Common Murder (29 page)

It was a problem that hadn't occurred to Lindsay. But Jane had already found a solution. “A wheelchair, Lindsay,” she said, smiling at the look of dismay on the other's face. “We passed a couple outside the main ward, in an alcove. Can you fetch one while I get Deborah ready?”

Lindsay strolled down the corridor, trying to look nonchalant, till she reached the wheelchairs Jane had spotted. With all the subtlety of Inspector Clouseau, she wrestled one out of the alcove, struggled to release the brake, then shot off back to the side ward. Luckily no one saw her, for she would have aroused suspicion in the most naïve student nurse. Between them, Lindsay and Jane got Deborah into the wheelchair and wrapped a couple of hospital blankets round her. After checking that the coast was clear, they left the room. Jane started to push the wheelchair back the way they'd come, but Lindsay hissed, “No, this way,” leading them in the opposite direction. During her earlier visit, she had reconnoitred an alternative route that was quicker and less public. Back at the van it was a matter of moments for Lindsay and Jane to lift Deborah in. Jane settled her into the double berth beside an overjoyed Cara.

Even so short a move had clearly taken its toll on Debs, who looked more tired and pinched than she had done a few moments ago. Jane carefully arranged the pillows under her to give her maximum support, but Deborah could not stifle a low moan as she tried to find a comfortable position for her head. Cara looked scared, but Jane soothed her and persuaded her to lie down quietly at the far side of the bed. Leaving the wheelchair where it stood Lindsay climbed into the driver's seat.

With perfect timing they left the hospital grounds in the middle of the stream of visitors' cars departing from the scene of duty done. Lindsay stayed in the flow of traffic for half a mile or so, then turned off to make a circuitous tour of the back streets of Fordham town center, keeping a constant check on her mirrors. She trusted Rigano to keep his word, but she felt no confidence that Harriet Barber would do the
same. After ten minutes of ducking and diving Lindsay felt satisfied that no one was on their trail and headed back to the MG. She drew up beside the car and turned round to confer.

“We've got a long drive ahead. I anticipate about twelve hours, given the van. We need to take both vehicles so I can leave you the MG. Where you're going, you'll need wheels, and I think I need to borrow the van for a while. I suggest that we swap at the halfway stage, Jane, around Carlisle?”

“Okay, but we'll have to stop at every service area so I can check on Deborah's condition,” Jane replied.

“Just where are we going, Lin?” Deborah asked in a timed voice.

“An old school friend of mine has a cottage about ten miles from Invercross, where I grew up. She's a teacher and she's away in Australia at the moment, on a six-month exchange scheme, so I fixed up for you to use the cottage. It's lovely there, ten minutes from the sea. Electricity, bottled gas for cooking, telly, peat fires—all you could ask for. And no one will come looking for you there. Cara can even go to the village school if she wants. It's a small community, but they'll keep their mouths shut about you being there if my mother explains that you're convalescing after an attack and you're scared the man who attacked you is still looking for you.”

“My God,” said Deborah faintly.

“I'm sorry,” said Lindsay. “I had to act quickly. I couldn't just sit back. There was no one else I could trust to make sure you were protected.”

“And how long do I have to hide in the heather?”

“That depends. Until Simon Crabtree is dealt with. It could be months, I'm afraid.”

“I'll stay as long as you need me,” Jane chipped in.

“I can't take all of this in. What has Simon Crabtree to do with me?” Deborah demanded, hugging Cara close. “One minute I'm recuperating in hospital, the next I'm thrust into a remake of
The Three Musketeers
crossed with
The Thirty-nine Steps.”

“I'll explain in the morning when I'm driving you, I promise,” Lindsay replied. “But right now, we should get a move on.”

“I'll take the van as far as Carlisle, then,” Jane decided.

Lindsay nodded. “That'll be best. And don't push yourself too
hard. Any time you need a rest or a coffee, just pull off at the services. I'm used to driving half the night, working shifts like I do; but I don't expect you to do the same.”

