Report for Murder

by Val McDermid

  “It’s right here,” said Cordelia. “Now, let me check . . . have I got the thumbscrews, or have you?”

  Lindsay scowled. “Very funny.

  “Only teasing,” Cordelia replied sweetly.

  Lindsay opened the car door. “Sometimes I wish I’d become a bloody fashion writer on a women’s magazine,” she muttered.

  They walked up the drive to the front door. Lindsay looked at Cordelia, pulled a face at her, then pressed the doorbell. Its sharp peal was loud enough to make them both start. Cordelia stood almost to attention facing the door while Lindsay turned away, pulled up the collar of her leather jacket, and tried to force a profoundly casual aspect on her appearance. As the door opened, she turned to face the young man who stood in the doorway. He was smartly dressed in a well-cut, pin-stripe suit and his hair was beautifully groomed. When he spoke it was with a strong Derbyshire accent.

  “What can I do for you,” he demanded sharply.

  Lindsay spoke. “We’d like to see Mr. James Cartwright.”

  “Have you an appointment?”

  “If we had, you’d be expecting us, wouldn’t you?” she responded sweetly.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Cartwright is a very busy man. He doesn’t see anyone without an appointment,” said the young man brusquely. “Are you from the papers?”

  “If you would take this letter to Mr. Cartwright, perhaps he’ll be able to fit us in,” Lindsay replied nonchalantly, handing over the envelope containing Pamela Overton’s letter. “We’ll wait and see, shall we?”

  The young man turned to enter and Lidsay nipped smartly into the porch behind him. Cordelia, surprised by this maneuver, took a moment to follow her. The inner door to the hallway was closed neatly in their faces by the young man, and Lindsay turned to Cordelia, saying, “Easy when you know how, isn’t it?”

  Cordelia muttered, “Brazen hussy!” They stood in an awkward silence till the young man reappeared a few moments later at the inner door. “He can give you a quarter of an hour. He’s got to leave after that for an important meeting in Matlock.”

  “Talk about delusions of grandeur,” Lindsay muttered to Cordelia, who struggled to swallow a nervous giggle as their footsteps clattered on the polished parquet of the wide hall in the wake of the young man. Cordelia sized up the stained pine doors and skirting board, the Victorian-style wallpaper dotted with framed photographs of sailing ships and nineteenth-century harbors, and the stripped pine church pew and pine chests that were the only furniture in the hall. The cushion on the pew matched the wallpaper. “Straight from the pages of a design catalog,” she remarked. At the end of the hall, the young man waited by a door. As they reached him, he opened it and gestured them to enter.

  The room was painted white. On the walls were two calendars and three year-planners. The floor was covered with carpet tiles and the furniture comprised equally functional office equipment. There were two metal desks, filing cabinets the length of one wall, a large computer terminal with printer attached, and, in the bay window, a draftsman’s angled desk with a battery of spotlights above it.

  At the larger of the two desks, a man was working. As her eyes swung round to him, Lindsay felt as though she’d been punched in the chest. She recognized the man she had last seen storming through the music department on the afternoon of the murder. She rapidly revised the outline of what she was going to ask him.

  He had not looked up when they entered but continued to write notes on a large plan laid out on his desk top. It was Cordelia’s first sight of Cartwright and she was impressed in spite of herself. He was in his middle forties, a big man, at least six feet tall. His torso looked solid without being flabby and his hands were the strong tools of a man used to strenuous physical work. His dark hair was thinning and graying at the temples, and his skin was weathered and lined. When he finally looked up, his eyes were surprisingly dull and tired.

  “Sit yourselves down, girls,” he said. Like his assistant, he had kept his local accent. “Now you tell me just why I should extend you my fullest cooperation. Why should I care what happens to any of that lot up there, apart from my Sarah?”

  There was silence for a moment, Cordelia flicked a glance at Lindsay, who calmly took out her cigarette pack and offered it to Cartwright. “Smoke? No? Clever boy.” She passed one to Cordelia and lit both. Then she answered him. “It strikes me that a businessman with your obvious acumen would not have kept his daughter on at Derbyshire House after the question of the playing fields came up unless there was some highly pressing reason. After all, it gave her an awkward conflict of loyalties, didn’t it? I’d guess that you didn’t remove her because the school has given her the security and friendship she never found anywhere else.”

