Report for Murder

by Val McDermid

  Supposing Sarah hadn’t killed Lorna, Lindsay speculated. Supposing she believed her father had killed Lorna—leaving aside for the moment whether he had or not. If she had reasons for thinking he was guilty, and that he was close to being discovered, would she have killed herself to protect him? That was the sixty-four-thousand dollar question, Lindsay realized. Considering what she knew of the girl’s character, from her own observation and from the comments of others, she thought it was a distinct possibility. The girl worshiped her father. The only other anchor in her life was the school and her relationship with her fellow pupils, which had been dealt a hard blow by events at the craft fair. Most girls would have shrugged the matter off then and there, but Sarah had reacted rather extremely. She seemed, by choice, to be a very isolated girl. So it might well have been that she would rather have sacrificed herself than see her father arrested for murder.

  Lindsay sighed deeply. Part of her said, drop it, leave it be. Paddy was free, free and cleared. But the other part of her refused to let go. Her newspaper training had heightened the tenacious determination in her to get to the bottom of things and not to be fobbed off with half an answer. Now doubts had wormed their way into her head and she was afraid they were going to give her no peace.

  She shook her head vigorously, like a dog emerging from a stream, crushed her cigarette out, and walked briskly back to Longnor, hoping that diving back into the celebrations would drive her doubts away. Pamela Overton had gone by the time she returned, and Gillian Markham was standing by the door with her coat on.

  She turned to Lindsay and smiled. “I’m glad you’re back,” she said. “I’m off now to let you get on with your celebrations, but I wanted to thank you for all the work you’ve done on Paddy’s behalf. I know this business has been pretty terrible; on the positive side, however, Paddy’s name has been cleared, and that’s largely due to the efforts of you and Cordelia.”

  Paddy interrupted. “That goes for me too. If we’d relied on the police to clear this business up, I’d still be rotting in jail. So thanks, both of you.”

  Lindsay blushed and shook her head. “Maybe we did do that. But I cocked the whole thing up in the end. I was so excited by what we’d found out that I ignored Cordelia’s good sense, and I have to accept responsibility for what happened to Sarah. It’ll stay with me for a long time. Maybe it will make me stop and think twice about some of the stunts I get up to. But the people who deserve at least as much thanks as me and Cordelia are Pamela Overton and you, Gillian, yourself. If Pamela hadn’t been so convinced of your innocence in the first place that she demanded our help, I don’t think it would have occurred to Cordelia or me to get involved in the way we did. And you’ve been pretty exceptional too, Gillian—I can’t think of many lawyers who would go along with the unconventional routine we’ve been pulling over the last week. End of speech. Now, will someone give me a beer?”

  Gillian said goodbye and left the three of them sitting round the fire with their meal. They ate in a companionable silence for the main part, and it was only after they sat back with coffee that Paddy demanded to know the full story of their investigations. Between them, Lindsay and Cordelia managed to give her a full rundown.

  There was a hush while Paddy took in all they had to tell. “What a waste!” she sighed at last. “So much loyalty. So much love. And two horrible deaths out of it. And what for? A bunch of bloody playing fields, which Cartwright will almost certainly pick up since I can’t see us raising the money now. Oh God, I think I’ll get a job in some grotty inner-city comprehensive where nobody cares that much about anything, let alone a few acres of green.”

  “You’d hate that, and you know it,” Lindsay retorted, “so what about some inner-city comprehensive where people do care and need what you can give them?”

  Paddy burst out laughing. “I’m hardly out of prison and already you’re lecturing me. I give up, Lindsay, I give up!”

  Their general laughter was interrupted by a knock at the door. Paddy groaned. “Sounds like everything’s back to normal already.” She called, “Come in!”

  Caroline’s head appeared round the door. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “But we just wanted to tell you how pleased we all are to have you back with us. We all knew you didn’t do it, and we missed not having you about the place. It just wasn’t the same having Sherlock Holmes and Watson keeping an eye on us. I say, Miss Callaghan, you should have seen them in action. Extremely tough cookies.”