“Cheeky so-and-so!” muttered Jane. “Have you forgotten the hours junior hospital doctors work? You'll be flaked out long before I will, Lindsay.”

“Sorry, I forgot,” Lindsay apologized.

The journey seemed endless. Deborah and Cara managed to sleep most of the way, only really waking during the last couple of hours. Lindsay explained the reasons for their flight to Deborah as she drove the last sixty miles down the familiar narrow roads with their spectacular views of the Argyllshire mountains and sea lochs on all sides. Cara was spellbound by the changing scenery and seemed not to be listening to the adult conversation.

Lindsay reached the end of her tale as they arrived in the tiny fishing village of Invercross. A cluster of brightly painted houses and cottages crowded along the harbor. “So here we are,” Lindsay concluded. “Right back where I started all those years ago. Only this time, on the run like Bonnie Prince Charlie and Flora Macdonald.” She pulled up outside a small, two-story house on the harbor front. “Wait here a minute, I've got to get the keys.”

The woman who opened the door before Lindsay reached it was small and wiry with curly gray hair and eyes that matched Lindsay's. She swept her daughter into her arms, saying, “It's grand to see you. It's been a long time since the New Year. Now, come in and have some breakfast. Bring your friends in. Is Cordelia up with you?”

Lindsay disengaged herself and followed her mother indoors. “No, she's busy. Listen, Mum, I want to get the others settled in at the cottage first, then I'll come back for a meal and a sleep before I get back to London.”

“You're not stopping, then?” Her mother's obvious disappointment stabbed Lindsay. “You'll miss your father. He's at the fishing, he'll not be back before the morn's morning.”

“I'm sorry, Mum, I'm in the middle of something big. This was a kind of emergency. Have you got Catriona's keys?”

Her mother produced a bunch of keys from her apron pocket. “I got them from Mrs. Campbell last night when you phoned. I went
up this morning with a few essentials and lit the fire, so they should be comfortable.”

Lindsay kissed her, “You're a wee gem, Mum. I'll be back in a couple of hours.”

Her mother shook her head, an affectionate smile on her face. “You never stop, do you, lassie?”

Ten hours later, Lindsay was back on the road south. Jane, Deborah, and Cara were settled comfortably in the cottage, amply supplied with Mrs. Gordon's idea of essentials—bread, butter, milk, eggs, bacon, fish, onions, potatoes, and tea. Mrs. Gordon had promised to take Jane to sign on the following Monday. If she lied about paying rent, they could fiddle enough to live on. So there would be no need for any part of the official world to know Deborah's whereabouts. Jane thought Lindsay's precautions extreme but she would not be moved.

Lindsay spent the night less comfortably than the three refugees. Her eyes were gritty and sore, her body ached from the jolting of the van's elderly suspension. She finally gave in when even the volume of the stereo couldn't keep her awake and alert. She parked in a layby off the motorway where she slept fitfully for five hours before hammering back down to London.

Somewhere around Birmingham, she realized that she'd felt no desire whatsoever to stay in Invercross with Deborah. That realization forced her to examine what she had been steadfastly ignoring during the traumatic events of the last few days. It was time to think about Cordelia and herself. Why had she felt such an overwhelming need to sleep with Deborah? Did she subconsciously want to end her relationship with Cordelia and was Deborah just a tool she'd used? Until her kidnapping by the security forces, Lindsay had been confused and frightened about her emotions.

But there was no denying the fact that Cordelia had come to her rescue in spite of the problems there had been between them. Driving on, Lindsay gradually came to understand that her relief at seeing Cordelia outside GCHQ had been more than just gratitude. Her own behavior had been negative in the extreme, and if she wanted to heal the breach between them she would have to act fast. As that thought flickered across her mind, Lindsay realized there was no “if” about it. She knew she wanted to try again with Cordelia. Full of good
resolutions, she parked the van outside the house just before noon and rushed in. The house was empty.

