Report for Murder

by Val McDermid

  Lindsay sighed. “I’m not completely convinced that Sarah was responsible for Lorna’s death. I know the police are satisfied, but there are nagging doubts at the back of my mind. I suppose now that Paddy’s free I should be satisfied. But I want to be sure there’s not still a killer on the loose. Forgive me if I seem melodramatic. Now, I only discovered a couple of days ago that you were about on the day of the murder and I wondered if you had noticed anything out of the ordinary?”

  “What on earth can you mean by that?” he said, a note of vexation in his voice.

  “This week, I discovered that the murder was committed in such a way that it required certain preparations to be made in advance, made, in fact, at about the time you were dropping Caroline off after your afternoon out . . . Obviously the police have questioned most of the people who were around at the time but I don’t think they’ve gone to the lengths I have because they were sure they had the person responsible. I just wondered if you had seen anything unusual.”

  “I see,” he said, seeming to relax. “By the way, I’m not being very hospitable. Would you like a drink?”

  “No thanks, I’ve got the car,” said Lindsay, glad of the excuse not to accept a drink from a man she still feared could be a murderer. “Now, when you dropped Caroline off, what exactly did you do, can you remember?”

  “We got to Derbyshire House about half-past five—quarter to six—that sort of time. I drove her up to Longnor House in the Daimler. I got out with her and went up to her room to collect some family photographs and came down more or less right away, because it was nearly time for her to have dinner. Then I drove back to my hotel.”

  “Did you go straight back to the hotel?”

  “Of course I did! When I got there, I sat in the car for about half an hour listening to the end of a Bartok concert on the radio.”

  “You misunderstood me,” said Lindsay, congratulating herself that she was beginning to get somewhere on establishing opportunity. “I meant, did you come straight down the drive the way you came in, or did you by any chance drive round by the building site?”

  “The building site? Oh, you mean where they’re putting up the squash courts? No, why on earth should I have? They’re way beyond the trees. I suppose it might have been logical to turn left and go round the back of the house to rejoin the main drive but I simply went right, back the way I’d come. It was more or less dark by then and there were quite a lot of girls going off to dinner. I didn’t want to chance hitting any of them with the car, so I avoided the back of the main building as far as possible. Does that answer your question?”

  “Yes, thank you. You were aware of what was happening at the school that night, weren’t you?”

  “Caroline had mentioned the concert, yes.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t stay for it, since you seem to enjoy music enough to sit in the car on a cold night, listening to the end of a piece of Bartok,” said Lindsay casually.

  He looked sharply at her. “I had a lot of work to do. And besides, the program didn’t appeal to me,” he retorted.

  Never give two excuses when one will do, thought Lindsay. The mark of the lie. “The program or the soloist?” she coolly asked. “I know a certain amount about your relationship with Lorna, you see.”

  “If you know anything about it at all, you will also know that it finished a long time ago,” he replied, anger giving his voice a sharp edge.

  “Caroline has spoken very freely to me about the affair and your reactions to it,” said Lindsay, keeping calm.

  “How dare you question my daughter about a family matter!” he exploded, “I’m damned certain Pamela Overton gave you no brief to subject her pupils to such disgusting prying.”

  “Caroline volunteered most of the information. She seemed to think that uncovering a murderer’s identity was rather more important than personal feelings. Don’t think it gives me any pleasure to rake up the sordid details of people’s private lives.

  “And I have to tell you, I think your daughter is a damn sight more honest than you are. You’ve given me a version of events that I know isn’t strictly true. You were seen in your car at Derbyshire House at about twenty past seven. Now, you weren’t at the concert and your car was gone fifteen minutes later. The police don’t know this yet, but it’s made me wonder what you were up to—and I’m sure they’ll wonder too. While you claim to have been listening to Bartok, you could have been killing Lorna. You may find this outrageous, but it seems to me that there’s a stronger case against you than ever there was against Paddy Callaghan—and they arrested her.”

