Report for Murder

by Val McDermid

  “Yes, I walked. It’s not far—only a couple of miles across the moors. I couldn’t sleep, so I thought that if I came up here and wandered round on my own in the silence of night I might get some answers.”

  “And did you, you tantalizing pig?” Cordelia appealed.

  Lindsay leaned back on the pillows and smirked. “You really want to know?”

  Cordelia jumped on the bed and grabbed her shoulders in affectionate annoyance. “Of course I want to know!”

  “I’ve remembered what it was I had forgotten.”

  There was a pause. When Cordelia spoke it was almost a whisper, as if she did not want to tempt fate. “And it’s important? As important as you thought it might be?”

  “I think so. If I’m right, it shows how the murderer committed the crime without being spotted in the music department. And it also narrows the field down considerably. But we’ll have to talk to Chris Jackson this morning to see if my theory will hold water.”

  “Well then, tell me; don’t keep me guessing!”

  “Okay. But only after you’ve made me a cup of coffee.”

  “Oh, Lindsay Gordon, I could strangle you,” yelled Cordelia as they tussled on the bed. Finally she sat back and declared, “All right. If coffee is your price, I’ll pay. Besides, I could do with a cup myself.” She slipped through to the kitchen and set the percolator going. Then she returned to the bedroom.

  “I’ve done my bit,” she reported. “Now, while we’re waiting, you can tell me what it is you’ve remembered. Who did you see or hear doing or saying what? If you see what I mean.”

  “Nobody. It’s not quite that simple. On Saturday afternoon, after the play and before the book auction, I sat at the very front of the hall, at the side, and stared out of the window in between jotting down some notes. Those windows look down on the kitchen roof and the woods. The curtains were drawn in the evening by the time the concert began. But at that time, it wasn’t quite dusk, so no one had got round to shutting out the view. I could see the flat roof of the kitchen. I noticed the pots of conifers. And I noticed that strong iron railing going all round the roof.

  “Later, after Lorna had been murdered, I was going back from the music room to the hall. The two windows in the corridor didn’t have curtains at them, so again I could look out and see the kitchen roof, though at an angle because it doesn’t come along as far as the music department. I was thinking about what Pamela Overton had said, and about what I’d just seen, so I was looking without really noticing anything.”

  “I subconsciously registered that there was something different about the roof, but I didn’t really focus on what it was because it was too far from the room where Lorna died to have anything to do with the murder, I thought at the time. Last night, however, I stood at the same window and I remembered what I’d seen. It hadn’t been there on Saturday afternoon, and it wasn’t there when I looked out again on Tuesday. But it was on Saturday night.”

  The percolator burped loudly as Lindsay paused for dramatic effect. She grinned and went on. “Four scaffolding poles and a pile of clamps. And I thought, what if someone put them together and clamped them to the railings? They could clamber along the frame, wait till Lorna was making enough noise to cover small sounds, slide up the window catch almost silently, as I did the other day with my knife, get into the room, creep up on her, and kill her. All the setting up could have been done while everyone else was having dinner. The garrote could have been made at any time during that afternoon, or even at dinner time. I also had a wander round the building site for the squash courts. There’s lots of scaffolding poles there that look just the same as the bits on the roof.”

  There was a pause as Cordelia considered these new possibilities. “I think we both need that coffee now,” she said softly. She left the room and returned with two steaming mugs.

  “That certainly answers one or two questions,” she sighed.

  “All of them except the crucial one,” Lindsay replied. “It explains why no one saw the murderer entering or leaving the room. It also explains the problem of the locked door. All the murderer had to do beforehand was to arrange the chair and music stand so that Lorna had her back to the window, to check out the window catches, and to collect a cello string—a gruesome little touch. And if I’m right, it also cuts the suspects down considerably.”

  “I suppose so,” said Cordelia meditatively. “I haven’t had long enough to assimilate the idea yet. Surely, though, it lets out Paddy and Margaret for a start?”

