“Life isn’t fair,” she retorted, getting to her feet. “At least, not for most people. Who’s got the files now, by the way? I’ll need to see them.”
He shrugged. “Mallard, I guess.”
“Could you call him and tell him Jack Rigano wants him to co-operate?” she asked.
“Look, I told you I didn’t want to be connected with you on this,” he protested.
“So tell him the request came from Rigano. Otherwise you’ve wasted your breath talking to me, haven’t you?”
He nodded reluctantly, “Okay,” he said.
Lindsay was at the door when he spoke again. “Jack says you’ll be talking to a lot of people in Rupert’s immediate circle?”
“That’s right. It all helps to build up the picture.”
“Will you be seeing his daughter Ros?”
Lindsay nodded. “I’m hoping to see her one evening this week,” she replied.
“Will you say hello from me? Tell her I hope the business is going well, and any time she’s down home, she should give me a call. We’ll have a drink for old times’ sake.”
“Sure. I didn’t realise you knew Ros Crabtree.”
“Everyone knows everyone around here, you know. Ask Judith Rowe. Ros and I were sort of pals in the school holidays when we were growing up. You know the routine-horses, tennis club.”
Lindsay grinned, remembering the summers of her youth fishing for prawns with her father in the thirty-foot boat that was his livelihood. “Not quite my routine, Carl, but yes, I know what you mean. Was she your girlfriend, then?”
He actually blushed. “Not really. We spent a lot of time together a few years ago, but it was never really serious. And then… well, Ros decided that, well, her interests lay in quite other directions, if you follow me?”
“I’m not entirely sure that I do.”
“Well, it rather turned out that she seems to prefer women to men. Shame, really. I think that’s partly why she moved away from home.”
“You mean her parents were hostile about it?”
“Good God, no! They knew nothing about it. Rupert Crabtree would never have put up the money for her restaurant if he’d thought for one minute she was gay. He’d have killed her!”
9
No, Duncan, I can’t write anything about the RABD yet. I’ve only got one guy’s word for it, and half of that’s second-hand,” Lindsay said in exasperation. “I should be able to harden up the ratepayers’ routine by tomorrow lunch-time.”
“That’ll have to do then, I suppose,” Duncan barked. “But see if you can tie it up today, okay? And keep close to the cops. Any sign of an arrest, I want to be the first to know. And don’t forget that interview with the suspect woman. Keep ahead of the game, Lindsay.”
The line went dead. Lindsay was grateful. The interview with Stanhope had produced more than she’d anticipated, and she’d spent the rest of the morning trying to set up meetings with Mallard and Warminster. But neither could fit her in till the next day which left her with a hole in the news editor’s schedule to fill and nothing to fill it with except for the one interview she didn’t want to capitalise on. The fact that she was no stranger to living on her wits didn’t mean she had to enjoy it. The one thing she wasn’t prepared to admit to herself yet was that the job was increasingly turning into something she couldn’t square either with her conscience or her principles. After all, once she had acknowledged the tackiness of the world she loved working in, how could she justify her continued determination to take the money and run?
It was half past one by the time she reached the Frog and Basset, a real ale pub about two miles out of the town in the opposite direction to Brownlow. She pushed her way through the crowd of lunchtime drinkers into the tiny snug, which had a hand-lettered sign saying “Private Meeting” on the door. The only inhabitant was Rigano, sitting at a converted sewing-machine table with the remains of a pint in front of him. He looked up at her. “Glad you could make it,” he said. “I’ve got to be back at the station for two. Ring the bell on the bar if you want a drink. Mine’s a pint of Basset Bitter.”
Lindsay’s eyebrows rose, but nevertheless she did as he said. The barman who emerged in response to her ring scuttled off and returned moments later with two crystal-clear pints. Lindsay paid and brought the drinks over in silence. Rigano picked up his and took a deep swallow. “So was Carlton Stanhope a help?”
Lindsay shrugged. “Interesting. There seems to have been something going on between Crabtree and the treasurer, Mallard.”
Rigano shook his head. “Don’t get too excited about that. It’s only in bad detective novels that people get bumped off to avoid financial scandal and ruin.”
Stung, Lindsay replied, “Don’t get too excited about that. There are plenty of cases that make the papers where people have been murdered for next to nothing. It all depends how much the murderer feels they can bear to lose.”
“And did Carlton Stanhope come up with anyone else that you think might have something to lose?”
Lindsay shrugged. “He mentioned someone called Warminster.”
“A crank. Not really dangerous. All mouth and no action.”
“Thanks. And have you got anything for me? I could do with a bone to throw to my boss.”
Rigano took another deep swig of his beer. “There’s not much I can say. We’re not about to make an arrest, and we’re pursuing various lines of enquiry.”
“Oh come on, surely you can do better than that. What about CID? What are they doing? Who’s in charge of that end of things?”
Rigano scowled, and Lindsay felt suddenly threatened. “I’m in charge,” he answered grimly. “I’ll keep my end of the deal, don’t worry. I’ve set you up with Stanhope, haven’t I? I gave you the whereabouts of the daughter, didn’t I? So don’t push your luck.”
Frustrated, she drank her drink and smoked a cigarette in the silence between them. Then, abruptly, Rigano got to his feet, finishing his drink as he rose. “I’ve got to get back,” he said. “The sooner I do, the nearer we’ll be to sorting this business out. Keep me informed about how you’re getting on.” He slipped out of the snug. Lindsay left the remains of her drink and drove back to the camp.
She parked the car and went to the van, which was empty. She put the kettle on, but before it boiled, the driver’s door opened and Deborah’s head appeared. “Busy?” she asked.
Lindsay shook her head. “Not at all,” she replied. “Actually, I was about to come looking for you. I need your help again.”
Deborah made herself comfortable. “All you have to do is ask. Been on a shopping spree? I can’t believe all these frightfully chic outfits came out of that little overnight bag.”
“I had to find something to wear that makes me look like an efficient journo. Your average punter isn’t too impressed with decrepit Levi’s and sweatshirts. Anything doing that I’ve missed?”
“Judith is coming to see me at three o’clock.”
Lindsay poured out their coffee and said, “Is it about the assault case?”
“That’s right,” Deborah confirmed. “She wants to explain exactly what the situation is. I think she’s had some news today. Or an opinion or something. Now, what was it you wanted from me? Nothing too shocking, I hope.”
“I need you to have dinner with me tonight. In London.”
Deborah looked surprised. “I thought Cordelia was in London? Doesn’t she eat dinner any more?”
“For this particular dinner, I need you. We are going to a bijou vegetarian restaurant called Rubyfruits.”
