Common Murder by Val McDermid Page B

too. And my face just doesn’t fit.”
    â€œIt’s not like that, Cordelia. Don’t leave because there was one hassle between you.” Lindsay reached out impulsively and pulled Cordelia close. “Don’t leave me. Not now. I feel . . . I don’t know, I feel I’m not safe without you here.”
    â€œThat’s absurd,” Cordelia replied, her voice muffled by Lindsay’s jacket. “Look, I’m going back to London to get stuck into some work. I’m not mad at you at all. I simply choose not to have to deal with these women solely on their terms. All right? Now don’t forget, I want to know where you are and what you’re doing, okay? I’m worried about you. This deal you’ve done with Rigano could get really dangerous. There are so many potential conflicts of interest—the women, the police, your paper. And you should know from experience that digging the dirt on murderers can be dangerous. Don’t take any chances. Look, I think it will be easier for you to deal with the peace women if I’m not around, but if you really need me, give me a call and I’ll come down and book myself into a hotel or something.”
    Lindsay nodded and they hugged each other. Then Cordelia disengaged herself and climbed into the car. She revved the engine a couple of times and glided off down the road, leaving a spray of mud and a puff of white exhaust behind her. Lindsay watched till she was long gone, then turned to walk slowly back to the meeting tent.
    She pushed aside the flap of polythene that served as a door and stood listening to Deborah doing for her what someone with a bit of sense and sensitivity should have done for Cordelia. Deborah finally wound up, saying, “We’ve got nothing to hide here. We asked Lindsay to help us prove that. Well, she can’t do it all by herself. When she asks us for help, or sends someone else for that help, we should forget maybe that we have some principles that can’t be broken or suspicions we won’t let go, or else we’re as bad as the ones on the other side of that wire.”
    Lindsay looked round. The area was crowded with women and several small children. The assortment of clothes and hairstyles was a bewildering assault on the senses. The warm steamy air smelled of bodies and tobacco smoke. The first woman to speak this time was an Irish woman; Lindsay thought her name was Nuala.
    â€œI think Deborah’s right,” she said in her soft voice. “I think we were unfair the way we spoke before. Just because someone broke the conventions of the camp was no reason for us to be hostile and if we can’t be flexible enough to let an outsider come in and work with us, then heaven help us when we get to the real fight about the missiles. Let’s not forget why we’re really here. I don’t mind telling Lindsay everything I know about this murder. I was in my bender with Siobhan and Marieke from about ten o’clock onwards. We were all writing letters till about twelve, then we went to sleep.”
    That opened the floodgates. Most of the women accepted the logic of Nuala’s words, and those who didn’t were shamed into a reluctant cooperation. For the next couple of hours, Lindsay was engaged in scribbling down the movements of the forty-seven women who had stayed at the camp the night before. Glancing through it superficially, it seemed that all but a handful were accounted for at the crucial time. One of that handful was Deborah who had gone on alone to the van while Lindsay talked to Jane. No one had seen her after she left the sing-song in Willow’s bender.
    Trying not to think too much about the implications of that, Lindsay made her way back to the van. She looked at her watch for the first time in hours and was shocked to see it was almost eight o’clock. She dumped the alibi information then went down to the phone box yet again. She checked in with the