanent protest against the nuclear colonisation of their green unpleasant land.
Thinking back to that early summer afternoon, Lindsay found it hard to remember what she’d expected. What she had found was enough to shatter her expectations beyond recall. They had turned off the main road on to a leafy country lane. After about a mile and a half, the trees on one side of the road suddenly stopped. There was an open clearing the size of a couple of football pitches, bisected by a tarmac track that led up to a gate about 250 yards from the road. The gate was of heavy steel bars covered with chain-link fencing and surmounted by savage angled spikes wrapped with barbed wire. The perimeter fence consisted of ten-foot tall concrete stanchions and metal-link fencing, topped by rolls of razor wire. More razor wire was laid in spirals along the base of the fence. The gate was guarded by four British soldiers on the inside and two policemen on the outside. A sign declared ‘USAF Brownlow Common’.
In the distance, the long low humps of the missile silos broke the skyline. Three hundred yards inside the perimeter fence were buildings identifiable as servicemen’s quarters – square, concrete blocks with identical curtains. From beyond the wire, they looked like a remand centre, Lindsay had thought. They provided a stark contrast to the other human habitation visible from the car. Most of the clearing outside the forbidding fence had been annexed by the peace women. All over it were clusters of tents -green, grey, orange, blue, brown. The women were sitting out in the warm sunshine, talking, drinking, cooking, eating, singing. The bright colours of their clothes mingled and formed a kaleidoscope of constantly changing patterns. Several young children were playing a hysterical game of tig round one group of tents.
Lindsay and Cordelia had been made welcome, although some of the more radical women were clearly suspicious of Lindsay’s occupation and Cordelia’s reputation as a writer who embodied the establishment’s vision of an acceptable feminist. But after that first visit Lindsay had maintained contact with the camp. It seemed to provide her with a focus for her flagging political energies, and besides, she enjoyed the company of the peace women. One in particular, Jane Thomas, a doctor who had given up a promising career as a surgical registrar to live at the camp, had become a close and supportive friend.
Lindsay had come to look forward to the days she spent at Brownlow Common. The move to London that had seemed to promise so much had proved to be curiously unsatisfying. She had been shocked to discover how badly she fitted in with Cordelia’s circle of friends. It was an upsetting discovery for someone whose professional success often depended on that mercurial quality she possessed which enabled her to insinuate herself virtually anywhere. Cordelia, for her part, clearly felt uncomfortable with journalists who weren’t part of the media arts circus. And Cordelia was no chameleon. She liked to be with people who made her feel at home in the persona she had adopted. Now she was wrapped up in a new novel, and seemed happier to discuss its progress with her friends and her agent than with Lindsay, who felt increasingly shut out as Cordelia became more absorbed in her writing. It had made Lindsay feel uncomfortable about bringing her own work problems home, for Cordelia’s mind always seemed to be elsewhere. Much as she loved and needed Cordelia, Lindsay had begun to sense that her initial feeling that she had found a soulmate with whom she occasionally disagreed was turning into a struggle to find enough in common to fill the spaces between the lovemaking that still brought them together in a frighteningly intense unity. Increasingly, they had pursued their separate interests. Brownlow Common had become one of Lindsay’s favourite boltholes.
But the camp had changed dramatically since those heady summer days. Harassment had sprung up from all sides. Some local residents had formed Ratepayers Against Brownlow’s Destruction in an attempt to get rid of the women who created in the camp what the locals saw as an eyesore, health hazard and public nuisance. The yobs from nearby Fordham had taken to terrorising the camp in late-night firebomb attacks. The police were increasingly hostile and heavy-handed in dealing with demonstrations. What media coverage there was had become savage, stereotyped and unsympathetic. And the local council had joined forces with the Ministry of Defence to fight the women’s presence through the civil courts. The constant war of attrition coupled with the grim winter weather had changed the camp both physically and spiritually. Where there had been green grass, there was now a greasy, pot-holed morass of reddish-brown clay. The tents had vanished, to be replaced with benders – polythene sheeting stretched over branches and twine to make low-level tepees. They were ugly but they were also cheap, harder to burn and easier to reconstruct. Even the rainbow colours the women wore were muted now that the February cold had forced them to wrap up in drab winter plumage. But more serious, in Lindsay’s eyes, was the change in atmosphere. The air of loving peace and warmth, that last hangover from the sixties, had been heavily overlaid with the pervading sense of something harder. No one was in any doubt that this was no game.
It was typically ironic, she thought, that it needed crime to persuade the Clarion that the camp was worth some coverage. She had made several suggestions to her news editor about a feature on the women at the peace camp, but he had treated the idea with derision. Lindsay had finally conceded with ill grace because her transfer to the job in London was a relatively recent achievement she couldn’t afford to jeopardise. The job hadn’t quite turned out the way she’d expected either. From being a highly rated writer who got her fair share of the best assignments, she had gone to being just another fish in the pool of reporters. But she remembered too well the years of hard-working, nail-biting freelancing before she’d finally recovered the security of a wage packet, and she wasn’t ready to go back to that life yet.
Jane Thomas, however, encouraged her to use her talents in support of the camp. As a result, Lindsay had rung round her magazine contacts from her freelance days and sold several features abroad to salve her conscience. Thanks to her, the camp had had extensive magazine coverage in France, Italy and Germany, and had even featured in a colour spread in an American news magazine. But somewhere deep inside, she knew that wasn’t enough. She felt guilty about the way she had changed since she’d decided to commit herself to her relationship with Cordelia. She knew she’d been seduced as much by Cordelia’s comfortable lifestyle as by her lover’s charm. That had made it hard to sustain the political commitment that had once been so important to her. ‘Your bottle’s gone, Gordon,’ she said aloud as she pulled off the motorway on to the Fordham road. Perhaps the chance for redemption was round the next corner.
As she reached the outskirts of the quiet market town of Fordham, her radiopager bleeped insistently. Sighing, she checked the dashboard clock. Nine fifteen. Forty-five minutes to edition time. She wasted five precious minutes finding a phone box and rang Cliff.
‘Where are you?’ he said officiously.
‘I’m about five minutes away from the police station,’ she explained patiently. ‘I’d have been there by now if you hadn’t bleeped me.’
‘Okay, fine. I’ve had the local lad on again. I’ve said you’re en route and I’ve told him to link up with you. His name’s Gavin Hammill, he’s waiting for you in the lounge bar of the Griffon’s Head, in the market place, he says. He’s wearing a Barbour jacket and brown trousers. He says it’s a bit of a stalemate at present; anyway, suss it out and file copy as soon as.’
I’m on my way,ʼn Lindsay said.
Finding the pub was no problem. Finding Gavin Hammill was not so simple. Every other man in the pub was wearing a Barbour jacket and half of them seemed to be alone. After the second failure, Lindsay decided to buy a drink and try again. Before she could down her Scotch, a gangling youth with mousy brown hair and a skin problem inadequately hidden by a scrubby beard tapped her on the shoulder and said, ‘Lindsay Gordon? From the Clarion? I’m Gavin Hammill, Fordham Weekly Bugle.’
Far from relieved, Lindsay smiled weakly. ‘Please to meet you, Gavin. What’s the score?
‘Well, both lots are still outside the police station but the police don’t seem to know quite how to play it. I mean, they can’t treat the ratepayers the way they normally treat the peace women, can they? And yet they can’t be seen to be treating them differently. It’s kind of a standoff. Or it was when I left.’
‘And when was that?’
‘About ten minutes ago.’
‘Come on then, let’s go and check it out. I’ve got a deadline to meet in twenty minutes.’
They walked briskly through the market place and into the side street where a two-storey brick building housed Fordham police station. They could hear the demonstration before they saw the demonstrators. The women from the camp were singing the songs of peace that had emerged over the last two years as their anthems. Chanting voices attempted to drown them out with ‘Close the camp! Give us peace!’
On the steps of the police station, sat about forty women dressed in strangely assorted layers of thick clothing, with muddy boots and peace badges fixed to their jackets, hats and scarves. The majority of them looked remarkably healthy, in spite of the hardships of their outdoor life. To one side, a group of about twenty-five people stood shouting. There were more men than women, and they all looked as if they ought to be at home watching ‘Mastermind’ instead of causing a civil disturbance outside the police station. Between the two groups were posted about a dozen uniformed policemen who seemed unwilling to do more than keep the groups apart. Lindsay stood and watched for a few minutes. Every so often, one of the RABD group would try to push through the police lines, but not seriously enough to warrant more than the gentlest of police manhandling. These attempts were usually provoked by jibes from one or two of the women. Lindsay recognised Nicky, one of the camp’s proponents of direct action, who called out, ‘You’re brave enough when the police are in the way, aren’t you? What about being brave when the Yanks drop their bombs on your doorstep?’
‘Why aren’t the cops breaking it up?’ Lindsay asked Gavin.
‘I told you, they don’t seem to know what to do. I think they’re waiting for the superintendent to get here. He was apparently off duty tonight and they’ve been having a bit of bother getting hold of him. I imagine he’ll be able to sort it out.’
Even as he spoke, a tall, uniformed police officer with a face like a Medici portrait emerged from the station. He picked his way between the peace women, who jeered at him. ‘That him?’ Lindsay demanded.
‘Yeah. Jack Rigano. He’s the boss here. Good bloke.’
One of the junior officers handed Rigano a bullhorn. He put it to his lips and spoke. Through the distortion, Lindsay made out, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve had your fun. You have five minutes to disperse. If you fail to do so, my officers have orders to arrest everyone. Please don’t think about causing any more trouble tonight. We have already called for reinforcements and I warn you that everyone will be treated with equal severity unless you disperse at once. Thank you and goodnight.’
