Common Murder

“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.”

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