“And if I don’t?”

“The answer to that question is not one that will appeal, believe me. What have you to lose by co-operating with what are, after all, your own country’s national interests?”

Lindsay shook her head. “If we started to debate where the national interest really lies, we’d be here a long time, Ms. Barber. I’ve got a more immediate concern than that. I understand that you’re not going to let Simon Crabtree be charged with the murder of his father?”

“Superintendent Rigano’s indiscretions were quite accurate.”

“So that means he stays free until you’re ready?”

The woman nodded. “You have a good grasp of the realities Miss Gordon.”

“Then what?”

“Then he will be dealt with, believe me. By one side or the other.”

“But not immediately?”

“That seems unlikely. He has-certain uses, shall we say?”

Lindsay lit another cigarette. “That’s my problem, you see, Ms. Barber. Simon Crabtree is a murderer, and I want him out of circulation.”

“I’m surprised that the Protestant ethic is still so firmly rooted in you, given how the rest of your lifestyle has rejected it. I didn’t expect a radical lesbian feminist to be so adamant for justice,” Barber replied sarcastically.

“It’s not some abstract notion of justice that bothers me,” Lindsay retorted. “It’s life and death. The life and death of someone I care about. You see, no one’s told Simon Crabtree that he’s immune from prosecution. And he thinks that Deborah Patterson has information that will tie him to his father’s murder and put him away. For as long as he’s on the streets, Deborah Patterson is at risk, and I can’t go along with any deal that means there’s a chance that she’s going to die. So I’m sorry, it’s no deal. I’ve got to tell my story. I’ve got to put a stop to Simon Crabtree.”

“That’s a very short-sighted view,” Barber responded quietly. “If you don’t accept the deal, Deborah will be in exactly the same position of risk that you have outlined.”

Lindsay shook her head. “No. Even if I can’t get the paper to use the story, I can get her out of the firing line. I can take her away somewhere he’ll never find us.”

Harriet Barber laughed softly. “I don’t think you quite understand, Miss Gordon. If you don’t accept our offer, you’ll be in no position to take Deborah anywhere. Because you won’t be going anywhere. Accidents, Miss Gordon, can happen to anyone.”

17

The phone was ringing when Cordelia let herself in, but before she could reach the nearest extension, the answering machine picked up the call. No hurry, she thought, climbing the stairs. She took off her sheepskin, went into their bedroom, and swapped her boots for a pair of slippers. She carried her briefcase through to her study, then headed for the kitchen. She put on some coffee to brew and, with a degree of anticipation, went to read the note from Lindsay she’d spotted on her way past the memo board. She wished she’d been able to dash down to Brownlow to be with Lindsay when she’d needed her and was gratified when she found that her presumed errant lover was due home within the half hour. Only then did she play back the messages stored on the machine.

All were for Lindsay, and all were from Duncan, increasingly angry as one succeeded another. There were four, the earliest timed at noon, the latest the one she’d nearly picked up when she came in. It was all to do with some urgent query from the office lawyer about her copy, and Duncan was clearly furious at Lindsay’s failure to keep in touch. Cordelia sighed. It was really none of her business, but she toyed with the idea of calling Duncan and making soothing noises while explaining that Lindsay was due back at any minute. She got as far as dialing the number of the newsdesk but thought better of it at the last minute and replaced the receiver. Lindsay wouldn’t thank her if she had the effect of irritating Duncan still further, which, knowing him, was entirely possible.

Cordelia poured herself a mug of coffee, picked up the morning paper, and ambled through to the living room. She sat down to read the paper but decided she needed some soothing music and went over to the record and tape collection to select her current favorite, a tape Lindsay had compiled of Renata Tebaldi singing Mozart and Puccini arias. She slotted the tape into the stereo, noting with annoyance that the power was still switched on and that there was an unidentified tape in the other deck. It aroused her curiosity, so she rewound the tape and played it back. The series of hisses and whines puzzled her, but she shrugged and put it down to some bizarre exercise of Lindsay’s. She stopped the tape and went back to her coffee and paper to the strains of “Un Bel Di Vedremo.”

She was immersed in the book reviews when the phone rang again. She picked it up, checking her watch, surprised to see it was already ten past eight. “Cordelia Brown here,” she said.

“Thank Christ somebody answers this phone occasionally!” It was Duncan, sufficiently self-confident not to bother announcing his identity. “Where the hell is she, Cordelia? I’ve been trying to get hold of her all bloody day. She’s got her bloody radio pager switched off, too, the silly bitch. I mean, I told her she could have the day off, but she knows better than to do a body-swerve when she’s got a story on the go. Where is she, then?”

“I really don’t know, Duncan,” Cordelia replied. “But I’m expecting her back any minute. She left a note saying she’d be back by eight, and she’s usually very good about punctuality. I’ll get her to call as soon as she gets in, okay?”

“No, it’s not okay,” he retorted with ill-grace. “But it’ll have to do. I’ll have her on the dog watch for a month for this. Makes me look a bloody idiot, you know?”

“I’m sorry Duncan. You know it’s not like her to let you down.”

“She’s got some bloody bee in her bonnet about this peace camp. It was the same over that bloody murder in Derbyshire but at least she was freelance then. She owes me some loyalty for giving her a job. I’ll get no proper work out of her till this is cleared up,” he complained.

“You don’t have to tell me, Duncan,” Cordelia sympathized. “I’ll get her to call you, okay?”

Cordelia sat for a moment, the first stirrings of worry beginning. Lindsay was pathologically punctual. If her note said “home by eight,” then home by eight she’d be, or else she’d have phoned a message through. She always managed it; in the past, she’d bribed passing motorists or British Rail porters to make the phone calls on her behalf. Presumably, Lindsay was visiting Deborah, since she’d been so worried about her condition. And there was no point in fretting about that. She was only twenty-five minutes late, after all.

On an impulse, Cordelia went through to Lindsay’s desk and checked her card-index file to see if there was any contact number for the peace camp. The only number that seemed to suit her purpose was that of the pub the women used regularly. She keyed in the nine digits and when a man answered, she asked if Jane was in. She was told to hang on and, after a few minutes, a cautious woman’s voice said, “Hello? Who is this?”

“Is that Jane?” asked Cordelia. “This is Cordelia.”

“No, it’s not Jane. She’s not here. Do you need to get a message to her?”

“Yes, I do. It’s really urgent. Would you ask her to call Lindsay Gordon’s home number as soon as possible, please?”

“No problem. Lindsay Gordon’s home number,” the voice said. “A couple of the women are going back in five minutes, so they can tell Jane then. She’ll get your message in about quarter of an hour.”