Lindsay couldn’t help grinning at his words. At once the RABD protesters, unused to the mechanics of organised dissent, began to move away, talking discontentedly among themselves. The more experienced peace women sat tight, singing defiantly. Lindsay turned to Gavin and said, ‘Go after the RABD lot and see if you can get a couple of quotes. I’ll speak to the cops and the peace women. Meet me by that phone box on the corner in ten minutes. We’ll have to get some copy over quickly.’
She quickly walked over to the superintendent and dug her union Press Card out of her pocket. ‘Lindsay Gordon. Daily Clarion,’ she said. ‘Can I have a comment on this incident?’
Rigano looked down at her and smiled grimly. ‘You can say that the police have had everything under control and both sets of demonstrators were dispersed peacefully.’
‘And the assault?’
‘The alleged assault, don’t you mean?’
It was Lindsay’s turn for the grim smile. ‘Alleged assault,’ she said.
‘A woman is in custody in connection with an alleged assault earlier this evening at Brownlow Common. We expect to charge her shortly. She will appear before Fordham magistrates tomorrow morning. That’s it.’ He turned away from her abruptly as his men began carrying the peace women down the steps. As soon as one woman was carried into the street and the police returned for the next, the first would outflank them and get back on to the steps. Lindsay knew the process of old. It would go on until police reinforcements arrived and outnumbered the protesters. It was a ritual dance that both sides had perfected.
When she saw a face she recognised being dumped on the pavement, Lindsay quickly went over and grabbed the woman’s arm before she could return to the steps. ‘Jackie,’ Lindsay said urgently. ‘It’s me, Lindsay, I’m doing a story about the protest, can you give me a quick quote.’
The young black woman grinned. She said, ‘Sure. You can put in your paper that innocent women are being victimised by the police because we want a nuclear-free world to bring up our children in. Peace women don’t go around beating up men. One of our friends has been framed, so we’re making a peaceful protest. Okay? Now I’ve got to get back. See you, Lindsay.ʼn
There was no time for Lindsay to stay and watch what happened. She ran back to the phone box, passing a police van loaded with uniformed officers on the corner of the marketplace. Gavin was standing by the phone box, looking worried.
Lindsay dived into the box and dialled the office copytakers’ number. She got through immediately and started dictating her story. When she had finished, she turned to Gavin and said, I’ll put you on to give your quotes in a sec, okay? Listen, what’s the name of this woman who’s accused of the assault? The lawyer will kill it, but I’d better put it in for reference for tomorrow.ʼn
‘She comes from Yorkshire, I think,’ he said. ‘Her name’s Deborah Patterson.’
Lindsay’s jaw dropped. ‘Did you say … Deborah Patterson?’
He nodded. Lindsay was filled with a strange sense of unreality. Deborah Patterson. It was the last name she expected to hear. Once upon a time it had been the name she scribbled idly on her notepad while she waited for strangers to answer their telephones, conjuring up the mental image of the woman she spent her nights with. But that had been a long time ago. Now her ghost had come back to haunt her. That strong, funny woman who had once made her feel secure against the world was here in Fordham.
2
Lindsay stroked the four-year-old’s hair mechanically as she rocked her back and forth in her arms. ‘It’s okay, Cara,’ she murmured at frequent intervals. The sobs soon subsided, and eventually the child’s regular breathing provided evidence that she had fallen asleep, worn out by the storm of emotions she’d suffered. ‘She’s dropped off at last,’ Lindsay observed to Dr Jane Thomas, who had taken charge of Cara after her mother’s dramatic arrest.
‘I’ll put her in her bunk,’ Jane replied. ‘Pass her over.’ Lindsay awkwardly transferred the sleeping child to Jane, who carried her up the short ladder to the berth above the cab of the camper van that was Deborah’s home at the peace camp. She settled the child and tucked her in then returned to sit opposite Lindsay at the table. ‘What are your plans?’ she asked.
‘I thought I’d stay the night here. My shift finishes at midnight, and the boss seems quite happy for me to stop here tonight. Since it looks as if Debs won’t be using her bed, I thought I’d take advantage of it and keep an eye on Cara at the same time if that sounds all right to you. I’ll have to go and phone Cordelia soon, though, or she’ll wonder where I’ve got to. Can you stay with Cara while I do that?’
‘No sweat,’ said Jane. ‘I was going to kip down here if you’d had to go back to London, but stay if you like. Cara’s known you all her life, after all. She knows she can trust you.’
Before Lindsay could reply, there was a quiet knock at the van’s rear door. Jane opened it to reveal a redheaded woman in her early thirties wearing the standard Sloane Ranger outfit of green wellies, needlecord jeans, designer sweater and the inevitable Barbour jacket.
‘Judith!’ Jane exclaimed, ‘Am I glad to see you! Now we can find out exactly what’s going on. Lindsay, this is Judith Rowe, Deborah’s solicitor. She does all our legal work. Judith, this is Lindsay Gordon, who’s a reporter with the Daily Clarion, but more importantly, she’s an old friend of Deborah’s.’
Judith sat down beside Lindsay. ‘So it was you who left the note for Deborah at the police station?’ she asked briskly.
‘That’s right. As soon as I found out she’d been arrested, I thought I’d better let her know I was around in case she needed any help,’ Lindsay said.
‘I’m glad you did,’ said Judith. ‘She was in a bit of a state about Cara until she got your message. She seemed calmer afterwards. Now, tomorrow, she’s appearing before the local magistrates. She’s been charged with breach of the peace and assault resulting in actual bodily harm on Rupert Crabtree. She’s going to put her hand up to the breach charge, but she wants to opt for jury trial on the ABH charge. She asked me to tell you what happened before you make any decisions about what I have to ask you. Okay?’
Lindsay nodded. Judith went on. ‘Crabtree was walking his dog up the road, near the phone box at Brownlow Cottages. Deborah had been making a call and when she left the box, Crabtree stood in her path and was really rather insulting, both to her and about the peace women in general. She tried to get past him, but his dog started growling and snapping at her and a scuffle developed. Crabtree tripped over the dog’s lead and crashed face first into the back of the phone box, breaking his nose. He claims to the police that Deborah grabbed his hair and smashed his face into the box. No witnesses. In her favour is the fact that she phoned an ambulance and stayed near by till it arrived.
‘It’s been normal practice for the women to refuse to pay fines and opt for going to prison for non-payment. But Deborah feels she can’t take that option since it would be unfair to Cara. She’ll probably be fined about twenty-five pounds on the breach and won’t be given time to pay since she’ll also be looking for bail on the assault charge and Fordham mags can be absolute pigs when it comes to dealing with women from the camp. She asked me to ask you if you’d lend her the money to pay the fine. That’s point one.’
Judith was about to continue, but Lindsay interrupted. ‘Of course I will. She should know that, for God’s sake. Now, what’s point two?’
Judith grinned. ‘Point two is that we believe bail will be set at a fairly high level. What I need is someone who will stand surety for Deborah.’
Lindsay nodded. ‘That’s no problem. What do I have to do?’
‘You’ll have to lodge the money with the court. A cheque will do. Can you be there tomorrow?’
‘Provided I can get away by half past two. I’m working tomorrow night, you see. I start at four.’ She arranged to meet Judith at the magistrates’ court in the morning, and the solicitor got up to leave. The night briefly intruded as she left, reminding them all of the freezing February gale endured by the women outside.
‘She’s been terrific to us,’ said Jane, as they watched Judith drive away. ‘She just turned up one day not long after the first court appearance for obstruction. She offered her services any time we needed legal help. She’s never taken a penny from us, except what she gets in legal aid. Her family farms on the other side of town and her mother comes over about once a month with fresh vegetables for us. It’s really heartening when you get support from people like that, people you’d always vaguely regarded as class enemies, you know?’
Lindsay nodded. ‘That sort of thing always makes me feel ashamed for writing people off as stereotypes. Anyway, I’d better go and phone Cordelia before she starts to worry about me. Will you hold the fort for ten minutes?’
Lindsay jumped into the car and drove to the phone box where the incident between Deborah and Crabtree had taken place though it was too dark to detect any signs of the scuffle. A gust of wind blew a splatter of rain against the panes of the phone box as she dialled the London number and a sleepy voice answered, ‘Cordelia Brown speaking.’
‘Cordelia? It’s me. I’m down at Brownlow Common on a job that’s got a bit complicated. I’m going to stay over. Okay?’
‘What a drag. Why is it always you that gets stuck on the out-of-towners?’
‘Strictly speaking, it’s not work that’s the problem.’ Lindsay spoke in a rush. ‘Listen, there’s been a bit of bother between one of the peace women and a local man. There’s been an arrest. In fact, the woman who’s been arrested is Deborah Patterson.’
Cordelia’s voice registered her surprise. ‘Deborah from Yorkshire? That peace camp really is a small world, isn’t it? Whatever happened?’
‘She’s been set up, as far as I can make out.’
‘Not very pleasant for her, I should imagine.’
‘You’ve hit the nail on the head. She’s currently locked up in a police cell, so I thought I’d keep an eye on little Cara till Debs is released tomorrow.’
‘No problem,’ Cordelia replied. ‘I can get some more work done tonight if you’re not coming back. It’s been going really well tonight, and I’m reluctant to stop till my eyes actually close.’
Lindsay gave a wry smile. ‘I’m glad it’s going well. I’ll try to come home tomorrow afternoon before I go to work.’