  Throughout this speech, Anthony Barrington had looked profoundly astonished. In any other circumstances, his expression would have provoked laughter, with his open mouth, his bewildered expression, and his raised eyebrows. The silence was almost tangible, but before it could become oppressive, he found his tongue.

  “How dare you!” he roared. “My God, you’ve a nerve. First you interrogate my daughter—and you haven’t heard the last of that, I can assure you. Then you walk into my house as bold as brass and accuse me of murder, with no evidence whatsoever to support some crack-brained theory. Do you think the police are fools? If they’re satisfied, maybe it’s because they’ve got evidence. Evidence! Do you know what the word means? It means something more substantial than accusing a man of murder just because he changed his mind about going to a concert.

  “Pamela Overton must have taken leave of her senses, letting an idiot like you loose on something like this. Now, get out of here before I call the police and have you arrested. And if I ever hear you’ve repeated this insane accusation to anyone else, I’ll have a writ for slander on you so fast your tiny mind will go into a flat spin. Just take yourself out of my house—and don’t ever go near my daughter again, or you will be truly sorry.”

  There was nothing for it but to go. She piled into the car, all dignity gone, and found that her hands were shaking. She glanced back at the house to see Barrington silhouetted in the doorway, shouting and waving his fist at her. She shot down the drive and hurtled back down the narrow road with scant regard for the tortuous bends. Once on the main road, she stopped at the first lay-by and lit a cigarette.

  She tried to sort through her impressions of the hair-raising interview. She realized she had mishandled the situation and wished she’d brought Cordelia along for moral support. As far as eliminating him was concerned, there had been nothing offered in the way of proof. But unless Anthony Barrington was a first-class actor, Lindsay would stake her life on his innocence. It suddenly dawned on her that that was exactly what she had done by bowling up to his front door alone. It sent a chill through her. “I really have been bloody stupid from the very start over this,” she thought. “Still, I’m further forward than I was. I don’t believe that outrage was faked—and it says something that he admitted to having gone back to the school because he’d changed his mind about the concert. I wonder what made him feel he couldn’t go through with it once he’d steeled himself to coming back? Oh well, I guess I’ll never know.”

  She set off for the long drive back to Derbyshire, stopping only to check with the Clarion newsdesk that there were no queries on her copy. While she was in the phone box, on impulse she decided to phone Cordelia and tell her she would definitely be back by nine.

  She got straight through to Paddy and was immediately bombarded with questions. She refused to supply any details of her humiliation, promising to fill them in when she returned. Once she got Cordelia on the line she said, “Don’t say anything to Paddy yet, but I’ve just come from an extremely heavy scene with Barrington.”

  “I’m not surprised,” she replied stiffly. “What exactly happened?”

  “I’ll tell you later.” She sighed. “Suffice it to say that it never happens like this in books. Your fictional detective never gets thrown out of rich men’s houses with threats of slander. I think in future I’ll stick to being a journo. At least journalism more or less lives up to its
own mythology.”

  Cordelia laughed softly and said, “You mean you really are a promiscuous alcoholic who spends her life running into crowded newsrooms yelling, ‘Hold the front page’?”

  “But of course,” Lindsay replied. “Pour me a drink, pass me a woman and a cigarette while I knock out a world exclusive. I’ll see you later, okay?”

  She made better time on the return journey, as there was little traffic about. Two hours of hard driving with Joan Armatrading blasting out of the stereo had made her feel better. She got out of the car singing and noticed with surprise that a police car was drawn up next to Paddy’s Land Rover. As she walked toward the door of the house, two uniformed officers got out of the car and intercepted her.

  The elder of the two, a sergeant, said, “Miss Lindsay Gordon?”

  “That’s right. What’s the problem?”

  “Inspector Dart has asked me to bring you along to the police station. There are one or two things he wants to have a word with you about.”

