Читать книгу Report for Murder - V. McDermid L. - Страница 11

Lindsay was drifting in that pleasant limbo between sleep and wakefulness. A distant bell had aroused her from deep and dreamless slumber, but she was luxuriating in her dozy state and reluctant to let the dimly heard noises around her bring her up to full consciousness. Her drifting was abruptly brought to an end by a sharp knock on the door. Her nerves twitched with the hope that it might be Cordelia and she called softly, ‘Come in.’

But the door opened to reveal a tall young woman carrying a tea-tray. She was wearing a well-cut tweed skirt and a fisherman’s sweater which engulfed the top half of her body. ‘Good morning Miss Gordon,’ she said brightly. ‘Miss Callaghan asked me to bring your tea up. I’m Caroline Barrington, by the way, second-year sixth. This is my room. I hope you’ve been comfortable in it. It’s not bad really, except that the window rattles when the wind’s in the east.’ She dumped the tray on the bedside table and Lindsay struggled into a sitting position. Caroline poured out a cup of tea. ‘Milk? Sugar?’ Lindsay shook her head as vigorously as an evening of Paddy’s cocktails would permit.

Caroline walked towards the door, but before she reached it, she hesitated, turned, and spoke in a rush. ‘I read an article in the New Left last month about women in politics - that was by you, wasn’t it?’ Lindsay nodded. ‘I didn’t think there could be two of you with the same name. I enjoyed it very much. I was especially interested, you see, because I might go into politics myself after university. It’s rather given me a boost to realise that there are other women out there with the same sort of worries.’

Lindsay finally managed to get her brain into gear. ‘Thanks. Which party do you favour, by the way?’

Caroline looked extremely embarrassed, shifting from one foot to the other. ‘Actually, I’m a socialist,’ she said. ‘It’s something of a dirty word round here. I just think that things ought to be changed - to be fairer. You know?’

Half an hour later, Lindsay felt she had been put through an intellectual mangle. Never at her best in the morning, she had had to struggle to keep one step ahead of Caroline’s endless stream of questions and dogmatic statements about everything from student politics to the position of women in Nicaragua. Trying to explain that things were never as simple as they seemed without bruising the girls idealism or patronising her had not been easy, and Lindsay wished they’d been having the conversation over a cup of coffee after dinner, the time of day when she felt at her most alert. Finally, the buzz of a bell made Caroline start as she realised that this was neither the time nor place for such a discussion.

‘Oh help,’ she exclaimed, leaping off the end of the bed where she had settled herself, ‘that’s the breakfast bell. I must run. You don’t have to worry - staff breakfast is pretty flexible, and Miss Callaghan’s waiting to take you across. Blame me if she moans on at you about being late - I’m always in trouble for talking too much. See you later.’

‘Thanks for the tea, and the chat. Oh, and the use of your room. Maybe we’ll have the chance to talk again. And if we don’t, enjoy the weekend anyway,’ said Lindsay, wondering to herself how quickly she could manage to wash and dress. She almost missed Caroline’s words as she dashed through the door.

‘Sure. But don’t ask me to join the fan club for our concert star.’ And she was gone, her footsteps joining the general background clamour that the bell had released.

Over a breakfast of scrambled eggs and mushrooms, Lindsay told Paddy about her early morning visitor. Paddy laughed and said, ‘She’s full of adolescent fervour about the joys of socialism at the moment. She was always an idealistic child, but now she’s found a focus, she’s unstoppable. Her parents’ marriage broke up last year, and I think we’re getting a bit of referred emotion in the politics.’

Lindsay sighed. ‘But she’s not a child, Paddy, and her views are perfectly sound. Don’t be so patronising.’

‘I’m not being patronising. But in a closed world like ours, I don’t believe the opinions of one individual make a blind bit of difference.’

Lindsay, who should have known better after six years’ friendship with Paddy, allowed this red herring to set her off into a familiar fight about politics. It was an argument neither would ever win, but it still had the power to absorb. In spite of that, Lindsay found herself continually glancing towards the door. Paddy finally caught her in the act, grinned broadly and relented.

‘She’s not coming in for breakfast. She always does an hour’s work first thing in the morning, then goes for a run. She even did it when we went on holiday to Italy four years ago. You won’t see her much before ten-thirty, I’m afraid,’ said Paddy.

‘What makes you think I’m looking for Cordelia?’

‘Who mentioned Cordelia?’ asked Paddy innocently. Lindsay subsided into silence while Paddy started reading her morning paper. Lindsay felt fidgety, but was not certain if this was simply because she was in an alien environment, or because of Cordelia’s disturbing effect on her. She found herself studying the half-dozen or so other women at breakfast. Chris Jackson was deeply engrossed in a book about squash, and the two other women at her table were also reading. Lindsay’s gaze moved to Margaret Macdonald who was sitting on her own. A magazine was open by her plate, but although she kept glancing at it, she was obviously not reading. She was not eating either, and the eggs and bacon on her plate were slowly congealing. A bright red sweater emphasised the lack of colour in her face. Every time someone passed her or entered the room, she started, and her eyes were troubled.

