by Val McDermid
She shrugged and reminded herself that, in any event, Cartwright was only second favorite. Anthony Barrington was the horse she fancied. As the phrase formed in her mind, she brought herself up with a jolt. This was no horse race, no game. It was a sick and serious business that had already cost one life and would damage others before it was over. All she could hope to do was to limit the damage by helping to clear the woman she knew in her bones to be innocent.
“And,” she thought wryly, “if I can’t manage this, there’s no hope on God’s earth for Cordelia and me. We’ll never be able to build any relationship with the shadow of Paddy perpetually before us. And I do want this one so very much.”
She was interrupted by a knock at the door. Chris’s curiosity had fired her to arrive ten minutes early. She clearly had difficulty in holding back questions as Lindsay deliberately took her time in making coffee for them both. As she came through with two mugs, Chris could hold back no longer. “What’s all this about?” she demanded.
“I have an idea as to how the murderer got into Music 2,” Lindsay replied. “And I need your help to try out my theory.”
“But I thought it was obvious how it was done. Surely whoever did it just pinched the key and put it back afterward,” said Chris, frowning.
“I don’t think so. Something’s been puzzling me all week. There were dozens of people milling around backstage. But not a soul admits to seeing the key being taken or put back. Not a soul admits to seeing anyone in that corridor except Paddy. It seems impossible that anyone could have got in that way unseen. Now, I noticed some scaffolding poles on the kitchen roof. They hadn’t been there earlier in the day and they were gone a couple of days later. I believe they were used to enter the murder room. Via the window. I want to check that it can be done.”
Chris looked stunned. “You’ve got to be joking!”
Lindsay shook her head.
“Have you told the police about this?” Chris asked.
Lindsay sighed. “They’d never believe me. You see, I knew there was something I couldn’t remember and it only came back to me last night. They know I’ve been trying to find out what happened. They’d be bound to think I was making it up to put Paddy in the clear. Besides, Cordelia and I believe it’s not enough just to clear Paddy. We’ve got to find the real culprit if we really want to help her. I think we’re very close to the truth now. So, can I count on your help?”
Chris looked worried. She said, “I still think you should tell the police, but if you’re dead set on doing it this way I’ll help all I can. What do we do?”
Fortunately, both of them were properly dressed for their task, Lindsay in jeans, sweater, and training shoes, Chris in the tracksuit and trainers she’d been wearing in preparation for the match. As they left Longnor, Lindsay picked up a selection of spanners and an adjustable wrench from her car tool box. They walked across to the squash court building site as Lindsay explained her theory more fully to Chris, carefully skirting round the subject of possible suspects. At the site, the gates were padlocked together, but it took Lindsay and Chris only a few moments to climb them. Then Lindsay selected the four poles she wanted and the clamps that would fasten the frame together. Back at the gate, they puzzled for a moment about how to get the equipment out, till Chris pointed out gaps between the fencing and the ground that would allow them to be pushed through.
They quickly clambered back over the gates, Chris complaining, “I hope to God none of my bright sparks is watching this carry-on.”
Lindsay laughed, saying, “There’s worse to come. Let’s go.” She insisted on carrying all four poles, though it was an awkward struggle. She was determined to do it herself, to prove that one person could do it alone. When they reached the main building, she nearly came to grief several times on the fire escape that led up to the kitchen roof. Chris attempted to help, but when Lindsay explained the need for struggling on alone, she subsided. To Chris’s surprise, she finally managed it, and the two women ended up on the roof in a confused heap of poles, joints, spanners, arms, and legs.
The journalist lay breathing heavily and sweating. “Bloody hell,” she moaned. “That was a lot tougher than I anticipated.”
“That’s because you did it all wrong,” said Chris. “You should have roped the poles together, then they would have been a lot easier to carry. Then you could have fastened another rope to them and hauled them up to the roof. Much simpler.”
Lindsay looked at her with new respect. “Thank you, Chris,” she panted. “You have just resurrected my theory. Thank God for the practical mind. Now, onwards and upwards.”
After a few failures, they managed to bolt the poles together in a rectangular frame. Then Lindsay realized that the frame was too heavy and unwieldy for one person to place in position and bolt to the railings.
So painstakingly they took it apart again, and Lindsay prepared to clamber over the railings on to the narrow ledge to fit the poles together one by one to form the frame. Before she could go ahead, however, Chris stopped her.
“Wait there,” she commanded, all the authority of her position in her voice for the first time since the two had met. “Don’t you dare do anything till I tell you.” And she rushed off down the fire escape. Lindsay kicked her heels crossly for about five minutes till Chris returned, carrying two sets of yachting harness. “There,” she said, handing one of them to Lindsay. “You put that on and clip the hook to the railings. I’m not having you splattered on our drive if I can help it.”
Strapped in, Lindsay gingerly climbed over the railings and bolted one short strut to them vertically. Then, after a struggle with the heavy and unwieldy equipment, she added a long horizontal pole, to which Chris had previously bolted the other upright. That turned out to have been another mistake, since the extra weight was almost too much for Lindsay. Finally, with muscles that were beginning to tremble in protest, she managed to bolt on a second horizontal pole at a height that came just below the windowsill of the music room windows.
