Free Common Murder by Val McDermid Page A

clever. Oh Lin . . .” And the tears came.
    Lindsay stroked her hair. “Dry your eyes, Debs. Come on, Cara will be wanting you.”
    Deborah wiped her eyes and blew her nose on Lindsay’s crumpled handkerchief then they walked back to the camp arm in arm. As soon as they came into view, Cara came charging toward them. Behind her, to Lindsay’s astonishment, came Cordelia, looking cool and unflustered in a designer jogging suit and green wellies, her black hair blowing in the breeze.
    As mother and daughter staged a noisy and tearful reunion, Cordelia greeted Lindsay with a warm kiss. “I couldn’t sit in London not knowing what was happening,” she explained. “Even if there’s nothing I can do, I had to come.”
    Lindsay found a smile and said, “It’s good to see you. I appreciate it. How long can you stay?”
    â€œTill Wednesday lunchtime. Jane’s filled me in on what’s been happening. What’s the plan now that you’ve been appointed official Miss Marple to the peace women? Do I have to rush off and buy you a knitting pattern and a ball of fluffy wool?”
    â€œVery funny. I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to be doing. But I’ll have to speak to Debs about last night. I’ve already warned her not to talk to anyone else. Of course, Duncan wants me to do the chat with her, but the lawyer will never let us use a line of it. I suppose I should have a crack at the family too. I’ve got a good contact, the copper who’s handling things at the moment, a Superintendent Rigano. I’m going to see him this afternoon. Let’s go and have a pint and I’ll fill you in.”
    Lindsay swallowed the emotional turmoil triggered off by Cordelia’s appearance and told her lover all she knew about the murder over a bowl of soup in the nearest pub that accepted peace womencustomers—nearly three miles away. Cordelia was fired with enthusiasm and insisted that they set off immediately in her car for Brownlow Common Cottages which, in spite of their humble name, were actually a collection of architect-designed mock-Georgian mansions.
    There could be no mistaking the Crabtree residence. It was a large, double-fronted two-storey house covered in white stucco with bow windows and imitation Georgian bottle-glass panes. A pillared portico was tacked on to the front. At the side stood a double garage, with a fifty-yard drive leading up to it. In front of the house was a neatly tended square lawn which had been underplanted with crocuses, now just past their best. The road outside was clogged on both sides by a dozen cars, the majority new. At the wrought-iron gate in the low, white-painted wall stood a gaggle of men in expensive topcoats. A few men and women stood around the cars looking bored. Every few minutes, one reporter peeled off from a group and ambled up the drive to ring the door bell. There was never any reply, not even a twitch of the curtains that hid the downstairs rooms from view.
    â€œThe ratpack’s out in force,” Lindsay muttered as she climbed out of the car and headed for her colleagues. She soon spotted a familiar face, Bill Bryman, the crime man from the London Evening Sentinel. She greeted him and asked what was happening.
    â€œSweet FA,” he replied bitterly. “I’ve been here since eight o’clock, and will my desk pull me off? Will they hell! The son answered the door the first time and told us nothing doing. Since then it’s a total blank. If you ask me, they’ve disconnected the bell. I’ve told the office it’s a complete waste of time, but you know news editors. Soon as they get promoted, they have an operation on their brains to remove all memory of what life on the road is all about.”
    â€œWhat about the neighbors?”
    Bill shook his head wearily. “About as much use as a chocolate chip-pan. Too bloody “okay yah” to communicate