  Cartwright slammed his hands flat on the desk. “You’ve got a hell of a nerve! My daughter was sent there for the best education, and she’ll stay there till it’s finished. Are you suggesting I don’t treat her properly?”

  Lindsay continued unflustered, “Quite the opposite,” she said calmly. “I think you and Sarah are very close. I think you both care deeply about each other. But you’re a very busy man. You must often be away from home, working late, whatever. Obviously, a growing daughter needs more than you can spare. If she’s found something she needs at the school, it would be a very important reason for letting her stay there, in spite of the conflict of interests.”

  “They must be better off up there than I thought if they can afford smart-arsed psychological private eyes to try and clear their homicidal staff,” sneered Cartwright, still angry but cooling fast.

  “We’re not private eyes, and we’re not being paid,” Cordelia retorted, no longer able to hold back her irritation. “We happen to be friends of Paddy Callaghan. And we’re certain she didn’t kill Lorna Smith-Couper. We intend to find out who did. Now, if you’re prepared to help us, well and good. If not, also well and good. We’ll simply have to get the answers we need by another route.”

  Lindsay managed to hide her surprise at this display of iron in Cordelia’s soul. Cartwright sat back in his chair, considered them both for a moment, then spoke slowly. “All right,’ he said. “Bloody nosy women, that’s what you are. I suppose you can ask me your damn questions. I don’t promise to answer any of them, but I’ll listen to what you have to say. Just remember one thing—I wasn’t at that concert on Saturday night.”

  “I didn’t see you, certainly,” said Lindsay. “But I imagine you know the school well enough both as a parent and as a builder to know how to find your way around without falling over the audience at a concert.”

  “Point taken, young lady,” he replied. “As it happens, I do know the school. I’ve done most of the building jobs there in the last fifteen years. Now, let’s hear these questions.”

  “I suppose the police have already asked you, so it shouldn’t be a problem to remember where you were on Saturday night between, say, six and eight-thirty.”

  “I was out walking on the moors late Saturday afternoon till about half-past six. I had a drink in a pub down near the Roaches, those rocks on the Leek road. The pub’s called the Woolpack. Then I wandered over to the Stonemason’s Arms near Wincle. I had a few pints there and something to eat. I left there about nine. You can check with the landlady; she’ll probably remember—I’m a regular there.” He leaned forward again, looking smug. “The police have already checked me out. Not that they were at all suspicious of me; they were just going through the motions. Roy Dart is a friend of mine. He told me it was just routine.”

  “Did you see Sarah at all on Saturday?” asked Lindsay.

  “No. Why should I have? I wasn’t near the place all day.” He did not flinch at the lie. He kept his eyes fixed on Lindsay as she asked the next question.

  “So you didn’t know she had a set-to with her friends about your bid to get your hands on the playing fields?”

  “No, I didn’t. Not that it surprises me. Half those silly little girls at that school don’t know what it means to live
in the real world. They occupy some cloud-cuckoo land, where everything will be all right because someone will always make it all right for them. So, of course, they turn on my Sarah when the usual magic doesn’t work.”

  Cordelia leaned forward and asked, “You’re pretty sure about getting the land, aren’t you?”

  “I am now,” he answered readily. “But don’t go reading too much into that. I was, anyway. This charade they’re putting on about raising the cash is just that—a charade. It would never have happened, take my word for it.”

  Lindsay gathered together her bag and fastened her jacket. “Well,” she said, “I think you’ve covered what we wanted to know, more or less. We won’t keep you from Matlock any longer. Just one thing, though—you say you weren’t near Derbyshire House on Saturday. Now that seems a little odd to me. Because I saw you there about five o’clock. Just when you were walking on the moors, according to what you’ve said.” She got to her feet, as did Cordelia, who felt a little bewildered. “Funny that,” added Lindsay. “You must have a double.”