  “I reckon it eliminates everyone who was visible or alibied at dinner and during the first half of the concert. That does mean Paddy and Margaret—and also Caroline and Jessica. And of course, you. There’s no way you could have been shinning up scaffolding in that outfit! And much to my irritation I think we may have to exclude James Cartwright. It’s got to be someone who had motive, means, and opportunity, but also the skill and nerve to contemplate that particular murder method. Right now I can think of only one person who fits the bill.”

  “The one man we haven’t seen yet.”

  “Well, who else really? Anthony Barrington is known for his climbing feats. He’s got nerve and skill. He’s a successful businessman, which means he must have a streak of ruthlessness in his makeup. Lorna had cost him a great deal in personal terms, and I’d guess from the way Caroline has spoken about him that his family was pretty important to him. Losing that would rankle deeply with such a man. We’ve got to see him, Cordelia, and soon.”

  Cordelia thought for a moment. Then she said, “I imagine the school secretary will have an address and telephone number for him. If we’re lucky, we may track him down today without having to ask Caroline.”

  “That would be all to the good. If we ask her, there’s every chance that she’ll tip him off and I’d like to hit him unprepared. So you try the school office and see what you can come up with. We’ll also have to have a word with Chris Jackson to see if we can run a little experiment quietly. What normally happens on a Saturday morning?”

  “Hockey and lacrosse matches for the games players. The rest are supposed to be involved in their hobbies—photography, woodwork, orienteering, you name it.”

  “Are there many people drifting around?”

  “There shouldn’t be any, but there’s always the odd one or two. It’s probably quietest around half-past ten. Most people are busy by then. But don’t forget Chris will almost certainly be refereeing some games match. It would be best to go into school breakfast and try to catch her there. Maybe she can get someone to stand in for her.”

  Lindsay agreed to this, and while she showered and dressed, Cordelia sat scribbling in her notebook. When Lindsay reappeared, the other woman mused, “I don’t think you’ve thought it through completely vis-à-vis James Cartwright. He would have had to take something of a risk, but I think he’s still in the frame. He wasn’t at the Woolpack till seven, don’t forget. He could have made the preparations while everyone was at dinner—in the same way as Caroline’s father could have done. There’s hardly any leeway in terms of time. But I think Cartwright’s still a possibility if we have to give Barrington a clean bill of health.”

  She waved her notes at Lindsay. “Look. I’ve worked it out. Six o’clock he comes back to the school. He collects the scaffolding—don’t forget, he was bound to know it was there, which Barrington may not have done. Then it’s up the fire escape to the kitchen roof, where he assembles the frame. He would also know what he was doing, he’s been a builder for years. If anyone knew how to erect that frame, it was him. He’s still a strong-looking bloke. And he installed those windows. He’d know exactly what he was about, breaking in through them without making a noise.

  “So he bolts the scaffolding to the railings. Then he nips into the music department and makes his preparations. I’m not sure why he took the toggle from Longnor—maybe he’d parked his car near there and it was only on his way back that he realized he’d need something to protect his hands. Anyway, he
drives to the Woolpack, has a very quick pint, and shoots back here. Along the scaffolding he goes, flicks open the window catch, pulls himself over the sill, and bingo! Even if Lorna had heard him and there had been a struggle, he’s strong enough to have overpowered her easily. Then it’s off into the night, pausing only to dismantle the scaffolding. He could have come back and taken it away at any time. What do you think?”

  Lindsay grimaced wryly at Cordelia and lit a cigarette. “Listen, sunshine,” she said, trying but failing to keep her voice light and jokey, “I’m supposed to be the Sherlock Holmes around here. You’re supposed to be the dumb Dr. Watson who stands back in amazement when the great investigator propounds her extravagant but impeccable theories. Your role is to provide an appreciative audience for my little gray cells, not to steal my thunder. Nevertheless . . . you’re absolutely right. I was too hasty in ruling him out. It’s just as well one of us is cautious.”

