The Hanging Wood

by Martin Edwards

  ‘I hate to disrupt work on your magnum opus, but I wonder if you would be kind enough to spare me a couple of minutes?’

  Plainly he meant ten minutes minimum, but Daniel believed in showing good grace when surrendering to the inevitable.

  ‘Glad to.’

  ‘Splendid, splendid.’

  The principal accompanied him down the corridor to his suite of rooms in the wing at the far end. The charity’s published accounts showed that the salary of the man in charge was pitifully low. But his accommodation was luxurious if old-fashioned, and Daniel suspected Micah Bridge was so unworldly that he might have paid for the privilege of working here.

  The bookshelves in the sitting room held the principal’s personal collection of first editions; oil paintings of his predecessors hung on the walls. No television, no sound system, this might have been the home of a nineteenth-century man of letters. Daniel submitted to the leathery embrace of a voluptuous old armchair while the principal rang a bell to summon Jonquil, a student who worked in the restaurant, and ordered Turkish coffee for two before making small talk about the challenges of preserving the De Quincey manuscripts in the Old Library. He was building up to something. Perhaps he’d got wind that Fleur had invited Daniel to become a trustee, and wanted to recruit an ally against the balance sheet barbarians knocking at the gates of Rome.

  Turkish coffee was one of the principal’s vices. Jonquil served it piping hot, with glasses of water to freshen the mouth, and slabs of Turkish delight. As they took a taste, the principal murmured, ‘Did I ever mention that, traditionally, the grounds are used for fortune-telling?’

  Only three or four times, but Daniel mustered an expression of polite enquiry.

  ‘It’s a form of tasseography, a discipline we associate more commonly with reading tea leaves. It’s bad luck to interpret grounds from the coffee you have been drinking yourself. An upturned saucer is placed on the cup, and … but you didn’t spare your valuable time to listen to an old man showing off his knowledge of trivial superstitions. As for fortune-telling, I am at present struggling to interpret events of the recent past, let alone look into the future. Daniel, I wish to seek your advice.’

  Daniel inclined his head, and waited. The principal’s conversational style meandered like Lakeland lanes. He always took an age to reach his destination.

  ‘Thank you.’ The principal fiddled with the knot of his tie. ‘I am troubled by the death of young Orla Payne.’

  ‘Uh-huh?’ Daniel tried to fight off a wild fantasy that he was about to hear some kind of confession. Had Professor Bridge and Orla become embroiled in an affair which led to the young woman’s decision to end it all in such a bizarre fashion? Even his inventive mind boggled.

  ‘Oh, I realise it’s a nine-day wonder. Suicide while the balance of her mind was disturbed is the inevitable verdict. Yet the truth is more complex. As so often.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  The principal took another sip of coffee. ‘Orla found it hard to accept that her brother was dead. And, reflecting after her tragic demise, I have come to a conclusion which I wish to share with you before I speak to the police. If you don’t mind?’

  Daniel moved forward in the armchair. ‘Feel free.’

  ‘In my opinion,’ the principal said, ‘Orla Payne believed that her brother was not only alive, but had turned up here, at St Herbert’s Residential Library.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘It took me some time to realise what was going through her mind, and I found the notion equally unpalatable. But she was indeed serious. At least for a short time.’

  ‘But who …?’

  Professor Micah Bridge stared at the stern faces of the men who had once lived and worked in this room, as if hoping for advice. After a few moments, he closed his eyes, unable to defer his revelation any longer.

  ‘Aslan Sheikh.’

  Greg slurped some water, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Why did Orla change her mind about whether Callum was dead?’

  ‘If I knew that,’ Kit Payne asked, ‘don’t you think I’d have mentioned it already? She was hugging secret knowledge to herself. A habit she picked up from Callum himself, long ago.’

  ‘The Madsens wouldn’t have been pleased, would they? The fuss when Callum disappeared was bad enough for business. Worse than an outbreak of foot-and-mouth.’

  Hannah threw Greg a warning glance; Kit replied with sorrow rather than anger.