  They got as far as the door before he spoke. “Wait a minute,” he said uncertainly.

  Lindsay half turned toward him. “Yes?”

  “All right, dammit,” he said, “all right. I did drop in at the school. I was looking for Sarah, if you must know. But I couldn’t find her, so I just buzzed off again. I saw no point in mentioning it; it might have given the wrong impression.”

  “It certainly gives me a strange impression, Mr. Cartwright. And I’m sure your good friend Inspector Dart would think the same, especially if I told him that I’d also seen the person you were talking to—or should I say arguing with? And it wasn’t your Sarah.”

  If she had expected James Cartwright to collapse at her words, she was mistaken. His eyes suddenly came to life and there was venom in his voice. “Don’t you sodding well threaten me! I don’t have to explain myself to two bloody girls. If you heard so much, what’s the need for your bloody questions? Unless you heard nothing and you’re trying to bluff me. Well, I’ve news for you. I always call bluffs.”

  “Okay,” said Lindsay. “Call mine, then. It won’t take long to tell all this to Inspector Dart. It may not make him release Paddy Callaghan on the spot, but it will provoke some hard questions and give her solicitor enough fuel to make a pretty bonfire at the committal hearing, especially if she asks for the reporting restrictions to be lifted. What price your business then, Mr. Cartwright?”

  She had opened the door and had gone halfway down the hall with Cordelia at her side before Cartwright caught up with them. “What did you hear?” he demanded.

  Lindsay stopped. “So you want to talk, then?” He nodded and they all walked back to his office. He threw himself petulantly into his chair. The women remained standing.

  “What did you hear?” he repeated.

  “Enough to know that you tried to bribe Lorna Smith-Couper into pulling out of the concert. You can’t have been so sure about Derbyshire House failing to reach their target. I also heard Lorna sending you off with a flea in your ear, threatening to expose you. And I saw the expression on your face. Murderous, I’d call it. None of it very edifying, is it?”

  “All right, so I did try to bribe her. But that’s no crime, not compared with murder. And I didn’t murder her. I’ve already cleared this up with the police. I was in one of those two pubs at the time. Look, I’ll write their names down. You can check up.” He pulled a memo pad over, scribbled the names of the pubs with a thick, dark pencil, and handed the paper over to Lindsay. “There you are, take it. Murder’s not my way, you know. I may have been underhand, but I’m not one of your bully boys that believes violence is the answer.”

  “And you’re sure you didn’t see Sarah?”

  “I didn’t. I didn’t go there to see her. I went to see Lorna Smith-Couper.”

  “How did you know where to find her?” asked Cordelia.

  “I rang her up before she came to the school and asked for an appointment because she refused to discuss business over the phone. She agreed, and rang me on Saturday morning to arrange a meeting in Music 2 at quarter to five. I knew exactly where that room was—in fact, when I was just a little two-man operation, I replaced all the windows on that floor. Like I said, I’ve done most of the building work there. The woman was there, sorting out some strings for her cello. I put my offer to her. She laughed in my face. When I left, she left too. I don’t know where she went, but I went straight to my car and drove around for a while. When the pub opened, I went in for a drink. I didn’t feel like going home to an empty house—I often don’t—so I went to the Stonemason’s. I wanted to put my thoughts about the matter out of my head for a while, so I had a meal and a few pints. That’s that. There’s no need to tell the police after all, now is there?”

  For a shrewd businessman, he was a shade too eager, thought Lindsay. She shrugged. “I make no promises,” she said. “I don’t see the need just at present. Thanks for your time, Mr. Cartwright.” Again, she and Cordelia left the office. This time, they made it out of the front door and back to the car.

  “Phew!” Cordelia sighed. “So he’s the man you saw arguing with Lorna. You sure as hell are good value for money. Nobody would guess you hadn’t planned any of that. It must have been a hell of a shock when you recognized him. Do you normally eat villains for breakfast?”

  “Come on, Cordelia. He told us hardly anything we didn’t already know. He’s only scared about more police inquiries and bad publicity. It’s only a guess, but I think he might be in deep water financially. A lot of small and medium-sized builders are really strapped for cash now. And he didn’t get that squash court contract. If that’s the case, he would badly need the playing fields project. He’s a worried man, but I’m not sure that’s because he’s a murderer.”