‘Okay. I’ll try to get home in time.’
‘Oh. Where are you off to? Only, I thought you were going to be home all week.’
‘My mother rang this evening. She’s coming up tomorrow to do the shops and I promised I’d join her. But I’ll try to be back for four.’
‘Look, don’t rush your mother on my account. I’ll see you tomorrow in bed. I should be home by one. Love you, babe.’
A chill wind met her as she stepped out of the phone box and walked quickly back to the car. She pictured her lover sitting at her word processor, honing and refining her prose, relieved at the lack of distraction. Then she thought of Deborah, fretting in some uncomfortable, smelly cell. It wasn’t an outcome Lindsay had anticipated all those years before when, a trainee journalist on a local paper in Cornwall, she had encountered Deborah at a party. For Lindsay, it had been lust at first sight, and as the evening progressed and drink had been taken, she had contrived to make such a nuisance of herself that Deborah finally relented for the sake of peace and agreed to meet Lindsay the following evening for a drink.
That night had been the first of many. Their often stormy relationship had lasted for nearly six months before Lindsay was transferred to another paper in the group. Neither of them could sustain the financial or emotional strain of separation, and soon mutual infidelities transformed their relationship to platonic friendship. Not long after, Lindsay left the West Country for Fleet Street, and Deborah announced her intention of having a child. Deborah bought a ruined farmhouse in North Yorkshire that she was virtually rebuilding single-handed. Even after Lindsay moved back to Scotland, she still made regular visits to Deborah and was surprised to find how much she enjoyed spending time with Deborah’s small daughter. She felt comfortable there, even when they were joined for the occasional evening by Cara’s father Robin, a gay man who lived near by. But Lindsay and Deborah never felt the time was right to revive their sexual relationship.
After she had fallen for Cordelia, Lindsay’s visits had tailed off, though she had once taken Cordelia to stay the night. It had not been a success. Deborah had been rebuilding the roof at the time, there was no electricity and the water had to be pumped by hand from the well in the yard. Cordelia had not been impressed with either the accommodation or the insouciance of its owner. But Lindsay had sensed a new maturity in Deborah that she found appealing.
Deborah had clearly sensed Cordelia’s discomfort, but she had not commented on it. She had a willingness to accept people for what they were, and conduct her relationships with them on that basis. She never imposed her own expectations on them, and regarded her reactions to people and events as entirely her responsibility. It would be nice, thought Lindsay, not to feel that she was failing to come up to scratch. Time spent with Deborah always made her feel good about herself.
Back at the van, she brought in a bottle of Scotch from the car and poured a nightcap for herself and Jane.
‘Are you all right, Lindsay?’ Jane asked.
Lindsay’s reply was drowned out by a roar outside louder, even, than the stormy weather. It was a violent sound, rising and falling angrily. Lindsay leapt to her feet and pulled back the curtain over the van’s windscreen. Fear rose in her throat. The black night was scythed open by a dozen brilliant headlamps whose beams raked the benders like prison-camp searchlights. The motor bikes revved and roared in convoluted patterns round the encampment, sometimes demolishing benders as they went. As Lindsay’s eyes adjusted to the night, she could make out pillion riders on several of the bikes, some wielding stout sticks, others swinging heavy chains at everything in their path. It was clearly not the first time the women had been raided in this way, for everyone had the sense to stay down inside the scant shelter the benders provided.
Lindsay and Jane stood speechless, petrified by the spectacle. The van’s glow seemed to exert a magnetic effect on three of the bikers and their cyclops lamps swung round and lit it up like a follow-spot on a stage.
‘Oh shit,’ breathed Lindsay as the bikes careered towards the van. She leaned forward desperately and groped round the unfamiliar dashboard. What felt like agonising minutes later she found the right switch and flicked the lights on to full beam. The bikes wavered in their course and two of them peeled off to either side. The third skidded helplessly in the mud and slithered into a sideways slew on the greasy ground. The rider struggled to his feet, mouthing obscenities, and dragged himself round to his top-box. Out of it he pulled a large plastic bag which he hurled at the van. The women instinctively dived for the floor as it slammed into the windscreen with a squelching thud. Lindsay raised her head and nearly threw up. The world had turned red.
All over the windscreen was a skin of congealing blood with lumps of unidentifiable material slowly slithering down on to the bonnet. Jane’s head appeared beside her. ‘Oh God, not the pigs’ blood routine again,’ she moaned. ‘I thought they’d got bored with that one.’
As she spoke, the bikes revved up again, then their roar gradually diminished into an irritated buzz as they left the camp and reached the road.
‘We must call the police!’ Lindsay exclaimed.
‘It’s a waste of time calling the police, Lindsay. They just don’t want to know. The first time they threw blood over our benders, we managed to get the police to come out. But they said we’d done it ourselves, that we were sensation seekers. They said there was no evidence of our allegations. Tyre tracks in the mud don’t count, you see. Nor do the statements of forty women. It doesn’t really matter what crimes are perpetrated against us, because we’re sub-human, you see.’
‘That’s monstrous,’ Lindsay protested.
‘But inevitable,’ Jane retorted. ‘What’s going on here is so radical that they can’t afford to treat it seriously on any level. Start accepting that we’ve got any rights and you end up by giving validity to the nightmares that have brought us here. Do that and you’re half-way to accepting that our views on disarmament are a logical position. Much easier to treat us with total contempt.’
‘That’s intolerable,’ said Lindsay.
‘I’d better go and check that no one’s hurt,’ Jane said. ‘One of the women got quite badly burned the first time they fire-bombed the tents.’
‘Give me a second to check that Cara’s okay and I’ll come with you,’ Lindsay said, getting up and climbing the ladder that led to Cara’s bunk. Surprisingly, the child was still fast asleep.
‘I guess she’s used to it by now,’ Jane said, leading the way outside.
It was a sorry scene that greeted them. The headlights of several of the women’s vehicles illuminated half a dozen benders now reduced to tangled heaps of wreckage, out of which women were still crawling. Jane headed for the first aid bender while Lindsay ploughed through the rain and wind to offer what help she could to two women struggling to salvage the plastic sheeting that had formed their shelter. Together all three battled against the weather and roughly re-erected the bender. But the women’s sleeping bags were soaked and they trudged off to try and find some dry blankets to get them through the night.
Lindsay looked around. Slowly the camp was regaining its normal appearance. Where work was still going on, there seemed to be plenty of helpers. She made her way to Jane’s bender, fortunately undamaged, and found the doctor bandaging the arm of a woman injured by a whiplashing branch in the attack on her bender.
‘Hi, Lindsay,’ Jane had said without pausing in her work. ‘Not too much damage, thank God. A few bruises and cuts, but nothing major.’
‘Anything I can do?’
Jane shook her head. ‘Thanks, but everything’s under control.’
Feeling slightly guilty, but not wanting to leave Cara alone for too long, Lindsay returned to the van. She made up the double berth where Jane had shown her Deborah normally slept.
But sleep eluded Lindsay. When she finally dropped off, it was to fall prey to confusing and painful dreams.
Cara woke early, and was fretful while Lindsay struggled with the unfamiliar intricacies of the van to provide them both with showers and breakfast. Luckily, the night’s rain had washed away all traces of the pigs’ blood. Of course, the keys of the van were with Deborah’s possessions at the police station, so they had to drive into town in Lindsay’s car.
Fordham Magistrates Court occupied a large and elegant Georgian town house in a quiet cul-de-sac off the main street. Inside, the building was considerably less distinguished. The beautifully proportioned entrance hall had been partitioned to provide a waiting room and offices and comfortless plastic chairs abounded where Chippendale furniture might once have stood. The paintwork was grubby and chipped and there was a pervasive odour of stale bodies and cigarette smoke. Lindsay felt Cara’s grip tighten as they encountered the usual odd mixture of people found in magistrates’ courts. Uniformed policemen bustled from room to room, up and down stairs. A couple of court ushers in robes like Hammer Horror vampires stood gossiping by the WRVS tea stand from which a middle-aged woman dispensed grey coffee and orange tea. The other extras in this scene were the defeated-looking victims of the legal process, several of them in whispering huddles with their spry and well-dressed solicitors.
For once, Lindsay felt out of her element in a court. She put it down to the unfamiliar presence of a four year old on the end of her arm, and approached the ushers. They directed her to the café upstairs where she had arranged to meet Judith. The solicitor was already sitting at a table, dressed for business in a black pinstripe suit and an oyster grey shirt. She fetched coffee for Lindsay and orange juice for Cara, then said, I’d quite like it if you were in court throughout, Lindsay. How do you think Cara will cope if we ask a friendly policeman to keep an eye on her? Or has she already acquired the peace women’s distrust of them?’
Lindsay shrugged. ‘Best to ask Cara.’ She turned to her and said, ‘We’re supposed to go into court now, but I don’t think you’re allowed in. How would it be if we were to ask a policeman to sit and talk to you while we’re away?’
‘Are you going to get my mummy?’ asked Cara.
‘In a little while.’
‘Okay, then. But you won’t be long, will you, Lindsay?’
‘No, promise.’
They walked downstairs to the corridor outside the courtroom and Judith went in search of help. She returned quickly with a young policewoman who introduced herself to Cara.
‘My name’s Barbara,’ she said. ‘I’m going to sit with you till Mummy gets back. Is that all right?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Cara grudgingly. ‘Do you know any good stories?’
As Lindsay and Judith entered the courtroom, they heard Cara ask one of her best questions. ‘My mummy says the police are there to help us. So why did the police take my mummy away?’