  ‘You do Bryan and Gareth a disservice. All they cared for was Callum being found safe and sound.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. And for what it is worth, our takings actually rose after all the publicity about poor Callum.’ Greg stared. ‘You expect us to believe that?’

  ‘I promise you, people flocked to Madsen’s that summer.’

  ‘Like they might slow down to gape as they pass a car crash on a motorway?’

  ‘Your analogy, not mine, Sergeant. But … yes.’

  ‘All right.’ Greg began to backtrack. ‘I only meant that there was huge pressure on everyone when Callum went missing.’

  ‘Stating the obvious, if you don’t mind my saying so.’ Kit Payne specialised in wounded dignity. ‘Bryan Madsen agreed that the park should be turned upside down in the efforts to find Callum. Some of our customers were very unhappy about it, but Niamh and I couldn’t have asked more of the Madsens. They knew my stepson, of course, and they did whatever they could to help. Not that I expected Callum to be found on the site. It was more likely something had happened to him at the farm.’

  Hannah leant forward. ‘Such as?’

  ‘Farms are appalling death traps. And Mike Hinds was never exactly safety conscious. Slurry tanks, heavy plant, dangerous machinery.’

  ‘Did you and Niamh know that Callum made secret visits to his father?’

  Payne shuffled in his chair. ‘I spotted him a couple of times, making his way over to Lane End. I didn’t challenge him about it, and I decided it was better not to mention it to Niamh. If we stopped Callum seeing Hinds …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘God knows how Hinds would have reacted. His pride took a hammer blow when he lost Niamh, even though their marriage was dead in all but name. A father and a son ought to be allowed to see each other. I decided to turn a blind eye.’

  ‘How did Callum and his father get on?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you ask Hinds? I doubt everything was sweetness and light. The boy was … difficult.’

  ‘You thought it possible that Michael Hinds could have lost his rag with his son, and—?’

  ‘Please don’t put words in my mouth, Chief Inspector.’ The edge in Kit Payne’s voice reminded Hannah that he’d risen to the top in a ruthlessly competitive business. Softly spoken, yes, but nothing like as soft as he seemed. ‘All I’m saying is that Callum might have had an accident at Lane End. Searching the whole farm took time, but there was no trace of him. Just as there was no sign of him in the Hanging Wood.’

  ‘What did Philip have to say about Callum’s disappearance?’

  ‘I heard he was distraught, but whether he was worried for the boy, or in a state because of something he’d done, who can say? I didn’t know him well – I’m not sure anyone did. He was a strange person, content with his own company. Nothing like his brother.’

  ‘No temper?’

  ‘None. Mike Hinds hated him because he was ashamed to have a brother who suffered from learning difficulties. They’d grown up together in less enlightened times, but Mike Hinds has not an ounce of compassion in his make-up. Whereas Philip was kind and generous to Orla and Callum, perhaps because he was childlike, too. As time passed, we became desperate, and Niamh was drinking herself into oblivion. The search spread out – not just police officers, but people from all around took part.’

  ‘Where else did you search?’

  ‘We combed the gardens of St Herbert’s Library, although to the best of my knowledge, Callum never spent time there. It wasn�
�t so easy to get permission to look round the Mockbeggar Estate. You’d think that, with a teenager missing, anyone would be glad to do whatever they could to help. Not the old man, Alfred Hopes. He was a recluse, obsessive about personal privacy. Said it was out of the question that Callum could have trespassed on his land. Patently absurd – the grounds were fenced off, but not so effectively that an active boy could be kept out if he was determined to get in.’

  ‘Did Callum frequent the Mockbeggar Estate?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, but we didn’t dare rule it out. The grounds were a jungle, and we were desperate to search them, just in case Callum had got in and then suffered some kind of accident.’

  ‘Hopes didn’t prevent a search in the end, did he?’

  ‘No, but he delayed it. He was selfish to a fault. It wouldn’t have hurt him to cooperate from the outset.’

  ‘Was there any reason to believe that he had an ulterior motive for delaying the search?’

