Report for Murder

by Val McDermid

  “Cordelia Brown? The chat-show queen?”

  “Don’t be snide, Lindsay. You know damn well she’s a good writer. I’d have thought she’d have been right up your street.”

  “I like her novels. I don’t know why she does all that telly crap, though. You’d hardly believe the same person writes the books and the telly series. Still, it must keep the wolf from the door.”

  “You can discuss the matter with her yourself. She’s arriving later this evening. Try not to be too abrasive, darling.”

  Lindsay laughed. “Whatever you say, Paddy. So the book auction rounds the day off, does it?”

  “Far from it. The high point is in the evening—a concert given by our most celebrated old girl, Lorna Smith-Couper.”

  Lindsay nodded. “The cellist. I’ve never seen her perform, but I’ve got a couple of her recordings.”

  “More than I have. I’ve never come across her, as far as I know. She had left before I came to the school—I didn’t get here till the fifth form. And it’s not my music, after all. Give me Dizzy Gillespie any time.”

  “All that jazz still the only thing you’ll admit is music, then? You’ll not be able to help me, in that case. I’d love to get an interview with Lorna Smith-Couper. I’ve heard she’s one of the most awkward people to get anything out of, but maybe the good cause together with the old school ties will make her more approachable.”

  Paddy turned the Land Rover into a sweeping drive. She stopped inside the heavy iron gates, leaned across Lindsay, and pointed. “See that folly on the hill over there? It’s called Solomon’s Temple. If you look straight left of it, you can just see a corner of the stupid green acres that all this fuss is about.” There was an edge in her voice and they drove on in silence. Ahead of them stood Derbyshire House, an elegant mansion like a miniature Chatsworth. They swung round a corner of the house and dropped down into a thick coppice of birch, sycamore, and rowan trees. After a hundred yards, they emerged in a large clearing where six modern stone blocks surrounded a well-tended lawn.

  “The houses,” said Paddy. “About half of the girls sleep in the main building and the more senior ones sleep here,” she pointed as she spoke, “in Axe, Goyt, Wildboarclough, and my house, Longnor. The two smaller ones, Burbage and Grin Low, are for teachers and other staff.”

  “My God,” said Lindsay, “the only thing this verdant near my school was the bloody garden of remembrance behind the local crematorium.”

  “Very funny. Come on, Lindsay, do stop waving your origins around like a red flag and have a drink. I can feel this is going to be a good weekend.”

  2

  Paddy and Lindsay were stretched out in Paddy’s comfortable sitting-room. It was furnished by the school in tasteful if old-fashioned style, but Paddy had stamped her own character on it. One wall was completely lined with books and the others were covered with elegant photographs of stage productions and a selection of old film posters. The chairs were upholstered in leather and, in spite of their shabbiness, they were deep and welcoming. By the window was a large desk strewn with piles of papers and exercise books and in the corner near the door was a cocktail cabinet, the only piece of furniture that Paddy had carted around with her everywhere for the last ten years.

  Lindsay nursed her glass and drawled, “So what’s this one called?”

  “Deep Purple.”

  “Great hobby, making cocktails. Of course, I’d never have your flair for it. What’s in this, then?”

  “One measure Cointreau, three of vodka, blue food-coloring, a large slug of grenadine, a measure of soda water, and a lot of ice. Good, isn’t it?”

  “Dynamite. And it goes down a treat. This is certainly the life. What time’s dinner? And should I change?”

  “Three quarters of an hour. Don’t bother changing, you’re fine as you are. Tomorrow will be a bit more formal, though; best bib and tucker all round. We’ll have to go over to the staffroom shortly, so I can introduce you to the workers.”

  Lindsay smiled. “What are they like?” she asked, slightly apprehensive.

  “Like any collection of female teachers. There are the super-intelligent, witty ones; the boring old farts; the Tory party brigade, and the statutory radical—that’s me, by the way. And a few who are just ordinary, unobjectionable women.”

  “My God, it must be bad if you’re their idea of a radical. What does that mean? You occasionally disagree with Margaret Thatcher and you put tomato sauce on your bacon and eggs? So am I going to like any of this bunch of fossils?”