As they rose to leave, Lindsay quietly remarked, ‘She looks scared stiff.’

‘Nervous about tonight, I suppose. Who wouldn’t be? There’s a lot hanging on it,’ Paddy replied in an offhand way before bustling off to put her cast through their paces one more time before the afternoon’s performance. Left to herself, Lindsay thought again about Margaret Macdonald. Paddy’s explanation didn’t seem to go far enough. Not knowing the woman, however, there was nothing Lindsay could do to find out what was troubling the teacher so.

She strolled back to Longnor House, revelling in the magnificent colours of the changing trees against the grey limestone and the greens and browns of the moorland surrounding the school. There were even patches of fading purple where the last of the heather splashed colour on to the bracken. Lindsay decided to run upstairs for her camera bag so she could take some photographs before the day became too crowded. After all, if she waited till the quiet of Sunday, she might miss the sunshine and the extraordinary clarity of the Derbyshire light.

A few minutes later, she was wandering through the grounds, pausing every now and again to change lenses and take a couple of shots. She took her photography seriously these days. It had started as a hobby when she’d been a student, and she had gradually built up an adequate set of equipment that allowed her to work on all sorts of subjects in most conditions. She had also picked the brains of every photographer she had ever worked with to the extent that she could now probably do the job as well as many of them. Her favourite work was portraiture, but she also enjoyed the larger challenge of a landscape. Now, looking at the contours of the land, she realised that a short scramble up the hillside would give her the perfect vantage point to catch the main building, its gardens, and the valley leading down to Buxton. Thankful that she was wearing jeans and training shoes, she began the steep climb up through the trees. After ten minutes’ brisk walking, she was out of the woods and on top of a broad ridge. From there, it was all spread before her. She took several shots, then, just as she was about to descend, her eye was caught by a splash of colour and movement in a corner of the gardens. In a sheltered nook, invisible from the school, two women were standing. Lindsay recognised the vivid scarlet of Margaret Macdonald’s sweater.

Hesitating only for a moment, she quickly grabbed her longest lens and slotted it into the camera body. She flicked the switch from manual to motor drive and set her legs apart to give herself more stability. Swiftly she focused and began to shoot. She could see clearly who was with the teacher now. Margaret looked as if she was pleading with Lorna Smith-Couper, who suddenly threw her head back in laughter, turned and stalked off. The music teacher stood looking after her a moment, then stumbled blindly into the wood. Lindsay had been surreptitiously photographing people without their awareness or consent for a long time. Journalists called it ‘snatching'. But for the first time she felt she had behaved shabbily - had in fact spied on what did not concern her.

Before she could ponder further on what she had seen, her attention was distracted once again. She had caught the flash of a running figure in the direction of the main gates. She swivelled round and could tell even at the distance of half a mile or so that the runner was Cordelia. She waited till Cordelia was nearer, then swung the camera up to her face again and steadily took a couple of pictures. Like the earlier photographs, they would be no great shakes as portraiture - they’d be too grainy for that. But as character studies, they’d do very well. Even the familiar barrier of the camera, however, could not distance Lindsay from the surge of emotion she felt at seeing Cordelia. There was nothing for it but to go back down the hill and hope the craft fair would bring the chance to talk to her. Lindsay knew that Paddy wouldn’t be there this time to interrupt because she would be busy with her dress rehearsal. And she also knew that Cordelia would not be watching the run-through. One of the last things she had said to Paddy the night before was that she never attended rehearsals. ‘I always prefer to wait for the finished product,’ she had said. ‘Any changes or cuts I can sort out with the director. But I’ve served my time dealing with the bumptious, egocentric shower of know-alls that make up such a large part of the acting profession. There is one in every cast who always knows better than you how the damn thing should be written.’

Her rich laughter echoed in Lindsay’s memory as she scrambled quickly down the hillside. She noticed she wasn’t as nimble as she used to be and resolved to start going to the gym again as soon as she got back to Glasgow. She was back in her room with twenty minutes to spare before the start of the craft fair. She had just slipped out of her jeans and into a skirt when there was a knock at her door. She called out permission to come in as she squeezed into a pair of court shoes, expecting Caroline to breeze in. But when the door opened, it was Cordelia who appeared.

‘Hi there,’ she said. ‘I heard you come in as I was changing. Are you coming down to the hall to have a look round ahead of the hordes? The front drive’s already filling up with cars. I suppose the locals can’t resist the chance of a good poke around. Amazing how curious the great unwashed are about the supposed mystique of public schools.’