  ‘Good Lord, no.’ Kit Payne’s eyebrows jumped. ‘Because he lived so close, he would have been aware of Callum’s existence, but I doubt their paths ever crossed. At that time, he was in his late sixties, and suffered from asthma, diabetes, and very severe hypochondria as well. A succession of housekeepers tended to his wants, as well as carers to look after his son Jolyon, who was confined to a wheelchair. They were a sad pair, father and son. They never got on, although Jolyon’s accident bound them together permanently. The old man suspected his boy was a closet homosexual, and that was anathema to a curmudgeon of his vintage. The pair of them felt more at ease with their beloved dogs than fellow human beings.’

  ‘But Fleur Madsen isn’t like that?’

  ‘Utterly the reverse, she’s the most charming woman I’ve ever met. I’ve heard her say she thanks God she takes after her mother’s side of the family. Of course, she made her escape from Mockbeggar Hall once she teamed up with Bryan. It was thanks to her that we finally managed to undertake a search of the estate. She persuaded Alfred to allow Gareth to lead a search party.’

  ‘Why Gareth?’

  ‘Alfred Hopes and Hinds never got on, and Bryan was recovering from a serious car crash, while Joseph Madsen suffered from persistent ill health. I was occupied with caring for Niamh and Orla. Hinds led a party of his workmen searching the open countryside. Obviously there was a chance Callum had fallen down a ravine or off a fell side, even though he normally kept close to home.’

  ‘But none of the searches found him.’

  ‘I suppose we didn’t expect them to. We heard the police were interviewing Philip Hinds in connection with Callum’s disappearance.’

  ‘What was your take on that news? No smoke without fire?’

  ‘Putting it like that, Chief Inspector, makes it sound like a witch-hunt. But don’t forget, Hinds’ son was missing. That is why he was prepared to think the unthinkable. That his own brother was responsible for Callum’s death. And then Philip committed suicide.’

  ‘Perhaps he was just frightened. I’ve read the transcript of his interview. It must have been a terrible ordeal for a man like Philip Hinds.’

  ‘I’m sure. But when he went home to the Hanging Wood and strung himself up, people drew the inevitable conclusion. I found the body, you know. It is something I shall never, ever forget.’

  Down below the balcony, a group of passing teenagers burst into laughter. Their accents were public school posh, their clothes bore designer labels. Hannah and Greg might have been gatecrashing a hideaway for the rich and powerful. Come to think of it, that was exactly what they were doing.

  ‘According to the file, Philip’s pig went missing, as well as Callum?’

  ‘Yes. What happened to it, nobody knew.’

  ‘Bit odd, that the pig should vanish?’

  ‘There was a rumour that Mike Hinds slaughtered it in a rage, because it had devoured his son, but who could ever prove it?’

  ‘There was no proof Callum died in the Hanging Wood, or that his remains had been disposed of, or eaten by the pig. This is the countryside, the animal might have gone anywhere. With the pig gone, no tests could be carried out. Forensics hit a blank wall.’

  ‘We didn’t hear quite so much about DNA evidence in those days, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘This was only twenty years ago, not the Dark Ages. Genetic fingerprinting was in its infancy, but the detectives who investigated weren’t idiots. They couldn’t find any evidence of what happened to your stepson.’

  A weary sigh. ‘The likelihood that Callum was dead shocked me, and devastated my wife. She never properly recovered. If you ask me, three people died in the Hanging Wood, not two.’

  ‘Yet we don’t know for sure that Callum did die there.’

  ‘Philip may have buried the body somewhere, but it wasn’t practical to excavate the whole of the Hanging Wood.’

  ‘Did Philip strike you as a potential killer?’

  Kit Payne spread his arms. ‘What do killers look like, how do they behave? Did Philip have the instincts of a paedophile? With hindsight, I simply can’t be sure.’

  ‘Presumably neither you nor Niamh thought he was a risk, or you wouldn’t have allowed the two children to visit the cottage in the Hanging Wood?’

  Kit frowned. ‘One possibility was that Philip put his arm round Callum in a clumsy gesture of affection, or did something else that my stepson misconstrued. Another was that Callum caught him masturbating in the cottage, and said something cruel. If there was a struggle, Callum’s head might have banged against a wall or something. Philip would be terrified by the prospect of trying to explain why the boy was hurt, or even dead. Maybe feeding him to the pig seemed like the easiest solution.’