“Jesus,” Lindsay gasped, “I’m even less fit than I thought I was. This is where you do your stuff. I don’t think I’m agile enough for this bit. You go along the scaffolding till you get to the end window. Then you use a knife blade to slip the catch and climb into the room through the window. Be careful not to damage the paintwork. Do you think you can do that?”
Chris grinned. “No bother at all. I’m a gymnast, you know, not just a lump of brawn. You’d need to be pretty sure-footed to do this by the way and pretty strong, given the fetching and carrying involved.”
At first she inched her way gingerly along, but soon she was moving with assurance along the lower bar. As she reached the window she pulled herself up and on to the upper bar. There she crouched, leaning against the window frame as she slipped out the knife Lindsay had given her. It took heart-stopping moments fiddling around with the blade before the catch slipped open, but once she had managed it, she unclipped her harness and was inside the music room in seconds.
A few moments later, she re-emerged on the window ledge. She leaned over and hooked her gear back on to the pole as a precaution. Then she slammed the window shut with surprisingly little noise and tested it to make sure the catch had dropped back into place.
Next she swung back on to the lower pole. She called to Lindsay, “I may as well dismantle as I go,” and came back crabwise for the necessary tools. It was only a matter of a few minutes before they were both staggering back through the grounds to the building site to replace the bits and pieces. It was still not long after eleven.
They returned to Paddy’s rooms to wait for Cordelia, and collapsed into armchairs. “There’s one thing,” she said. “Whoever did that was definitely on the strong side, and very fit. I feel quite tired and I didn’t even carry the scaffolding over. Unless whoever did it took more than one trip to get the stuff there.”
Lindsay agreed whole-heartedly. She knew just how heavy and how awkward the poles were. These were problems, however, that
could be overcome by Chris’s suggestions of more than one trip, and of using rope to get them on to the roof. Not wanting to discuss the details further, Lindsay steered the conversation into other channels, and when Cordelia returned just after twelve, they were deep in discussion about the relative merits of Lindsay’s MG and other sports cars.
Chris broke off immediately to ask the score. “They won three-two,” Cordelia reported. “Sarah Cartwright played a fine game. She scored twice and laid on the third. Very impressive.”
“So she should be. She’s playing for the county again this season and she should get a trial for the England schoolgirl side, though I doubt if she’ll make it. She’s not really a team player. Anyhow, who else played well?”
“The left half—is it Julia, Juliet?—had a good game. Caroline Barrington plays hockey like she does everything else—masses of energy, tearing off in all directions at once, unstoppable. I imagine she played her usual game—a little short on strategy but with endless goodwill. And you’ve got a bloody good goalie there. She only let the second one in because she slipped in the mud. They’re not a bad side at all,” Cordelia replied.
“Good, good,” said Chris vigorously. “Thanks again for standing in.”
“I don’t think I made too many blunders.”
“I’m sure you didn’t—but if you did I’m sure Caroline will let me know!” Chris said with a grin. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way. I have to see the team captains about their matches and I’m sure you two have got plenty to talk over. Be seeing you. Thanks for the coffee.” She got to her feet.
“Don’t thank me, thank Paddy,” said Lindsay. “She’ll have a fit when she gets back and sees the state of her coffee jar and drinks cupboard.”
“Listen, if you two get her out, that’ll be the least of her worries,” said Chris as she left.
Cordelia slumped into the vacant armchair and immediately demanded information. “Are you going to tell me how the intrepid mountain goats got on while I was tearing up and down the sidelines risking my reputation? Can it be done?”
“It can be done, yes. It would need a certain amount of strength and skill. Cartwright would certainly have known where the stuff was kept and would have had the skill to erect the scaffolding, while Anthony Barrington would undoubtedly have had the strength and skill to perform the actual feat. But I’m not at all sure that Cartwright would have had the agility to get from the scaffolding into the room. And we don’t know how much Barrington would have known about the availability of materials on the building site. Certainly while we were up there I had a good look at the masonry and there were no signs of anyone having driven pitons into the pointing or stonework so Barrington couldn’t have done it that way—which would have been the natural method for him to have used.”
“Well, we’d better get ourselves down to Wales tonight and see what Barrington’s got to say for himself,” said Cordelia, reluctantly dragging herself to her feet. “It must have been one of those two. I’ve never believed that a woman could kill another woman as Lorna was killed. The murder’s got a man’s psychology written all over it; your evidence with the scaffolding just proves what I’ve felt in my heart all along.”
It was just before three when they pulled up in the car park at the remand center. It was busier than when they’d been before and there were a dozen other visitors by the gate when they arrived. Everyone looked depressed by their surroundings; Lindsay thought again how appalling it must be for those locked up inside. Any politician who made cheap gibes about luxury prison conditions only proved that a brick wall had more sensitivity, she thought bitterly. After a short delay at the gate, they were allowed in with a group of other visitors and escorted to the room they’d sat in before. This time, they had to wait longer for Paddy—there appeared to be too few officers to deal with a busy visiting period.