  “You’ll like Chris Jackson, the FE mistress. She comes from your neck of the woods, and apart from being a physical fitness freak is obsessed with two things—winemaking and cars. You can imagine what we have in common, and it isn’t overhead camshafts.”

  Lindsay grinned. “Sounds more like it. I don’t suppose . . .?”

  Paddy returned the grin. “Sorry. There’s a large rugby player in the background, I’m afraid. You’ll also like Margaret Macdonald, if she can spare enough time from this concert to say hello. She’s head of music, and a good friend of mine. We sit up late and talk about books, politics, and what passes for drama on radio and TV.”

  Lindsay stretched, yawned, then lit a cigarette. “Sorry,” she muttered. “Train’s tired me out. I’ll wake up soon.”

  “You better had. You’re due to meet our magnificent headmistress, Pamela Overton. One of the old school. Her father was a Cambridge don and she came to us after a brilliant but obscure career in the Foreign Office. Very efficient and very good at achieving what she sets out to do. High powered but human. Talk to her—it’s always rewarding, if unnerving,” Paddy observed.

  “Why unnerving?” Lindsay was intrigued.

  “She always knows more about your area of competence than you do yourself. But you’ll enjoy her. You’ll have a chance to judge for yourself tonight, anyway, before the guest of honor gets here. Ms. Smith-Couper has not said when she’ll be arriving. Her secretary simply said some time this evening. Really considerate.”

  Paddy got to her feet and prowled round the desk, her strong, bony face looking puzzled. “I’m sure I left myself a note somewhere . . . I’ve got to do something before tomorrow morning and I’m damned if I can remember what it is . . . Oh, found it. Right. Remind me I have to have a word with Margaret Macdonald. Now, shall we go and face the staffroom?” They walked through the trees to the main house. In a small clearing over to one side, a few floodlights illuminated a building site.

  “New squash courts,” Paddy explained. “We have to light the site because we kept having stuff stolen. It’s very quiet round that side of the school after about ten—an easy target for burglars. Chris Jackson is champing at the bit for them to finish. Pity we can’t hijack the cash for the playing fields, but the money came to us as a specific bequest.”

  The two women entered the main building by a small door in the rear. As they walked through the passages and glanced into the classrooms, Lindsay was struck by how superficially similar it was to her own old school, a crumbling comprehensive. Both had had the same institutional paint job done on them; both used pupils’ artistic offerings to brighten the walls; both were slightly down at heel and smelled of chalk dust. The only apparent difference at first sight was the absence of graffiti. Paddy gave Lindsay a quick run-down on the house as they walked toward the staffroom.

  “This is the kitchen and dining-room. The school has been in the building since 1934. Above us are the music rooms and assembly hall—it was a ballroom when Lord Longnor’s family had the house. There are classrooms, offices, and Miss Overton’s flat on this floor. More classrooms on the second floor, and the top floor is all bedrooms. The science labs are over in the woods, on the opposite side from the houses. And this is the staffroom.”

  Paddy opened the door on a buzz of conversation. The staffroom was elegantly proportioned, with a large bay window through which Lindsay could see the lights of Buxton twinkling in the darkness. About twenty women w
ere assembled in small groups, standing by the log fire or sitting in clumps of unmatched and slightly shabby chairs. The walls were occupied by a collection of old prints of Derbyshire and a vast notice-board completely covered with bits of paper. The conversations did not pause when Lindsay and Paddy entered, though several heads turned briefly toward them. Paddy led Lindsay over to a young woman who was poring over a large book. She was slim but solidly built, and seemed bursting with a vitality that Lindsay only dreamed of these days. Her jet black curly hair, pink and white complexion, and dark blue eyes revealed her Highland ancestry and reminded Lindsay painfully of home.

  Paddy interrupted the woman’s concentration. “Chris, drag yourself away from the exploded view of a cylinder head or whatever and meet Lindsay Gordon. Lindsay, this is Chris Jackson, our PE mistress.”

