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 forever 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 registered 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 Crabtree. 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.