The Hanging Wood

by Martin Edwards

  The phone bleeped and for a split second she thought Daniel must have been blessed with ESP.

  No such luck. Lauren Self’s name flashed up on the screen.

  ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘You haven’t forgotten that we need to arrive in very good time for the drinks reception, I hope?’

  ‘Certainly not, ma’am.’

  This evening’s awards dinner, down the road at the Brewery Arts Centre, was the last thing she needed. She’d toyed with the possibility of wimping out of it, but the only viable substitutes were Les Bryant, who had come out of retirement to provide his expertise to the team on a short-term contract, and Greg Wharf, a Jack-the-Lad sergeant transferred from Vice after taking one chance too many. Cynicism was embedded in their DNA, and they regarded the team’s recognition in the award judges’ rankings as cause for hilarity rather than celebration. Lauren couldn’t bear either of them.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve changed yet?’

  Hannah checked her watch. ‘Not yet, ma’am.’

  ‘That makes me feel better, at any rate. Suppose we meet in reception in an hour’s time?’

  ‘Certainly, ma’am.’

  She banged down the receiver. Lauren’s face smirked at her from the rogues’ gallery that bordered the Cumbria Constabulary year planner, along with advertisements from ‘carefully chosen partner organisations’. Immaculate coiffeur, glistening lips, perfect cheekbones. The camera loved her. Mind you, the camera didn’t have to work for her.

  Hannah stuck her tongue out at her boss’s pretty, unblinking image. The childishness of her small act of rebellion supplied an instant pick-me-up. She intended to do something.

  Without a second thought, she dialled Daniel’s number. His voice message greeted her, asking her to leave her number, saying he’d call back as soon as he could.

  Should she just ring off?

  Sod it, no.

  ‘Daniel, this is Hannah. I’d like to speak to you about Orla Payne, if you don’t mind. I’m out this evening, but hope to hear from you soon. Bye.’

  She leant back in her chair. OK, then, Daniel Kind would have to wait. Never mind.

  What mattered was doing Orla justice.

  As bad luck would have it, Hannah bumped into Greg Wharf the moment she’d changed into her glad rags. The DS had spent the afternoon giving evidence in court, and as he bustled through the double doors that led from reception, his expression was pensive. Gruelling cross-examination, Hannah supposed. But at the sight of her, he broke into a smile.

  ‘Well, good evening, ma’am.’

  ‘Greg.’

  Predictable to a fault, his gaze locked on her cleavage. She’d agonised about the lowish cut of this dress in the shop last Saturday, but she’d decided to hell with it, she was going to take the risk. The plan was never for Greg to get an eyeful. A poster on the wall advertised a Federation talk about The Surveillance Society; Hannah felt like a target of it.

  ‘You’re gonna wow them, ma’am, no question.’

  Hannah ground her teeth. Greg had this talent for catching her off balance.

  ‘It’ll be a miracle if I stay awake.’

  ‘Too many late nights?’ He treated her to an all-innocence smile that, she knew instantly, he’d bestowed on a hundred women before. ‘Believe me, I’m devastated that I can’t be there. VIPs only, of course, it’s to be expected. No room for the humble spear carriers.’

  Sarky bugger. ‘Don’t pretend you’re heartbroken. Especially after what you and Les said when we found out we were on the shortlist.’

  ‘Churlish of us, ma’am, on reflection. It was no mean achievement; now I see it all.’ He allowed himself another peek down the top of her dress. ‘Obviously, I’m not suggesting for a moment that Les is a bad influence, but the truth is, I’ve recognised the error of my ways. I reckon I could have found this a very enjoyable evening.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ She made a move to go, but it was difficult to stride past him in the corridor without brushing against him.

  ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, ma’am,’ he said, and with a last lingering leer, he stepped aside.

  As she shoved open the double doors, it struck her that his banter no longer annoyed her as it once had. Crazy, really. Greg Wharf was a sexual harassment claim waiting to happen, the sort of officer she’d loathed from the earliest days of her career. But she’d also come to realise that beneath the bravado was a very good detective who didn’t mind putting in extra hours when they were short-handed. To her astonishment, she felt almost sorry she wouldn’t be able to chat to him at the dinner.

  ‘Congratulations, Detective Chief Inspector.’