  “By the way,” said Cordelia, “why were you so insistent about whether he’d seen Sarah?”

  “Don’t really know. It just seemed important. Journalist’s nose, I guess.”

  Cordelia giggled. “That sounds like a particularly nasty complaint!”

  “It leads to complications. Like broken legs. I’m told. Now . . . I want to check this so-called alibi of his. What time is it?”

  “Just before two. We’d better get a move on if we’re going to see Paddy.”

  “I’ll drop you back at the school and you can sort out some clothes for her, if you don’t mind. Then I can go into town and buy some sandwiches for us and some goodies and cigarettes for Paddy. And I want a good, large-scale map of the area. We’re going to have to do some checking out on Cartwright’s tale. It all sounds a bit too convenient to me.”

  Half an hour later, they set off. Cordelia navigated them across country for fifteen miles, then they shot up the motorway. They turned off in the depths of rural Cheshire and drove down country lanes for a few miles. Lindsay finally pulled into a car park beside a high wall. The two women got out and looked around them doubtfully.

  They walked across to a high, forbidding gate and rang a bell. A small door opened and a prison officer appeared. Through the gap, Lindsay spotted an Alsatian guard dog chained to a security booth, Cordelia explained who they were, and, after waiting for a couple of minutes while they were checked out, they were allowed in. Ahead lay twin inner rings of mesh fencing topped with ugly loops of barbed wire. Incongruously, this was succeeded by wide, beautifully trimmed lawns and flower beds, well stocked with mature rose bushes. Beyond that lay the red brick buildings, clean-cut functional, modern. They could have been offices, except for the barred windows and heavy double doors.

  A woman prison officer walked them across the lawn to a square, three-story building with a small plaque by the door reading. “Female wing. Hospital Wing.” As soon as they entered the building they felt enclosed, almost claustrophobic, in spite of the bright colors of the paintwork and the occasional plant on the windowsills. They were shown into a room that smelled of sweat and cigarette smoke. A listless man in his forties wit
h a tired-looking teddy-boy haircut glanced at them without interest as they sat down at the opposite end of a long wooden bench. They sat in silence for more than ten minutes. Then another officer entered the room at the far end.

  “Lindsay Gordon, Cordelia Brown,” she said. They stood up. The officer indicated the door she had come in by and the three of them trooped through. Lindsay noticed that the door was locked behind them. The officer took the clothes, cigarettes, books, and food that they’d brought for Paddy and showed them to a table. They faced a glass screen with strips of wire mesh at each side. At every corner of the room there were more prison officers. Even Lindsay, whose job had taken her to most extreme circumstances, found the atmosphere oppressive and alienating. She could barely guess at the effect all this would have on someone like Paddy.

  After a few minutes, a door at the opposite end of the room opened, and the officer returned with Paddy. Already life behind bars had left its mark on her. Her skin had an unhealthy sallowness. There were dark bags beneath her eyes. But what was most striking was that she seemed to have lost all her self-confidence. Fewer than three days of living behind bars had cut her down to less than life-size. She looked uncertainly across the room. When she saw Lindsay and Cordelia, relief flooded her face. But even the eagerness with which she approached them seemed tempered with uncertainty. It was as if she expected them to have changed as much as she had and couldn’t quite believe that they were still completely normal.

  Cordelia spoke first. “My God, Paddy, this is dreadful. How are you managing to cope?”

  Paddy shrugged and said, “You just have to, Cordelia. Most of the time, I try to switch off and project myself back home. It’s not easy. It’s routine that’s the killer. Up at half-past seven, wash, breakfast in the dining-room with Radio 1 blasting out, then cleaning and sewing till lunch, then back to the workshops, unless Gillian’s managed to get here. Then it’s tea, then it’s telly, and then it’s bed. It’s so debilitating. All you hear is Radio 1 and the sound of keys. You’re not expected to think for yourself at any time; it’s amazing how quickly you lose the habit.”