The courtroom itself was scarcely altered from the house’s heyday. The parquet floor was highly polished, the paintwork gleaming white. Behind a table on a raised dais at one end of the room sat the three magistrates. The chairwoman, aged about forty-five, had hair so heavily lacquered that it might have been moulded in fibreglass and her mouth, too, was set in a hard line. She was flanked by two men. One was in his late fifties, with the healthy, weatherbeaten look of a keen sailor. The other, in his middle thirties, with dark brown hair neatly cut and styled, could have been a young business executive in his spotless shirt and dark suit. His face was slightly puffy round the eyes and jowls and he wore an air of dissatisfaction with the world.
The court wound up its summary hearing of a drunk and disorderly with a swift £40 fine and moved on to Deborah’s case.
Lindsay sat down on a hard wooden chair at the back of the room as Deborah was led in looking tired and dishevelled. Her jeans and shirt looked slept in, and her hair needed washing. Lindsay reflected, not for the first time, how the law’s delays inevitably made the person in police custody look like a tramp.
Deborah’s eyes flicked round the courtroom as a uniformed inspector read out the charges. When she saw Lindsay she flashed a smile of relief before turning back to the magistrates and answering the court clerk’s enquiry about her plea to the breach of the peace charge. ‘Guilty,’ she said in a clear, sarcastic voice. To the next charge, she replied equally clearly, ‘Not guilty.’
It was all over in ten minutes. Deborah was fined £50 plus £15 costs on the breach charge, and remanded on bail to the Crown Court for jury trial on the assault charge. The bail had been set at £2500, with the conditions that Deborah reported daily to the police station at Fordham, did not go within 200 yards of the Crabtree home, and made no approach to Mr Crabtree. Then, the formalities took over. Lindsay wrote a cheque she fervently hoped would never have to be cashed which Judith took to the payments office. Lindsay returned to Cara, who greeted her predictably with, ‘Where’s my mummy? You said you’d get her for me.’
Lindsay picked up the child and hugged her. ‘She’s just coming, I promise.’ Before she could put Cara down, the child called, ‘Mummy!’ and struggled out of Lindsay’s arms. Cara hurtled down the corridor and into the arms of Deborah who was walking towards them with Judith. Eventually, Deborah disentangled herself from Cara and came over to Lindsay. Wordlessly, they hugged each other.
Lindsay felt the old electricity surge through her, and pulled back from the embrace. She held Deborah at arms’ length. ‘Hi,’ she said.
Deborah smiled. ‘I didn’t plan a reunion like this,’ she said ruefully.
‘We’ll do the champagne and roses some other time,’ Lindsay replied.
‘Champagne and roses? My God, you’ve come up in the world. It used to be a half of bitter and a packet of hedgehog-flavoured crisps!’
They laughed as Judith, who had been keeping a discreet distance, approached and said, ‘Thanks for all your help, Lindsay. Now you’ll just have to pray Deborah doesn’t jump bail!’
‘No chance,’ said Deborah. ‘I wouldn’t dare. Lindsay’s motto used to be ‘don’t mess with the messer’, and I don’t expect that’s changed.
Lindsay smiled. ‘I’ve got even tougher,’ she said. ‘Come on, I’ll drop you off at the camp on my way back to London.’
They said goodbye to Judith and headed for the car park. Deborah said nonchalantly to Lindsay. ‘You can’t stay, then?’
Lindsay shook her head. ‘Sorry There’s nothing I’d rather do, but I’ve got to get back to London. I’m on the night shift tonight.’
‘You’ll come back soon, though, won’t you, Lin?’
Lindsay nodded. ‘Of course. Anyway, I’m not going just yet. I expect I can fit in a quick cup of coffee back at the van.’
They pushed through the doors of the courthouse and nearly crashed into two men standing immediately outside. The taller of the two had curly greying hair but his obvious good looks were ruined by a swollen and bruised nose and dark smudges beneath his eyes. He looked astonished to see Deborah, then said viciously, ‘So you’re breaking your bail conditions already, Miss Patterson. I could have you arrested for this, you know. And you wouldn’t get bail a second time.’
Furious, Lindsay pushed forward as Deborah picked up her daughter protectively. ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ she demanded angrily.
‘Ask your friend,’ he sneered. ‘I’m not a vindictive man,’ he added. ‘I won’t report you to the police this time. When the Crown Court sentences you to prison, that will be enough to satisfy me.’
He shouldered his way between them, followed by the other man, who had the grace to look embarrassed.
Deborah stared after him. ‘In case you hadn’t guessed,’ she said, ‘that was Rupert Crabtree.’
Lindsay nodded. ‘I figured as much.’
‘One of these days,’ Deborah growled, ‘someone is going to put a stop to that bastard.’
3
The alarm clock went off at a quarter to six. Lindsay rolled on to her side, grunting ‘Drop dead, you bastard,’ at the voice-activated alarm Cordelia had bought her to replace the Mickey Mouse job she’d had since university. She curled into a ball and considered going back to sleep. The early Saturday morning start to her weekend at the peace camp that had seemed such a good idea the night before now felt very unappealing.
But as she hovered on the verge of dozing off, she was twitched into sudden wakefulness as Cordelia’s finger ends lightly traced a wavy line up her side. Cordelia snuggled into her and kissed the nape of her neck gently. Lindsay murmured her pleasure, and the kisses quickly turned into nibbles. Lindsay felt her flesh go to goose pimples; thoroughly aroused she twisted round and kissed her lover fiercely. Cordelia pulled away and said innocently, ‘I thought you had trouble waking up in the morning?’
‘If they could find an alarm clock that did what you do to me, there would be no problem,’ Lindsay growled softly as she started to stroke Cordelia’s nipples. Her right hand moved tentatively between Cordelia’s legs.
Cordelia clamped her thighs together, pinning Lindsay’s hand in place. ‘I’ve started so I’ll finish,’ she murmured, moving her own fingers unerringly to the warm, wet centre of Lindsay’s pleasure.
The feeling of relaxation that flooded through Lindsay afterwards was shattered by the alarm clock again. ‘Oh God,’ she groaned. ‘Is that the time?’
‘What’s your hurry?’ Cordelia asked softly.
‘I promised I’d be at Brownlow really early. There’s a big action planned for today,’ Lindsay replied sleepily.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, is that all you think about these days,’ Cordelia complained, pulling away from Lindsay. ‘I’m going for a bloody shower.’ She bounced out of bed before Lindsay could stop her.
‘I wasn’t finished with you,’ Lindsay called after her plaintively.
‘I’ll wait till your mind’s on what you’re doing, if it’s all the same to you,’ came the reply.
It was just after seven when Lindsay parked alongside the scruffy plastic benders. She had tried to make her peace with Cordelia, but it had been fruitless. Now Cordelia was on her way to spend the weekend with her parents, and Lindsay was keeping the promise she’d made to Deborah three weeks before. She parked her MG between a small but powerful Japanese motor bike and a 2CV plastered with anti-nuclear stickers. If they ever stopped making 2CVs, she mused, the anti-nuclear sticker makers would go out of business. She cut her engine and sat in silence for a moment.
It was a cool and misty March morning, and Lindsay marvelled at the quiet stillness that surrounded the encampment. The only sign of life was a thin trickle of smoke coming from the far side of the rough circle of branches and plastic. She got out of the car and strolled over to Deborah’s van. The curtains were drawn, but when Lindsay tried the door, she found it unlocked. In the gloom, she made out Deborah’s sleeping figure. Lindsay moved inside gingerly and crouched beside her. She kissed her ear gently and nearly fell over as Deborah instantly woke, eyes wide, starting up from the bed. ‘Jesus, you gave me a shock,’ she exploded softly.
‘A pleasant one, I hope.’
‘I can’t think of a nicer one,’ said Deborah, sitting up. She pulled Lindsay close and hugged her. ‘Put the kettle on, there’s a love,’ she said, climbing out of bed. She disappeared into the shower and toilet cubicle in the corner of the van, leaving Lindsay to deal with the gas rings.
Lindsay thought gratefully how easy it was to be with Deborah. There was never any fuss, never any pressure. It was always the same since they had first been together. They slipped so easily into a comfortable routine, as if the time between their meetings had been a matter of hours rather than months or weeks. Lindsay always felt at home with Deborah, whether it was in a Fordham courtroom or a camper van.
Deborah reappeared, washed and dressed, towelling her wavy brown shoulder-length hair vigorously. She threw the towel aside and settled down with a mug of coffee. She glanced at Lindsay, her blue eyes sparkling wickedly.
‘You picked the right weekend to be here,’ she remarked.
Lindsay leaned back in her seat. ‘Why so?’ she asked, ‘Jane told me it was just a routine blockade of the main gate.’
‘We’re going in. Through the wire. We think it should be possible to get to the bunkers if we go in between gates three and four. The security’s not that wonderful over there. I suppose any five-mile perimeter has to have its weak spots. The only exposed bit is the ten yards between the edge of the wood and the fence. So there will be a diversion at the main gate to keep them occupied while the others get through the wire. And it just so happens that there’s a Channel 4 film crew coming down anyway today to do a documentary.’ Deborah grinned broadly and winked complicity at Lindsay.
‘Good planning, Debs. But aren’t you taking a hell of a risk with the assault case already hanging over you? Surely they’ll bang you up right away if they pick you up inside the fence?’
‘That’s exactly why we’ve decided that I’m not going in. I’m a very small part of the diversion. Which is why it’s good that you’re here. Left to my own devices, I’d probably find myself carried along with the flow. Before I knew it, I’d be back in clink again.’ Deborah smiled ruefully. ‘So, since I presume you’re also in the business of keeping a low profile, we’ll have to be each other’s minder. Okay?’
