A momentary gleam of hatred flashed at Lindsay. “Of course, of course, my dear girl. But Rupert had actually signed it among a pile of other papers for his signature and had simply not registered what it was. Easy to do that when you’re signing several bits of paper.”
“I wouldn’t have thought that was the action of a conscientious lawyer. But you seem to have an answer for everything, Mr. Mallard.”
His smile was genuine this time. “That’s because I have nothing to hide, m’dear. Now, if that is all, I do have work to do…”
“One more thing. Since you’ve nothing to hide, perhaps you could tell me where you were on Sunday night from about ten?”
This time, Mallard couldn’t keep the smile in place. “That’s none of your business,” he snapped.
“You’re right. But I expect you’ve told the police already? No? Oh well, I’m sure they’ll be round soon to ask. Superintendent Rigano’s very interested in who I’ve been talking to…”
Lindsay felt she was doing battle. Mallard gave in. “I was at home all evening.”
“Which is where, exactly?”
He shifted in his seat. “Brownlow Common Cottages. Four doors away from the Crabtrees actually.”
Lindsay smiled. “Convenient. Alone, were you?”
He shook his head. “My wife was in. She… she almost always is in. She has MS, you see, confined to a wheelchair.”
Nothing’s ever simple, thought Lindsay. Poor woman, stuck in a wheelchair with him. She waited, then he went on. He was clearly a man who felt uncomfortable with silence.
“I put her to bed about ten. So her evidence after that could only be negative-that she didn’t hear me go out or come in, that she didn’t hear my car. I have no idea why I’m telling you all this,” he added petulantly.
“Haven’t you, Mr. Mallard?” Lindsay inquired. “Thanks very much for your time.” She abruptly rose and walked out. The woman in the front office looked up in surprise as she swept through. Lindsay marched down the main street to the car park where she’d left the MG, irritated that she hadn’t broken Mallard’s self-possession. She hadn’t even thought to ask him who he thought the murderer was. But she knew deep down that the only answer she would have received was the utterly predictable one: “those peace women.” And that would have made no difference to her own gut reaction to Mallard, namely that of all the people she’d spoken to so far, he was her favorite suspect. He had opportunity, she’d established that. He looked sturdy enough to cope with the means. And he had motive aplenty. A rumor with Rupert Crabtree behind it would be enough to terminate a man’s career in a small town like Fordham when that career depended on trust. And Mallard clearly couldn’t afford that, especially not with a wife whose disability gave him another pressing reason for maintaining a comfortable lifestyle.
She drove off, checking her mirrors for Rigano’s blond SB man. There was no sign of the red Fiesta. She pulled into the traffic to keep the appointment she’d made with Paul Warminster and following his directions, left Fordham in the opposite direction to Brownlow. Surburban streets gave way to more rural surroundings. Chocolate-box countryside, thought Lindsay, struck as she was occasionally with a sharp pang of longing for the sea lochs and mountains of her native landscape. A couple of miles out of the town, she pulled off the main road into a narrow country lane. Soon she came to a thatched cottage attached to a converted cruck barn. The garden was a mass of daffodils and crocuses with occasional patches of bright blue scilla. A powerful motorbike was parked incongruously by the side of the barn. Lindsay got out of the car and walked up a path made of old weathered brick.
The door was opened by a tall spare man in his late forties. His gingery hair was lank and greying, his face weather-beaten to an unattractive turkey red and a network of fine lines radiated from the corners of his lively blue eyes. In his tweed jacket with the leather patches he looked more like a gamekeeper than a shopkeeper. With a sudden shock, Lindsay realized this was the man she had seen leaving Mallard’s office a short time earlier. Covering her confusion, she quickly introduced herself and established her bona fides with her Press card. Warminster ushered her into a chintzy, low-ceilinged living room with bowls of sweet-smelling free-sias scattered around.
“So, you’re writing about what local people are doing to put a stop to that so-called peace camp,” he said, settling himself in a large armchair.
Lindsay nodded. “I understand you’ve been quite actively involved in the opposition.”
Warminster lit a small cigar as he replied. “Used to be. Probably will be again soon.”
“Why is that?” Lindsay asked.
“Had a bit of a run-in with that chap, Crabtree, the fellow who was murdered at the weekend, so I hadn’t been doing too much lately. Blighter thought he ran Fordham. Perhaps now we’ll get to grips with those left-wing lesbians,” he said.
“You weren’t happy with the policies of Ratepayers Against Brownlow’s Destruction, then?” Lindsay probed.
He snorted. “Could say that. Policies? Appeasement, that’s what they were about. And look where that got us in the thirties. We should have been taking the war into their territory, getting them out of their entrenched positions instead of pussyfooting around being nicey-nicey to those bloody communists harridans.” Warminster was off and running in what were clearly not fresh fields. As she listened to the tirade, trying to control her feelings of disgust and anger, Lindsay gradually began to understand why violence so often seems a solution.
She pretended to take extensive notes of his speech. There was no need to interrogate Warminster. The only difficulty was getting him to stop. Eventually, he ended up with a rabble-rousing peroration. “Very stirring, sir,” Lindsay muttered.
“You think so? That’s exactly what I told them on Sunday night in Berksbury. I was speaking there, you know, at the instigation of the local Conservative Party. They staged one of those debates about the issues. Had some woolly vicar in a woolly pullover from CND, the local candidate and me. Well worth the trip, I can tell you.”
Lindsay’s mind had leapt to attention as soon as Sunday was mentioned. “That was Sunday night just past?” she asked. “The night Crabtree was killed, you mean?”
“That’s right. Round about when he bought it, we were having a celebratory drink in the Conservative Club. An excellent night. Didn’t get home till the small hours. I must say the hospitality was excellent. Good job I’d taken my wife along to drive me home or I’d never have made it. Sorry she’s not in, by the way, gone to visit her sister in Fordham. Now, anything else you want to know.”
It all seemed so innocent. And the alibi appeared sound. But Lindsay didn’t like what her instincts told her about Paul Warminster. “I see you’ve got a motorbike outside. Have you ever come across any of those yobs that have been attacking the peace camp?”
He looked startled. “Of course not,” he said. “Why should I have?”
Lindsay shrugged. “I just wondered. I thought since you were into direct action they might have made contact with you.”
Warminster shook his head violently. “Absolutely not. Ill-disciplined rabble.”
“How do you know that?” Lindsay demanded, pouncing on the inconsistency.
“How do I know what?”
“That they’re ill-disciplined. If you’ve got nothing to do with them, how do you know that?”
He looked angry and flustered. “Heard about it, didn’t I? Small place, Fordham, you hear things. Absurd of you to think I’d have anything to do with them. Nearly as incompetent as the RABD softies.”
“But you obviously maintain contact with some of your friends in RABD,” Lindsay probed.
“What d’you mean by that?” He was now deeply suspicious. His hostility was tipping him over the borderline of rudeness.
“I thought I saw you this morning coming out of William Mallard’s office,” she said.
“So? The man runs a business. I do business in Fordham. Hardly surprising that we do business together, is it? I can’t turn my back on every liberal I meet just because I don’t agree with their way of going about things.”
Lindsay shook her head. “There’s no need to get so het up, Mr. Warminster. I just wondered if the business you were doing with Mr. Mallard was anything to do with the funding of your direct action group.”
Her barb hit home to Warminster, leaving high spots of colour in his checks. “Rubbish,” he blustered, “absolute rubbish. Now, if you’ve nothing more to ask me, I’d be obliged if you’d let me get on. I’m a very busy man.” He got to his feet, leaving Lindsay little choice but to follow suit. Standing in the doorway he watched her into her car then
