"It's very important that we re-learn the art of resting and relaxing. Not only does it help prevent the onset of many illnesses that develop through chronic tension and worrying; it allows us to clear our minds, focus, and find creative solutions to problems.",

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Tác giả: Val McDermid
Thể loại: Trinh Thám
Language: English
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Chapter 9
n 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 emo¬tionally 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 programmes 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 unsavoury 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 Caliaghan. 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 quarrelling 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 realised. 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-panelled door into another world. The lounge bar was cosy, 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 humour. 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 patronise 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 displaying 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 towards 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 track suit 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 patronising 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 -1 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 fibre 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 Barrington 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 computerised 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 break-up 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 centre. 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.'
Lindsay flicked quickly through the memo. It had come from a staff reporter who had spotted the story in a local paper and noted the bare bones on a memo to the newsdesk, suggesting it be followed up. The story was about a woman who had given birth to twins after surgeons had told her she would never have a child.
'Wait a minute, Duncan,' Lindsay moaned. 'I'm not here to do this sort of crappy feature. Woman's touch, my arse. What this needs is a dollop of heavy handed sentimentality and you bloody well know that's not my line.'
'Don't come the crap with me, lassie,' he returned. 'It's a real human interest story, that. I thought you'd be over the moon. The story of a woman who's fulfilled her destiny in spite of the setbacks. It's all there. Blocked fallopian tubes, thirteen miscarriages, doctors say she'll die if she gives birth - Christ, this woman's a heroine!'
'This woman's a head-case, more like.'
'A head-case? Lindsay, you've got a heart like a stone. Can you not see how this woman's triumphed against all the odds?'
'By putting her life at risk? You'd think after thirteen miscarriages she'd have realised there's more to life than babies. There are plenty of kids up for adoption who need love and affection, you know.'
'It's a good story, Lindsay.' There was finality in Duncan's tone.
'Sure. Look, Duncan, I've been busy being a real reporter for the last three days, in case you hadn't noticed. You know, murder, heavy-duty stuff. I'm good at the serious stories. You should take advantage of that and use me on them. If you've got to run this sexist garbage, get someone who'll make a better job of it. What about James? He's a big softie.'
Duncan put his head in his hands in mock sorrow. 'Why do I employ the only reporter in Glasgow who thinks she knows better than me how to do my job? I give the girl the chance to be a superstar with her name in lights and what do I get? She wants me to go and set fire to an orphanage so she can be a real reporter. All right, Lindsay, you win. Away down to the Sheriff Court. There's a fatal accident inquiry on that guy that came off the crane at the shipyard. You cover that. After all, I don't really want a feature about how male doctors conspire with husbands to convince women that motherhood is their finest achievement. Sometimes I wonder why I give you shifts.'
They exchanged smiles and Lindsay set off. By five she was back in the office, writing her copy. Just before she left, at seven, Duncan called her over to the newsdesk. 'Right then, kid,' he said. 'Now, you've got the rest of this week off as far as I'm concerned. Not that I'm paying you, mind. But one favour deserves another. You come up with anything good on the murder and I want first bite of the cherry. A cracking good exclusive, right? I know we're not usually interested in anything highbrow and south of the border, but she was at least born in Scotland and the scandals of the upper classes always sell papers. Is that a deal?' He fixed his bloodshot blue eyes on her and scowled.
'It's a deal,' said Lindsay resignedly, 'I don't mind cutting my financial throat for you, Duncan; you're such a charming bastard to work for.'
'I'll make it worth your while, Lindsay. Don't worry about that. Now on your bike and get working. You've had a nice restful day to set yourself up. The next time I hear your voice, I want it to be saying, "It's a belter, Duncan."'
Lindsay chuckled to herself as she ran down the three flights of stairs to the back door. Cordelia was waiting for her there, and she again experienced that tight feeling in the chest on seeing her. She
was glad to feel it, because it meant that this was more than just simple lust. Their eyes met and Lindsay could see that Cordelia was just as pleased to see her. They walked to the car arm in arm, Lindsay for once not giving a damn who might see and what they might think. It gave her immense satisfaction to stow Cordelia's bag in the boot beside her own. 'What kind of day have you had?' asked Cordelia. 'Busy,' Lindsay replied, revving up the powerful engine. 'I've only just had time to read the evening paper report of the remand hearing. Did you see it?'
'No, but I heard something on the radio at your place,' Cordelia answered. 'After that flat recital of Paddy's remand in custody without bail, I need something to lift my mood. Did you make any progress? For God's sake, say yes!'
'Well, I'm a bit further forward than I was this morning,' said Lindsay, pulling out on to the urban motorway that cuts a broad concrete swathe through the heart of Glasgow. Cordelia scribbled down notes of what Lindsay told her she'd learned.
'I have a lousy memory,' she explained. 'I bought a notebook this morning, just for this business, and copied out what we jotted down last night. And now, do you want to know what I unearthed?' Cordelia continued without waiting for Lindsay's nod. 'I picked up a fair bit of gossip, most of it general rather than specific to Lorna's death. The more we discover, the less I like her. There was one little gem I picked up, however.
'A lesbian friend of mine, Fran, plays the violin for the Manchester Philharmonic. She told me Lorna once said something to her that might just be relevant. She says she particularly remembered it because, for once, Lorna wasn't trying to score points or stage a put-down but was actually sounding human. It was along the lines of, "I tried it your way once and I must say I found it all indescribably sordid. But then I was still at school and didn't know any better. Though the other person involved certainly should have known better." That's all. Fran tried to get more out of her, but she clammed up. As if she regretted saying what she had and was determined to say no more. But I thought . . .'
'That a teacher might just fit the frame?' asked Lindsay. Cordelia nodded. 'And the strong possibility for that would be Margaret Macdonald, wouldn't it? It would certainly explain that scene between them in the garden on Saturday morning.' Lindsay went on. 'They presumably had a lot of close contact, given Lorna's talent. I don't know who else is still at the school who was teaching when Lorna was a pupil, but her music teacher's got to have been close to her. We'll have to see what Margaret Macdonald has to say about this. I hope to goodness we can rule that piece of information out as irrelevant. Now, did your researches produce any other results?'
'Lorna's current lover. He's a television producer for Capital TV, Andrew Christie. But they've only been together for a couple of months, so I don't know how much use he'd be to us. Still, I think we ought to see him anyway. If he can fit us in tomorrow night, we can shoot up to London and stay over at my place.'
Lindsay agreed to this, and they both fell silent. As the car sped on through the night to Derbyshire, Lindsay put a cassette of Cosi fan tutte on the stereo and Cordelia sank back in the seat. It was shortly after eleven when they pulled into the forecourt of a small hotel where Cordelia had booked them a room. As they collected their bags, Cordelia said, 'I thought it might be better for everyone if we didn't actually stay at the school. Pamela Overton is insisting on paying our bill, much to my humiliation, but who can argue with a woman like that? We can phone her from here and tell her we've arrived and that everything is under control.'
'You really think you can make her believe that?' said Lindsay with a grin, Tell her we'll be up in the morning. I want to see the music room again. I didn't really take it in on Saturday night. Lorna's body distracted me.'
They took their luggage up to a large, rather Spartan room at the top of the three-storey Victorian building, then went out in search of food. Eventually they found a fish and chip shop on the market place that was still open and returned to the car with fish and chips, Cordelia muttering all the while about cholesterol and calories. By midnight, they were in bed together, staving off their misgivings about what lay ahead.
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