Lindsay.
As usual, Rigano took his time in replying. “I recognised you from your photographs.” He paused, and just before Cordelia could draw again on her stock of paranoia, he added, “You know, on your dust jackets. And, of course, from television.”
Fifteen love, thought Lindsay in surprise. They drove off, and Lindsay swiveled round in her seat. “What’s the deal, then?”
“I’ve just spoken to Mrs. Crabtree. She wasn’t keen, but I’ve persuaded her. I’ll take you there and introduce you to her. Then I’ll leave you to it. On the understanding that I can listen to the tapes afterwards and that you will give me copies of the transcript as agreed. In return, I need to know who was at the peace camp last night and where each woman was between ten and eleven. If you can give me that basic information, then I know who I need to talk to further.”’
“Okay,” Lindsay agreed. “But it’ll be tomorrow before I can let you have that.”
“Then tomorrow will have to do. The people who want quick results will have to be satisfied with the investigation proceeding at its own pace. Like any other investigation.”
“Yes, but to people round here, he’s not quite like any other corpse, is he?” Cordelia countered.
“That’s true,” Rigano retorted. “But while this remains my case, he will simply be a man who was unlawfully killed. To me, that is the only special thing about him.”
That must endear you to your bosses, Cordelia thought. Just what is Lindsay getting into this time? Maverick coppers we don’t need.
Cordelia steered carefully through the crowd of journalists and vehicles that still made the narrow road in front of Brownlow Cottages a cramped thoroughfare. Lindsay noticed the blond watcher was no longer there. At the end of the Crabtrees’ drive, Rigano wound down the window and shouted to the constable on duty there, “Open the gate for us, Jamieson!”
The constable started into action, and, as they drove inside, Lindsay could see the looks of fury on the faces of her rivals. As soon as the car stopped, Rigano got out and gestured to Lindsay to follow him. He was immediately distracted by journalists fifty yards away shouting their demands for copy. Lindsay took advantage of the opportunity to lean across and say urgently to Cordelia, “Listen, love, you can’t help me here. I want us to work as a team like we did before. Would you go back to the camp and see if you can get Jane to help you sort out this alibi nonsense that Rigano wants? And make it as watertight as possible. Okay?”
“We have a deal,” said Cordelia, with a smile. “As the good superintendent says.”
“Great. See you later,” Lindsay replied as she got out of the car and joined Rigano standing impatiently on the doorstep.
“Mrs. Crabtree’s on her own,” he remarked. “There were some friends round earlier but she sent them away. The son, Simon, is out. He apparently had some urgent business to see to. So you should have a chance to do something more than ask superficial questions to which we all know the answers already.”
He gave five swift raps on the door knocker. Inside, a dog barked hysterically. As the door opened, Rigano insinuated himself into the gap to block the view of the photographers at the end of the drive. Using his legs like a hockey goalkeeper he prevented an agitated fox terrier taking off down the drive to attack the waiting press eager to snatch a picture of Rupert Crabtree’s widow. Lindsay followed him into a long wide hallway. Rigano put his hand under Mrs. Crabtree’s arm and guided her through a door at the rear of the hall. The dog sniffed suspiciously at Lindsay, gave a low growl and scampered after them.
Lindsay glanced quickly around her. The occasional tables had genuine age, the carpet was dark brown and deep, the pictures on the wall were old, dark oils. This was money, and not arriviste money either. Nothing matched quite well enough for taste acquired in a job lot. Half of Lindsay felt envy, the other half contempt, but she didn’t have time to analyze either emotion. She reached into her bag and switched on her tape recorder, then entered the room behind the other two.
She found herself in the dining room, its centerpiece a large rosewood drum table, big enough to seat eight people comfortably. Against one wall stood a long mahogany sideboard. The end of the room was almost completely taken up by large French windows which allowed plenty of light to glint off the silver candlesticks and rosebowl on the sideboard. On the walls hung attractive modern watercolors of cottage gardens. Lindsay took all this in and turned to the woman sitting at the table. Her pose was as stiff as the straight-backed chair she sat in. At her feet now lay the dog, who opened one eye from time to time to check that no one had moved significantly.
“Mrs. Crabtree, this is Miss Lindsay Gordon. Miss Gordon’s the writer I spoke to you about on the phone. She’s to write a feature for Newsday. I give you my word, you can trust her. Don’t be afraid to tell her about your husband,” Rigano said.
Emma Crabtree looked up and surveyed them both. She looked as if she didn’t have enough trust to go round, but she’d hand over what she had in the full expectation that it would be returned to her diminished. Her hair was carefully cut and styled, but she had not been persuaded either by husband or hairdresser to get rid of the gray that heavily streaked the original blonde. Her face showed the remnants of a beauty that had not been sustained by a strong bone structure once the skin had begun to sag and wrinkle. But the eyes were still lovely. They were large, hazel, and full of life. They didn’t look as if they had shed too many tears. The grief was all being carried by the hands, which worked continuously in the lap of a tweed skirt.
She didn’t try to smile a welcome. She simply said in a dry voice, “Good afternoon, Miss Gordon.”
Rigano looked slightly uncomfortable and quickly said, “I’ll be on my way now. Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Crabtree. I’ll be in touch.” He nodded to them both and backed out of the room.
Emma Crabtree glanced at Lindsay briefly, then turned her head slightly to stare through the windows. “I’m not altogether sure why I agreed to speak to you,” she said. “But I suppose the superintendent knows best and if that’s the only way to get rid of that rabble that’s driving my neighbors to distraction, then so be it. At least you’ve not been hanging over my garden gate all day. Now, what do you want to know?”
Her words and her delivery cut the ground from under Lindsay’s feet. All the standard approaches professing a spurious sympathy were rendered invalid by the widow’s coolness. The journalist also sensed a degree of hostility that she would have to disarm before she could get much useful information. So she changed the tactics she had been working out in the car and settled on an equally cool approach. “How long had you been married?” she asked.
“Almost twenty-six years. We celebrated our silver wedding last May.”
“You must have been looking forward to a lot more happy years, then?”
“If you say so.”
“And you have two children, is that right?”
“Hardly children. Rosamund is twenty-four now and Simon is twenty-one.”
“This must have come as an appalling shock to you all?” Lindsay felt clumsy and embarrassed, but the other woman’s attitude was so negative that it was hard to find words that weren’t leaden and awkward.
“In many ways, yes. When the police came to the door last night, I was shaken, though the last thing that I would have expected was for Rupert to be bludgeoned to death taking Rex for his bedtime stroll.”
“Were you alone when the police arrived with the news?”
She shook her head. “No. Simon was in. He’d been working earlier in the evening; he rents a friend’s lock-up garage in Fordham. He’s got all his computing equipment there. He’s got his own computer software business, you know. He commutes on his motorbike, so he can come and go as he pleases.”
At last she was opening up. Lindsay gave a small sigh of relief. “So the first you knew anything was amiss was when the police came to the door?”
“Well, strictly speaking, it was just before they rang the bell. Rex started barking his head off. You see, the poor creature had obviously been frightened off by Rupert’s attacker, and he’d bolted and come home. He must have been sitting on the front doorstep. Of course, when he saw the police, he started barking. He’s such a good watchdog.”
“Yes, I’d noticed,” Lindsay replied. “Forgive me, Mrs. Crabtree, but something you said earlier seems to me to beg a lot of questions.”
“Really? What was that?”
“It seemed to me that you implied that you’re not entirely surprised that your husband was murdered. That someone should actively want him dead.”
