by Val McDermid
“So what are we going to do about it?”
“Will you come back to Derbyshire with me? When we were talking on Sunday night, you seemed to have one or two ideas about other people with motives. We can see Paddy and find out if there’s anything she can tell us. If we can get people to talk to us, maybe we can find out things the police have missed. I know it all sounds a bit School Friend and Girl’s Crystal stuff, but perhaps we can just pull something off. After all, we’re starting from a different premise. We know Paddy didn’t do it.”
Lindsay thought for a moment. “I can’t go anywhere till tomorrow night. I’ve got to work tomorrow. I can cancel Thursday and Friday, but I can’t afford to let the Clarion down tomorrow. We could go down then.”
“Fine. A few hours can’t make that much difference. Besides, I’ve no idea how to go about this. What should our plan of campaign be?”
Lindsay shrugged. “I’ve no experience of these things. Usually on investigative stories, you have a source who tells you where to look for your information. Or at least you have an idea where to find some background. This is a very different setup. It always seems so easy for the Hercule Poirots and Lord Peter Wimseys of this world. Everyone talks their head off to them. But why should anyone want to talk to us?”
“Because people love being interviewed. It makes them feel important, and besides, no one who knows Paddy would want her to go to prison.”
“No one except the murderer. And I hope whoever it is can sleep easy tonight. Because he or she won’t have many easy nights once I get after them, that’s for sure.”
9
An hour later, after food, more whisky, and wrangling, they had produced a sheet of A4 paper covered in the following:
1. James Cartwright. Motive: wants the playing fields to turn into expensive development. Opportunity: poor—not at concert. Where was he? Access to weapon: presumably knew Longnor House since daughter is there. Anyone could get hold of a cello string. Find out about financial position.
2. Margaret Macdonald. Motive: unknown but seen in emotionally charged discussion with Lorna on Saturday morning. Opportunity: excellent. In all the bustle, could easily have slipped into the room after Paddy left. Access to keys and weapon: good—even though she lives in a different house; any member of staff could presumably wander in and out of Longnor without raising any suspicion.
3. Caroline Barrington. Motive: not clear, but makes no secret of her hatred for Lorna. Opportunity: took a long time getting programs from music storeroom, only yards from murder room. Access to weapon: lives in Longnor, probably knew music-room stock, and likely to know where keys are kept.
4. Sarah Cartwright. Motive: love of father, deserted by friends over playing fields. Opportunity: unknown. Supposedly asleep in Longnor. Access to weapon: lives in Longnor. No known connection with music rooms.
5. Cordelia Brown. Motive: to avoid unsavory and costly libel action. Opportunity: reasonable. She was away from her seat for a significantly long period around the crucial time. Hard to believe she could have done it without being spotted. Access to weapon: spent the night in Longnor and knew her way round the music rooms. Would have had difficulty concealing weapon as she was wearing close-fitting dress with no bag. If her, action must have been premeditated—weapon must have been secreted in music room earlier.
6. Paddy Callaghan. Motive: to avoid exposure of drug-dealing in the past. Opportunity: best by far. Was in the music room alone with Lorna. Last person known to have seen her alive and speak with her. Access to weapon: excellent.
7. Who was the man quarreling with Lorna?
“Of course,” said Lindsay, “I only include you and Paddy for the sake of seeming objective.”
Cordelia smiled wanly. “Thanks for your confidence. Don’t think I don’t feel the cold wind at my neck. If Paddy weren’t such a convenient choice, they’d be looking very hard at me. So are you suggesting that these are the people we should concentrate on?”
“They’re our only starters so far. But enough of this, we’re going round in circles. We can’t actually get any further till we’ve spoken to the people concerned. And one thing I’ve learned from newspapers is that when you can’t get any further, you go for a drink. We could nip down to my local and have one or two before closing time. It’s only five minutes’ walk. There’s usually a couple of my mates in there. Fancy doing that?”
Cordelia looked doubtful. “I’d be just as happy staying here with you. I’m not one for pubbing it, normally. But if you really want to . . .”
