Common Murder (2 page)

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 jeopardize. 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 color 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,” 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-story 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 recognized 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 organized 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 recognized 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 victimized 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.”

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 dialed 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.

“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.

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 carnp. 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 favor 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.”