Lindsay lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply before she replied. ‘Okay. I’d love to go along with the raiding party to do an “I” piece, but given my bosses’ views on peace women, I guess that’s right out of the question.’
‘You can help me sing,’ said Deborah. She leaned across the table to Lindsay, grasped her hand tightly and kissed her. ‘My, but it’s good to be with you, sister,’ she said softly.
Before Lindsay could reply, Cara’s dark blonde head and flushed cheeks suddenly appeared through the curtains. As soon as she realised who was there, she scrambled down the ladder to hurl herself on Lindsay, hugging her fiercely before turning to Deborah. ‘You didn’t tell me Lindsay was coming,’ she reproached her.
‘I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure myself and I didn’t want both of us to be disappointed if she couldn’t make it. Okay?’
The child nodded. ‘What are we having for breakfast? Have you brought bacon and eggs like you promised last time?’
‘I managed to smuggle them past the vegetarian checkpoint on the way in,’ Lindsay joked. ‘I know you’re like me, Cara, you love the things that everybody tells you are bad for you.’
‘You really are a reprobate, aren’t you,’ Deborah said, amused. ‘I know you like taking the piss out of all the vegetarian nonsmokers, but don’t forget that a lot of us are veggies from necessity as much as choice. I love the occasional fry-up, but beans are a hell of a lot cheaper than bacon. Not everyone has the same sense of humour about it as I do.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Lindsay groaned. ‘Cordelia never stops telling me how people like me who love red meat are causing the distortion of world agriculture. Sometimes I feel personally responsible for every starving kid in the world.’
Impatient with the conversation, Cara interrupted. ‘Can we have breakfast, then?’
By the time they had eaten the bacon, eggs, sausages and mushrooms that Lindsay had brought, the camp had come to life again. Women were ferrying water from the standpipe by the road in big plastic jerry cans while others cooked, repaired benders or simply sat and talked. It was a cold, dry day with the sun struggling fitfully through a haze. Lindsay went off to see Jane and found her sitting on a crate, writing in a large exercise book. She looked tired and drawn.
‘Hi, Doc. Everything fine with you?’
Jane shrugged. ‘So so. I think I’m getting too close to all this now. I’m getting so wrapped up in the logistics of the camp I’m forgetting why I’m here. I think I’m going to have to get away for a few days to put it back into perspective.’
‘There’s always a bed at our place if you need a break.’ Jane nodded as Lindsay went on, ‘Debs says you can fill me in with the details of today’s invasion plan.’
Jane outlined the intended arrangements. Nicky was leading a raiding party of a dozen women armed with bolt-cutters. They would be waiting in the woods for a signal from the lookout post that the diversion at the main gate was attracting enough attention from camp security to allow them to reach the fence and cut through the wire. What followed their entry into the base would be a matter for their own judgment but it was hoped that they’d make it to the missile silos. The diversion was timed for noon, the main attraction for fifteen minutes later.
‘You should keep out of the front line,’ she concluded. ‘Help Deborah with the singing. Keep an eye on her too. We don’t want her to get arrested again. It would be just like her to get carried away and do something out of order. I imagine that a few of the local coppers know perfectly well who she is and wouldn’t mind the chance to pick her up and give her a hard time. Crabtree is pretty buddy-buddy with the local police hierarchy according to Judith. Understandably enough, I suppose. So do us all a favour unless you desperately want to take on Cara full-time – keep the lid on Deborah.’
By late morning there was an air of suppressed excitement around the camp. The television crew had arrived and were shooting some interviews and stock background shots around the benders. It wasn’t hard for Lindsay to suppress her journalistic instincts and avoid them. She was, after all, off duty, and since the Clarion had no Sunday edition, she felt no guilt about ignoring the story. She noticed Jane and a couple of other longstanding peace campers having a discreet word with the crew, which had included a couple of unmistakable gestures towards the long bunkers that dominated the skyline.
At about midday, Deborah came looking for her. Leaving Cara and three other children in the van with Josy, one of the other mothers living at the camp, they joined the steady surge of women making for the main gate. About forty women were gathered round. A group of half a dozen marched boldly up to the sentry boxes on either side of the gate and started to unwind the balls of wool they carried with them. They wove the wool around the impassive soldiers and their sentry boxes, swiftly creating a complex web. Other women moved to the gates themselves and began to weave wool strands in and out of the heavy steel mesh to seal them shut. Deborah climbed on top of a large concrete litter bin just outside the gates and hauled Lindsay up beside her. Together they started to sing one of the songs that had grown up with the camp and soon all the women had joined in.
Inside the camp the RAF police and behind them the USAF guards came running towards the gate. On the women’s side, civil police started to appear at the trot to augment the pair permanently on duty at the main gate. The film crew were busy recording it all.
It looked utterly chaotic. Then one of the women let out an excited whoop and pointed to the silos. There, silhouetted against the grey March sky, women could be seen dancing and waving. Alerted by her cries, the film crew ran off round the perimeter fence, filming all the while. Inside the wire, the military turned and raced across the scrubby grass to the bunkers constructed to house the coming missiles.
Outside the base the women calmly dispersed, to the frustration of the police who were just getting into the swing of making arrests. Lindsay, feeling as high as if she’d just smoked a couple of joints, jumped down from the litter bin and swung Deborah down into her arms. Like the other women around them they hugged each other and jumped around on the spot, then they bounced away from the fence and back towards the main road. A tall man stood at the end of the camp road. On the end of a lead was a fox-terrier. A sneer of scorn spoiled his newly healed features.
‘Enjoy yourself while you can. Miss Patterson. It won’t be long before I have you put some place where there won’t be much to rejoice over.’ His threat uttered, Crabtree marched on down the main road away from the camp. Lindsay looked in dismay at Deborah’s stunned face.
‘Sadistic bastard. He can’t resist having a go every time he sees me,’ said Deborah. ‘He seems to go out of his way to engineer these little encounters. But I’m not going to let him get the better of me. Not on a day like today.’
4
The women had gathered in the big bender that they used for meeting and talking as a group. Lindsay still couldn’t get used to the way they struggled to avoid hierarchies by refusing to run their meetings according to traditional structures. Instead, they sat in a big circle and each spoke in turn, supposedly without interruption. The euphoria of the day’s action was tangible. The film crew were still around, and not even the news that the dozen women who had made it to the silos had been charged with criminal damage and trespass could diminish the high that had infected everyone.
But there was a change in attitude since Lindsay had first encountered the peace women. It was noticeable that far more women were advocating stronger and more direct action against what they perceived as the forces of evil. She could see that Jane and several other women who’d been with the camp for a long time were having a struggle to impress upon others like the headstrong Nicky the need to keep all action nonviolent and to minimise the criminal element in what they did. Eventually, the meeting was adjourned without a decision till the following afternoon.
The rest of the day passed quickly for Lindsay who spent her time walking the perimeter fence and picking up on her new friendships with women like Jackie. Lindsay appreciated the different perspectives the women gave her on life in Thatcher’s Britain. It was a valuable contrast with the cynical world of newspapers and the comfortably well-off life she shared with Cordelia. Jackie and her lover Willow, both from Birmingham, explained to Lindsay for the first time how good they felt at the camp because there was none of the constant pressure of racial prejudice that had made it so difficult for them to make anything of their lives at home. By the time Lindsay had eaten dinner with Cara and Deborah, she knew she had made a firm decision to stay. By unspoken consent, Deborah took Cara off to spend the rest of the night with her best friend Christy in the bender she shared with her mother Josy. When she returned, she found Lindsay curled up in a corner with a tumbler of whisky.
‘Help yourself,’ said Lindsay.
Deborah sensed the tension in Lindsay. Carefully she poured herself a small drink from the bottle on the table and sat down beside her. She placed a cautious hand on her thigh. I’m really glad to be with you again,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s been a long time since we had the chance to talk.’
Lindsay took a gulp of whisky and lit a cigarette. ‘I can’t sleep with you,’ she burst out. ‘I thought I could, but I can’t. I’m sorry.’
Deborah hadn’t forgotten the knowledge of Lindsay that six hectic months had given her. She smiled. ‘You haven’t changed, have you? What makes you think I wanted to jump into bed with you again?’ Her voice was teasing. ‘That old arrogance hasn’t deserted you.’
Outrage chased incredulity across Lindsay’s face. Then her sense of humour caught up with her and she smiled. ‘Touché. You never did let me get away with anything, did you?’
‘Too bloody true I didn’t. Give you an inch and you were always half-way to the next town. Listen, I didn’t expect a night of mad, passionate lovemaking. I know your relationship with Cordelia is the big thing in your life. Just as Cara is the most important thing in my life now. I don’t take risks with that, and I don’t expect you to take risks with your life either.’
Lindsay looked sheepish. ‘I really wanted to make love with you. I thought it would help me sort out my feelings. But when you took Cara off, I suddenly felt that I was contemplating something dishonest. You know? Something that devalued what there is between you and me.’
Deborah put her arm round Lindsay’s tense shoulders. ‘You mean, you’d have been using me to prove something to yourself about you and Cordelia?’
‘Something like that. I guess I just feel confused about what’s happening between me and her. It started off so well – she made me feel so special. I was happy as a pig. Okay, it was frustrating that I was living in Glasgow and she was in London. But there wasn’t a week when we didn’t spend at least two nights together, often more, once I’d got a job sorted out.