Paddy seemed to have retreated further inside herself. She forced a smile when she saw them, but it stopped at her lips. Lindsay felt anger rising in her when she saw the damage done to her friend. If she’d had any doubts about carrying on, they died then. Sod the Clarion, she thought, if there was still work to be done for Paddy, she wouldn’t be traveling north on Tuesday night.
“How are you?” Cordelia asked.
Paddy shrugged eloquently. “Anything becomes bearable after a while. Having something to read helps. And I’ve been doing some work in the laundry, which passes the time. My cell-mate is a pleasant enough soul; she keeps me entertained with tales of family life. Somehow she manages to stay cheerful in spite of being in here. God knows how she does it.”
“I don’t want to build your hopes too high,” said Lindsay, “but we’re beginning to make some progress. We think we’ve worked out how the murder was committed, and if we’re right it lets you right off the hook. We’ll give Gillian a ring first thing on Monday morning and see what can be done.”
A slow smile spread across Paddy’s face and this time it reached her eyes. “Tell me about it,” she demanded.
Lindsay and Cordelia swiftly outlined the scaffolding theory, and when they came to the part about the experiment on the roof Paddy laughed out loud. “I wish I’d been there to see you and Chris leaping around like a pair of moorland sheep. You must have given the girls fuel for weeks of jokes. Poor old Chris. They won’t let her forget that in a hurry.”
“Fortunately, I don’t think there were any girls around to see what we were doing,” said Lindsay.
“Don’t you believe it. In a rumor factory like Derbyshire House you only need one person for a story to be all over the school in a matter of hours,” Paddy replied.
“We’re still not sure who did it, however,” sighed Cordelia. “The more information we get, the harder it seems to be to prove anything.”
“Which reminds me,” said Lindsay, “do you happen to know anything about James Cartwright’s financial position, Paddy?”
Paddy’s eyebrows shot up. “Not a lot,” she replied. “The word is, he’s not as flush as he used to be. Not getting the squash court contract was a bad blow. And he hasn’t changed his car this year. I have heard this playing fields development is make or break for him, but I do find that hard to believe.”
After a moment’s thought, she went on. “Speaking of the Cartwrights, I’ve been thinking about what you were asking me the other day. About Sarah’s statement. I think she’s got it wrong, you know. In fact, it was the other way round. When I took her to Music 2, I stopped at the storeroom to have a quick word with a couple of juniors who shouldn’t have been there at the time, and Sarah went on ahead. As I entered the room, Sarah was standing by the cupboards, looking through some sheet music. Which is slightly odd because the girl has no interest in music except as an accompaniment to gymnastics. I told her to be sure she put it back in the right place because the room had been tidied up for Lorna. I don’t think one can read anything into all that but, just for the record, that’s what happened.”
“I see,” said Lindsay thoughtfully. “I think we’re going to have to have another little chat with Miss Cartwright. I don’t like people lying to me. Not when it’s a question of murder. It makes me start asking myself what they’re trying to hide.”
“Don’t be heavy, Lindsay,” Paddy warned. “She’s not a very happy kid and I feel responsible for her.”
“She’ll have to be spoken to, Paddy. There are more important things at stake here than Sarah Cartwright’s finer feelings.”
“I know that, but take it gently. You’ll get a pretty hostile reaction if you bully her.”
“You’ve got to be joking,” Cordelia said scornfully. “The last time we saw her, the only monstering that was going on was her giving Lindsay a hard time. She’s the only person, apart from Pamela Overton, who has succeeded in squashing your favorite journalist.”
Paddy laughed again and a little color crept back into her cheeks. But before Lindsay and Cordelia could capitalize on this, the officer was there to take Paddy back
to her cell. “We’ll soon have you out of here, don’t forget that,” called Cordelia, as Paddy vanished through the door again.
They walked back to the car, arguing. Cordelia was all for heading straight down to Wales to talk to Anthony Barrington, but Lindsay had changed her mind and was determined to get her own way. “I want to talk to Sarah right away,” she argued. “Barrington’s still going to be there later on tonight. Or we could go down tomorrow early. But I want to straighten out Sarah Cartwright as soon as possible. She’s lying and I want to know why.”
“We can talk to her any time. Now we know she’s lying, we only have to get at the reasons why. But we should get to Barrington as soon as we can. He’s the only person who could have had a hand in this that we haven’t talked to so far. And you seem to think he’s the likeliest candidate. A little while ago you were desperate to get down to Wales to see him.”
“But don’t you see? Sarah’s answers could change everything. It may be that after we’ve talked to her again there will be no reason for us to talk to Barrington at all. We may manage to wrap the whole thing up. We lose nothing by seeing Sarah first—and we could gain a lot. I just know it’s important.”
Cordelia sighed. “You’re like a bloody steamroller. You flatten the opposition. You just don’t listen, do you?”
“I know I’m right,” said Lindsay stubbornly.
“Well, I still think you’re wrong.” Cordelia argued.
“We’ll see,” said Lindsay. “Now, is there a phone around here anywhere?”
“I think we passed one about a mile down the road toward the motorway. Who do you want to call?”
“I just want to leave a message for Sarah. To let her know we’re coming. That should make her sweat a little. I want her nice and worried about what we may or may not know.” She got in the car.