  She forced a taut smile to her lips and said in a voice that struggled to stay casual, “I don’t suppose I have a great deal of choice?”

  The sergeant studied her, saying nothing. She shrugged and said, “Very well. Shall we go?”

  They traveled the short journey to the police station in silence. The car pulled up by a long, low building above the town center. Lindsay followed the policemen inside to a large hallway with a reception desk closed off by partitions of frosted glass. The sergeant left her to wait with the constable and disappeared through a side door. From the reception area she could hear the low murmur of voices. Lindsay wondered what Dart could possibly want with her now.

  A couple of minutes passed before the sergeant reappeared. It felt longer. “Come with me, please,” he said. “The Inspector’s waiting for you.”

  They walked together down a long corridor. Even on a Sunday evening the station seemed busy. There were lights on throughout the building and people appeared in doorways and bustled along the corridors. They stopped before an unmarked door and the sergeant knocked. It was opened by Dart’s silent young sidekick. He stood back for her to enter and the two uniformed men departed.

  Inspector Dart was sitting behind a cluttered desk. He glanced up at her, shook his head wearily, and said, “Some coppers get to spend Sunday night at home with their feet up watching Dirty Harry on the video. Other poor sods get dragged out because they happen to get tangled up in cases that throw up right stupid bastards. Guess which category I come into, Miss Gordon?”

  Lindsay said nothing. Her silence clearly exasperated him. He went on. “I could say, I suppose you’re wondering why I had you brought here tonight. But that would be a pretty silly thing to say to someone who thinks she’s smarter than the whole of Derbyshire Constabulary. I think you know very well why you’re sitting here tonight.

  “I’ve had a complaint about your activities. A very strongly worded complaint from a very irate gentleman who alleges that you virtually accused him of committing murder. Not even an unsolved murder, at that. A murder to which an eighteen-year-old girl confessed before she killed herself in an extremely unpleasant and painful way. Now I don’t know what the hell you think you’re playing at, but this gentleman told me a great deal about your little chat. I presume you know what I’m talking about? Or are there some more people scattered round the countryside that you’ve been accusing of murder? Well?”

  “I suppose Anthony Barrington’s been on the phone,” said Lindsay resignedly. She was thankful that her journalistic experiences over the last few years had destroyed any awe and respect she had ever felt for the police. It made the interview a little easier to deal with at the end of a draining day.

  “He has indeed, Miss Gordon. And from what he says, you really have been playing silly buggers this time. Isn’t it enough to drive one girl to suicide? Don’t you think that’s sufficient mayhem for one weekend?”

  “That’s unfair. Sarah did what she did for her own reasons, which I suspect had little to do with me. But I managed to work out what really happened last Saturday night—which is more than you and your men achieved.”

  They glowered at each other across the desk. When Inspector Dart spoke again, he sounded calmer, “I’m at a loss to know what you’re playing at. I want an explanation.”

  “If you treated people in an adult and reasonable way, you might get explanations more often. But every time I’ve spoken to you, all I’ve had is hostility and aggression. That, together with the fact that you locked up my best mate for a crime she had nothing to do with, means you shouldn’t be surprised that if I’ve got any ideas at all about this business, I want to check them out myself before I entrust them to you.”

  He got up from the desk and walked round behind her. She refused to turn round to face him. His voice sounded tired. “The last thing the police want is to be made fools of. In this force, we’re not stupid and we’re not bent. We are, by and large, a bunch of honest coppers doing our damnedest to dear up the messes that the inadequate, the criminal, and the plain bloody stupid leave behind them.

  “If in the process we upset the likes of you, then that’s tough luck. You can look after yourself; you’re not some pathetic little wimp. So don’t expect us to fall over ourselves being nice.

  “But you’ve proved that, even though you’ve done some incredibly stupid, naïve, and dangerous things over the last week, you’ve got a brain. So I’d like to know what happened tonight, and why.