  Cordelia made a mocking bow at Lindsay. “Your humble servant acknowledges her menial role. But I must be allowed at least one good idea per case. Is that what I’m supposed to say?” She looked hard at Lindsay. “I don’t care what you think you’ve got to prove, Lindsay. Don’t try to do your proving on me. It’s not necessary.”

  Lindsay flushed. “I was only joking,” she muttered defensively.

  Cordelia winked broadly at her. “Better luck next time,” she said, gently.

  Together they walked across to breakfast and were lucky enough to find Chris Jackson sitting alone at a table plowing her way through a mound of toast and bacon. They sat down beside her after collecting boiled eggs and rolls.

  The Scottish gym mistress scarcely looked up from her morning paper and gave them a monosyllabic greeting. A moment later, she took in who was sharing her table, for she put down the sports pages and focused sharply on the two women.

  “How’s it going, then?” she asked. “I’m surprised you’re still around. I thought you’d dropped poor old Paddy down the plughole since I hadn’t seen you around for a couple of days.”

  “No chance,” Lindsay replied. “We’ve been chasing around like blue-arsed flies. There’s no way I’m giving up till I’ve got somebody in the cells in place of Paddy Callaghan.”

  “And have you got anybody in mind?” Chris asked, trying to appear nonchalant but failing dismally.

  “Let’s just say we’ve eliminated certain possibilities and we’ve considerably narrowed down the field. I could even go so far as to say that we reckon we’ll soon be able to prove that Paddy Callaghan could not have killed Lorna. We’d like your help to do that. It’s a matter of assistance with a little experiment we’ve got in mind,” said Lindsay.

  Chris thought for a few seconds before she replied. “Provided I’m not top of your list of suspects, I’ll do anything I can to help,” she said, a nervous undertone in her voice.

  Lindsay grinned widely, and Cordelia declared quickly, “Not at all, Chris. It’s just that we need a bit of help and you were the only person we could think of with the necessary skills. Are you busy this morning?”

  “Well, I’m supposed to be umpiring the First XI’s match against Grafton Manor. I don’t see how I can get out of it because I can’t think of anyone else who’s available to do it.”

  “That is something of a problem. I was afraid you might be tied up,” said Cordelia with regret.

  “No problem at all,” Lindsay interjected brightly.

  “I know just the person. She’s fighting fit for all that running around and she knows the rules. Don’t you Cordelia?”

  Cordelia’s mouth dropped open as she struggled for something to say.

  Lindsay grinned. “I know you don’t want to miss out on our experiment, but after all, you did suggest that this morning was the best time. Now, I’ve done a spot of climbing in the past and Chris is a gymnast. We should be able to manage it. So if you don’t mind relieving her, we might be able to wrap this whole thing up nice and quickly. Besides, you missed your run this morning,” said Lindsay in a rush.

  “You rotten sod,” Cordelia muttered. “You’ve got the cheek of the devil.”

  “Ah well, where we come from, the sparrows fly backward to keep the dust out of their eyes, don’t they, Chris? Seriously, now, is that okay with you both?”

  “It’s fine by me. At least it’s a home match, so you won’t have to travel with the girls,” Chris replied. She quickly filled Cordelia in on her duties at the hockey match and turned to Lindsay. “What exactly are we going to do?”

  “I’ll tell you when we meet,” said Lindsay. “It’s vital that you keep this to yourself. The murderer mustn’t know what we’re up to. I’ll see you at about quarter past ten in Paddy’s rooms.”

  Chris agreed to this arrangement, so Lindsay and Cordelia left her alone as they went off to obtain information from the school secretary. As they walked down the corridor, Cordelia spluttered with good-natured grumbles.

  “That was some bloody stroke you pulled on me,” she complained. “Umpiring a bloody hockey match while you have all the fun. I could kill you, Gordon. You just better cover all the angles, that’s all I can say.”

  In the secretary’s office they were lucky again. The files produced a weekday and weekend address for Anthony Barrington, complete with phone numbers. They were about to leave when the other door to the office opened and they found themselves confronted by Pamela Overton who ushered them into her office and asked them to sit down. Like mesmerized first-formers, they sat.

