“Crabtree’s options, once he had discovered Simon’s treason, were fairly limited. He’d realized at once he couldn’t ignore it and carry on as if nothing had changed. He couldn’t come to your lot because that would completely destroy his life. It would bring his world crashing down about him, and once the press started digging, it would expose all sorts, like his relationship with Alexandra, like RABD’s connections with the violent right. It would make it almost impossible for him to go on practising locally. The shame for him and his wife would have been too much, and he was too old to think about starting elsewhere.
“He could have confronted Simon with his knowledge and ordered him to stop, with the blackmail that if he didn’t he would go to the authorities. But there’s no way that could have been done effectively-Rupert had no way of checking that Simon had really stopped. And Simon probably knew his father well enough to realize that he wouldn’t have carried through his bluff. So there would have been a stalemate. And it wouldn’t have taken much imagination on Crabtree’s part to work out what his fate would probably be, once Simon reported back to his control that his father knew he was spying.
“The only other option was to dispose of the son whose treachery was putting his family and his country at risk.”
Rigano picked up a pencil and started doodling on a sheet of paper by his phone. He looked up. “Tell me more,” he said.
“Not much more to tell, is there? Crabtree had a gun. He was licensed for it. He knew how to shoot. But I’d guess that he probably didn’t intend to use it unless he had to. He’d have tried to divert suspicion to the peace women, so he’d likely have used the gun as a threat and then killed Simon some other way. He arranged to meet Simon on the common to have a private talk. When he pulled the gun, Simon panicked and overpowered him. Then, realizing there was nothing else for it, he killed him.
“Then that cool young man went home, bringing the bemused and terrified family dog, which of course explains why the dog was on the doorstep and not howling over the corpse of his master as one would expect. Then Simon stripped off his muddy bike leathers and put up a good show for when the police arrived. That, by the way, is when Deborah saw him. You must have noticed that he’s physically, if not facially, very like his father. Deborah knew Crabtree but not Simon, and she thought it was the father and not the son she saw outlined against the night sky. It was only much later that she realized he must already have been dead by then.
“And appallingly, it was I who tipped Simon off that Deborah had seen him. I said she’d seen his father, but he was quicker to the point than me and immediately knew who Deborah had really got a glimpse of. He understood the significance and decided Deborah was too high a risk to leave unattended. Hence the attack on her, and hence her conviction that Rupert Crabtree was haunting her. She must have caught a brief, peripheral glimpse of Simon and subconsciously identified him wrongly. I hope you’ve still got a guard on her.”
Rigano put his pencil down and sighed. “Very plausible,” he muttered. “Fits all the facts in your possession.”
“It’s the only theory that does,” Lindsay replied sharply. “Anything else relies on a string of completely implausible coincidences.”
“I tend to agree with you,” he replied in an offhand way.
“So what are you going to do about it? You’ve got the evidence there,” Lindsay said, pointing at the tape. “You can get your forensic people to examine the clothes Simon was wearing that night. There must be traces.”
“I’m going to do precisely nothing about it, except to say, well done, Lindsay. Now forget it,” he said coldly.
Lindsay looked at him in stunned amazement. “What?” she demanded, outraged. “How can you ignore what I’ve just told you? How can you ignore the evidence I’ve given you? You’ve got to bring him in for questioning, at least!”
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “Don’t you understand?”
“No, I bloody don’t,” she protested bitterly. “You’re a policeman. You’re supposed to solve crimes, arrest the culprits, bring them to trial. You’re quick enough to do people for speeding-suddenly murder is a no-go area?”
“This murder is,” he replied. “Why else do you think a uniform is in charge instead of the CID? Why else am I working with two men, a dog and a national newspaper hack? I am supposed to fail.”
Lindsay was dumbstruck. It didn’t make any sense to her. “I… I don’t get it,” she stuttered.
Rigano sighed deeply. He spoke quietly but firmly. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but I feel I owe it to you after the way you’ve worked through this. Simon Crabtree is part of a much bigger operation that’s out of my hands and way over my head. I am not allowed to touch him. If he ran amok in Fordham High Street with a Kalashnikov, I’d have a job arresting him. Now do you understand?”
Lindsay’s fury suddenly erupted. “Oh yes, I bloody understand all right. Some bunch of adolescent spymasters think they can get to some tuppenny-ha’penny KGB thug via Simon Crabtree. So it’s hands off Simon. And that means it’s open season on Deborah. She can’t be kept under police guard forever. Simon doesn’t know he’s sacrosanct. He’ll have another go. And next time, Deborah might not be so lucky. You expect me to stand by while an innocent woman is put at risk from that homicidal traitor? Forget it!”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m a journalist, Jack,” she replied angrily. “I’m going to write the story. The whole bloody, dirty story.” She got to her feet and made for the door. As she opened it, she said, “But first of all, I’m going to talk to Simon Crabtree.”
16
The roar of the MG’s engine was magnified by the high walls of Harrison Mews as Lindsay drew up for her showdown with Simon Crabtree. It was a cold, clear night with an edge of frost in the air, and she wound down the car window to take a few deep breaths. The alleyway was gloomy, lit only by a few dim bulbs outside some of the lock-ups. The immediacy of her anger had subsided far enough for her to be apprehensive about what she intended to do. She cursed her lack of foresight in failing to bring along her pocket tape recorder. Although she was desperate for the confrontation, she was enough of a professional to realize that the difficulties she would encounter in getting this story into the paper would only be compounded by an unwitnessed, unrecorded interview with Simon. She could try to find the Clarion’s backup team and enlist their help, but she knew she could only expect the most reluctant cooperation from them unless specifically ordered by Duncan. After her string of exclusives, the poor bastard who’d been sent down as backup was not going to be too inclined to help her out.
She lit a cigarette and contemplated her options. Behind her apprehension lay the deep conviction of all journalists, that somehow they were immune from the risks faced by the rest of the world. It was that same conviction that had made her face a killer alone once before. She could dive in now, feet first; the chances were that Simon would deny everything. Even if he admitted it, she’d have no proof. Then he’d tip off his masters, she’d be in the firing line, and as sure as the sun rises in the morning, Duncan would send her back anyway with a photographer to get pictures and a witnessed interview. It wouldn’t matter so much then if he denied it; the office lawyer would be satisfied that he’d been given a fair crack of the whip. The other alternative was to leave it for now, go and visit Debs in hospital, go home and talk it over with Cordelia, and discuss the best approach with Duncan in the morning. Then everyone would be happy. Everyone except Lindsay herself, in whom patience had never been a highly developed character trait.
Sighing, she decided to be sensible. She wound up the window, but before she could start the engine, she saw a Transit van turn into the alleyway and drive towards her. Only its sidelights were on, and it was being driven up the middle of the roadway, making it impossible for Lindsay to pass. Instinctively, she glanced in the rear-view mirror. In the dim glow of her tail lights, she saw a red Fiesta, parked diagonally across her rear, preventing any escape by that route. The Transit stopped a few feet from her shiny front bumper and both doors opened. There was nothing accidental about this, she thought.