  Bryan Madsen had limped through the hubbub to join her the moment the final award was presented, the final words of gratitude gushed. The Malt Room buzzed with a hundred voices, the conversations lubricated by generous quantities of alcohol served throughout the five-course dinner. Bryan struck Hannah as strong and vigorous, even if his paunch and florid complexion suggested overindulgence in fine food and wine. Tall, with expensively cut steel-grey hair, he might have passed for a brigadier, or a leading man in a 1950s British black-and-white movie, sporting a stiff upper lip and a gammy leg caused by a shrapnel wound. You wouldn’t cast him as a bloke who had spent a lifetime trading static caravans. During the longueurs of the presentations, Hannah had kept awake by studying Lauren Self’s companions on the top table, and she’d recognised the Madsen brothers from newspaper photographs. They were accompanied by good-looking and expensively attired wives. Bryan often featured in the local press, though never in stories that held the slightest interest for Hannah. A businessman with a taste for politics? She’d stereotyped him in her mind as a boring old fart.

  ‘It’s an honour to have been in the mix.’

  Scary, how the lie sprang to her lips, but she was bound to get away with it. How many captains of industry with a passion for politicking had a built-in irony detector?

  ‘Your cold case team ran the winners desperately close, I can assure you. Your people did a first-rate job with that dreadful business up at Ambleside last January.’ He mopped his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief, and fiddled with the window to let in a breath of air. ‘Boiling in here, isn’t it? As for the judging process, I suppose what tipped the balance is that your profile in the community only rises every now and then, while the Clean Cumbria Campaign is never off the advertising billboards.’

  ‘They deserved it.’ She resisted the temptation to simper – better not go completely over the top. Though she couldn’t resist adding, ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness.’

  ‘Absolutely right.’ He snapped his fingers and a young woman in a short glittery dress materialised by his side. Her sinuous and silent movements reminded Hannah of a magician’s assistant, her smile was cool and enigmatic. ‘Purdey, another glass of Bolly, if you don’t mind. This is Detective Chief Inspector Scarlett – Purdey Madsen. Now I promise I’m not driving, Chief Inspector! But what will you have?’

  ‘Nothing for me, thanks.’

  ‘Please, I insist. You sat with the patience of Job through all our speeches.’ An appraising smile. ‘Surely even a senior police officer can let her hair down once in a while?’

  Hannah wondered what he was after. ‘An orange juice, please.’

  ‘Thanks, Purdey.’ As the girl melted into the chattering crowd, he said, ‘Lovely kid, took a degree in psychology last year; such an asset in her father’s team, marketing our holiday homes. I absolutely dote on her.’

  And get her to fetch and carry for you. ‘She’s your niece?’

  ‘That’s right. Gareth and Sally have two daughters; it was a great sadness to my wife and myself that we never … Anyway, past history, long gone, forget it. Do you have a brood of your own, Hannah?’ When she shook her head, he said, ‘Never mind, you’re only young. Plenty of time yet.’

  Hannah was saved from the need to reply by Lauren Self, timing her arrival to perfection for once in her life. The ACC
was enjoying her second champagne, or possibly her third, to judge by the flush on those taut cheeks. Body-swerving through the crowd like a footballer followed a man she’d seen chatting to Lauren during the dinner. Unmistakably a Madsen, but younger than Bryan and with an athletic build; this must be Gareth. Not even a hint of grey at the temples, but if his light-brown hair had been coloured, he got away with it. He moved with the self-confident swagger of a man accustomed to getting away with things.

  As the ACC and Bryan effected introductions, Gareth Madsen glanced at Hannah. In an odd moment of complicity, his lips twitched with suppressed amusement, though she wasn’t sure what he found funny, his brother’s self-importance or Lauren’s photo-opportunity smile. Both, she hoped.

  All of a sudden, the ACC was her best friend. ‘Gareth was fascinated by your work on cold cases.’

  ‘I did vote for your team, cross my heart and hope to die.’ He gave a cheeky grin that tested Hannah’s own irony-detector. ‘Bryan let me down, to his eternal shame. I mean, binning litter is extremely worthy and all that, but your department puts away serious criminals. As good as something off the telly. Finding DNA matches to help you solve old crimes! Bringing people to justice years after they thought they’d got off scot-free!’

