Authors: Val McDermid
Common Murder (31 page)
“If I hadn't jacked my job in today, I'd let you have it for free. But I'm going to have to feed myself somehow, and I can't imagine I'm going to find much work in national newspapers. Can you stretch to five thousand Deutschmarks?” Lindsay asked.
“Do you have pictures of this man Crabtree? And of Deborah Patterson?”
“I've got pics of Deborah, and you can get pics of both Simon and Rupert Crabtree through the local paper. I've got a good contact there. And you can do pics of me. What do you say, Günter?”
“How soon can I see copy?”
“I can fax it to you tonight. Have we got a deal?”
“Four thousand. That's as high as I can go. Don't forget, I've got translation to pay for too.”
Lindsay paused, pretending to think. “Okay,” she said. “Four thousand it is. I'll get the copy on the fax tonight and I'll bring the pics over myself.”
“You're coming over?”
Lindsay nodded. “You bet. I want to be well out of the way when the shit hits the fan. And besides, I won't believe it till I actually hold the first copy off the presses in my own hands.”
“So how soon can you get here?”
“I can get a night crossing and be with you by tomorrow afternoon. Does that leave you enough time?”
They arranged the rest of the details, then Lindsay hung up gratefully. Returning home, she picked up the bundle of copy she'd wasted her time writing for Duncan and left the house. She made for the tube station, not caring if she was being followed or not. It was already seven o'clock, and the rush hour press of bodies had dissipated. Emerging from Chancery Lane station she walked to the
Clarion
building. Her gamble that word of her departure wouldn't have yet got round paid off: she walked unchallenged into the building and made her way to the busy wire room on the third floor. After a quiet word with the wire room manager, he left her with the fax machine for the price of a few pints. An hour later, she left the building and headed back to Highbury. When she emerged from the tube station, she realized she wasn't able to face the empty house again just yet, so she walked slowly down Upper Street to the King's Head pub. Over a glass of the house red, she turned the situation over in her mind.
The chain reaction she had set in motion would blow Simon Crabtree's cover completely. She wished she could be a fly on the wall when it dropped on Harriet Barber's desk. The only question mark that remained in her mind was which side would get to him first. She suspected the Soviets would be the ones to terminate him;
glasnost
only extended so far. And it would be expedient for MI6 to keep their hands clean for once. But she knew she'd have to keep her head down till she was sure that Simon Crabtree had met the fate he deserved. And that might take a few weeks. A fatal accident following too closely on the heels of her revelations might seem a little too convenient even for the unscrupulous intelligence community.
The only problem that remained was how to find out when Crabtree was removed from circulation. Her first thought was to enlist Jack Rigano's help. He owed her one. As Cordelia had so forcefully reminded her, he had brought her into the frame when forces beyond his control prevented him from doing his job. But he had already stuck his neck out once for her, and the fact that it was he who had been despatched to put the frighteners on the
Clarion
demonstrated where his allegiance lay in the final analysis.
There was one other person Lindsay could ask. It would avoid the danger of providing an interested party with too much information. And provided the storm that the story was inevitably going to raise
didn't make him lose his bottle, he'd also be happy to supply information when there was something in it for him. Lindsay searched through the pages of her notebook till she found the page where she'd scribbled Gavin Hammill's number. The pub phone was mercifully situated in a quiet corner, granting her some privacy.
She was in luck. The Fordham reporter was at home for the evening. After the formalities, Lindsay explained what she wanted. “I'm going to be out of the country for a while,” she said. “But I need someone to keep an eye on Simon Crabtree for me. I just want to know what he's up to, and if anything untoward happens to any member of the family. If you hear anything at all, especially if he drops out of sight for a few days, you can get in touch with me via a guy in Cologne called Günter Binden.”
She gave him Günter's office and home numbers and explained that Günter's magazine would pay him a generous credit for any material he supplied. “They're very generous payers, Gavin,” she added. “And they never forget a good source. If you do the biz for them, they'll put work your way. Oh, and if anybody asks why you're interested, don't mention my name.”
“Of course not, Lindsay. Thanks for thinking of me.”
“Don't mention it. See you around.”
The final phone call she made was to reserve a ticket for herself and the van on the midnight crossing to Zeebrugge. The train or the plane would have been more comfortable, but she wanted to be self-sufficient and mobile once she was out of the country.
She wished she could take Cordelia with her, turn the trip into a break for both of them. But she knew it wouldn't work out like that, even supposing Cordelia was able and willing to get to Dover for the midnight ferry. Lindsay knew that the divisions between them needed time and energy from both sides before they could be healed. A mad dash across Europe followed by all the hassles of getting this story on to the streets was no basis for a major reconciliation. Besides, Lindsay didn't know how long she would have to stay away, and Cordelia had other commitments.
