by Val McDermid
“Better?” asked Lindsay.
“Much. Let’s go back into the warm.”
They sat on opposite sides of the fireplace. Lindsay offered her a cigarette and they both lit up. “Thank you,” sighed Cordelia. “Not just for the cigarettes and whisky. Thanks for making me pull myself together earlier on. You were right; it was foolish even to think of any other course of action. I was in a state of shock, I suppose. I couldn’t believe I was off the hook about the libel suit, and I simply didn’t want to involve myself in Lorna’s death at all. I panicked.
“I felt sure I’d be the prime suspect—you know, one sees and reads so much that makes the police look both bent and stupid that one comes to believe that every encounter with them will inevitably end in disaster.
“But it wasn’t too bad at all. I mean, they were actually quite reasonable, when you consider that I must be one of their suspects. The detective sergeant took my statement and asked me not to leave the school premises until the Inspector has had the chance to interview me in the morning.” She smiled wanly. “He also told me, very politely, that there will be a police guard on the main gate. ‘To keep out undesirables,’ he said, though I suspect it’s more to keep us in.”
Lindsay was about to question Cordelia more closely when Paddy came in. She greeted them with a brief, “Hi,” and headed for the drinks cupboard.
“Three minds with but a single cliché,” said Lindsay. “If you’re going to expose us to murder on a regular basis, Paddy, you’ll have to give us a spare key to the booze cupboard.”
“Oh God, I’m sorry,” groaned Paddy. “Have one now?”
“We’re all right, thanks,” said Cordelia, “Lindsay has come to the rescue for the second time this evening. She does a good impersonation of the US Cavalry. I’ll have to make her a permanent feature at this rate.”
“Drinks, fags, and a shoulder to cry on. All part of the service,” Lindsay replied, trying to cover her blushes.
Paddy sprawled out on the couch, clutching a large brandy. “What a bloody day,” she complained and then fell silent.
“How did you get on with the local constabulary?” Cordelia asked, “I found them remarkably pleasant, in spite of my having to confess to being on the spot during what seems to be the crucial period.”
“Were you? Well, if you were there after I left her, they’ve probably crossed you off their list already. I seem to be the odds-on favorite at the moment. If they knew I had the shred of a motive, I’d probably be under arrest by now,” Paddy replied, bitterness in her voice.
“Why is that?” asked Lindsay.
“Because nobody admits to seeing her, speaking to her, or even hearing her warm up on her cello after I took her up there. I showed her up to the room and went in with her to make sure she had everything she needed. I took the opportunity to thank her for keeping her mouth shut about the circumstances of our previous acquaintance. She smiled like a fox and said she saw no reason so far to break her silence, but she’d have to consider the good of the school.”
Paddy sighed deeply and went on. “I left it at that and took off. I was around the backstage area till right before the concert when Jessica Bennett came to fetch me because one of the fifth form in Longnor was sick and Jess didn’t want the responsibility of dealing with it. By the time I got back, the first half was in full swing, so I went straight backstage again via the back stairs to avoid disturbing the audience.
“So I’m there. For all they know, I might have had a reason for murdering her, and I had a better chance than anyone else of getting to her. Because, you see, she locked the door behind me as I left. She said she wanted to be sure of getting some peace.”
“But if you’re supposed to have done it, how do they think you got the key on the table through a locked door?”
“There’s a spare key in Margaret Macdonald’s room, which was unlocked all evening. The key for Music 2 wasn’t where it should have been, either. Whoever put it back last put it on the wrong hook. But it could have been like that for weeks because those keys were hardly ever used. On the other hand, I or almost anyone else could have done it tonight. Everyone was milling around backstage. I doubt if anyone could positively say I didn’t slip into Margaret’s room.”
There was a moment’s chill silence. Then Lindsay spoke with quiet excitement. “But there would be no point in you killing Lorna while she was at the school. Not just to silence her. Her murder will surely mean the end of the school’s chances of raising the money for the playing fields. It’s bound to mean hard times or even closure for the school itself, so you won’t have a job in any event.”
