turned into the house as she drove away.
An interesting encounter, thought Lindsay. Warminster might have a rock-solid alibi for Sunday night but a tie- in between himself, Mallard, and the bikers looked suspiciously probable. It seemed likely to Lindsay that someone had put those bikers up to their attacks on the camp. If it had been only a single incident, it could have been written off as drunken hooliganism. But the concerted attacks of fire-bombing, blood-throwing, and damage to the benders looked like something more sinister. And youths like that wouldn’t take those chances without some kind of incentive. Money was the obvious choice. The destination of Mallard’s funny money now seemed clear too. Driving thoughtfully back to Brownlow Common, Lindsay wondered just how much it would cost to persuade a bloodthirsty biker to make the escalation from fire-bombing to murder.
12
As Lindsay joined the tight group round the smoky fire, the conversation faltered. Nicky glowered at her and turned away, but Willow moved to one side of the crate she was sitting on and offered Lindsay a place. “We were just sorting out an action for tonight,” Deborah said, rather too brightly.
“So you’d better rush off and tell your tame policeman,” Nicky muttered loudly.
Lindsay ignored the hostility with difficulty, since it triggered her own qualms of conscience about dealing with Rigano, and asked what was planned. Willow explained. “A few of the women were in court yesterday for non- payment of fines, and they’ve been sent to Holloway as per usual. So we’re having a candle-lit procession and silent vigil round the wire tonight. There’s a couple of coachloads coming down from London. It might be quite a big action-we’ve tipped off the TV and radio news, so we’ll get some publicity.”
“And with all you journalists kicking round looking for titbits about that creep Crabtree, we might even get some decent newspaper publicity for a change,” added Nicky bitterly.
“I shouldn’t think so,” Lindsay replied acidly. “Why should a candle-lit procession alter all our preconceived notions? You don’t still believe in Santa Claus, do you, Nicky?”
“Oh, stop it, you two,” protested Deborah. “You’re like a pair of kids. If you’ve nothing constructive to say to each other, then don’t waste your breath and our time.”
Lindsay got to her feet. “I’ve got to do some work now, but I’ll be back for the demo. What time’s it all starting?”
“About seven,” Deborah answered. “Meet me at Gate Six, near Brownlow Common Cottages. Will you pass the word on to the other reporters if you see them?”
“Sure,” Lindsay said. “If that’s not too much like consorting with the enemy.”
Deborah gave her a warning look, and she grinned back at her as she set off for the van. Lindsay dumped her notebook on the table that dropped down and slotted into the long L-shaped bench at night to form the base of the bed. She opened the tiny fridge set next to the two-ring gas cooker and grill, and took out a pint of milk. She swigged a couple of mouthfuls, then sat down to work. She felt comfortable in the van, a big Ford Transit conversion with enough room to stand up and move around in.
She started to scribble down the outline of her story about the infighting in RABD with a sneaking feeling that she’d be lucky to get it into the paper. At the end of the day, it was just a rather silly story about a bunch of grown men behaving like schoolboys, and she suspected that Duncan ’s sharp news sense would come to the same conclusion. Her growing suspicion that William Mallard was somehow implicated in the murder of Rupert Crabtree was not something she could commit to paper yet. Till then, the RABD story was all she had. At least it was exclusive.
She set off for Fordham, in the MG, on a search for a phone box from which to file her copy. As she drove, she remembered the computer tape she’d thrust into her briefcase. It occurred to her that she’d have to find out what computer system Simon Crabtree worked with so she could unravel the contents of the tape, since he’d sorted out Mallard’s computers in the first place. The obvious way to find out was to pay a visit to his lockup garage. But that meant another fencing session with Rigano first.
Finding an empty phone box on the outskirts of the town, she read her copy laboriously, silently wishing for the next phase in computer technology that would reduce the transmission of stories to a few seconds of telephone time, thanks to portable remote terminals. The copy transmitted, she spoke to Duncan, telling him about the evening’s procession at the base and squeezing from him agreement that she should file copy on it later.
She rang Rigano. After a long delay that involved explaining her identity to the switchboard, the duty officer, and Rigano’s sergeant, she was finally connected to her contact. He was abrupt to the point of rudeness. “What is it?” he demanded.
“I need some help,” Lindsay replied.
“So what’s new? What do you need?”
“Just an address. Simon Crabtree’s computer workshop. I want to talk to him on his own territory.”
“Try the phone book. I thought you were supposed to be full of initiative.”
“I can’t try the phone book if I don’t know what the company’s called, can I?”
There was a brief pause. “Okay. I’ll leave a note for you at the front counter. I want to talk to you about what you’ve been up to. I suspect there’s a lot you could tell me that you haven’t been passing on. Ring me tomorrow morning before ten,” he said and put the phone down.
Puzzled and irritated at having to make a detour to the police station, Lindsay set off. Why didn’t Rigano just give her the address over the phone? Why go to all the bother of leaving a note for her to pick up? It surely couldn’t be an excuse to get her into the station so he could interview her, or he wouldn’t have made the arrangement for the next day’s phone call. Unless that was a red herring… there seemed to be no easy answer.
The envelope she collected from the reception desk in Fordham police station fifteen minutes later, contained the address neatly hand written: Megamenu Software, Unit 23, Harrison Mews, Fordham. Lindsay checked the index on the street map she’d bought. No Harrison Mews, but a Harrison Street on the seedier side of town, near the industrial estate. The mews would probably be an alley round the back, she speculated.
She put the car into gear and routinely checked her rear mirror. What she saw nearly caused an accident. The red Ford Fiesta, driven by the man whom she had labelled Special Branch, was right behind. Lindsay shot into the traffic without signalling and cursed her lack of familiarity with the terrain. While she concentrated on finding her route across the town centre, she was aware of the Fiesta two cars behind her, and an explanation for Rigano’s perplexing telephone manner dawned on her. The man now on her tail might have been with Rigano when she called, which begged the more disturbing question: had Rigano lured her into the station just so that the Special Branch man could follow her? And if so, why was the SB interested in a routine murder? And more importantly, why the hell were they so interested in her?
The heaviness of the traffic and the search for her destination forced her to shelve the question. But as she pulled into a back alley with a roughly painted signboard saying “Harrison Mews: Megamenu Software This Way,” she noticed the red hatchback drive slowly past the narrow entrance. She parked the car up against the wall opposite Unit 23 and pondered. If the blond man was SB, then it went a long way towards explaining why a uniformed copper like Rigano had been left in charge of a major murder investigation instead of a plain-clothes CID officer. But since the powers that be were so firmly convinced that Brownlow Common women’s peace camp was a nest of subversives with sufficient resources to undermine the whole of western democracy, Lindsay supposed it wasn’t really so amazing that the SB were taking such a keen interest in a murder that seemed to have some of its origins in the camp.
Lindsay got out of the car and surveyed Megamenu Software’s premises. They scarcely inspired confidence. The double doors had been given a cheap and cheerful coat of pale green paint which was already beginning to flake off. There was a large sign in the same style as the one at the mouth of the alley, proclaiming “Megamenu Software: We Turn your Needs into Realities.” Plenty of scope for a good PR officer, thought Lindsay cynically,
