Common Murder

“You’re crazy,” Cordelia protested. “They’ll come after you instead of Crabtree. They’ve got your signature on the Official Secrets Act. And the first journo that fronts Crabtree with your story points the finger straight at you. If our lot don’t get you, the Soviets will.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic,” Lindsay replied crossly. “I know what I’m doing.”

“And did you know what you were doing when you ended up in Harriet Barber’s clutches the other night? I’d have thought you’d have learned more sense by now,” said Cordelia bitterly.

“Point taken,” Lindsay replied. “But there’s no use in arguing, is there? We’re starting from different premises. I’m operating on a point of principle as well as self-defense. All you care about is making sure nothing happens to me. That’s very commendable, and I’d feel the same if our positions were reversed. But I think the fact that people who have committed no crime are hounded into hiding to protect a spy and a killer is too important to ignore simply because revealing it is going to make life difficult for me. I wish I could make you understand.”

Cordelia turned away. “Oh, I understand all right. Rigano set you up to do his dirty work, and you fell for it.”

Lindsay shook her head. “It’s not that simple. But I do feel utterly demoralized and betrayed. And I’ve got to do something to get rid of these feelings, as well as all the other stuff.”

Cordelia put her arms round Lindsay. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. When you get wound up about something, you completely disregard your own safety.”

“Well, I’ve learned my lesson. This time, I’m going to make sure my public profile is too high for them to come after me,” Lindsay retorted. “Trust me, please.”

Cordelia kissed her. “Oh, I trust you. It’s the other nutters I worry about.”

Lindsay smiled. “Let’s eat, eh? And then, maybe an early night?”

In the morning, Lindsay smiled reminiscently about their rapprochement the night before as she gathered all her papers together and prepared to set off for an early briefing with Duncan at the office. Before she left, Cordelia hugged her, saying, “Good luck and take care. I’m really proud of you, you know.”

“Yes, I know. I’ll see you later.”

“I’m afraid I’ll be back quite late. I’m sorry, I didn’t know you’d be home. I promised William we could work on the script rewrites for the new series tonight,” Cordelia apologized.

Lindsay smiled. “No problem. I’ll probably be late myself, given the importance of the story. I might even wait for the first edition to drop. I’ll see you whenever.”

Outside the house, Lindsay hailed a cab and headed for the office. She had barely stepped into the newsroom when Duncan ’s deputy told her to go straight to the editor’s office. His secretary had obviously been briefed to expect her, for Lindsay was shown straight in, instead of being left to cool her heels indefinitely with a cup of cold coffee.

Three men were waiting for her- Duncan, Bill Armitage, the editor, and Douglas Browne, the Clarion group’s legal manager. No one said a word of greeting. Lindsay sensed the intention was to intimidate her, and she steeled herself against whatever was to come. “I’ve brought my copy in,” she said, to break the silence. She handed the sheaf of paper to Duncan, who barely glanced at it.

Bill Armitage ran his hands through his thick grey hair in a familiar gesture. “You’ve wasted your time, Lindsay,” he said. “We’ll not be using a line of that copy.”

“What?” Her surprise was genuine. She had expected cuts and rewrites, but not a blanket of silence.

Duncan replied gruffly, “You heard, kid. We’ve had more aggravation over you this weekend than over every other dodgy story we’ve ever done. The bottom line is that we’ve been made to understand that if we fight on this one it will be the paper’s death knell. You’re a union hack-you know the paper’s financial situation. We can’t afford a big legal battle. And I take the view that if we can’t protect our staff, we don’t put them in the firing line.”

Armitage cut across Duncan ’s self-justification. “We’ve got responsibilities to the public. And that means we don’t make our living out of stirring up needless unrest. To be quite blunt about it, we’re not in the business of printing unsubstantiated allegations against the security services. All that does is destroy people’s confidence in the agencies that look after our safety.”

Lindsay was appalled. “You mean the security people have been on to you already?”

The editor shook his head patronisingly. “Did you really think the mayhem you’ve been causing wouldn’t bring them down about our ears like a ton of bricks? Jesus Christ, Lindsay, you’ve been in this game long enough not to be so naïve. You can’t possibly have the sort of cast-iron proof we’d need to run this story.”

Lindsay looked doubtful. “I think I have, Bill. Most of it can be backed up by other people, and I can get hold of a copy of the computer tape that clinches it all. The cops can’t deny what has been going on, either. Superintendent Rigano should be able to back it up.”

“Rigano was one of the people who was here yesterday,” Browne said heavily. “There will be no help from that quarter. The story must be killed, Lindsay.”

“I’m sorry,” said Duncan. “I know you worked hard for it.”

“Worked hard? I nearly got myself killed for it.” Lindsay shook her head disbelievingly. “This story is dynamite,” she protested. “We’re talking about murder, spying, security breaches, GBH, and kidnapping, all going on with the consent of the people on our side who are supposed to be responsible for law and order. And you’re telling me you haven’t got the bottle to use it because those bastards are going to make life a little bit awkward for you? Don’t you care about what they’ve done to me, one of your own?”

“It’s not that we don’t care. But there’s nothing we can legitimately do,” the editor replied. “Look, Lindsay, forget the whole thing. Take a week off, get it into perspective.”

Lindsay stood up. “No,” she said. “No way. I can’t accept this. I never thought I’d be ashamed of this paper. But I am now. And I can’t go on working here feeling like that. I’m sorry, Duncan, but I quit. I resign. As of now, I don’t work for you any more.” She stopped abruptly, feeling tears begi

In the ladies’ toilet, she was comprehensively sick. She splashed cold water on her face and took several deep breaths before heading for the offices of Socialism Today.

Here there were no security men on the door to challenge her, no secretaries to vet her. She walked straight up to the big room on the second floor where the journalists worked. Dick was perched on the corner of his desk, his back to her, a phone jammed to his ear. “Yeah, okay…” he said resignedly. “Yeah, okay. Tomorrow it is then. See you.” He slammed the phone down. “Fucking Trots. Who needs them?” he muttered, turning round to reach for his mug of coffee. Catching sight of Lindsay, he actually paled. “Christ! What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’ve got a story for you,” she said, opening her bag and taking out another copy of her manuscript.

“Is it to do with the computer print-out?” he demanded.

“Sort of. Among other things. Like murder, kidnapping, GBH, and spying. Interested?”

He shook his head reluctantly. “Sorry, Lindsay. No can do. Listen, I had the heavies round at my place last night about you. It’s a no-no, darling. It may be the best story of the decade, but I’m not touching it.”

A sneer of contempt flickered at the corner of Lindsay’s mouth. “I expected the big boys at the Clarion to wet themselves at the thought of prosecution. But I expected you to take that sort of thing in your stride. I thought you were supposed to be the fearless guardian of the public’s right to know?”