Lindsay looked at her suspiciously. “You’re doing the ‘English fear of the Scots drinking’ number, aren’t you? What you’re really saying is that if this was some bijou wine bar with a rather nice house Muscadet, that would be okay, but some wild Glasgow spit and sawdust bar is really not what you have in mind—am I right?” She grinned to take the sting out of her mockery.
Cordelia had the grace to look sheepish. “All right, all right. I’ll come to the pub. But I’m warning you now, the first drunk that accosts me with, ‘See you, Jimmy’ and I’m off.”
When they walked into the Earl of Moray Tavern, Cordelia felt all her worst fears had been realized. The floor was bare vinyl, the furnishings in the vast barn of a room were rickety in the extreme, and had clearly never been much better. There was not another woman in sight, apart from the calendar girl on the wall. But Lindsay walked confidently through the bar, greeting several of the men at the counter, leaving Cordelia with no option but to follow. Let this be her baptism of fire, thought Lindsay grimly. At the far end of the bar, they went through a glass-paneled door into another world. The lounge bar was cozy, carpeted, and comfortable. Lindsay piloted Cordelia to a table where a blonde woman in her early thirties was staring glumly at the last inch of a pint of lager. She looked up and smiled at Lindsay. “I’d given up hope of seeing you tonight,” she greeted her. “Everybody’s either out of town or washing their hair or on the wagon.”
“Would I let you down?” Lindsay retorted.
“Not if there was drink involved. Who’s your friend, then?”
Lindsay sat down and, hesitantly, Cordelia followed suit. “This is Cordelia Brown. Cordelia, this is Mary Hutcheson, the best careers officer in Glasgow, an occupation rather like being lead trombone in the dance band of the Titanic.”
Mary smiled. “Hello. What brings you to Glasgow? Surely not the company of a reprobate like Lindsay?”
Before Cordelia could reply, the barmaid, a gentle-faced woman in her forties, came across to them. “What’ll it be Lindsay? The usual?”
“Please, Chrissie. And one for Mary. What’ll you have, Cordelia? Glass of the house Muscadet?”
Cordelia looked bewildered, not certain if she was the butt of Lindsay’s humor. Seeing her confusion, Chrissie said, “We’ve got some Liebfraumilch too, or a nice Italian red if you like that better.”
Lindsay, struggling to keep a straight face, said, “I think she’d maybe just like a whisky and water, Chrissie, that’s what we’ve been on. Okay, Cordelia?”
She nodded. As Chrissie returned to the bar, Mary astutely demanded, “Lindsay, have you been winding this woman up?”
Lindsay smiled broadly. “Afraid so. Sorry, Cordelia, I couldn’t resist. I’ve seen so many people come up from London and patronize this city of mine so thoroughly you wouldn’t believe. So now we tend to get our blows in first.”
Cordelia lit a cigarette and looked at Lindsay, considering her. “All right, I probably would have got round to deserving it. But just remember—one day you’ll be on my patch and these games can cut both ways.”
It was two hours and several drinks later when they staggered giggling up the three flights of stairs to Lindsay’s flat. “Sorry about the stairs,” she panted. “Top flats are always the cheapest, you see.”
Lindsay shut the door behind them and fastened the bolts and chain, then turned to Cordelia with a diffidence far removed from the brash assertiveness she’d been displ
aying all evening and said, “I don’t know what you want to do about sleeping arrangements. There’s a spare bed in my study if you want it. It’s up to you. I . . . I don’t want you to feel anything’s expected . . .” She leaned against the door, shoulders slightly raised against the rebuff she felt sure was coming.
Cordelia stood, hands in pockets, looking far more casual than she felt. “I’d rather like to sleep with you,” she said softly.
Lindsay’s uncertainty made her scowl. “You’re sure? You don’t just feel you’ve got to?”
Cordelia moved to her and hugged her close. “Of course not. But if you’re going to make an issue of it, I’ll begin to think you don’t want me.”
Lindsay held her tight and laughed nervously. “Oh, I want you all right. Even if you do turn out to be the big bad murderer.”