  “Hello there,” said Chris, dropping her book. She still had the accent Lindsay had grown up with but had virtually lost under the layers of every other accent she had lived amongst. “Our tame journalist, eh? Well, before everybody else says so without meaning it, let me tell you how grateful I am for any help you can give us. We need to keep these playing fields, and not just to keep me in a job. We’d never get anything nearly so good within miles of here. It’s good of you to give us a hand, especially since you’ve no real connection with the place.”

  Lindsay smiled, embarrassed by her sincerity. “I’m delighted to have the chance to see a place like this from the inside. And besides, I’m always glad of work, especially when it’s commissioned.”

  Paddy broke into the pause which followed. “Chris, you and Lindsay are from the same part of the world. Lindsay’s from Invercross.”

  “Really? I’d never have guessed. You’ve hardly any trace of the accent. I’d have said yours was much further south. I’m from South Achilcaig myself, though I went to school at St. Mary Magdalene in Helensburgh.”

  The two women launched into conversation about their origins and memories of the Argyllshire villages where they grew up, and discovered they had played hockey against each other a dozen years before. Paddy drifted off to talk to a worried-looking woman seated a few feet away from Lindsay and Chris. Only minutes later their reminiscences were interrupted by raised voices from Paddy and the other woman.

  “I had every right to excuse the girl. She’s in my house, Margaret. On matters of her welfare, what I say goes,” Paddy said angrily.

  “How could you blithely give her permission to opt out when it’s so near to the actual concert? She is supposed to have a solo in the choir section. What am I supposed to do about that?”

  Startled, Lindsay muttered, “What’s going on?”

  “Search me,” Chris replied. “That’s Margaret Macdonald, head of music. Normally Paddy and her are the best of pals.”

  Paddy glared at Margaret and retorted, “Far be it from me to put my oar in, but Jessica did suggest the Holgate girl could perfectly well handle an extra solo.”

  The other woman got out of her chair and faced Paddy. “I make the decisions about my choirs, not Jessica Bennett. If the girl had come to me with her demands, I would not have given her permission to skulk in a corner and avoid her responsibilities. She’s not the only person who has reasons for wanting to have nothing to do with this concert. But some people just have to struggle on.”

  “Look, Margaret,” said Paddy more quietly, realizing the eyes of the staffroom were on them, “I’m sorry this has put you out. I know how much you’ve got on your plate. But in my view it would be far worse if I’d sent the girl off with a flea in her ear and she ended up throwing a fit on the concert platform. And in my view that would have been quite possible.”

  Margaret Macdonald opened her mouth to retort, but before she could speak the staffroom door opened and a tall woman entered. As she moved into the room, the conversations gradually started up again. The music teacher turned sharply away from Paddy, saying only, “Since you have told the girl it will be all right, I must abide by your decision.”

  Looking slightly stunned, Paddy returned to Lindsay and Chris. “I’ve never known Margaret to behave like that,” she murmured. “Incredible. Hang on a minute, Lindsay; I’ll go and bring the head across.” She walked over to the tall woman who had just entered and who was now chatting to another mistress.

  Pamela Overton was an imposing woman in her late fifties. She was dressed in a simple dark blue jersey dress and wore her silver hair over her ears in sweeping wings which flowed into an elaborate plaited bun on her neck. Paddy went over to her and exchanged a few words in a low voice. The two women joined Lindsay and Chris.

  Paddy had scarcely finished the introductions, with Lindsay lost in admiration at Pamela Overton’s beautifully modulated but unquestionably pukka voice, when there was a knock at the door. It was opened by one of the staff, who stepped outside for a moment. Returning, she came straight to Miss Overton’s side and said, “Miss Smith-Couper is here, Miss Overton.”

  Pamela Overton had hardly reached the door when it was flung open to reveal a woman in her early thirties whom Lindsay recognized instantly. Lorna Smith-Couper was even more stunning in the flesh than in the many photographs Lindsay had seen of her. She had a mane of tawny blonde hair, which descended in a warm wave over her shoulders. Her skin was pale and clear, stretched tightly over her strong bone structure. And her eyes shone out from her face like hard blue chips of lapis lazuli.