“Agreed. But the police wouldn’t necessarily see it like that,” Paddy argued. “After all, if I felt sufficiently threatened, I wouldn’t necessarily think things through to their logical conclusion.”
That set the three of them off in a discussion about motive. Lindsay put forward her line of argument, but Cordelia countered that, in the heat of the moment, the murderer could well have panicked and seen no further than the immediate, short-term benefit.
There was a deep hush, broken by Cordelia’s forced cheerfulness as she said, “But there must be others besides you—and to a lesser degree, me—who were on the spot and have reasons for hating Lorna. Let’s face it, she’d never have won a popularity contest, would she?”
“That’s right,” said Lindsay, “Caroline Barrington seems to have hated her guts—and seems to think there were others in the same boat.”
“I can imagine people hating, but I can’t imagine anyone killing her,” said Paddy dubiously. “Not killing her.”
“Well, what about this property developer?” asked Cordelia. “It would definitely be in his interest to get rid of Lorna and discredit the school in the process.”
“He wasn’t there tonight,” said Paddy. “They’re still going to find me firm favorite if they come up with a motive.”
“But we’ve come up with Caroline and the property developer guy in just a few minutes and we scarcely know the people involved,” Lindsay protested, alarmed by her friend’s defeatism. “There have got to be others. Listen, I heard someone having an argument with Lorna only this afternoon. I don’t know who it was, but they were going at it hammer and tongs.”
“What about?” demanded Cordelia.
“I don’t really know. He wanted her not to play at the concert or something and she wasn’t having any.”
“You should tell the police about that,” Cordelia urged.
“Yeah, I’ll get round to it when I see the Inspector tomorrow,” Lindsay replied. “So that’s another one to add to the list. And if we’re talking about people who knew the terrain and had access to keys and cello strings, what about Margaret Macdonald? She’s seemed really uptight all weekend.”
“She wouldn’t hurt a fly,” said Paddy positively. “I know the woman; God damn it, if anyone is incapable of murder, it’s Margaret.”
“No one is incapable of murder,” said Lindsay vehemently. “This particular murder may just have been the one that she was capable of.”
And they were off again. None of them seemed to be able to hang on for long to the idea that this was a real murder. None of them was willing to face the fact that, once the first horror had worn off, there would be fear, suspicion, and isolation left. No one seemed keen to make the first move toward bed, afraid, perhaps, of sleeplessness and speculation in the early hours.
It was after two when they reluctantly decided to end their talk. Paddy went off to make her last checks of the House, having promised to wake Lindsay early and take her across to the darkroom so she could process her film.
Cordelia and Lindsay sat in a companionable quiet, broken only by the hiss of the gas fire. Finally, Cordelia got to her feet and stretched languidly. “I’m off,” she said. “You coming now or staying up a bit?”
“I’ll be up in a little while. I’ll have one last smoke before I get my head down.”
“Okay. See you in
the morning. And thanks—again.”
“Don’t mention it. It was little enough.”
“One day, when all this horrible business is over, I shall cook you a special banquet as a thank you. I’m famous among my friends for my cooking, I promise you.”
“I’ll look forward to that.”
“Goodnight, then.” And she was gone, leaving Lindsay alone to stare into the fire and conjure her own dreams out of its flickering light. It was very late indeed when she finally climbed the long stairs to her bed.
Sunday dawned dull and misty on Axe Edge. Lindsay shivered as the raw cold bit through her jacket when she and Paddy emerged from the warmth of Longnor House at a quarter to eight. They were both silent on their walk through the trees, wrapped up in their own thoughts. Paddy unlocked the science block and led Lindsay to a compact but well-equipped darkroom on the first floor.