She felt Cordelia stiffen. “You still think I might have done it?” she demanded, pulling away.
Lindsay held on to her hand, refusing to allow her to escape, “I hardly know you. The fact that I turn to jelly every time you come near me doesn’t cancel out what I know with my head. You were there. You had a motive. I don’t believe you did it. But I’m still clear-headed enough about you to know that at least half the reason I don’t believe it is because I don’t want to believe it.”
“You really know how to kill desire stone dead, don’t you?”
Lindsay shook her head. “I don’t want to do that. I’ve sat in that pub for the last two hours wanting you so badly it hurt,” she said passionately. “The only reason I wanted to get out of the flat was that I didn’t think I could sit all evening in a room alone with you and not make a bloody big fool of myself. Of course I want to go to bed with you. But it’s going to mean something to me, you’d better be aware of that. And if it’s going to mean something to me, then I’m not going to bed with you under false pretences. So let’s spell it out. Yes, I still think you might have done it. With my head, I think that. But all my instincts tell me you’re innocent.”
They stood bristling at each other. Cordelia shook her head, wonderingly. “My God, you’re honest. You don’t spare anyone, do you?”
“If you start with lies, nothing you build can be honest. It’s true in every area of your life. And I tell you now, honesty’s the point at which my previous relationships have come unstuck. So if we’re going to be lovers, let’s do it with our cards on the table.”
“All right, honest journalist.” Cordelia moved back toward Lindsay. “Cards on the table. I didn’t kill Lorna. I don’t go to bed with people just for kicks. It’ll mean something to me too. I’m not committed to anyone else. I have all my own teeth. I love Italy in the spring. I hate tinned soup, and I want you right now.” She kissed her suddenly and hard. Lindsay tasted cigarettes and whisky and smelled shampoo. And was lost.
Glued to each other, they performed a complicated sideways shuffle into Lindsay’s bedroom. Because it was the first time, the clumsy fumbling to undress each other lost its ludicrous edge in mutual desire.
They tumbled on to the duvet, both bodies burning to the other’s touch. Lips and hands explored new terrain, hungry to commit the maps of each other’s bodies to memory. Later, as they lay exhausted among the ruins of the bedding, Cordelia ran her hand gently over the planes of Lindsay’s body where she lay face down, head buried between her new lover’s small, neat breasts. Lindsay propped herself up on one elbow and licked her dry lips. She smiled and said, “I taste of you. You taste like the sea. That’s what I miss, living in the city. I grew up by the sea. My father earned his living with what he could pull out of the sea. I’ve always associated the best times in my life with the smell and taste of the sea.”
Cordelia smiled. “You saying I’m like a piece of seaweed?”
“Not exactly. Not everyone tastes like the sea. Everyone tastes different. Everyone smells different.”
“Maybe you just bring out the best in me.” They chuckled softly, and because it was the first time, they didn’t move apart, but simply fell asleep where they lay, somewhere in the middle of their conversation.
Lindsay was wakened at eight the next morning with a cup of coffee. Cordelia stood by the bed, looking better in Lindsay’s dressing gown than its owner ever did, and said, “I woke early. I always do. So I just made myself at home in a corner of your kitchen and did some work. I thought you might like a coffee.”
Lindsay could tell at once that everything was all right between them. There was no constraint, no trace of regret for either of them. It had been the right thing after all, thought Lindsay with relief. She pushed herself upright and took the coffee. Cordelia sat down on the bed as if it was something she had been doing all her life.
“Anything in the papers about Paddy?” asked Lindsay.
“Just the bare fact that she has been arrested and will appear in court this morning. I wish I could be there to give her some moral support. I wish she knew where I am and why.”
Lindsay smiled wryly. “No doubt she won’t be in the least surprised to hear how things are between us. I suppose I should be feeling guilty that we’ve been enjoying ourselves while she’s locked up.”