  “That will do, Caroline,” said Paddy, smiling. “Thank you for your kind words. I’ll do the rounds later on, so you’ll be able to check for yourselves that I’m still in one piece.”

  “Okay, Miss Callaghan. We’ve all been a bit worried about you. It’s good to see prison hasn’t ground you down.”

  “Caroline—on your way!”

  The girl grinned and vanished. “I swear her grin hangs around after her, like the Cheshire Cat,” Cordelia muttered.

  Caroline wasn’t the only visitor. As the afternoon wore on, most of the members of the staff popped in briefly to congratulate Paddy on her release. But the atmosphere remained muted, for no one could forget that a girl had died. After a couple of hours, Paddy suggested that they all go for a walk up the hill behind the school. As they set off, Lindsay spotted Jessica Bennett walking through the trees from the main building. On an impulse she said, “You two go ahead, I’ll catch you up. I just want to have a few words with Jessica. Nothing important, just a little point I want to clear up for my own satisfaction.”

  Cordelia shook her head with an air of amused tolerance. “You’re never content, are you? All right, but don’t be long, or you’ll never catch us up.”

  “Don’t be so sure of that,” said Paddy. “After a week’s incarceration, I feel totally flabby.” They walked off, leaving Lindsay to wait by the door for the girl.

  When Jessica spotted Lindsay, she smiled broadly, “Hi,” she said. “I hear Miss Callaghan’s been released. It’s wonderful news, isn’t it? I’m so glad you were able to find out what really happened.”

  Lindsay smiled wanly. “I’m glad she’s back. But I seem to have done as much harm as good. Listen, Jessica, can you spare me a couple of minutes? There’s something I want to ask you, just to settle something in my own mind.”

  The girl frowned slightly. “But I thought it was all cleared up now?”

  “Come in a minute,” said Lindsay, leading the way into Paddy’s sitting-room. “There are a couple of details I was wondering about. It’s being a journalist. I’m like a dog with a bone.”

  Jessica sat down. “All right. Ask what you want and I’ll try to answer.”

  “It’s my own fault. I should have asked you this when I spoke to you before. But I let myself be sidetracked when you told us where you found Miss Callaghan and what frame of mind she seemed to be in. Daft of me—because I asked everyone else what I’m going to ask you now. I had a feeling it might be important. All I wondered was if you saw Sarah at all on Saturday night, and if so, when and where.”

  “Is that all?” she said, sounding relieved. “I actually saw her a couple of times. When I went to get my coat to go across to Main Building to get Miss Callaghan, Sarah was just going out of Longnor. She had her anorak on and she was wearing tracksuit bottoms and trainers.”

  “What time was that?”

  “It must have been about a quarter past seven. I remember looking at my watch and thinking that was good because I’d be able to find Miss Callaghan before the concert started. Then, when we came back, I went back into the cloakroom to hang my coat up. That must have been just after half-past seven—say, twenty-five to eight. Sarah was sitting in the cloakroom, just staring into space, I tried to talk to her, but she just shrugged me off and I saw her going back upstairs. I suppose she was going back to her room. It’s terrible to think of it now—she must have just come back from killing Lorna then, mustn’t she?”

  Lindsay was noncommittal, trying not to show that what the girl had
said was significant. She thanked Jessica for her help and as gently as possible got rid of her. She sat at Paddy’s desk with her head in her hands. What she had just been told made her thoughts race furiously round her head. How could Sarah have killed Lorna between seven fifteen and seven thirty-five? Although that part of the school grounds overlooked by the music-room windows was normally dark and deserted at that time of the evening, on the night of the murder it had been busy: cars were being parked and people were walking to the concert. It would not have been feasible to have carried out that murderous climb until the area had been quiet again—in other words, till seven thirty. And Lindsay couldn’t believe the murderer would have taken any chances till the concert was under way, to muffle any sounds coming from the music room.

