The park and the paths around it were busy. Elderly couples reminiscing, children squealing, mothers scolding. A gull wheeled overhead, a couple of geese honked messages to each other. Hannah took no notice, eyes widening as she concentrated on him, pupils dilating, lips slightly parted. He felt a thrill of excitement, knowing he had something she wanted badly, even if it was only gossip that he’d gleaned from a drunken girl at a dinner party.
‘Tell me,’ she breathed.
The window of Aslan’s poky bedsit looked out to the steep and sweeping curves of the saddleback mountain. The view was the only good thing about the place, the reason he’d decided to rent it. That, and the fact he could afford nothing better.
He wanted money; he was pissed off with years of living hand to mouth. It shouldn’t be necessary. Not for a kid of his class.
Shame about Orla, but her death wasn’t his fault. He’d wanted her to give him an insight into the Hinds family, it was part of his plan to survey the ground before approaching his father with the truth. He hadn’t checked how the inheritance laws worked, but surely one day he’d be entitled to a stake in the farm at Lane End? What he hadn’t bargained for was Orla deciding that he was Callum, because he’d adopted a Turkish name that happened to feature in a story his mother had read him when he was young. He’d never have guessed that his half-brother loved C.S. Lewis. Orla was so distraught when she found out he wasn’t Callum that he’d not wanted to admit that there was a blood tie between them, until he was clear how she would take the news. With hindsight, he should have come clean. If she knew she had a half-brother, she might not have jumped into the grain. Better sweep the thought to one side. The roses had been an impulsive acknowledgement of the half-brother he’d never known; he wasn’t even sure why he’d made the gesture. He didn’t do sentimentality.
Anyway. The one positive he could take from this whole shitty situation was that he might never be poor again.
This encounter needed to be face-to-face, nothing else would do. Yet he couldn’t turn up out of the blue, and drop such a bombshell.
He’d found the right number.
Now he reached for his phone.
Hannah yanked a straw hat and dark glasses out of her bag as Daniel pushed off from the shore of Derwent Water. Rather than take a round trip by motor launch, they’d hired a small rowing boat for half an hour, so they could talk without being overheard. The sun shone on the surface of the water, in patterns chopped and changed by the motion of the oars. Canoes and kayaks drifted by, the motor launch was chugging back towards the jetty. He watched Hannah rubbing sun oil into her bare arms. She was gazing absently towards the wooded slopes of Friar’s Crag. Lost in thought, mulling over what he had told her.
If Aslan Sheikh was Orla’s half-brother, what bearing did it have on her death? He and Louise had tossed the question back and forth while the taxi took them home to Tarn Cottage, and he’d slept fitfully because his mind kept working overtime, but he hadn’t come close to an answer. If anyone could unravel the knots, it was Hannah.
‘Ruskin said this was one of the three most beautiful scenes in Europe,’ he said.
‘I can believe it.’ She pointed towards the fells flanking the lake. ‘Got your bearings? That’s Cat Bells to the west, Castlerigg Fell to the east. Behind you is Derwent Isle. And the biggest island, over there in the middle of the lake, is St Herbert’s, where the hermit of Derwent Water lived. One summer when I was a student, a couple of friends and I rowed out there. The plan was to stay overnight in a tent.’
‘I never knew you liked life under canvas.’
‘Once was enough. We’d had too much to drink, and the tent collapsed an hour after we landed. Before we could put it back up again, there was a violent storm, with thunder and lightning. We were scared to death as well as soaked to the skin. These days, people camp on the island for corporate team-building events. I hope they have more joy than the three of us – we were barely speaking to each other by the time we made it back to dry land. St Herbert could keep his island hermitage, as far as I was concerned. I’ve never even explored the library they named after him. Next week, I’ll put that right when I have a chat with Aslan Sheikh. Or Michael Hinds’ son, if that really is the truth of it.’
‘Purdey Madsen seemed confident of her facts. Mind you, none of the Madsens are lacking in confidence.’
