Common Murder

For my father

‘This is murder,’ Lindsay Gordon complained, leaning back in her chair and putting her feet up on the desk. ‘I can’t bear it when there’s nothing doing. Look at us. Eight p.m. on the dynamic news-desk of a national daily. The night news editor’s phoning his daughter in Detroit. His deputy’s straining his few remaining brain cells with the crossword. One reporter has escaped to the pub like a sensible soul. Another is using the office computer to write the Great English Novel …’

‘And the third is whingeing on as usual,’ joked the hopeful novelist, looking up from the screen. ‘Don’t knock it, Lindsay, it’s better than working.’

‘Huh,’ she grunted, reaching for the phone. ‘I sometimes wonder. I’m going to do a round of calls, see if there’s anything going on in the big bad world outside.’

Her colleague grinned. ‘What’s the problem? Run out of friends to phone?’

Lindsay pulled a face. ‘Something like that,’ she replied. As she opened her contacts book at the page with the list of police, fire and ambulance numbers she thought of the change in her attitude to unfettered access to the office phone since she’d moved from her base in Glasgow to live with her lover Cordelia in London. She had appreciated quiet night shifts in those days for the chance they gave her to spend half the night chattering about everything and nothing with Cordelia. These days, however, it seemed that what they had to say to each other could easily be accommodated in the hours between work and sleep. Indeed, Lindsay was beginning to find it easier to open her heart to friends who weren’t Cordelia. She shook herself mentally and started on her list of calls.

On the newsdesk, Cliff Gilbert the night news editor finished his phone conversation and started checking the computerised newsdesk for any fresh stories. After a few minutes, he called. ‘Lindsay, you clear?’

‘Just doing the calls, Cliff,’ she answered.

‘Never mind that. There’s a bloody good tip just come in from one of the local paper lads in Fordham. Seems there’s been some aggro at the women’s peace camp at Brownlow Common. I’ve transferred the copy into your personal desk. Check it out, will you?’ he asked.

Lindsay sat up and summoned the few paragraphs on to her screen. The story seemed straightforward enough. A local resident claimed he’d been assaulted by one of the women from the peace camp. He’d had his nose broken in the incident, and the woman was in custody. Lindsay was instantly sceptical. She found it hard to believe that one of a group pledged to campaign for peace would physically attack an opponent of the anti-nuclear protest. But she was enough of a professional to concede that her initial reaction was the sort of knee-jerk she loved to condemn when it came from the other side.

The repercussions unfolding outside Fordham police station made the story interesting from the point of view of the Daily Clarion newsdesk. The assaulted man, a local solicitor called Rupert Crabtree, was the leader of Ratepayers Against Brownlow’s Destruction, a pressure group dedicated to the removal of the peace women from the common. His accusation had provoked a spontaneous demonstration from the women, who were apparently besieging the police station. That in its turn had provoked a counter-demonstration from RABD members outraged at the alleged attack. There was a major confrontation in the making, it appeared.

Lindsay started making phone calls, but soon hit a brick wall. The police station at Fordham were referring all calls to county headquarters. Headquarters were hiding behind the old excuse: ‘We can make no statement yet. Reports are still coming in.’ It was not an unusual frustration. She walked over to Cliff’s desk and explained the problem. ‘It might be worth taking a run down there to see what the score is,’ she suggested. ‘I can be there in an hour at this time of night, and if it is shaping up into a nasty, we should have someone on the spot. I don’t know how far we can rely on the lad that filed the original copy. I’ve got some good contacts at the peace camp. We could get a cracking exclusive out of it. What do you think?’

Cliff shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t grab me.’

Lindsay sighed. ‘On the basis of what we’ve got so far, we could be looking at a major civil disturbance. I’d hate the opposition to beat us to the draw when we’ve got a head start with my contacts.’

‘Give your contacts a bell, then.’

‘There are no phones at the camp, Cliff. British Telecom have shown an incomprehensible reluctance to install them in tents. And besides, they’ll probably all be down the copshop protesting. I might as well go. There’s sod all else doing.’

He grinned. ‘Okay, Lindsay, go and take a look. Give me a check call when you get there. I’ll see if we can get any more information over the phone. Remember your deadlines – there’s no point in getting a good exclusive if we can’t get it in the paper.’