  So that left her two choices. James Cartwright. And Anthony Barrington. If she had to pick one on the basis of what she already knew, she would have opted for Cartwright every time, but it wasn’t that simple. If she went to Inspector Dart with her latest suspicions, she was sure she’d get extremely short shrift. And approaching Cartwright himself on the day after his daughter had killed herself was something she couldn’t face. She thought back to her first few weeks as a journalist, when she had discovered how much she hated the ghoulish task of talking to bereft relatives, trying to collect pictures from them. Now she would do almost anything to avoid those assignments. She knew journalists who could cope in that situation, but the grief of strangers was something she still found painful and embarrassing, especially after Frances’ death. She asked herself how, carrying the extra weight of responsibility for this death, she could walk into Cartwright’s house and start asking the questions she needed answers to.

  That left Anthony Barrington. It could do no harm to talk to him, she reasoned. If he was innocent, she could eliminate him—which would leave her virtually certain of Cartwright’s guilt. And if he wasn’t innocent she would have avoided a crass encounter with Cartwright.

  She made her decision then and there. She glanced at her watch. If she drove fast, she could be at Barrington’s Welsh home by six. She grabbed a piece of paper and wrote, “Had to go out on business. Sorry—back about nine. If the office rings, tell them I’m on the road and I’ll phone in later.” She didn’t want either Paddy or Cordelia to know that pursuit of the truth was still gnawing at her like a maggot.

  But luck wasn’t on her side. Just as she was leaving the building, Cordelia jogged back down the path. “I came back to see what was holding you up,” she said. “Paddy’s nattering to one of her colleagues, so I thought I’d collect you. Coming?”

  Lindsay shook her head. “I’ve got to go out,” she muttered. “I’ve left you a note.”

  “What do you mean? Don’t be so mysterious! Where are you off to?”

  Lindsay sighed. “If you must know. I’m going to see Anthony Barrington.” She looked like a sulky child caught stealing chocolate.

  “Oh, Lindsay,” Cordelia groaned, “why can’t you just leave it alone? Look, Paddy’s free. Sarah has confessed. The police are satisfied. Why can’t you be?”

  “Because it doesn’t seem right to me,” she replied stubbornly. “You didn’t read that suicide note. I did and I don’t believe Sarah killed Lorna. For a start, the note was too long. It’s as if she was trying to convince us that she’d done it. But it was also short on detail. There was nothing in it that wasn’t common knowledge. I’m convinced that she killed herself because she thought her father had done it and she couldn’t face living with that.”

  “But if Sarah killed herself because she thought her father was guilty, why not go to see him? Why go to see Barrington?”

  “I’m going to see Barrington, because that’s what we were intending to do as the next logical step. Besides, it’s a softer option than Cartwright just now.”

  “You’re crazy,” Cordelia retorted angrily. “Can’t you just accept that it’s all over and you’ve made a mistake? You don’t have to be perfect, you know. No one expects you to be infallible.”

  “I wasn’t wrong, damn it,” Lindsay exploded, “I’m bloody certain Sarah didn’t kill Lorna. It’s not enough any more just to clear Paddy. Not for me, anyway. There’s someone walking around out there who committed murder. I don’t think that’s a very healthy state of affairs, do you?”

  “No, but why should it be you that’s got to put it right? Call the police, tell Dart what you think. That’s how you should do it. Haven’t you learned anything from what’s happened?”

  “Oh yes,” said Lindsay, her voice heavy with sarcasm, “and Dart’s going to pay a lot of attention to me, isn’t he? No, I’m going to talk to Barrington. That’s that.”

  They stood glaring at each other. Cordelia broke the silence with a sigh. “Well, I’d better come with you, hadn’t I? We don’t want you walking into a potential murderer’s front room on your own, do we?”

  But Lindsay, thoroughly roused, was in no mood for olive branches. “I don’t need a minder,” she stated. “I’ve been looking after myself in dodgy situations for a long time now. I think I’ll manage it on my own. See you later.”

  She turned on her heel and walked over to her car without looking back. When she glanced behind in her rearview mirror, Cordelia had gone. Lindsay smacked her fist against the steering wheel.

  “Why do I do it? Why the hell do I do it?”