“There you are,” she announced. “Hope you’ve got everything you need. I’ll leave the keys so you can lock up after yourself. Sorry it’s so cold in here; we always turn off the heating in this block at lunchtime on Saturday. How long will you be?”
“Half, three-quarters of an hour? No longer.”
“Okay. I’ll see you in my rooms at around half-past eight, then.” Paddy left her curiously illuminated by the blackout lighting.
Lindsay quickly checked the light-proofing, then started work on her film. She pulled it from its cartridge and shoved it into the tray of developer she had laid out. She moved it round, then put it into the fixer, washed it, and snapped on a lamp to look at it more closely. Even in an unfamiliar darkroom she worked swiftly and efficiently, slotting the frames one by one into the enlarger, fumbling the photographic paper out of its light-proof envelope, and then exposed her prints. Half an hour later, she was looking at a dozen prints of Lorna Smith-Couper with her head thrown back in laughter.
It was not a bad picture, thought Lindsay. Though it was rather grainy, it would still reproduce quite well. It didn’t look too much like an unauthorized snatch.
She had also printed a couple of copies of the full frame with Margaret Macdonald in profile looking remarkably upset—almost on the verge of tears, Lindsay thought. And, for her own amusement, she had printed up the shots she had taken of Cordelia. They were not particularly flattering, but they were good likenesses and very different from the other, posed photographs she had seen. There was a grittiness and determination in the face that casual acquaintance with Cordelia gave no hint of. Lindsay smiled to herself and cleared up. She let herself back out into the woods, carefully checking that all doors were locked behind her.
She slipped upstairs and sorted out the photographs. The ones of Lorna she put into a large envelope scrounged from Paddy, the others she put straight into her bag. Then she went downstairs to join Paddy.
“Mission accomplished,” she said.
“Good,” Paddy replied. “Pamela Overton has just been on the phone. She’s already had two calls from newspapers and has told them that you’re the only journalist who will be given any co-operation by the school, also that you’ll be supplying a story later today. She would like you to have breakfast with her, and after that she’s arranged for you to speak to Inspector Dart—he’s the one we all saw last night; he’s running the show as far as I can see.”
That was the last minute of peace Lindsay had all day. Breakfast with Pamela Overton was sticky and uncomfortable for both of them, and afterward, Lindsay felt she had been professionally stalled on every question apart from the purely superficial. She did know for sure that the fund-raising would go on and that Pamela Overton was anxious to get across the message that she was convinced it was the work of an outsider and that none of the girls was in danger. But that was all Lindsay had gathered in terms of fresh information.
She walked slowly up to the hall, where the police had taken over a small classroom and asked a uniformed constable if she could have a word with the officer in charge. After a brief wait she was ushered in. Over by the window, a young plain-clothes officer was sitting at a desk with a sheaf of paper around him. Behind the teacher’s desk stood a tall lean man whose face would have been handsome were it not for a mass of old pitted acne scars. He looked in his mid-forties, with graying sandy hair and sleepy gray eyes at variance with his sharp features and lined face.
Lindsay introduced herself and he looked keenly at her over the bowl of a pipe he was lighting. When he spoke, his voice was rich and slow. “I’m Inspector Roy Dart,” he said. “I’m running this investigation. What are you after?”
“Miss Overton has asked me to handle press liaison for her. I’ll be putting out copy to all the dailies later on today, so I would appreciate anything you’re in a position to give me.”
“I’ll not be saying anything to you that I won’t be saying to any reporter who picks up a phone and calls me. You get no special favors here, I’m afraid. And I expect information to be a two-way street, understood. Anything you dig up that I should know about, I want to hear from you, not read in the papers. Now, officially you can say we are treating Lorna Smith-Couper’s death as murder. We are pursuing several promising avenues of inquiry.”
With an air of finality, he picked up some papers from the desk. Lindsay refused to accept dismissal and asked, “Do you anticipate a quick arrest? Obviously, with a school full of young girls, there’s a lot of anxiety about a murder like this . . .”