  ‘I’m afraid DNA testing is horrendously expensive,’ Lauren said. ‘The current funding crisis means the generosity of partners like Madsen’s Holiday Home Park is more important than ever.’

  ‘Our commitment to giving something back to our local community is a core aspect of our mission statement.’ Bryan might have been reading an autocue. The legacy of too many speeches, no doubt. ‘We hope the constabulary thinks of us as a friend in need. Delighted to do as much as we can to help.’

  Hannah could imagine. The rules allowed every police force in the country to garner up to one per cent of its annual budget from sponsorships and other business ventures. It was supposed to offer a good way of funding equipment that the government was too tight-fisted to provide. The bait for private businesses was a higher media profile, a chance to brag about their commitment to corporate social responsibility. Nobody ever hinted that the quid pro quo for funding might be a blind eye turned to questionable business practices. That was forbidden. Any suggestion of dodgy dealing would be met with outrage and threats of legal action. Naturally.

  ‘I’m guessing you’re not a poker player?’ Gareth whispered in Hannah’s ear, as Lauren engaged Bryan in a cosy chat about shared values. ‘Your face is a picture.’

  ‘Never said a word,’ she murmured.

  ‘You don’t need to, Hannah – may I call you Hannah? Obviously you don’t approve of the forces of Mammon currying favour with the forces of law and order.’ He narrowed his eyes, mimicking a stage villain. ‘Pity, I hoped our largesse would get me off with a slap on the wrist next time I’m caught speeding.’

  ‘Forget it, the fines are an even more important source of revenue.’ She placed her empty glass on the window sill. ‘So, do you play poker … Gareth?’

  ‘I’m an entrepreneur, that’s what entrepreneurs do. To do well, you have to gamble. Business is all about taking risks. As I keep telling my esteemed chairman.’

  ‘I hear you used to be a racing driver.’

  He grinned. ‘Your sources are impeccable, as I’d expect of Cumbria’s finest. I’m afraid I never made Formula One. In my youth I totalled a Porsche and a Ferrari in quick succession and walked away without a scratch, but that kind of luck doesn’t last for ever. Ask Bryan, he never drove so much as an open-top sports car, but when he drove into a tree years back, he nearly died. Can you wonder that we settled for life as businessmen? Not so much fun as racing cars, but you live to draw your pension.’

  Purdey arrived bearing drinks. Despite the crush at the bar, she’d managed to get served in record time; no doubt she’d inherited her father’s savoir faire. With her snub nose and long chin, she might not be a raving beauty, but her skin was fresh and her legs slim, and what was that line of Greg Wharf’s – there’s no such thing as an ugly heiress?

  Gareth helped himself to the champagne. ‘I think your uncle had better go easy, don’t you?’

  ‘Cheeky whippersnapper,’ Bryan brayed.

  Purdey’s eyes misted over. ‘I can’t believe it, really.’

  ‘What’s that, sweetheart?’ her father asked.

  ‘Here we are, out enjoying ourselves, and yet poor Orla …’

  Bryan said, ‘Orla’s death is an utter tragedy, but quite frankly, she inherited her mother’s weakness. The poor girl couldn’t hold her liquor, that’s the top and bottom of it.’ He turned to Hannah. ‘Lauren tells me that you’ve heard about this dreadful business?’

  Hannah nodded. She’d briefed the ACC about Orla’s calls to the Cold Case Review Team, and her family connection with Madsen’s. It was the last thing Lauren wanted to hear, as a prelude to schmoozing wealthy captains of industry, but she found a crumb of comfort in Gaby Malcolm’s confidence that the IPCC wouldn’t be looking askance at the handling of the phone calls.

  ‘She rang me two days ago,’ Hannah said. ‘While I was out yesterday, she tried to contact me again.’

  Bryan stiffened. ‘Good Lord. Not wanting you to reopen enquiries into her brother’s disappearance, for goodness’ sake?’

  ‘Had she discussed what happened to Callum with you?’

  Before Bryan could reply, a jovial fat man from Commerce in Cumbria slapped him on the back and asked how the hell he was doing. As Bryan disengaged himself, Gareth checked his watch.

  ‘Come on, we’ve done our duty here. Why don’t we say cheerio to the mayor and then nip round to Mancini’s? It will be quieter, and there will be more oxygen.’