‘We seemed to have so much in common – we liked going to the same films, loved the theatre, liked the same books, all that stuff. She even started coming hill-walking with me, though I drew the line at going jogging with her. But it was all those things that kind of underpinned the fact that I was crazy about her and the sex was just amazing.
‘Then I moved to London and it seemed like everything changed. I realised how much of her life I just hadn’t been a part of. All the time she spent alone in London was filled with people I’ve got the square root of sod all in common with. They patronise the hell out of me because they think that being a tabloid hack is the lowest form of pond life.
‘They treat me like I’m some brainless bimbo that Cordelia has picked up. And Cordelia just tells me to ignore it, they don’t count. Yet she still spends great chunks of her time with them. She doesn’t enjoy being with the people I work with, so she just opts out of anything I’ve got arranged with other hacks. And the few friends I’ve got outside the business go back to Oxford days; they go down well with Cordelia and her crowd, but I want more of my life than that. And it never seems the right time to talk about it.
‘About once a fortnight at the moment I seriously feel like packing my bags and moving out. Then I remember all the good things about her and stay.
Lindsay stopped abruptly and leaned over to refill her glass. She took another long drink and shivered as the spirit hit her. Deborah slowly massaged the knotted muscles at the back of her neck. ‘Poor Lin,’ she said. ‘You do feel hard done by, don’t you? You never did understand how compromise can be a show of strength, did you?’
Lindsay frowned. ‘It’s not that. It just seems like me that’s made all the compromises – or sacrifices, more like.’
‘But she has too. Suddenly, after years of living alone, doing the one job where you really need your own space, she’s got this iconoclast driving a coach and horses through her routines, coming in at all hours of the day and night, thanks to her wonderful shift patterns, and hating the people she has to be nice to in order to keep a nice high profile in the literary world. It can’t be exactly easy for her either. It seems to me that she’s got the right idea – she’s doing what she needs to keep herself together.’
Lindsay looked hurt. ‘I never thought I’d hear you taking Cordelia’s side.’
I’m not taking sides. And that reaction says it all, Lin,’ Deborah said, a note of sharpness creeping into her voice. I’m trying to make you see things from her side. Listen, I saw you when the two of you had only been together six months, and I saw you looking happier than I’d ever seen you. I love you like a sister, Lin, and I want to see you with that glow back. You’re not going to get it by whingeing about Cordelia. Talk to her about it. At least you’re still communicating in bed – build on that, for starters. Stop expecting her to be psychic. If she loves you, she won’t throw you out just because you tell her you’re not getting what you need from her.’
Lindsay sighed. ‘Easier said than done.’
‘I know that. But you’ve got to try. It’s obviously not too late. If you were diving into bed with me to prove you still have enough autonomy to do it, I’d say you were in deep shit. But at least you’re not that far down the road. Now, come on, drink up and let’s get to bed. You can have Cara’s bunk if you can’t cope with sharing a bed with me and keeping your hands to yourself.’
‘Now who’s being arrogant?’
Lindsay stood by the kettle waiting for it to boil, gazing at Deborah who lay languidly in a shaft of morning sunlight staring into the middle distance. After a night’s sleep, the clarity she had felt after the conversation with Deborah had grown fuzzy round the edges. But she knew deep down she wanted to put things right between her and Cordelia, and Deborah had helped her feel that was a possibility.
She made the coffee, and brought it over to Deborah. Lindsay sat on the top of the bed and put her arms round her friend. Lindsay felt at peace for the first time in months. ‘If things go wrong when it comes to court, I’d like to take care of Cara, if you’ll let me,’ she murmured.
Deborah drew back, still holding Lindsay’s shoulders. ‘But how could you manage that? With work and Cordelia and everything?’
‘We’ve got a crèche for newspaper workers’ kids from nine till six every day. I can swap most of my shifts round to be on days and I’m damn sure Cordelia will help if I need her to.’
Deborah shook her head disbelievingly. ‘Lindsay, you’re incredible. Sometimes I think you just don’t listen to the words that come out of your mouth. Last night, you were busily angst-ing about how to get your relationship with Cordelia back on an even keel. Now today you’re calmly talking about dumping your ex-lover’s child on her. What a recipe for disaster that would be! Look, it’s lovely of you to offer, and I know she’d be happy with you, but I hope that won’t be necessary. We’ll look at the possibilities nearer the time and I’ll keep it in mind. What counts is what’s going to be best for her. Now, let’s go and get Cara, eh? She’ll be wondering where I am.’ They found Cara with Jane, and after a bread and cheese lunch the four of them went for a walk along the perimeter fence. Lindsay and Cara played tig and hide-and-seek among the trees while Jane and Deborah walked slowly behind, wrangling about the business of peace and the problems of living at Brownlow.
They made their way back to the camp, where the adults settled down in the meeting bender for a long session. Three hours later, it had been agreed that the women charged the day before should, if they were willing, opt for prison for the sake of publicity and that a picket should be set up at the gate of Holloway in their support. Jane offered to organise the picket. Lindsay thought gratefully that at least that way her friend could make a small escape without offending her conscience. It had been a stormy meeting and Lindsay was glad when it was over. Even though she had by now experienced many of these talking-shops, she never failed to become slightly disillusioned at the destructive way women could fight against each other in spite of their common cause.
Deborah went off to collect Cara and put her to bed and Lindsay joined Willow and Jackie and their friends in their bender. There were a couple of guitars and soon the women were singing an assortment of peace songs, love songs and nostalgic pop hits. Deborah joined them and they sat close. Lindsay felt she couldn’t bear to wrench herself away from the sisterhood she felt round her. Sentimental fool, she thought to herself as she joined in the chorus of ‘I Only Want To Be With You.’
Just after ten the jam session began to break up. Most of the women left for their own benders. Lindsay and Deborah followed. I’m going to have a word with Jane about the Holloway picket,’ said Lindsay. ‘You coming?’
‘No, I’ll see you at the van.’
‘Okay, I’ll not be long.’
Deborah vanished into the darkness beyond the ring of benders to where the van was parked near the road. Lindsay headed for Jane’s makeshift surgery and found the harassed doctor sorting through a cardboard box of pharmaceutical samples that a sympathetic GP had dropped off that evening. She stopped at once, pleased to see Lindsay in spite of her tiredness, and began to explain the picket plans. Although Lindsay was itching to get back to Deborah, it was after eleven when she finally set off to walk the fifty yards to the van.
The first thing that caught her eye as she moved beyond the polythene tents was bright lights. Now that the army had cleared the ground round the perimeter fence, it was possible to see the temporary arc lights from quite a distance. That in itself wasn’t extraordinary as workmen occasionally sneaked in a night shift to avoid the picketing women.
She stopped dead as she caught sight of three figures approaching the camp, silhouetted against the dim glow from the barracks inside the fence. Two were uniformed policemen, no prizes for spotting that. The third was a tall, blond man she had noticed in the area a couple of times before. Her journalistic instinct had put him down as Special Branch. She was gratified to find that instinct vindicated. She glanced around, but the only other women in sight were far off by a camp-fire. Most of them had already gone to bed.
Lindsay had no idea what was going on, but she wanted to find out. The best way to do that was to stay out of sight, watch and listen. She crouched down against the bender nearest her and slowly worked her way round the encampment, trying to outflank the trio who were between her and the lights. When she reached the outer ring of tents, she squatted close to the ground while the three men passed her and headed for Jane’s bender with its distinctive red cross. Lindsay straightened up and headed for the lights, keeping close to the fringes of woodland that surrounded the base. As she neared the lights, she was able to pick out details. There were a couple of police Landrovers pulled up on the edge of the wood. Near by, illuminated by their headlamps and the arc lights, were a cluster of green canvas screens. Beyond the Landrovers were three unremarkable saloon cars. A handful of uniformed officers stood around. Several people in civilian clothes moved about the scene, vanishing behind the screens from time to time.
Lindsay moved out of the shelter of the trees and approached the activity. She had only gone a few yards when two uniformed constables moved to cut off her progress. Her hand automatically moved to her hip pocket and she pulled out the laminated yellow Press Card which in theory granted her their co-operation. She flashed it at the young policemen and made to put it away.
‘Just a minute, miss,’ said one of them. ‘Let’s have a closer look if you don’t mind.’
Reluctantly, she handed the card over. He scrutinised it carefully; then he showed it to his colleague who looked her up and down, noting her expensive Barbour jacket, corduroy trousers and muddy walking boots. He nodded and said, ‘Looks okay to me.’
‘I’m here writing a feature about the camp,’ she said. ‘When I saw the lights, I thought something might be doing. What’s the score?’
The first constable smiled. ‘Sorry to be so suspicious. We get all sorts here, you know. You want to know what’s happening, you best see the superintendent. He’s over by the Landrover nearest to us. I’ll take you across in a minute, when he’s finished talking to the bloke who found the body.’
‘Body?’ Lindsay demanded anxiously. ‘What is it? Accident, murder? And who’s dead?
‘That’s for the super to say,’ the policeman replied. ‘But it doesn’t look much like an accident at this stage.’
Lindsay looked around her, taking it all in. The scene of the murder was like a three-ring circus. The outer ring took the form of the five vehicles and a thinly scattered cordon of uniformed police constables. Over by one of the Landrovers, a policewoman dispensed tea from a vacuum flask to a nervous-looking man talking to the uniformed superintendent whom Lindsay recognised from the demonstration outside the police station. She crossed her fingers and hoped the victim was no one from the camp.