  As Lindsay watched her sweep into the room, she was aware of Paddy turning to face the door. And she sensed her friend’s body stiffen beside her. Only Lindsay was close enough to hear Paddy breathe, “Jesus Christ Almighty, not her!”

  3

  After dinner, Lindsay and Paddy skipped coffee in the staffroom and walked back through the trees to Longnor House. All Paddy had said was, “They’ll be too busy with the superstar to notice our absence. And besides, we’ve got the excuse of having to be back in case Cordelia arrives early.” Lindsay was struggling to remain silent against all her instincts both as a friend and as a journalist. But she realized that to press Paddy for information would be counter-productive.

  Dinner had not been the most comfortable of meals. Lorna Smith-Couper had greeted Paddy with an obviously false enthusiasm. “Dearest Paddy, whoever would have expected to find you in such a respectable situation,” she had cooed. Paddy had smiled coldly in return. Her attempts to drift away from the group that had immediately formed around the cellist had been thwarted by Pamela Overton, who had suggested in a way that brooked no argument that Paddy and Lindsay should join Lorna and her at high table. Lorna had ignored Paddy from then on and had devoted herself to her conversation with Pamela Overton, after pointedly saying to Lindsay, “Anything you hear is completely off the record, do I make myself clear?” As it happened, she said nothing that anyone could have been interested in except Lorna herself.

  The meal itself had come as a pleasant surprise to Lindsay, whose own memories of school and college food had left her disinclined to repeat the experience. A tasty vegetable broth made with a good stock was followed by chicken and mushroom pie, baked potatoes, and peas. To finish there was a choice of fresh fruit. She remarked on the quality of the food to Paddy, but her friend was too abstracted to do more than nod.

  Back in Paddy’s room, Lindsay stretched herself out in a chair while Paddy brewed the coffee. From the kitchen she called out, “Sorry I’ve not been much company.”

  Lindsay saw her chance to dig an explanation out of Paddy and immediately called out, “Dinner was a bit of a strain. I could hear my accent becoming more and more affected with every passing sentence. But I thought you said you’d never met our guest of honor?”

  There was a lengthy silence filled only by the sound of the percolating coffee. When Paddy eventually spoke there was deep bitterness in her voice. “I didn’t realize I had,” she said. “I only ever knew her as Lorna. In that particular circle, first names were all we ever seemed to exchange.”

  She returned to the living-room
and poured coffee for them both. “You make it sound like a John Le Carré novel,” Lindsay said.

  “Nothing so dramatic.”

  “You don’t have to tell me about it unless you want to. No sweat.”

  “I’d better tell someone before I blow up. It goes back, oh, eight or nine years. I was doing bit parts in London and the odd telly piece. Looking back at it now, the people I used to hang around with were a pretty juvenile lot, myself included. We thought we were such a bunch of trendies, though. We were heavily into nightclubbing, getting stoned, solving the problems of the world, and talking a lot about permissiveness without actually being particularly promiscuous. A depressing hangover from the sixties, our crowd was. It was all sex and drugs and rock and roll. Or at least we tried to convince ourselves it was.”

  Paddy looked Lindsay straight in the eye as she spoke, not afraid to share her shame with someone she trusted. “An expensive way of life, you see. And not easy to sustain on the sort of money I was making. But I found a way to finance it. I started dealing dope. No big-time hard stuff, you understand, but I put a fair bit around, one way or another. So there were always people coming round to my flat to score some dope. Regular customers, word of mouth, you know.” Lindsay nodded. She knew only too well the scenes that Paddy described. “One of my customers was a musician, a pianist. William. Came several times with his girlfriend. The girlfriend was Lorna.”

  Lindsay pulled out two cigarettes from her pack and lit them. She passed one to Paddy, who inhaled deeply. “You see what this could mean?” she asked. Lindsay nodded again as Paddy went on. “All she’s got to do is drop a seemingly casual word when there are other people around and bang, that’s my job gone. I mean, okay, most of our generation have dabbled with the old Acapulco Gold at one time or another but nobody talks about it now, do they? And no school, especially a public school, can afford to be seen employing a teacher who is known to have dealt in the stuff. It’s no defense to say I’ve never so much as rolled a joint on school premises. What a story for you, eh?”