  ‘Good plan.’ Bryan was in avuncular mode. ‘If you like, Lauren, we could talk some more about whether we can find a way to contribute to these DNA-testing costs.’

  Hannah opened her mouth, about to make her excuses, but Lauren was having none of it. ‘We’d love to join you, wouldn’t we, Hannah?’

  The ACC smiled at Bryan, and he beamed back at her. Hannah cringed inwardly. Easy to guess what was going through Lauren’s mind.

  Don’t get your hopes up, chum. It’s not your body she’s after, it’s your wallet.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mancini’s was tucked away in a courtyard off Kirkland. It called itself a jazz bar, and a lonely saxophone wailed from hidden speakers. The walls were adorned with moody photographs from films noirs, and Gareth Madsen made straight for a table beneath a shot of Lana Turner making eyes at John Garfield in The Postman Always Rings Twice. Hannah recalled watching it on a movie channel late one night with Marc. Realising that the two of them would never see another film together gave her an unexpected pang of regret. Lauren seated herself between the two men, arranging her rather short skirt with care; when it came to ruthless pursuit of her objectives, the ACC could give Cora Smith a run for her money. As for Bryan Madsen, he was much smarter than Frank Chambers. Presumably.

  Fleur and Sally Madsen showed up as Purdey was despatched to the bar. ‘Your favourite spot, Gareth?’ Fleur asked, nodding to the photograph. ‘I’m starting to think you fancy yourself as a twenty-first century John Garfield.’

  ‘Do you mind?’ Sally said in mock indignation. She patted her husband’s knee with a bejewelled hand. ‘That chap isn’t half as good-looking as my feller. He still reminds me of Paul Newman in his Butch Cassidy days.’

  Her husband raised his eyebrows but smiled, as though his wife’s admiration was his due. And Hannah had to admit that he had blue eyes to die for. Gareth Madsen wasn’t her type, but if Terri were here, she’d never be able to keep her hands off him.

  ‘I spoke to Kit,’ Fleur said, as if bored by the display of marital bliss. ‘He’s stunned by Orla’s death, keeps reproaching himself for not realising the extent of her depression. Sally’s had a word with Mike Hinds, to offer condolences.’

  At first sight, the Madsen wives contrasted as much as their husbands
. Sally was raven-haired, mid forties, and plainly determined not to surrender to the ageing process without a fight. Hannah suspected her lips were Botoxed, while her curves screamed implants. The grace of her movements made Hannah suspect she’d once spent time on a catwalk. Fleur, though, was a natural born lady of the manor. Even if the manor had been subsumed into a caravan park.

  ‘Change your mind and stay for a drink,’ Gareth said. ‘We can ask the driver to wait for an hour and take us all back home together.’

  Sally opened her mouth, and seemed about to say yes, and hers was a Bacardi and Coke, but after a moment’s hesitation, Fleur shook her head. ‘It’s been a long day. We’ll send him back after he’s dropped us off. You two can concentrate on helping the police with their enquiries.’

  Gareth grinned at his sister-in-law. ‘We’ll try not to incriminate ourselves.’

  He blew his wife a kiss as Fleur pecked Bryan on the cheek and said, ‘See you later, darling.’

  Purdey brought the drinks, and told her mother she’d come back home with her father and uncle. As Sally and Fleur headed off, Hannah turned to the girl and said, ‘So were you close to Orla?’

  ‘To be honest,’ Purdey said, ‘I’m not sure anyone was that close to her, poor thing. God knows what made her tick.’

  ‘Surely as a student of psychology—?’

  ‘Believe me, Sigmund Freud would have found Orla a challenge. We sort of grew up together, because the Paynes lived nearby, but she was older, so I didn’t know her well. Over the past few years, I’ve seen her around the park occasionally, visiting Kit. The last time we spoke was when I called in at St Herbert’s one day on an errand for my dad. A quick exchange of pleasantries, that was all. She seemed OK, but you can never tell what’s going on inside someone’s head, can you?’

  Hannah wasn’t convinced that was the right attitude for a psychology graduate. ‘Where did she live?’

  ‘In a small flat on the outskirts of Keswick. Kit and her father gave her money to help her to put down the deposit after she came back to live in the Lakes.’