The temporary arc lights the police had rigged up gave the scene the air of a film set, an impression exaggerated by the situation, part of a clear strip about fifteen yards wide between a high-chain link fence and a belt of scrubby woodland. It was far enough from any gates to be free of peace campers. The lamps shone down on the second ring, a shield of tall canvas screens hastily erected to protect the body from view. Round the screen, scene-of-crime officers buzzed in and out, communicating in their own form of macabre shorthand.
But the main attraction of the circus tonight was contained in the inner circle. Here there were more lights, smaller spotlights clipped on to the screens. A photographer moved round the periphery, his flash freezing for ever the last public appearance of whoever was lying dead on the wet clay. Could it be one of the women from the camp lying there? Superintendent Rigano said a few words to the man, then moved back towards the scene of the crime. The constable escorted Lindsay across the clearing, being careful, she noted, to keep between her and the tall canvas screens. Once there, he secured the attention of the superintendent, whom Lindsay recognised from their earlier encounter outside Fordham police station. ‘Sir, there’s a journalist here wants a word with you,’ the constable reported.
He turned to Lindsay, fine dark brows scowling over deep-set eyes. ‘You’re here bloody sharpish,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Superintendent Rigano, Fordham Police.’
‘Lindsay Gordon. Daily Clarion. We met at the demonstration after Deborah Patterson’s arrest. I happened to be at the camp,’ she replied. ‘We’re doing a feature comparing the peace camps at Brownlow and Faslane,’ she lied fluently. ‘I saw the lights and wondered if there might be anything in it for me.’
‘We’ve got a murder on our hands,’ he said in a flinty voice. ‘You’d better take a note. It would be a pity to screw up on a scoop.’ Lindsay obediently pulled out her notebook and a pencil.
‘The dead man is Rupert Crabtree.’ The familiar name shocked Lindsay. Suddenly this wasn’t some impersonal murder story she was reporting. It was much closer to home. Her surprise obviously registerd with Rigano, who paused momentarily before continuing. ‘Aged forty-nine. Local solicitor. Lives up Brownlow Common Cottages. That’s those mock-Georgian mansions half a mile from the main gate of the camp. Bludgeoned to death with a blunt instrument, to wit, a chunk of drainage pipe which shattered on impact. Perhaps more to the point, from your side of things, is the fact that he was chairman of the local ratepayers’ association who were fighting against that scruffy lot down there. It looks as if there was a struggle before he was killed. Anything else you want to know?’
Lindsay hoped her relationship with ‘that scruffy lot down there’ was not too obvious and that she was putting up a sufficiently good performance in her professional role as the single-minded news reporter in possession of a hot exclusive. ‘Yes. What makes you think there was a struggle?’
‘The mud’s churned up quite a bit. And Crabtree had drawn a gun but not had the chance to fire it.’
‘That suggests he knew his life was at risk, doesn’t it?’
‘No comment. I also don’t want the gun mentioned just yet. Any other questions?’
She nodded vigorously. ‘Who found the body?’
‘A local resident walking his dog. I’m not releasing a name and he won’t be available for interview in the foreseeable future.’
‘Any suspects? Is an arrest likely within the next few hours? And what was he doing on the common at this time of night?’
Rigano looked down at her shrewdly. ‘No arrest imminent. We are actively pursuing several lines of enquiry. He was walking the bloody dog. He usually did this time of night. Well-known fact of local life.’
‘Any idea of the time of death?’ she asked.
Rigano shrugged expressively. ‘That’s for the doctors to tell us. But without sticking my neck out, I can tell you it was probably some time between ten and eleven o’clock. I hope you’ve got an alibi,’ he said, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. ‘Come and have a quick look.’ He strode off, clearly expecting her to follow. She caught up with him at the entrance to the screens.
‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,’ she said quickly.
His eyebrows shot up. ‘Happy to dish the dirt, not so happy to see the nastiness?’
Lindsay was stung by his sardonic tone. ‘Okay,’ she said grimly. He led her through the gap in the screens.
She would not have recognised Rupert Crab-tree. He lay on his front, the wet March ground soaking the elegant camel hair coat and the pinstripe trousers. His wellingtons were splashed with vivid orange mud, as were his black leather gloves. The back of his head was shattered. Blood matted his hair and had spattered over the fragments of a two-foot-long piece of earthenware water pipe which had clearly broken under the force with which it had been brought down on the skull. A few feet away, a handgun lay in the mud. Lindsay felt sick. Rigano took her arm and steered her away. ‘You’ll be wanting to get to a phone,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘If you want to check up on our progress later on, ring Fordham nick and ask for the duty officer. He’ll fill you in with any details.’ He turned away, dismissing her.
Slowly, Lindsay turned her back on the depressing camouflage of death. And at once, her mind was torn away from murder. Across the clearing, the trio she had seen earlier were returning. But now there were four people in the group. She felt a physical pain in her chest as she recognised the fourth. As their eyes met Lindsay and Deborah shared a moment of pure fear.
5
For a moment, Lindsay stood stock still, the journalist fighting the friend inside her. This was an important story, she had the edge on the pack and she needed to call the office as soon as possible. Logically, she knew there was little she could do for Deborah as the police Landrover carried her off. That didn’t stop her feeling an overwhelming rage that translated itself into the desire for action. Abruptly, she turned back to the scene of the crime and found Rigano. Forcing herself to sound casual she elicited the information that Deborah had not been arrested but was assisting police with their enquiries. End message. Lindsay turned and started to run back to the van.
Once out of the circle of light, she was plunged into darkness. Tripping over tree roots and treacherous brambles, she stumbled on, her only guide the distant glow of the campfire and the dim light from a few of the benders. At one point she plunged headlong over a rock and grimly picked herself up, covered in mud. Cursing, she ran on till she reached the camp. As she reached the benders, she realised that several knots of women had gathered and were talking together anxiously. Ignoring their questioning looks, she made straight for the van, where she burst in, gasping for breath, to find Jane sitting over a cup of coffee. She took one look at Lindsay and said, ‘So you know already?’
‘How’s Cara? Where is she? Lindsay forced out.
‘Fast asleep. The coppers were very quiet, very civil. But the van mustn’t be moved till they’ve had a chance to search it.’ She was interrupted by a knock on the door. Lindsay leaned over and opened it to find a policewoman standing on the threshold.
‘Yes?’ Lindsay demanded roughly.
‘I’ve been instructed to make sure that nothing is removed from this van until our officers arrive with a search warrant,’ she replied.
‘Terrific,’ said Lindsay bitterly. ‘I take it you’ve no objection to me moving a sleeping child to where she won’t be disturbed?’
The policewomen looked surprised. ‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t move the child. Where is she?’
Lindsay pointed up to the curtained-off bunk. She turned to Jane and said, ‘I’ll take Cara to Josy’s bender. She’ll be all right there.’
Jane nodded and added, ‘I’ll stay here to make sure everything’s done properly.’
Lindsay smiled. ‘Thanks. I’ve got to get to the phone.’ Then, with all the firmness she could muster, she said to the police officer, ‘I’m a journalist. I’ve got the details of the story from Superintendent Rigano, and I intend to phone my office now. I’ll be back shortly. Till then, Dr Thomas is in charge here.’
She climbed the ladder and folded Cara into her arms. The child murmured in her sleep but did not wake. Lindsay carried her to Josy, then ran as fast as she could to the phone box. She glanced at her watch and was amazed to see it was still only half past midnight. Her first call was to Judith Rowe. When the solicitor surfaced from sleep, she promised to get straight round to the police station and do what she could.
Next, Lindsay took a deep breath and put in a transfer charge call to the office. The call was taken by Cliff Gilbert himself. ‘Listen,’ she said. There’s been a murder at Brownlow Common. I’ve checked it out with the cops locally and the strength of it is that the leader of the local opposition to the women’s peace camp has been found with his head stoved in. I’ve got enough to file now, which I’ll do if you put me on to copy. I’ll also get stuck in to background for tomorrow if you think that’s a good idea.ʼn
Cliff thought for a moment. Lindsay could almost hear the connections clicking into place to complete the mental circuit. ‘You’ve got good contacts among the lesbian beanburger brigade down there, haven’t you?’
‘The best. The prime suspect seems to be an old pal of mine.’
‘What shift are you on tomorrow?’
‘Day off.’
‘Fine. Take a look at it if you don’t mind and check in first thing with Duncan. I’ll leave him a note stressing that I’ve told you to get stuck in. And Lindsay – don’t do anything daft, okay?’
‘Thanks, Cliff. How much do you want now?’
‘Let it run, Lindsay. All you’ve got.’
There followed a series of clicks and buzzes as she was connected to the copytaker. She recited the story off the top of her head, adding in as much as she knew about Crabtree and his connection with the camp. ‘A brutal murder shocked a women’s peace camp last night,’ she began.
Then, at nearly two o’clock she made her final call. Cordelia’s sleepy voice answered the phone. ‘Who the hell is it?’
Lindsay swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat at the sound of the familiar voice. She struggled with herself and tried to sound light. ‘It’s me, love. Sorry I woke you. I know you’ll be tired after driving back from your parents’, but I’m afraid I’ve got a major hassle on my hands. There’s been a murder down here. Rupert Crabtree the guy whose face Debs is supposed to have rearranged – he’s been killed. The cops have pulled Debs. I don’t think they’re going to charge her. I know I said I’d be home tomorrow lunchtime, but I don’t know when the hell I’ll make it now.ʼn
‘Do you want me to come down?’
Lindsay thought for a moment. The complication seemed unnecessary. ‘Not just now, I think,’ she replied. ‘There’s nothing either of us can really do till I know more precisely what’s happening. I simply wanted to tell you myself so you wouldn’t panic when you heard the news or saw the papers. I’ll ring you later today, all right?’