  20

  Just before six, Lindsay left the main trunk road she’d been following through Wales and turned north up a terrifying single-track road with a series of hairpin bends and sheer drops down the mountainside. Lindsay was only glad it was twilight and she couldn’t see the extent of the precipitous slopes. Eventually the road climbed to a tiny village consisting of a post office, a pub, a chapel, and a handful of cottages. Other houses straggled up the hillside. Lindsay pulled up and took another look at the scrap of paper with Barrington’s address. Plas Glyndwr, Llanagar. No wonder the Welsh got fed up with the English and their weekend cottages, thought Lindsay. The invaders even pinched the best Welsh names.

  She set off slowly, trying without success to find the house. Carrying on up the road, however, as she came round a particularly awkward blind bend, she found Plas Glyndwr. Lindsay braked sharply. This was no weekend cottage. It was a four-square, large family house, set behind banks of rhododendrons with a fair-sized lawn and big kitchen garden to one side. A dark blue Daimler was parked in front of the house and an elderly Ford Cortina sat outside the side door. “Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound,” she muttered to herself as she reversed the MG up the drive.

  She got out and rang the bell by the front door. A full minute passed before it was opened by a woman in her fifties wearing a voluminous wrap-round apron. She had flour on her hands and smudges on one cheek. She looked surprised to see Lindsay.

  “Can I help you?” she inquired, her Welsh accent evident even in those few words.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Barrington, if he’s at home,” said Lindsay.

  “And who shall I say is calling?”

  “My name is Lindsay Gordon,” she replied. “He won’t recognize the name, but I know his daughter Caroline. I won’t take up much of his time.”

  “Wait here a moment,” she said and disappeared, shutting the door firmly behind her. She was back within thirty seconds. “Come in,” she said, leading Lindsay in.

  As they walked through the hall, Lindsay noticed that the only distraction came from framed Ordnance Survey maps of the region hanging on the walls. The woman showed Lindsay into an airy sitting-room, furnished unpretentiously with large chairs upholstered in well-worn William Morris Liberty prints. Anthony Barrington was sitting at a big roll-top desk by the window, a tumbler of whisky in his hand. He looked remarkably like the photograph in Caroline’s room. He was wearing a baggy Aran sweater, old corduroy breeches, thick socks, and sheepskin slippers. His eyebrows were raised quizzically as he rose to greet Lindsay.

  “Good evening, Miss Gordon, is it? Do sit down. My housekee
per tells me you’re a friend of Caroline’s. What has my mad daughter been up to this time to drag you out into the middle of nowhere?”

  “Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Barrington. Caroline hasn’t been up to anything she shouldn’t have. It’s not exactly Caroline I wanted to talk to you about, though she’s involved indirectly.”

  His eyebrows shot up again in surprise. “Oh?” he said speculatively. “You do know my daughter, I take it?”

  Lindsay smiled. “Oh yes, I know Caroline. She’s a remarkable girl. You must be proud of her. She’ll go far with that lively mind. But it’s more to do with the school. Last week, Pamela Overton asked me to do something related to the murder of Lorna Smith-Couper.”

  Lindsay’s words seemed to hang grimly in the air. Anthony Barrington remained completely unmoved at the sound of a name that must have taken him by surprise.

  “And what exactly do you imagine that has to do with me?” Lindsay found him distinctly intimidating as he towered above her.

  “If I could just explain. Last week the police arrested Caroline’s housemistress for the murder. Miss Overton asked me and another friend of Miss Callaghan’s if we would make some inquiries into the matter, since she believed Paddy was innocent and she knew that I felt the same way. I don’t know how much you know about the events of the last few days?”

  He studied her carefully before answering. “I read in this morning’s papers that a girl at the school had killed herself and that the police were investigating a connection between her and the murder. I rang Caroline this morning about it, since I was naturally concerned, and she told me that Sarah Cartwright confessed to the murder. As a result, Miss Callaghan has been freed. Or so the school gossip goes. I would have thought that meant an end to it. I don’t quite understand what you are doing here.”