Common Murder

“Cheeky so-and-so!” muttered Jane. “Have you forgotten the hours junior hospital doctors work? You’ll be flaked out long before I will, Lindsay.”

“Sorry, I forgot,” Lindsay apologized.

The journey seemed endless. Deborah and Cara managed to sleep most of the way, only really waking during the last couple of hours. Lindsay explained the reasons for their flight to Deborah as she drove the last sixty miles down the familiar narrow roads with their spectacular views of the Argyllshire mountains and sea lochs on all sides. Cara was spellbound by the changing scenery and seemed not to be listening to the adult conversation.

Lindsay reached the end of her tale as they arrived in the tiny fishing village of Invercross. A cluster of brightly painted houses and cottages crowded along the harbour. “So here we are,” Lindsay concluded. “Right back where I started all those years ago. Only this time, on the run like Bo

The woman who opened the door before Lindsay reached it was small and wiry with curly grey hair and eyes that matched Lindsay’s. She swept her daughter into her arms, saying, “It’s grand to see you. It’s been a long time since the New Year. Now, come in and have some breakfast. Bring your friends in. Is Cordelia up with you?”

Lindsay disengaged herself and followed her mother indoors. “No, she’s busy. Listen, Mum, I want to get the others settled in at the cottage first, then I’ll come back for a meal and a sleep before I get back to London.”

“You’re not stopping, then?” Her mother’s obvious disappointment stabbed Lindsay. “You’ll miss your father. He’s at the fishing, he’ll not be back before the morn’s morning.”

“I’m sorry, Mum, I’m in the middle of something big. This was a kind of emergency. Have you got Catriona’s keys?”

Her mother produced a bunch of keys from her apron pocket. “I got them from Mrs. Campbell last night when you phoned. I went up this morning with a few essentials and lit the fire, so they should be comfortable.”

Lindsay kissed her. “You’re a wee gem, Mum. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

Her mother shook her head, an affectionate smile on her face. “You never stop, do you, lassie?”

Ten hours later, Lindsay was back on the road south. Jane, Deborah, and Cara were settled comfortably in the cottage, amply supplied with Mrs. Gordon’s idea of essentials-bread, butter, milk, eggs, bacon, fish, onions, potatoes, and tea. Mrs. Gordon had promised to take Jane to sign on the following Monday. If she lied about paying rent, they could fiddle enough to live on. So there would be no need for any part of the official world to know Deborah’s whereabouts. Jane thought Lindsay’s precautions extreme, but she would not be moved.

Lindsay spent the night less comfortably than the three refugees. Her eyes were gritty and sore, her body ached from the jolting of the van’s elderly suspension. She finally gave in when even the volume of the stereo couldn’t keep her awake and alert. She parked in a lay-by off the motorway where she slept fitfully for five hours before hammering back down to London.

Somewhere around Birmingham, she realized that she’d felt no desire whatsoever to stay in Invercross with Deborah. That realization forced her to examine what she had been steadfastly ignoring during the traumatic events of the last few days. It was time to think about Cordelia and herself. Why had she felt such an overwhelming need to sleep with Deborah? Did she subconsciously want to end her relationship with Cordelia, and was Deborah just a tool she’d used? Until her kidnapping by the security forces, Lindsay had been confused and frightened about her emotions.

But there was no denying the fact that Cordelia had come to her rescue in spite of the problems there had been between them. Driving on, Lindsay gradually came to understand that her relief at seeing Cordelia outside GCHQ had been more than just gratitude. Her own behaviour had been negative in the extreme, and if she wanted to heal the breach between them, she would have to act fast. As that thought flickered across her mind, Lindsay realized there was no “if” about it. She knew she wanted to try again with Cordelia. Full of good resolutions, she parked the van outside the house just before noon and rushed in. The house was empty.

Stiff and exhausted and having lost track of time almost completely, Lindsay ran a sweet-smelling foam bath, put Monteverdi’s 1610 Vespers on at high volume, and soaked for half an hour. Then, in sweat pants and dressing gown, she sat down at the word processor. Now that Deborah was safe, she had settled her obligations. There was even less honour among the Harriet Barbers of this world than among thieves and journalists, she had now realized. The promises they had made about leaving her alone had been shattered. They had tried their damndest to follow her. There was only one real insurance left. So she wrote the whole story of Rupert Crabtree’s murder and its repercussions, leaving nothing out.

She had barely finished it when she heard the front door slam. Alerted by the music, Cordelia superfluously called, “I’m home.” Pink-cheeked from the cold outside, she stopped in the doorway. “Welcome back,” she said. Lindsay picked up the sheaf of paper on the desk and proffered it.

“I promised you an explanation,” she said. “Here it is. The uncensored version. It’s probably quicker if you read it rather than listen to me explaining it.”

Cordelia took the papers. “I missed you,” she said.

“I know,” Lindsay replied. “And I’ve missed you, constantly. I’m not very good at being on my own. I tend to get overtaken by events, if you see what I mean.”

Cordelia gave a sardonic smile. “I’ve heard it called a lot of things, but that’s a new one on me.” There was a silence, as they met in a wary and tentative embrace. Cordelia disengaged herself, saying, “Let me read this. Then we’ll talk. Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll be in the kitchen when you’ve finished. The idea of cooking di

It took Cordelia half an hour to work through Lindsay’s account of her investigations. When she had finished, she sat staring out of the window. She could barely imagine the stress that Lindsay had been operating under. Now she could understand, even if she could not yet forgive, what she instinctively knew had happened between Lindsay and Deborah. But the most important thing now was to make sure Lindsay’s natural inclination to the defense of principle was subdued for the sake of her own safety.

Cordelia found Lindsay putting the finishing touches to an Indian meal. “I had no idea,” she said.

Lindsay shrugged. “I wanted so much to tell you,” she said. “Not just at the end, but all through. I missed sharing my ideas with you.”

“What about Deborah?”

“It’s not something you should be worried about, truly.”

“So what happens now? I don’t mean with you and me, I mean with Deborah. Do we wait till Simon Crabtree is dealt with and then everything returns to normal?”

Lindsay shook her head. “No. Those bastards didn’t keep their word. They tried to follow me-you read that, didn’t you? So as far as I’m concerned, I’m not just sitting back till I get the all-clear from Rigano. The best way to make sure they deal with Crabtree is to force the whole thing into the open. Otherwise it could be months, years till one side or the other decides Crabtree has outlived his usefulness. I don’t see why we should all live under a shadow till then. Besides, the guy is a murderer. He’ll do it again the next time someone gets close to the truth. And next time it could be me. Or someone else I care about.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to give the whole story to Duncan. And if he won’t use it, I’ll give it to Dick McAndrew. Either way, it’s going to be published.”