‘All right,’ Cordelia sighed. ‘But look after yourself, please. Don’t take any chances with a murderer on the loose. I love you, don’t forget that.’
‘I love you too,’ Lindsay replied. She put the phone down and walked back to the camp. She opened the door to the van, forgetting momentarily about the police. The bulky presence of two uniformed men searching the van startled her.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ she demanded angrily.
‘We’ll be as quick as we can,’ said the older of the two, a freckle-faced, grey-haired man with broad shoulders and a paunch. ‘We have a warrant. Your friend said it was all right,’ he added, nodding towards Jane.
‘I’d forgotten you’d be doing this.’ Lindsay sighed as she collapsed into the comfortable armchair-cum-driver’s seat.
True to the constable’s word, they departed in about fifteen minutes with a bundle of clothing. Lindsay poured a large whisky for Jane and herself.
‘I could do without another night like this,’ Lindsay said. ‘I don’t know what it is about my friends that seems to attract murder.’
Jane looked puzzled. ‘You mean this happens often?’
‘Not exactly often. About two years ago, a friend of mine was arrested for a murder she didn’t commit. Cordelia and I happened to be on the spot and got roped in to do the Sam Spade bit. That’s when the two of us got together – a mutual fascination for being nosey parkers.’
‘Well, I hate to say it, but I’m glad you’ve had the experience. I think you could easily find yourself going through the same routine for Deborah.’
Lindsay shook her head. ‘Different kettle of fish. They’ve not even arrested Debs, never mind charged her. I’m pretty sure they don’t have much to go on. It’s my guess that Debs will be back here by lunchtime tomorrow if Judith’s got anything to do with it. Let’s face it, we all know Debs is innocent and I’m sure the police will find a more likely suspect before the day’s out. They’ve just pulled her in to make it look good to anyone who’s got their beady eyes on them. Now I’m going to bed, if you’ll excuse me.’
In spite of Lindsay’s exhaustion she did not fall asleep at once. Crabtree’s murder had set her thoughts racing in circles. Who had killed him? And why? Was it anything to do with the peace camp, or was Debs’ connection with him purely coincidental? And what was going to happen to Debs? Lindsay hated being in a position where she didn’t know enough to form reasonable theories, and she tossed and turned in Debs’ bed as she tried to switch off her brain. Finally she drifted into a deep and dreamless sleep, which left her feeling neither rested nor refreshed when she awoke after nine.
After a quick shower, she emerged into a mild spring day with cotton-wool clouds scudding across the sky to find the camp apparently deserted. Puzzled, Lindsay glanced over at the big bender used for meetings; it seemed that was where the women had gathered. She decided to take advantage of the quiet spell by phoning the office and checking the current situation with the police.
Her first call was to the police HQ in Fordham. She asked for Rigano and was surprised to be put straight through to him. ‘Superintendent Rigano? Lindsay Gordon here, Daily Clarion. We met last night at Brownlow …’
‘I remember. You were quick off the mark. It’s been hard to get away from your colleagues this morning. Now, what can I do for you?’
‘I wondered where you were up to. Any imminent arrest?’
‘You mean, are we going to charge your friend? The answer is, not at the moment. Off the record, we’ll be letting her go later this morning. That’s not to say I’m convinced of her innocence. But I can’t go any further till I’ve got forensics. So you can say that at present good old Superintendent Rigano is following several lines of enquiry, but that the woman we have been interviewing is being released pending the outcome of those enquiries. Okay?’
‘Fine. Do you mind if I drop in on you later today?’
‘Please yourself,’ he said. ‘If I’m in, I’ll see you. But I don’t know what my movements will be later, so if you want to take a chance on missing me, feel free.’
Lindsay put the phone down, thoughtful. Her experience with the police during the Paddy Callaghan case had fuelled her ingrained mistrust of their intelligence and integrity. But in her brief encounter with Rigano she had felt a certain rapport which had not been dispelled by their telephone conversation. She had surprised herself by her request to call in on him and now she felt slightly bewildered as to what on earth she would find to discuss with him once Debs was released.
But that was for later. Right now she had the unpleasant task of talking to Duncan Morris, the Daily Clarion’s news editor and the man responsible for her move to London. She put the call in and waited nervously to be connected to her boss. His voice boomed down the line at her. ‘Morning, Lindsay,’ he began. ‘I see from the overnight note that you’re back in that nest of vipers. Still, you did a good job last night. We beat everyone else to the draw and that’s the way I want to keep it. It’s of interest for us in terms of the link with the peace camp, okay, so let’s keep that in the front of our minds. What I want from you by noon is a good background piece about the camp, a few quotes from the loony lefties about this man Crabtree and his campaign. I don’t have to spell it out to you?ʼn Lindsay fumed quickly as the venom of his prejudices ran over her. ‘I also want to be well up on the news angles too. Try for a chat with the widow and family or his colleagues. And try to overcome your natural prejudices and stay close to the cops. Now, what’s the score on all that?’
Lindsay somehow found her tongue. She was aware that she should know better than to be surprised by Duncan’s about-turn when faced with a strong news story, but she still couldn’t help being a little taken aback that he was now hassling her for a background piece on the camp. She stammered, ‘The cops are releasing the woman they held for questioning. She’s Deborah Patterson, the woman charged with assaulting him last month. I don’t know what the legal implications are as yet – I should imagine that with his death the prosecution case automatically falls, but whether that releases us immediately from sub judice rules, I don’t know.
‘As far as the news feature’s concerned, no problem. Also, I’m hoping to see the copper in charge of the case again this afternoon, so I can let you have whatever he says. I’ll try the family but I don’t hold out much hope. They’re a bit too well clued-up about Her Majesty’s gutter press to fall for the standard lines. But leave it with me.’
‘Fine. Normally on one this big, I’d send someone down to help you out, but you’re the expert when it comes to the lunatic fringe, so I’ll leave you to it.’ Patronising shit, she thought, as he carried on. ‘We’ve got a local snapper lined up, so if you’ve got any potential pics, speak to the picture desk. Don’t fall down on this one, Lindsay. File by noon so I can see the copy before I go into morning conference. And get a good exclusive chat with this woman they’re releasing. If the lawyers say we can’t use it, we can always kill it. Speak to you later.’
The phone went dead. ‘Just what I love most,’ Lindsay muttered. ‘Writing for the wastepaper bin.’ She walked back to the van and made herself some coffee and toast before she sat down and began to put her feature together. She had only written a few paragraphs when there was a knock at the van door.
‘Come in,’ she called. Jane entered, followed by Willow and another woman whom Lindsay knew only by sight.
‘The very people I wanted to see,’ she exclaimed. ‘My newsdesk has said I can do a piece about the camp reaction to Crabtree’s campaign. So I need some quotes from you about how you are here for peace and while you didn’t have any sympathy for his organisation, you wouldn’t ever have stooped to violence, etc., etc. Is that all right?’
Willow grinned. ‘We’ll have to see about that,’ she replied. ‘But first, we’ve got something to ask you. We’ve just had a meeting to discuss this business. We’ve decided we need to safeguard our interests. Already there have been reporters round here and we don’t like the attitude they’ve been taking. That leaves us with a bit of a problem. We need someone who can help us deal with the situation. It’s got to be someone who understands why none of us could have done this, but who also knows the way the system works. It looks like you’re the only one who fits the bill.’
The third woman chimed in. ‘It wasn’t a unanimous decision to ask you. Not by a long chalk. But we’re stuck. Personally, I don’t feel entirely happy about trusting someone who works for a paper like the Clarion, but we don’t have a lot of choice. Deborah’s already been picked up, and even if she’s released without charges, the mud’s been slung and it will stick unless we can get our point of view across.’
Lindsay shrugged. ‘I do know how the media works. But it sounds more like you’re looking for a press spokeswoman, and that’s not a job I can really do. It gives me a serious conflict of interest.’
The third woman looked satisfied. ‘I thought you’d say that,’ she said triumphantly. ‘I knew that when the chips were down you’d know which side your bread was buttered.’
Needled, Lindsay said, ‘That’s really unfair. You know I want to do everything I can. Deborah’s been my friend for years. Look, I can help you project the right kind of image. But don’t expect miracles. What I do need if I’m going to do that is total co-operation. Now I know there are women here who would die before they’d help a tabloid journo, but from those of you who are willing to help I need support.’
Jane replied immediately. ‘Well, I for one am willing to trust you. The articles you’ve written abroad about the camp have been some of the most positive pieces I’ve seen about what we’re doing here. You’re the only person capable of doing what we need that we can any of us say that about.’
I’ll go along with that,ʼn Willow added. ‘I’ll pass the word around that you’re on our side.’
‘Care to supply some quotes before you go?’ Lindsay asked as Willow and the other woman seemed about to leave.
‘Jane can do that. She’s good with words,’ Willow said over her shoulder as they went out, closing the van door on Jane and Lindsay.
‘There was something else I wanted to discuss with you,’ Jane said hesitantly. ‘I know a lot of the women would disagree with me, so I didn’t raise it at the meeting. But I think we need someone to investigate this on our behalf. We are going to be at the centre of suspicion over this, and while they’ve got us as prime candidates, I don’t think the police will be looking too hard for other possible murderers. Will you see what you can find out?’
For the second time that morning, Lindsay was taken aback. ‘Why me?’ she finally asked. I’m not any kind of detective. I’m a journalist, and there’s no guarantee that my interests aren’t going to clash with yours.ʼn
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