  “It has been almost a week now since the murder, and Miss Callaghan is still unjustly imprisoned. Have your inquiries borne fruit so far?”

  Cordelia shifted uncomfortably in her seat and gazed at Lindsay with mute appeal. Lindsay pulled herself together, trying desperately to feel like a mature adult instead of a naughty schoolgirl caught doing unspeakable things behind the bike sheds.

  “We’ve made a certain amount of progress,” she said. “We drew up an initial list of people we felt might have some possible motive for killing Lorna. We’ve managed to eliminate several people on that list. Right now we’re taking some steps which we hope will produce results within the next forty-eight hours. We believe we’ll be able to establish Paddy’s innocence beyond question. I’m bound to say that the way things look at the moment, the criminal is neither a pupil nor a member of staff. We’ll do our very best to let you know the results before the police are informed, if that’s possible.”

  There was a silence while Miss Overton digested this information. At last, she said, “I hope you’ll be able to bring this affair to a speedy end, and one that is satisfactory to the school. Now, some time ago you asked me a question about keys, and this I can now answer. As far as the Bursar is concerned, when Mr. Cartwright does any work in the school, he is issued with the keys he needs and he returns them when the job is completed. We have no reason to suppose there are any of the school keys permanently in his possession. I hope this information will help. I won’t keep you any longer, but I do hope to hear from you soon.”

  Thus dismissed, they left hastily. “She reduces me so,” complained Cordelia. “I simply can’t respond to her. You amaze me, you stay so composed.”

  “All a front, I assure you. Inside, I feel fourteen and guilty as hell. I feel she can read my mind; she knows exactly what I want to do with you!”

  Slowly they walked back to Longnor, discussing their plans for Anthony Barrington. They decided that Lindsay should phone his weekend cottage to try to find out if and when he would be there. Back in Paddy’s rooms, she dialed the number. On the third ring, the phone was answered by a woman who sounded middle-aged.

  “Llanagar 263,” she said with a strong Welsh accent.

  “Hello,” said Lindsay, “is Mr. Barrington there?”

  “I’m sorry,” said the voice, “he’s gone out on the hills.”

  “Oh, that’s a pity,” said Lindsay. “I had hoped to catch him. Do you know what time he’ll be back?”

  “He
’s usually back about four this time of year. Who shall I say called, please?”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter. I’ll call again later,” Lindsay replied, hanging up before she could be questioned further. “I think I got the cleaning woman,” she said to Cordelia. “He’ll be back around four. Shall we shoot over there this evening? I’d like to see Paddy again this afternoon. How long do you reckon it will take to get to his place?”

  “I suppose between two and three hours driving; I’m game if you are.”

  They smiled at each other and began to prepare for their various morning activities.

  PART FOUR:

  FINALE

  17

  Cordelia left just after nine-thirty to drive the hockey team in the school minibus to the pavilion on the threatened playing fields. As she drove, she mused on the irony of a conservation policy that meant the town had nowhere to expand, being surrounded by Country Park and National Park. The result was that any piece of land inside the boundaries immediately shot up in value so fast that soon there would be no green left inside the town at all except pocket-handkerchief gardens.

  Left to herself, Lindsay put a Charlie Mingus album on Paddy’s stereo and settled back for a solitary think. She reviewed all she knew about the case, from its beginning to the present, to make certain she had not missed some glaringly obvious piece of evidence. But eventually she was satisfied that no other vital fragment of information was lurking in the corners of her mind. All the evidence seemed to point inexorably to Anthony Barrington. She was forced to accept Cordelia’s hypothesis that Cartwright was still a possibility, but she had reservations about him. She made a mental note to see if she could find out anything firm about the financial status of his business. If he turned out to be sufficiently solvent, his motive would be virtually demolished.

  She thought for some minutes about how she could easily discover the relevant information, but there seemed no obvious answer. She would ask Paddy that afternoon, she thought. Paddy always seemed to have her finger on the pulse of life around her.