Deborah stirred the pot and tried a bean for tenderness. “Not quite. About fifteen minutes.”

“Good, just long enough for you to tell me your version of events on the night of the murder during the crucial time for which you have no alibi. Care to tell me exactly what you did?”

Deborah left the stove and sat down at the table. She looked tired. Lindsay took pity, went to the fridge and took out a couple of coolish cans of lager. Both women opened their beer and silently toasted each other. Then Deborah said, “I’m afraid you’re not going to like this very much.

“After I left you, I came back to the van and made sure Cara was sleeping quietly. I was just about to brew up when I remembered I wanted to get hold of Robin. He’s staying at my place just now. We did a deal. I said he could stay rent free if he did the plumbing for me. I’ve never been at my best with water. It’s the only building job I always try to delegate. Anyway, I’d been thinking that I wanted him to plumb in a shower independent of the hot water system.

“So I thought I’d better let him know before he went any further, and I decided to phone him.”

Lindsay broke in. “But your house isn’t on the phone.”

“No. But if I want to get hold of Robin, I ring the Lees. They’ve got the farm at the end of the lane. They send a message up with the milk in the morning telling Rob to phone me at a particular time and number. It works quite well. So I went to the phone.”

“Which box did you go to?”

“The wrong one, from our point of view. The one nearer Brownlow Common Cottages.”

“Will the Lees remember what time it was when you phoned?”

“Hardly. No one answered. They must have been out for the evening. So I just came back and made a brew.”

“Did you see anything? Hear anything?”

“Not really. It was dark by the perimeter fence anyway. I thought I might have seen Crabtree walking his dog, but it was quite a bit away, so I wasn’t sure.”

Lindsay sat musing. “Any cars pass you at all?”

“I don’t remember any, but I doubt if I would have noticed. It’s not exactly an unusual sight. People use those back lanes late at night to avoid risking the breathalyser.”

Lindsay shrugged. “Oh Debs, I don’t know. I just can’t seem to get a handle on this business.”

Deborah smiled wanly. “You will, Lin, you will. For my sake, I hope you will.”

Later, fortified by a huge bowl of bacon and beans, Lindsay settled down to work. It took her over an hour to transcribe the tape, using her portable typewriter. Next came the even more tedious task of typing up her notes of the camp women’s alibis. It was after midnight before she could put her typewriter into its case and concentrate again on Deborah, who was curled up in a corner devouring a new feminist novel.

“You look like a woman who needs a hug,” said Deborah, looking up with a sympathetic smile.

“I feel like a woman who needs more than a hug,” Lindsay replied, sitting down beside her. Deborah put her arms round Lindsay and gently massaged the taut muscles at the back of her neck.

“You need a massage,” she said. “Would you like me to give you one?”

Lindsay nodded. “Please. Nobody has ever given me back-rubs like you used to.”

They made up the bed, then Lindsay stripped off and lay face down on the firm cushions. Deborah took a small bottle of massage oil from a cupboard. She rubbed the fragrant oil into her palms and started kneading Lindsay’s stiff muscles.

Lindsay could feel warmth spreading through her body from head to foot as she relaxed.

“Better?” Deborah asked.

“Mmm,” Lindsay replied. She had become aware of Deborah’s nearness. She rolled over and lightly stroked Deborah’s cheek. “Thank you,” she said, moving into a half-sitting position.

Deborah slid down beside her, and their two bodies intertwined in an embrace that moved almost immediately from the platonic to the passionate, taking them both by surprise. “Are you sure about this, Lin?” Deborah whispered.

For reply, Lindsay kissed her.

8

The morning found Lindsay in good humor as she breezed into the police station at Fordham. She had dived into the local Marks and Spencer and bought a pair of smart mushroom coloured trousers and a cream and brown striped shirt that matched her brown jacket. She felt she looked her best and was on top of things professionally. The events of the night before were fresh in her memory, and for as long as she could put Cordelia out of her mind, she felt good about what had happened with Deborah too.

Her benign mood lasted for as long as it took her to reach the reception counter. At a desk at the back of the office she spotted a now familiar blond man flicking through some papers. Lindsay frowned as the SB man glanced up at her. Pressing the bell for service, she turned her back to wait. By the time the duty constable responded, the man had disappeared.

Rigano didn’t keep her waiting. As soon as she sat down in his office, he attacked. “We’ve turned up a witness who saw Deborah Patterson walking down the road towards the camp at approximately ten forty-five.”

“In that case, Deborah’s statement won’t come as a surprise to you,” Lindsay retorted. “It’s all here, Superintendent. Where she went, when, and why.” She put two files on the desk. “This one: the peace women. That one: Emma and Simon Crabtree.”

He smiled coldly. “Thank you. It might have made things a little simpler if Miss Patterson had chosen to make her statement when she was here, don’t you think?” Lindsay shrugged. “Anyway, I’ve spoken to Stanhope. He’s expecting you in the George.”

Lindsay deliberately lit a cigarette, ignoring the implicit dismissal. “Do you know where I can get hold of Rosamund Crabtree?” she enquired. “I didn’t have the chance to get that information from Mrs. Crabtree.”

“Don’t know why you want to see her,” Rigano grumbled. “The way this case seems to be breaking, we’re going to have to take another long, hard look at Miss Patterson. But if you really feel it’s necessary, you’ll probably be able to catch up with her at work. She and a partner run this vegetarian restaurant in London. Camden Town. Rubyfruits, it’s called.”

“Rubyfruits?” Lindsay exclaimed.

He looked at her uncomprehendingly. “Funny sort of name, eh?” he said.

“It isn’t that, it’s just the small-world syndrome striking again.”

“You know of it?”

Lindsay nodded. “Fairly well. We go there quite a lot.”

“You surprise me. I wouldn’t have put you down as one of the nut cutlet brigade. Anyway, you’re going to be late for Carlton Stanhope, and I wouldn’t recommend that. I’d like to hear how you get on. If you’re free at lunchtime, I’ll be in the snug at the Frog and Bassett on the Brownlow road. Now run off and meet your man.”

Lindsay got to her feet. “How will I recognise him?” she asked.

Rigano smiled. “Use your initiative. There won’t be that many people in the residents’ lounge at half past ten on a Tuesday morning, for starters. Besides, I’ve described you to him, so I don’t imagine there will be too many problems of identification.”

Lindsay scowled. “Thanks,” she muttered on her way to the door. “I’ll probably see you later in the pub. Oh, and by the way, do tell your Special Branch bloodhound to stop following me around. I’m not about to do a runner.” She congratulated herself on her smart response. She would remember that arrogance later.

Ripe for takeover by the big boys, thought Lindsay as she entered the George Hotel. The combination of the faded fifties decor and odd touches of contemporary tatt was an unhappy one. She could imagine the prawn cocktail and fillet steak menu. A neon sign that looked like a museum piece pointed up a flight of stairs to the residents’ lounge. Lindsay pushed open the creaky swing door. The chairs looked cheap and uncomfortable. The only occupant of the room was pouring himself a cup of coffee. Lindsay’s heart sank. So much for Rigano’s assumption that they’d have the place to themselves, for the young man sprawled leggily in an armchair by the coffee table didn’t look like a farmer called Carlton Stanhope.