Stiff and exhausted, and having lost track of time almost completely, Lindsay ran a sweet-smelling foam bath, put Monteverdi's 1610 Vespers on at high volume, and soaked for half an hour. Then, in sweat pants and dressing gown, she sat down at the word processor. Now that Deborah was safe, she had settled her obligations. There was even less honor among the Harriet Barbers of this world than among thieves and journalists, she had now realized. The promises they had made about leaving her alone had been shattered. They had tried their damnedest to follow her. There was only one real insurance left. So she wrote the whole story of Rupert Crabtree's murder and its repercussions, leaving nothing out.

She had barely finished it when she heard the front door slam. Alerted by the music, Cordelia superfluously called, “I'm home.” Pink-cheeked from the cold outside, she stopped in the doorway. “Welcome back,” she said. Lindsay picked up the sheaf of paper on the desk and proffered it.

“I promised you an explanation,” she said. “Here it is. The uncensored version. It's probably quicker if you read it rather than listen to me explaining it.”

Cordelia took the papers. “I missed you,” she said.

“I know,” Lindsay replied, “And I've missed you, constantly. I'm not very good at being on my own. I tend to get overtaken by events, if you see what I mean.”

Cordelia gave a sardonic smile. “I've heard it called a lot of things, but that's a new one on me.” There was a silence, as they met in a wary and tentative embrace. Cordelia disengaged herself, saying, “Let me read this. Then we'll talk. Okay?”

“Okay. I'll be in the kitchen when you've finished. The idea of cooking dinner in a real kitchen is strangely appealing after the last few days.”

It took Cordelia half an hour to work through Lindsay's account of her investigations. When she had finished, she sat staring out of the window. She could barely imagine the stress that Lindsay had been operating under. Now she could understand, even if she could not yet forgive what she instinctively knew had happened between
Lindsay and Deborah. But the most important thing now was to make sure Lindsay's natural inclination to the defense of principle was subdued for the sake of her own safety.

Cordelia found Lindsay putting the finishing touches to an Indian meal. “I had no idea,” she said.

Lindsay shrugged. “I wanted so much to tell you,” she said. “Not just at the end, but all through. I missed sharing my ideas with you.”

“What about Deborah?”

“It's not something you should be worried about, truly.”

“So what happens now? I don't mean with you and me, I mean with Deborah? Do we wait till Simon Crabtree is dealt with and then everything returns to normal?”

Lindsay shook her head. “No. Those bastards didn't keep their word. They tried to follow me—you read that, didn't you? So as far as I'm concerned, I'm not just sitting back till I get the all clear from Rigano. The best way to make sure they deal with Crabtree is to force the whole thing into the open. Otherwise it could be months, years till one side or the other decides Crabtree has outlived his usefulness. I don't see why we should all live under a shadow till then. Besides, the guy is a murderer. He'll do it again the next time someone gets close to the truth. And next time it could be me. Or someone else I care about.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I'm going to give the whole story to Duncan. And if he won't use it, I'll give it to Dick McAndrew. Either way, it's going to be published.”

“You're crazy,” Cordelia protested. “They'll come after you instead of Crabtree. They've got your signature on the Official Secrets Act. And the first journo that fronts Crabtree with your story points the finger straight at you. If our lot don't get you, the Soviets will.”

“Don't be so melodramatic,” Lindsay replied crossly. “I know what I'm doing.”

“And did you know what you were doing when you ended up in Harriet Barber's clutches the other night? I'd have thought you'd have learned more sense by now,” said Cordelia bitterly.

“Point taken,” Lindsay replied. “But there's no use in arguing, is there? We're starting from different premises. I'm operating on a point of principle as well as self-defense. All you care about is making
sure nothing happens to me. That's very commendable and I'd feel the same if our positions were reversed. But I think the fact that people who have committed no crime are hounded into hiding to protect a spy and a killer is too important to ignore simply because revealing it is going to make life difficult for me. I wish I could make you understand.”