Common Murder

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

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

Two men emerged. One was around the six-foot mark, with the broad shoulders and narrow hips of a body builder. He had thi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The journey lasted for over an hour and a half. Debs would be wondering why she hadn’t appeared, thought Lindsay worriedly. And Cordelia would soon start getting cross that she wasn’t home when she said she’d be. They’d probably each assume she was with the other and feel betrayed rather than anxious; no hope of either of them giving the alarm. She was begi