  Quite a long speech, and it sounded rehearsed, as if Kit had his narrative of events ready and waiting for the day when he was questioned.

  Hannah stretched out her legs and treated him to a saccharine smile.

  Time to rattle his cage.

  ‘Who else had a reason to harm your stepson?’

  CHAPTER TEN

  So Orla believed Callum Hinds had metamorphosed into Aslan Sheikh? Daniel would have been less startled if the principal had proposed a bonfire of every rare book in St Herbert’s. He gulped down half a cup of coffee, heedless that it scalded his tongue.

  ‘You’re joking.’

  The principal squinted in disapproval. ‘This is no laughing matter.’

  Daniel swallowed more coffee. The revelation was all the more bizarre because it came in such august surroundings from the lips of a mild-mannered exponent of civilised understatement.

  ‘Let me explain,’ Micah Bridge said, in tutorial mode. ‘Starting with the hiring of Aslan, a task I undertook against my better judgement.’

  Daniel nodded. The principal was wont to complain that he possessed no experience in human resource management, yet the trustees expected him to mastermind recruitment, performance and discipline of the entire workforce at St Herbert’s.

  ‘I have to tell you that his CV did not suit him ideally for the role I had in mind. Orla was struggling with her work, and she was keen to have support. In truth, she was ill-matched with her job, but she was the stepchild of a director of Madsen’s – what could I do?’

  ‘Did they pressure you into appointing her?’

  ‘Goodness me, no, that isn’t the way the world works, is it? You spent years in academe, Daniel, you are familiar with nods and winks, the currency of power in every senior common room in Oxford and Cambridge. St Herbert’s is an institution with a modest endowment, and running costs that we can barely meet. We rely on the goodwill of our principal donors; in other words, the Madsen family. Their gifts over the years have been munificent.’

  ‘I glanced over the accounts,’ Daniel said. ‘The donations column looks healthy.’

  ‘Several generous individuals support us, but contributions from the Madsen family dwarf the rest. At one level, they are eminently fair and reasonable. They do not insist on disfiguring the library with sp
onsorship banners, or that their name is writ large on our occasional learned publications. It suits Bryan Madsen – I do not wish to sound churlish – to point to this little oasis of “cultural calm”, as he describes it, on the fringe of his holiday park.’

  ‘You felt you had to offer Orla the job?’

  A grim-faced nod. ‘Just as I recruited the daughter of Gareth and Sally Madsen when she wearied of working at a suntan salon in Keswick. Fleur mentioned her brother- and sister-in-law were keeping their fingers crossed that Sham’s interview would go well, and I took the hint. I had little confidence that Orla could transform our promotional efforts, but I knew enough of her personal history to feel sorry for her. She was genuinely enthusiastic about our archive of fairy tales and historical materials. Not as a scholar – I’m afraid she had a distinctly second-class mind – but as someone who loved reading. I found that rather touching.’

  ‘Don’t reproach yourself,’ Daniel said. ‘She cared for St Herbert’s, and you did a good deed.’

  ‘She can’t have enjoyed it so much, or she wouldn’t have ended it all. Perhaps if I’d turned her down, if I’d given her more support when she worked for me … she might be alive to this day.’

  So guilt was gnawing at the old man. Daniel drank the rest of his coffee, leaving just the sediment in the bottom of the cup. God knows what a tasseographer would make of the grounds.

  Sometimes it was better not to know.

  Kit Payne’s eyes widened. ‘For heaven’s sake, Chief Inspector, the boy was only fourteen. Who would want to murder a child?’

  ‘You were aware of the incident involving Callum and a girl from one of the caravans on the park? Her name was Briony, according to the old file.’

  ‘You’ve got the wrong end of the stick; that business was something and nothing. The girl made a fuss, the father became agitated. These things happen. At Madsen’s, we pride ourselves on customer care.’ Kit paused, perhaps reading Hannah’s mind: spare me the commercial, please. ‘Both Gareth and I spoke to the family, and the matter was put to bed. The father didn’t pursue his complaint, and it had no bearing on Callum’s disappearance.’