‘That’s how they got to be filthy rich. I guess dinner at Mockbeggar Hall was a memorable experience?’
‘You bet. The Madsens never do things by halves, and Purdey Madsen is no exception. As if it wasn’t enough to be dragged out of the closet in front of her nearest and dearest, she dropped her bombshell about Aslan Sheikh, and made Sham spit with jealousy for good measure.’
‘Can we rewind a few weeks, to when you befriended Orla Payne?’
‘She was pleasant, rather naive, without a trace of ego or self-consciousness. Even though she wore a scarf to cover her baldness, she didn’t mind talking about her alopecia. Her enthusiasm for history, like her love of fairy tales, wasn’t sophisticated. Much of the time, she lived in a dreamworld. After she told me about her childhood, I understood why.’
‘She talked about her parents?’
‘Yes, she was close to her mother. Overawed by her father. One day when she did something to annoy him, he threw a rag doll of hers on the fire in the inglenook. Once the marriage collapsed, she stayed in her mother’s camp. The two of them had a lot in common, including the taste for booze and the mood swings. When she took Kit Payne’s name, her father was furious. I suppose he felt betrayed and let down, but she just saw the red face and heard the raised voice.’
‘He hasn’t mellowed, trust me.’
‘A dangerous man to cross – that’s how she described her own father.’
‘Sad.’ Hannah pictured the farmer’s fist, clutching the scythe. ‘Yet she was right.’
‘Callum was closer to Hinds. Not that he wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps. He wasn’t cut out for farming. But he had plenty in common with his dad. Orla implied that her brother had inherited that nasty streak.’
‘Was she in awe of Callum, too?’
‘I’d say so. She made him sound smug and superior. A clever boy who exploited the age gap between them, and treated her as a lackey. Literature was the only bond between them. They both read voraciously, and their tastes ran to fantasy. Callum was into C.S. Lewis and Tolkien, she was hooked on the fairy tales.’
Hannah trailed her hand in the water. Her fingers were slim, with nails cut short and not painted. She wore no rings. ‘What did Orla tell you about Philip Hinds?’
‘She was fond of him, they both were. Callum loved to escape from home and explore the Hanging Wood, and she often went along with him. For two kids with vivid imaginations, it was the perfect playground. Especially for Callum. Orla found it spooky, she didn’t like to go in on her own. Of course, she was only a child.’
‘Spooky is right, believe me. I went with my sergeant for a reconnaissance yesterday.’
‘Yes, I heard.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Did the Madsens gripe about it?’
He grinned. ‘Bryan did mutter something about public servants with nothing better to do with their time. Question is, did you learn anything?’
‘We weren’t hoping for forensic evidence twenty years on. Perhaps it was an indulgence, but I wanted to see for myself the place where Philip was supposed to have killed Callum. Your father taught me the importance of thinking yourself into the minds of the people you wanted to investigate, and part of it involves understanding their environment. Where they work and live and play. The snag with cold cases is the passage of time. But sometimes, the distance of the years helps you see more clearly.’
‘And how do you see the case against Philip Hinds?’
‘Purely circumstantial. Doesn’t mean he didn’t kill the boy, of course.’
‘But you believe he was innocent?’
‘I’d say he loved the Han
ging Wood, it was the one place he felt at home. To me it felt like a dank and dismal prison, but I’m sure he’d hate to desecrate it. But that’s guesswork. Police officers work on the basis of evidence, not gut feel.’
‘Is that really what my father believed?’
She smiled. ‘That sceptical glint in your eyes reminds me of him.’
He was conscious of the sun scorching his cheeks. What had she felt for Ben? Liking, of course; respect, certainly. Anything more?
Her gaze settled on Derwent Isle again. They had rowed round in a circle, as he followed a course back to the shore.
‘Orla must always have hoped that a fresh explanation for Callum’s disappearance would emerge. Something that exonerated her uncle.’
‘Wishful thinking?’
‘She was keen on happy endings. If her hopes were dashed, that could have sent her into a tailspin. There must be a reason why she committed suicide.’