“Paddy would be furious if she heard you say that,” said Cordelia with a grin, getting up. She took a tracksuit and training shoes out of her bag and put them on, adding, “She knows that we’ll be doing everything we can as quickly as possible, and if on the way we’ve found time for ourselves, well, that’s nothing to be guilty about. Now, I’m going out for a run. What’s the best way to go for a bit of scenery?” She jogged gently on the spot.
“Go down to the Botanic Gardens across the road, and down the steps to the river. There’s a good long walkway by the banks of the Kelvin, whether you turn left or right.”
“Terrific. Who’d have thought it in Glasgow, she says, sounding like every patronizing Southerner who ever arrived here. Now, what time do you finish work?”
“I’ll be through about quarter to seven. Can you meet me at the office to save time? All the taxi drivers know it—just ask for the back door of the Clarion building. I’ll check the office library today for anything about Lorna that might help us. What are your plans?”
Cordelia carried on jogging and said effortlessly, “I’ll make some phone calls to old girls, friends in the music business, anyone I can think of who might have some background gen. Have you some spare keys so I can get in and out—I presume you’ll be gone by the time I get back?”
Lindsay yawned and stretched. “Unfortunately, yes. There are keys on the hook by the phone. I’ll have to be off as soon as I’ve had a shower. Help yourself to food, drink, phone, whatever. There’s eggs, cheese, bacon, and beer in the fridge.”
Cordelia shuddered. “What a disgustingly unhealthy diet. What about the fiber and vitamins?” She stopped running and leaned over Lindsay. “Have a good day. I’ll miss you.” They kissed fiercely, then Cordelia rose to go.
“By the way,” said Lindsay, “I have a couple of pictures you might be interested in. The full frame of the snatch I sent out to the papers. I’ll leave them on the kitchen table. See if they mean anything to you. Enjoy your run.”
Lindsay lay back and luxuriated in thoughts of Cordelia as she listened to the front door closing behind her. Then she shook herself and jumped out of bed for her shower.
Half an hour later she pulled into the Daily Clarion’s car park and headed straight for the office library, pausing only to drop by the newsdesk and tell them where she was going. Their file on Lorna was not extensive but fairly comprehensive. Critical notices and a couple of profiles fleshed out what Lindsay already knew. She had jotted down one or two names without much hope that they might be worth talking to before she came across two clippings that seemed to provide more fertile ground. One consisted of a couple of paragraphs from the Daily Nation’s Sam Pepys’ Diary linking her name with Anthony Barrington of the Barrington Beer brewing empire. The other was a few paragraphs long and reported that Lorna had been cited in the B
arrington divorce a few months later. “Caroline!” Lindsay breathed.
She went back to the counter and asked if they had anything on file on Anthony Barrington. The librarian vanished among the high metal banks of the computerized retrieval system that still hadn’t managed to render obsolete the thick envelopes of yellowing cuttings. He returned with a thin file and a current edition of Who’s Who. Lindsay started with the reference book:
Barrington, Anthony Giles, m. 1960 Marjory Maurice, m.diss.1982. 1 son 2 daughters. Educ. Marlborough, New Coll., Oxford. Managing Director and Chief executive Barrington Beers. Publ: Solo Climbs in the Pyrenees, The Long Way Home—an Eiger Route. Interests: mountaineering, sailing. Clubs: Alpinists, White’s. Address: Barrington House, Victoria Embankment, London.
“Interesting,” she mused. The file cuttings comprised the two she had already seen and a story about a climbing team he’d led reaching the Eiger summit by a new route. By no means a run-of-the-mill businessman. Lindsay could see why Caroline might have good reason to hate Lorna if she had caused the breakup of the girl’s family.
Lindsay had no time for further thought, because the tannoy announced at that moment that she was wanted at the newsdesk.
Duncan Morrison, the news editor of the Clarion, was the typical Glasgow newspaper hard man with the marshmallow center. Although he spent a lot of time winding Lindsay up about her views, she knew that he thought she was good at her job. He didn’t seem to mind that she argued with him in a way that none of his staff reporters would dare. As she approached the newsdesk, he threw a memo to her and said, “Get busy on that. A real tear-jerker there. Just the job for you. What it needs is a woman’s touch.”