“We’re doing everything in our power to bring this matter to a swift conclusion. There are policemen on the school premises at all times and I do not expect any further incidents,” he retorted forcefully. “The girls are being looked after properly. Rest assured on that point. Now, if there’s nothing else?”
This time the dismissal was explicit. Lindsay moved toward the door. Just as she was about to leave, she turned and tried again. “Off the record, I take it you expect to mop it up soon?” She smiled warmly.
She might as well have saved her charm for Cordelia, where it could have done her some good. Dart looked up from under his eyebrows and said, “You’re wasting your time, Miss Gordon. Don’t waste mine.”
Lindsay walked back down to Pamela Overton’s study ruefully, thinking of all the reasons why she hated having to be polite to senior police officers. The headmistress had left the study free for Lindsay to work in, and she started putting together a holding story that she could send out early to the wire services for the radio news bulletins. She noticed with a wry smile that an ashtray had appeared since the night before. She made a couple of attempts to speak to Margaret Macdonald, to inject a bit of color into her story, but the music mistress steadfastly refused to say anything, pleading pressure of work.
She phoned over a factual piece to several papers, promising more material later. Then she set about trying to sell the dramatic last pictures of Lorna. The first paper she rang didn’t want to know because of the price she was asking, but the next tabloid she rang seemed keen.
“They’re the last pix taken of her, and I’m offering them exclusive,” she explained.
The picture editor at the other end of the phone spoke with all the false enthusiasm of his breed. “That’s terrific. What do the pix show?”
“The murdered woman is standing in the garden of the school where she was killed. She’s laughing in a couple of them, and there’s one pic of her just straight-faced. The laughing ones are a good line to go for—carefree musician enjoying a joke unaware that within twelve hours she’ll be dead; that sort of routine. I can let you have a deep caption to go with it, say five or six paras,” persuaded Lindsay.
“Who took these, then? What’s the quality like?”
“I took them with a telephoto zoom. They’re a bit grainy, but they’ll reproduce all right.”
There was a pause. “And you’ve got them to yourself? What sort of price are we looking at?”
“£250 seems reasonable to me.”
“Including syndication rights?”
“I suppose you’ve g
ot to get your money back somehow.”
“It’s a deal, then. Two-fifty. How are you getting them to us?”
“I’ll put them on a train to Manchester. Your desk there can pick them up, can’t they?”
“Sure thing. Phone them and let them know what train they’re on. Thanks again, Lindsay.”
She called a taxi to take her down to the station. As soon as she put the phone down, it pealed. She picked it up to hear a crime reporter baying for details. Four months ago she would gladly have given him all she had. But her brief spell as a freelance had taught her the hard fact that staff reporters don’t do favors to anyone except themselves. The only way she could be sure of making her information work for a living was to keep it to herself. As she put the phone down after a heavy exchange, she sighed. Another potential ally lost for a while. She was pleased when the taxi arrived for the small oasis of calm the trip to the station provided in the chaos of the day.
Back at the desk, she got to work again. Lunch and dinner were snatched meals eaten from a tray in the study. The desk had lost its formal tidiness. Now it was covered with scribbled sheets of paper as Lindsay drafted out the various versions of the story tailored to each paper. Used coffee cups and cigarette packs added to the general clutter. She had escaped from the smoke-filled room a couple of times to collect some quotes for her stories. But for the rest of the day she was confined to the study, with a phone jammed to her ear for most of the time. Paddy stuck her head round the door a couple of times to make sure she had everything she needed, but it was after nine before she could call a halt to her work on the “mystery killer grips school with fear” stories for the next morning’s papers.
She walked back alone through the woods to Paddy’s room without giving a thought to the lurid prose she had despatched about the hand of terror that made schoolgirls go everywhere in groups. She found Cordelia watching the television news and sipping brandy. “What’s happening, then, ace reporter?” she demanded.