There was a pause. “How did you meet?” asked Cordelia. “I’d known her slightly for quite a long time—we had some mutual acquaintances and found ourselves at the same parties. Then I was producing a drama-documentary about Elgar and I needed someone to play the cello concerto. She seemed the obvious choice. I was very impressed by her attitude as I worked with her. She was the complete professional. I know she put people’s backs up by criticizing their talent and motivation, but that was simply because she was such a perfectionist herself. But no one gets killed for that. It makes no sense to me at all. I keep thinking about all that beauty gone out of the world just because of some evil bastard’s inability to cope with life.”

“Did she say anything about last weekend before she went? I mean, did she mention anyone in particular?” asked Lindsay.

He paused, then said, “She was looking forward to it. She said it should be good for a laugh, at least. She said there were one or two people she’d take pleasure in showing that she’d arrived and was somebody. She didn’t mention any names. She also said it would be good for publicity because of the controversy about the fund locally. She hated talking to the press; she thought they were scum. But she was too good a businesswoman to ignore the value of publicity. Sorry, that’s not much help, is it?”

“More than you think,” said Lindsay. “Now, I’m going to ask you if some names mean anything to you, if you’d ever heard of any of them before the weekend. For example, had she ever mentioned Cordelia here?”

“Yes. At first, she was terribly amused that some people seemed to think that a nasty character in your last novel was based on her. She said it wasn’t terribly likely, since you hadn’t spent any time together for years. Then a few weeks ago when your novel was nominated for the Booker, it all flared up again and she began to get cross with people for making the same remark over and over again. She decided that if she was going to get all this stick, she should get something in return. So she set the wheels in motion to sue. She was amused that you were going to be at the school. She said—sorry about this—it would be fun to watch you squirm.”

“Did she indeed!” said Cordelia through frozen lips.

“Had you ever heard her speak of Paddy Callaghan?”

“Never.”

“James Cartwright? Or his daughter Sarah?” The mechanical recital of names was helping Lindsay relax into her questioning.

“Definitely not.”

“Jessica Bennett, Dominic Bennett’s sister?”