  “And before you start, just let me say again how bloody naive and stupid you’ve been. Just suppose Anthony Barrington had been a killer. You went off there on your own. You might like to think you’d have been able to deal with that situation, but I’m not so sure. A person who has killed has broken a fundamental human taboo. Once broken, the taboo loses all force. The next kill is easier. And if your life lies between a killer and safety, it’s not worth much. This is real life, you know, not some kind of game. You could have been as dead as Lorna Smith-Couper by now.”

  Lindsay nodded slowly, feeling an enormous weariness sweeping over her. “It occurred to me afterward. I’m afraid that I get carried away when I get gripped by an idea. However, I think I’ve reached the point where I have to tell you what I think happened last Saturday night.”

  21

  Lindsay walked out of the police station and breathed the cold night air deeply. It tasted clean after the stuffiness of Inspector Dart’s office. She sighed profoundly, knowing that she still had work to do before she could sleep. The interview had been trying and far from satisfactory. She walked across the deserted market place to a phone box and dialed Paddy’s number. It was Cordelia who answered.

  “Where are you?” she demanded. “Do you know what time it is? You said you’d be back by nine. The police have been here looking for you. I’ve been worried sick.”

  Lindsay allowed herself a lopsided wry smile. “You sound like my bloody mother,” she replied. “I got caught up, that’s all. I’ll tell you about it later. I’ve got one more thing to do, and I’m not sure how long it’ll take me. Will you wait with Paddy till I get back?”

  Cordelia caught the serious tone in Lindsay’s voice. “Are you all right?” she asked anxiously.

  “Yeah, I’m fine; just a bit tired, that’s all. I only rang so you wouldn’t be worried. See you later.”

  “All right. Take care, now. I’ll wait up for you.”

  Lindsay put the phone down quickly. The concern in Cordelia’s voice hurt too much. She didn’t want to do what she was going to do, but she couldn’t see any alternative. That didn’t take the fear away, however. She left the phone box and quickly walked the hall mile to their hotel. She ran upstairs to their room and let herself in. She pulled out her miniature tape recorder from her holdall and checked the batteries. She broke open a fresh pack of tiny cassettes and inserted one. Finally, she did a check for voice level with the machine in her jacket pocket. Satisfied that her equipment was working properly,
she took a last look round the hotel room. She thought of writing a note to Cordelia in case anything happened to prevent her safe return, but then dismissed the idea as melodramatic, turned on her heel, and marched back downstairs. It took her a couple of minutes to get her bearings, then she set off to walk to James Cartwright’s house.

  The street was quiet and empty except for a few parked cars. Lindsay shivered when a strong gust of wind caught her face as she turned into Cartwright’s drive. There was a light burning in the hall, and a smudge of light on the lawn at the side of the house, which Lindsay guessed came from the ground-floor office where she and Cordelia had interviewed Cartwright before.

  On the doorstep, she set the tape recorder for voice-automated recording and rang the doorbell. Some time elapsed before it opened, framing Cartwright against the strong light from within. He looked tired and disheveled, as if he’d gone to seed overnight, and as he spoke, his sour gin breath hit Lindsay. “What the hell do you want?” he demanded angrily.

  “I want to talk to you. About Sarah,” said Lindsay quietly.

  “You? What the hell do you think you’ve got to say that I would want to listen to? My daughter’s dead, thanks to you, and now you want to talk to me about her? You can piss off.” He moved to close the door, but Lindsay was quicker and pushed her body into the gap.

  “That might be what the police have told you, but you and I know a different story, don’t we? If anybody drove Sarah to slash her wrists, it wasn’t me. I know the truth, Cartwright, and I want to talk to you about it. You can take your pick. Either we talk about it now, or I go to the police and talk about it with them.”

  He looked suspiciously at her. The blurred look left his features as comprehension drove the effect of the drink away. “I don’t know what you mean,” he replied belligerently. Lindsay said nothing. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, you’d better come in. I don’t want a scene on the doorstep,” he sighed.