‘Yes, aren’t we, though! That’s part of the reason why I agreed to come. I feel extremely curious about how the other half is educated,’ said Lindsay wryly, smiling to take the sting out of her words.

‘But you went to Oxford! Surely that must have given you some idea, even if you didn’t have the misfortune to spend your childhood in one of these institutions,’ Cordelia remarked as they walked down the corridor.

‘Yes, but by that stage, one is well on the way to being a finished product. You forget, I’d never come across people like you before. I wanted to see how young you’d have to catch kids before their assumptions and preconceptions become ingrained. How much comes from schooling and how much from a general class ethos imbibed at home along with mother’s milk and Château Mouton Rothschild.’

‘And how much of what made you the woman you are comes from home rather than education?’

‘I suspect about equal amounts from each. That’s why I’m a mass of contradictions.’ By now they were walking through the woods and Lindsay was well into her stride. ‘Sentimental versus analytical, cynical versus idealistic, and so on. The only belief that comes from both home and education is that you have to work bloody hard to get what you want.’

‘And do you?’

‘Sometimes - and sometimes.’

They fell silent as they entered the main building, neither willing to pursue the conversation into more intimate areas. A large number of people were milling around the corridors, ignoring the arrows pointing them towards the main hall. Lindsay and Cordelia struggled through the crowds and nodded to the girls as they slipped into the hall. But even here there was no peace. All the stalls were laid out in readiness, and behind most of them schoolgirls were making last-minute adjustments to the displays. Lindsay looked around and from where she stood she could already see stalls of embroidered pictures, knitted garments, stained-glass terrariums and hanging mobiles, hand-made wooden jigsaws and pottery made in the school’s kiln. As Lindsay and Cordelia stood admiring a stall of patchwork, the senior mistress called out from her vantage point by the doors, ‘Two minutes, girls. Everyone get ready.’

Lindsay had moved on to look at a display of wooden toys when she saw Chris Jackson hurrying through the hall. She made straight for Lindsay and spoke to her in a low voice. ‘Do you know where Paddy is?’

‘She’s rehearsing with the cast in the gym.’

‘No, they’re having a half-hour break. I thought you might have seen her. I’ve got to get hold of her now.’

‘Hello Chris, long time no see. Hey what’s up?’ asked Cordelia, joining them.

‘I’ve got one of the sixth in floods of tears behind the stage. She’s just had a stand-up row with a couple of other sixth-formers. The girl is absolutely hysterical, and I reckon Paddy’s the only one who can deal with her. There’ll be chaos if we don’t sort it out. And soon.’

Immediately, Cordelia took control. She grabbed a couple of passing juniors and said, ‘I want you to find Miss Callaghan for me. Try Longnor, or her classroom or the staffroom. Tell her to come to us at the back of the hall as soon as possible, please.’ The girls scuttled off at top speed. ‘I wasn’t Head of House for nothing,’ she added to the other two. ‘Wonderful how they respond to the voice of authority. I say, Chris, sorry and all that, I hope you didn’t think I was trying to usurp you?’

‘No, you were quite right. I lost my head for a moment when I couldn’t find Paddy.’

‘But what on earth happened?’ asked Cordelia, putting the question that Lindsay was longing to ask.

Chris said, ‘Sarah Cartwright’s father is the developer who’s trying to buy the playing fields. Apparently she said something about it being a real bore to have to give up Saturday morning games for this, and the others rounded on her and told her straight out that if it wasn’t for her rotten father we wouldn’t have to do it at all. That set the cat among the pigeons and it ended with Sarah being told that her classmates take a pretty dim view of what has happened; she’s more or less universally despised, they informed her. So she’s weeping her heart out. Paddy’s the only one who can help; she’s the only one that Sarah lets near enough. In spite of the fact that I spend hours in the gym with the girl, I may say.

‘She’s gymnastics mad. She wants to teach it, but you need temperament as well as talent for this job. Mind you, this is the first time I’ve seen her lose her cool. I’d better get back there now till Paddy comes, in case the girl makes herself ill. Besides, I’ve had to leave her with Joan Ryan, who is neither use nor ornament in a crisis.’

‘Do you want either of us?’ asked Cordelia. ‘No? Okay, we’ll wait here for Paddy and send her through to you as soon as she appears.’ At that moment, the doors opened and people surged into the hall, separating Lindsay from Cordelia. She saw Paddy arrive and be hustled off to the rear of the hall. It seemed to Lindsay as she browsed round the stalls that there was no need for Cordelia’s play; there were altogether too many mini-dramas taking place already. So much for her quiet weekend in the country.