‘I suppose there is no doubt that she killed herself?’
‘Very little. Hypothetically, if she came across evidence suggesting someone other than Philip murdered Callum, that someone had a motive to get rid of her. But what evidence, which someone, and above all why? It’s speculation piled on speculation, and I don’t suppose historians approve of speculation any more than the Crown Prosecution Service does.’
‘True, but we all speculate sometimes.’
He eased off on the oars and leant back to take in the view of the forbidding bulk of Skiddaw to the north of the town. Hannah followed his gaze, the breeze ruffling her hair. He was seized by an urge to stroke and smooth it, to feel its silky texture and the warmth of her skin. Bad idea. He needed to be patient. The moment was too precious to spoil.
Aslan crushed the phone against his hand.
‘You killed Callum.’
Silence.
‘And then you killed Orla.’
‘Not true.’
Aslan laughed, incredulous. ‘You expect me to believe you?’
‘Believe what you want. She jumped.’
‘I believe you murdered both of them.’
‘I don’t have to listen to this.’
‘Do you want the police to listen, instead? I’ll ring them now, if you want.’
‘They will think you are mad.’
‘I’m angry, actually, not insane. You killed my half-brother, and then my half-sister.’
‘Why on earth would I want to do that?’
Aslan paused. This was his weak spot. He hadn’t filled all the gaps in his knowledge, there were things he didn’t fully understand.
‘I know about Castor and Pollux.’
A long silence. Surely a killer would not hang up?
‘What do you want?’
Aslan felt a wave of relief wash through him. He had won.
‘I called in at Marc’s shop last weekend,’ Daniel said. ‘Bought a set of Wainwrights, much to Louise’s disgust. She says I ought to throw out at least two books for every one I buy. I had new bookshelves put up in the cottage after moving in, but already the to-be-read pile is mounting on the floor of the spare room.’
‘Marc and I had the same conversation a dozen times,’ Hannah said, ‘but I never made any headway. Once a bibliomaniac, always a bibliomaniac.’
Lunch in the light and airy cafeteria at the Theatre by the Lake. Hannah savoured a mouthful of her open sandwich: smoked Borrowdale trout with lemon-and-dill dressing. Until now, they’d steered clear of personal stuff, which suited her fine, but Daniel knew Marc had moved out back in January, and was bound to be curious.
‘Marc told me you and he were due to meet up this week,’ he said.
So Marc had talked about her to Daniel, even though he’d been jealous of their relationship. Another sign that he might be growing up; pity it was too late.
‘He wants us to get back together again, but I don’t think it will work.’
‘Perhaps you both need more time.’
‘We’ve had six months.’
‘It may take longer.’
‘I’ve had long enough to get used to living on my own. It’s sort of liberating.’
‘I know what you mean. The endless compromises when you share with someone are hard work. Ask my sister.’
He showed his white teeth in a grin. A good-looking man; strong features, clear brown eyes, she couldn’t be blamed for finding him attractive. Plenty of women would, even if he’d never appeared on television. But what drew him to her was that she was sure she could trust him absolutely – as she had his father.
‘And how are things with Louise?’ Grabbing the chance to change the subject.
‘She’s good. That bastard who gave her such a rough time is a fading memory, thank God. Now she’s looking round for a place of her own up here. Not that I’m pushing her out; she’s someone else who likes to have her own space. At least the sparks don’t fly between us the way they did when we were teenagers.’
‘Sibling rivalries, eh?’ She swallowed the last morsel of trout. ‘There’s no escaping them in this case. The Hinds brothers, the Madsen sisters, Callum and Orla. Perhaps it’s just as well my sister emigrated years back.’
‘Speaking of siblings, there’s a question about Castor and Pollux.’
He gave her the gist of what Aslan had told him. ‘Let’s suppose Orla resorted to playing the detective. She’d fantasised that Aslan Sheikh was Callum, larger than life. When he disillusioned her, she was forced to accept that her brother was dead after all. But she was sure Philip was incapable of murder – so she tried to fathom what did happen to Callum.’
