Val McDermid - Common murder: the second Lindsay Gordon mystery

Spinsters Ink Duluth, Minnesota

1995 by Val McDermid

All rights reserved

First published by The Womens Press Ltd., Val McDermid, 1989

A member of the Namara Group

34 Great Sutton Street, London EC1V ODX

Reprinted 1993

Second edition published by Spinsters Ink 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1

Spinsters Ink

32 E. First St., #330

Duluth, MN 55802-2002

Cover design by Lois Stanfield, LightSource Images

Production: Lindy Askelin Carolyn Law

Patty Delaney Jami Snyder

Helen Dooley Jean Sramek

Joan Drury Liz Tufte

Kelly Kager Lee Ann Villella

Claire Kirch Nancy Walker

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data McDermid, Val, 1955

Common murder: the second Lindsay Gordon mystery / by Val McDermid.

p. cm.

ISBN 1-883523-08-7 (alk. paper)

1. Women journalistsFiction. 2. LesbiansFiction. I. Title. PR6063C37C65 1995

823'.9l4-dc20 95-23565

CIP

Printed in the U.S.A. on acid-free recycled paper

Also by Val McDermid:

Report for Murder (1987, The Womens Press, London) Final Edition (1991, The Womens Press, London)

Dead Beat (1992, Victor Gollancz, London)

Union Jack (1993, The Womens Press, London)

Kick Back (1993, Victor Gollancz, London)

Crack Down (1994, Harper Collins, London)

Forthcoming:

Clean Break (1995, Harper Collins)

A Suitable Job for a Woman (Non-Fiction, 1995, Harper Collins) The Mermaids Singing (1995, Harper Collins)

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; and Henry the lawyer for letting me pick his brains.

T his is murder, Lindsay Gordon complained, leaning back in her chair and putting her feet up on the desk. I cant bear it when theres nothing doing. Look at us. Eight p.m. on the dynamic news desk of a national daily. The night news editors phoning his daughter in Detroit. His deputys straining his few remaining brain cells with the crossword. One reporter has escaped to the pub like a sensible soul. Another is using the office computer to write the Great English Novel.

And the third is whingeing on as usual, joked the hopeful novelist, looking up from the screen. Dont knock it, Lindsay, its better than working.

Huh, she grunted, reaching for the phone. I sometimes wonder. Im going to do a round of calls, see if theres anything going on in the big bad world outside.

Her colleague grinned. Whats the problem? Run out of friends to phone?

Lindsay pulled a face. Something like that, she replied.

As she opened her contacts book at the page with the list of police, fire, and ambulance numbers she thought of the change in her attitude to unfettered access to the office phone since shed moved from her base in Glasgow to live with her lover Cordelia in London. She had appreciated quiet night shifts in those days for the chance they gave her to spend half the night chattering about everything and nothing with Cordelia. These days, however, it seemed that what they had to say to each other could easily be accommodated in the hours between work and sleep. Indeed, Lindsay was beginning to find it easier to open her heart to friends who werent Cordelia. She shook herself mentally and started on her list of calls.

Cliff Gilbert, the night news editor, finished his phone conversation and started checking the computerized news desk for any fresh stories. After a few minutes, he called, Lindsay, you clear?

Just doing the calls, Cliff, she answered.

Never mind that. Theres a bloody good tip just come in from one of the local paper lads in Fordham. Seems theres been some aggro at the womens peace camp at Brownlow Common. Ive transferred the copy into your personal desk. Check it out, will you? he asked.

Lindsay sat up and summoned the few paragraphs onto her screen. The story seemed straightforward enough. A local resident claimed hed been assaulted by one of the women from the peace camp. Hed had his nose broken in the incident, and the woman was in custody. Lindsay was instantly skeptical. She found it hard to believe that one of a group pledged to campaign for peace would physically attack an opponent of the anti-nuclear protest. But she was enough of a professional to concede that her initial reaction was the sort of knee-jerk she loved to condemn when it came from the other side.

The repercussions unfolding outside Fordham police station made the story interesting from the point of view of the Daily Clarion news desk. The assaulted man, a local solicitor called Rupert Crabtree, was the leader of Ratepayers Against Brownlows Destruction, a pressure group dedicated to the removal of the peace women from the common. His accusation had provoked a spontaneous demonstration from the women, who were apparently besieging the police station. That, in its turn, had provoked a counter-demonstration from RABD members outraged at the alleged attack. There was a major confrontation in the making, it appeared.

Lindsay started making phone calls but soon hit a brick wall. The police station at Fordham was referring all calls to county headquarters. Headquarters was hiding behind the old excuse: We can make no statement yet. Reports are still coming in. It was not an unusual frustration. She walked over to Cliffs desk and explained the problem. It might be worth taking a run down there to see what the score is, she suggested. I can be there in an hour at this time of night, and if it is shaping up into a nasty, we should have someone on the spot. I dont know how far we can rely on the lad that filed the original copy. Ive got some good contacts at the peace camp. We could get a cracking exclusive out of it. What do you think?

Cliff shrugged. I dont know. It doesnt grab me.

Lindsay sighed. On the basis of what weve got so far, we could be looking at a major civil disturbance. Id hate the opposition to beat us to the draw when weve got a head start with my contacts.

Give your contacts a bell, then.

There are no phones at the camp, Cliff. British Telecom has shown an incomprehensible reluctance to install them in tents. And besides, theyll probably all be down at the copshop protesting. I might as well go. Theres sod all else doing.

He grinned. Okay, Lindsay, go and take a look. Give me a check call when you get there. Ill see if we can get any more information over the phone. Remember your deadlines theres no point in getting a good exclusive if we cant get it in the paper.

What about a pic man?

Let me know if you need one when you get there. I seem to remember theres a local snapper weve used before.

Five minutes later, Lindsay was weaving through the London traffic in her elderly MG roadster. She drove on automatic pilot while she dredged all she knew about the peace camp to the surface of her mind.

Shed first been to the camp about nine months before. She and Cordelia had made the twenty-mile detour to Brownlow Common one sunny May Sunday after a long lunch with friends in Oxford. Lindsay had read about the camp in one of the Sunday papers and had been intrigued enough by the report to want to see it for herself. Cordelia, who shared Lindsays commitment to opposing the nuclear threat, had been easily persuaded to come along on that initial visit, though she was never to share Lindsays conviction that the camp was an effective form of protest. For Cordelia, the channels of dissent that came easiest were the traditional ones of letters to the