Common Murder by Val McDermid

tried again. “Your father’s death has obviously upset you. You must have cared for him very deeply.”
    His face remained impassive. “Is that what you’ve been asking my mother about? Oh well, I suppose it’s what the masses want to read with their cornflakes. You can tell your readers that anyone who knew my father will realize how deeply upset we all are and what a gap he has left in our lives. Okay?” He opened the front door and all but shoved her through it. “I’m sure you’ve already got enough to fabricate a good story,” was his parting shot as he closed the door behind her.
    She flipped open her bag, switched off the tape recorder, and headed off down the drive to offer a couple of minor tidbits to her rivals.

7
    Bill Bryman had offered to drive Lindsay the mile back to the peace camp principally because he thought he might be able to prize more information from her than the bare quotes she had handed out to the pack. He was out of luck. Neither gratitude nor friendship would make Lindsay part with those pearls she had that were printable. But as she left the Crabtree’s house, she noticed that the Special Branch man with the red Fiesta was back, which added indefinably to her eagerness to leave the scene. So she had frankly used Bill’s car as a getaway vehicle to escape her colleagues and any watching eyes. As soon as he pulled up near the van, she was off. There was hardly a sign of life at the camp, and she realized a meeting must be in progress. Clever Cordelia, she thought.
    She struggled through the mud in her high heels to Cordelia’s car and retrieved her other clothes. Back at the van, she changed into jeans and a sweater then set off jogging down the road toward the phone box on the main road, in the opposite direction to Brownlow Common Cottages. She had deliberately chosen the further of the two boxes in the neighborhood to avoid being overheard by any fellow journalists hanging around waiting to talk to their offices. To her relief the box was empty. She rang the police at Fordham to check that there were no new developments, then got through to the Clarion’s copy room. She dictated a heavily edited account of her interview with Emma and Simon Crabtree, coupled with an update on the case.
    When she was transferred to the newsdesk, Duncan’s voice reverberated in her ear. “Hello, Lindsay. What’ve you got for me?”
    â€œAn exclusive chat with the grieving widow and son,” she replied. “Nobody else got near them, but I had to give a couple of quotes to the pack in exchange for the exclusive. You’ll see them from theagency wire services, probably. Nothing of any importance. Any queries on the feature copy I did earlier?”
    â€œNo queries, kid. Your copy has just come up on screen and it looks okay. Any progress on the exclusive chat with the bird who broke his nose?”
    Lindsay fumed quietly. How much did the bastard want? “Hey, Duncan, did you know that women get called birds because they keep picking up worms? I doubt if I’ll get anything for tonight’s paper on that. The woman concerned is still a bit twitchy, you know? First thing tomorrow, though. I’ll file it before conference. And I’ve got another possible angle for tomorrow if the lawyers won’t let us use the interview. Apparently there were one or two wee problems with Crabtree’s rate-payers’ association. Possible financial shenanigans. I’m going to take a look at that, okay?” Lindsay couldn’t believe she was taking control of the conversation and the assignment, but it was actually happening.
    â€œFine,” Duncan acknowledged. “You’re the man on the spot, that sounds all right to me. Stick with it, kid. Speak to me in the morning.” The line went dead. Man on the spot, indeed. She made a face at the phone and set off at a leisurely pace to the camp.
    As the benders came