‘If she decided that he was killed by someone she cared for, that could have driven her to suicide.’
‘Kit Payne? He’d done his best for her, as he did for her mother.’
‘And we do know that Callum didn’t hit it off with Kit.’
‘Did she talk to you about Kit?’
‘Not much, but she seemed to like him.’
Hannah savoured her camomile tea. ‘After so many years, she is hardly likely to have found any evidence that Kit was responsible for Callum’s death. But if she confronted him …’
‘Would he admit his guilt to her, do you think?’
‘Only if she caught him off guard. He’s a streetwise businessman, don’t forget. I’d expect him to deny it. Perhaps prey on her fears, say that she needed psychiatric help. Which might explain why she jumped into the grain.’
‘I’ve never met him, but even hard-nosed executives aren’t always natural-born killers. Do you think he’s capable of murdering a young boy?’
‘Depends on the provocation. If they had a fight, and Callum died by accident, Kit might have panicked and hidden the body. Once he’d done that, he was trapped. No going back.’
‘So he sat back and watched an innocent man persecuted for a crime he didn’t commit?’
‘You’ll be amazed what people will do when the self-preservation instinct kicks in. Besides, he might be able to salve his conscience on the basis that there was no evidence to prove Philip’s guilt, and that the storm would soon blow over.’
‘It was Kit who found Philip’s body.’
Hannah nodded. ‘I hadn’t forgotten.’
‘If that’s how it happened, it may never be possible to prove Kit’s guilt.’
‘No.’ Hannah fiddled with her teaspoon. ‘Unless – something else happens.’
‘Such as?’
‘If we finally find Callum’s remains.’
Taking risks didn’t faze Aslan. How else could you make something special out of your life? The mistake he’d made so far in his life was that the risks he’d taken had never earned a proper reward.
The butterfly knife lay on his bedside table. He traced a finger along the blade, so gently that the skin did not break. He liked danger, that was the truth of it. It turned him on more than any woman.
Looking through his window, he spotted distant walkers, tiny dots of colour on the grey slopes. His eyesight was keen, his
body muscular and strong; he needed to make more of his life before he grew lazy and old. Since arriving in the Lakes, he’d spent time climbing. Once, he’d nearly found himself stranded on Helvellyn when the mists closed in. He was alone, and nobody knew where he was. He’d got away with it, suffering nothing more than bruises as he scrambled down the scree as if his life depended on it. Perhaps it had. He was accustomed to getting away with things; some days he could persuade himself he was invulnerable, and like a denizen of Shangri-La, he would live for ever.
The sun was high, tonight his star would be in the ascendant. His life was going to change, no question. He wasn’t a planner – he was too disorganised a thinker to bother with tactics or strategy. Sometimes you just had to play a card, and see where it fell. In returning to the Lakes, he hadn’t worked out a plan of action. Curiosity had pulled him back. Mum had talked of the Lakes for years after she left Turkey. When he was older, he’d asked about his father, but she hadn’t told him much. Perhaps there wasn’t much to tell. She’d spent a couple of years in England on a student visa, earning a few quid behind a bar to help fund her studies. Mike Hinds came in for a pint one night, and swept her off her feet; almost literally, she told her son. He was a farmer, big and strong as well as intelligent. Enough virtues for her not to mind too much about his temper. For a few weeks, she was in seventh heaven, until a fellow barmaid told her he was married, and forty-eight hours later a pregnancy test came out positive. She plucked up the courage to tell Hinds, fearing a volcanic outpouring of rage. But all he wanted was to solve a problem, and he gave her the money for an abortion, along with plenty of cash to pay for the plane home.
Thank God she was determined to keep me.
Mum stayed in England until after he was born. It seemed strange that she’d given him the name of the man who had let her down, but she said that, in the hospital crib, his newborn face was the image of his father’s.
The Hanging Wood Page 20