It was a quarter past eight when she reached home. She would have to leave in three quarters of an hour. The clothes she had thrown into the washing machine earlier would be dry in half an hour, and it
would take her only ten minutes to pack. She had half an hour to write an explanation of her absence for Cordelia. The word processor would be quicker, if more impersonal. But getting the words right was the most important thing.
She started by explaining where she was going and why. That was the easy bit. Now came the part where years of working with words were no help at all.
“I'm going to have to keep my head down after this piece is published. The security services will want to bring charges, and I don't think it will be safe for me to come home till after Simon Crabtree is no longer a threat. I'm going to stay abroad for a while, but I don't know yet where I'll be. I'll let you know as soon as I've sorted things out and maybe you can join me for a while. I'm sorryâI really wanted to spend some time with you. I love you. Lindsay.”
She scowled at the screen, deeply dissatisfied with what she had written. But there was no time now for more. She got up and stretched while the letter printed out, then left it by the answering machine. The next fifteen minutes were a whirlwind of throwing clothes, books, papers, and maps into a couple of holdalls. She went through to the lounge to pick up some tapes for the journey, forgetting the raid that had left the shelves empty. When she saw the spaces where her music had been, she swore fluently. The shock gave her the extra kick of energy she needed to get out into the night and off to the ferryport.
Three nights later, Lindsay stood in the press hall in Cologne watching the massive presses flickering her image past her eyes at hundreds of copies a minute. Günter approached, clutching a handful of early copies from the run and an opened bottle of champagne. He thrust a magazine at Lindsay, who stared disbelievingly at the cover. Her own picture was superimposed on a wide-angled shot of the base at Brownlow Common with the peace camp in the foreground. A slow smile spread across her face and she took a long, choking swig from the offered bottle of champagne. “We did it,” she almost crowed. “We beat the bastards.”
Excerpts from the
Daily Clarion,
11 May 198-.
MISSILES TO GO The Pentagon announced last night that the phased withdrawal of cruise missiles from Brownlow Common will begin in November . . .
DOUBLE TRAGEDY FOR SPY MURDER FAMILY The man at the center of a German magazine's revelations about Russian spies at American bases in the UK died in a freak road accident last night.
His death was the second tragedy within two months for his family. His father, solicitor Rupert Crabtree, was brutally murdered eight weeks ago.
Simon Crabtree, who had been officially cleared by British security forces of any involvement in espionage, died instantly when his motorbike skidded on a sharp bend and plowed into the back of a tractor.
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Thanks to: Helen for keeping us laughing at Greenham; Andrew Wiatr for advice on computers (any errors are mine); Diana for all the constructive criticism; Lisanne and Jane for their hard work; John and Senga, Laura and Ewan for their hospitality at the crucial point; Sue Jackson for her inimitable skills; Henry the lawyer for letting me pick his brains; and Linzi.
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Val McDermid is the author of twenty-four best-selling novels, which have been translated into thirty languages and have sold over ten million copies. She has won many awards internationally, including the CWA Gold Dagger for best crime novel of the year and the
LA Times
Book of the Year award. She has a son and a dog, and lives in the north of England.
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Copyright © 1989 by Val McDermid
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Bywater Books First Ebook Edition: April 2012
Bywater Books First Edition: February 2005
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Common Murder
was originally published in Great
Britian by The Women's Press, Ltd in 1989.
Common Murder
was first published in the United
States of America by Spinsters Ink in 1995.
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Cover designer: Bonnie Liss (Phoenix Graphics)
ISBN: 978-1-61294-007-6 (ebook)
This novel is a work of fiction.
All characters and events are fictitious and
are products of the author's imagination.
1st Lindsay Gordon Mystery
“McDermid has created a complex and prickly detective whose working-class background sets her at odds with her companions, particularly her new lover, Cordelia, the shifting relationship intertwines a realistic romance with a solid detective story.”
âPublishers Weekly
Freelance journalist Lindsay Gordon is strapped for cash. Why else would she agree to cover a fund-raising gala at a private girls' school? But when the star attraction is found garrotted with her own cello string instants before she is due to go on stage, Lindsay finds herself investigating a vicious murder.
Print ISBN 978-1-932859-06-5
Ebook ISBN 978-1-61294-006-9
Available at your local bookstore
or call 734-662-8815
or order online at
www.bywaterbooks.com
2nd Lindsay Gordon Mystery