‘Tomorrow.’
‘Excellent!’
‘Don’t get too excited. I’m back at St Herbert’s in the morning; there’s something about this case that I want to check and let her know.’ He thought for a moment. ‘In fact, there’s more than one question I’d like to ask.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘She’s the detective, Daniel. You’re not, and you’re not Dad, either.’
Stretching out on the sofa, he closed his eyes, letting the lush music wash over him.
‘You really think I’d forgotten, that, Louise?’
Hannah listened to Jamie Cullum singing a mix of standards and newer stuff on the drive home. She liked his voice, it usually took her out of herself, but tonight she couldn’t help fretting about what she should do with her life. Leaving Marc to Terri’s tender mercies had to be an option. She might even try her luck with Daniel. But something bugged her about Ben’s son. He was a very bright guy, and incredibly personable; he had the world at his feet. It was taking a long time for him to get over the death of Aimee, but when he finally did so, she was sure he’d find life in the Lake District wasn’t satisfying enough. Tarn Cottage would become a rural pied-à-terre, while he spent most of his time jetting around the world on lecture and book tours. He had a first-class brain; he’d get bored with her if they spent too long together. And even if he didn’t, how could he fit in a partner whose life revolved around police work?
A rabbit ran across the road and she slammed on her brakes at the last moment to avoid squashing it. An SUV following too close behind did an emergency stop and finished a couple of inches short of her back bumper. The driver took out his anger by hitting his horn. He’d have thought better of it if he’d realised she was a cop, but Hannah didn’t want to make a scene. As the rabbit disappeared into the hedgerow, she set off again, and the SUV overtook at the first opportunity, horn blaring again in disgust as it disappeared into the night.
She needed to concentrate on the road. Driving in the dark was never easy on the Lakes’ narrow byways, and she shouldn’t allow herself to become distracted. Most of the men Hannah knew were skilled at compartmentalising – how else had Marc indulged himself with Cassie Weston while setting about building a new life with her after the move to Ambleside? She’d never been much good at filing her emotions in neatly separated folders, but she wished she could learn the knack.
‘Our Day Will Come’, Jamie was promising, as she pulled up outside Undercrag. Better hope he was right. At least Marc didn’t seem to be lurking around the house again like a ghost. Her mobile chirruped as she was climbing out of the car. Terri again. She’d seen a couple of missed calls from her, made during her stop at Tarn Cottage. Before setting out, Hannah had called Terri and made the mistake of telling her she was going to see Daniel Kind. Obviously her friend was agog for an update.
Ignoring her wouldn’t work; Terri never took no for an answer, and if she was determined to talk, there would be another call, and then another. Hannah checked her watch. Must have been about this time last night that a desperate murderer hit Aslan Sheikh on the head and threw him into the slurry tank. She pressed answer and said, ‘Hi, kid.’
‘Been trying to get hold of you all evening.’ Terri sounded breathless. ‘Are you still … with Daniel?’
‘No, I’m back home.’
‘You’ll have to tell me about it some other time.’ This might just be the most unexpected thing Hannah had heard Terri say. ‘Hey, listen, I need to talk to you.’
She gripped the phone in her palm. ‘What is it?’
‘This bloke who was murdered at the farm near Keswick?’
‘Yes?’
‘I was talking to Stefan this evening. He told me about this mate of his, who works at the farm.’
‘One of the Polish labourers?’
‘Yeah, really fit bloke, name of Zygmunt. He’s a witness; you need to talk to him.’
‘My colleagues at Keswick have spoken to people at the farm. I can’t just muscle in on their patch.’
‘Listen, Zygmunt has decided he’s not going back to the farm, he’s a free agent now. These two deaths have spooked him, and no wonder. A woman suffocated in grain, and a man chucked into a slurry tank? You couldn’t make it up. Anyway, he told Stefan he saw something the other day, when that woman jumped into the grain tower.’
Hannah felt as though an icy finger had traced a pattern down her spine. ‘What did he see?’
‘Someone was watching her. Even followed her towards the grain tower.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Zygmunt swears it’s the truth. I’ve met the feller, he isn’t a liar.’
‘Why didn’t he speak up before?’
‘Everyone reckoned the girl killed herself. And he didn’t want to get anyone into trouble. Or draw too much attention to himself. It’s not easy for migrant workers, you know; they worry that if they are in the spotlight, they might risk being asked to leave Britain. We’re not such a welcoming country as we used to be, Hannah.’
‘OK, point taken, but is he willing to talk now?’
‘Only to you.’
‘Hang on a moment—’
‘No arguments, sweetie. I’ve explained that you’re completely trustworthy. How are you fixed tomorrow morning?’
Shit, this was becoming complicated. But how could she say no?
‘All right. I’ll call you first thing.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It was sweltering inside St Herbert’s, the atmosphere sauna-like and oppressive. All the windows in the Old Library were open, but it made no difference. Daniel could almost feel the pounds dripping off him in sweat. Much more of this, and he’d look like a wraith. But a change was on its way; the Radio Cumbria weathergirl had warned of a build-up of pressure, and thunder and lightning were forecast for late morning and the afternoon. Everyone Daniel saw seemed heavy-legged and sluggish, as if the humidity had drained their last drops of energy. The Old Library was deserted apart from the librarian, whose footsteps sounded squeaky and unnaturally loud as she trudged to and fro between her desk and the catalogues. Casual readers and residents alike had fled, as though fearing the epidemic of death among members of staff might prove contagious. Even the journalists had abandoned St Herbert’s; Daniel suspected they were circling Lane End Farm like vultures, but at a safe distance, in case Mike Hinds lost it once and for all with his scythe or his gun.
For the first time in their acquaintance, even Professor Micah Bridge had loosened his tie. There was a moist glistening in the deep furrows of his high forehead, and he leant against a bookcase for support. His breathing was an unhealthy rasp; he sounded like a candidate for an imminent stroke. The deaths of Orla and Aslan had diminished him; he seemed to have shrunk, and become infirm before his time. How much more could the principal take?
‘Jolyon Hopes?’ The high scratchy voice echoed in the silence. ‘He was a reckless rider, by all accounts. I heard he took a chance too many with a young and nervous horse.’
‘On the estate?’
‘Goodness me, no. The accident occurred in Cheshire, I believe.’
‘So he was away from home at the time?’
‘He loved horses. The Hopes were renowned as a family of animal lovers, although that did not stop them hunting foxes. I gather he went hunting all over the north of England. His father was devastated by the calamity, of course. Not least because it ruled out any chance of the Hopes name continuing into the next generation.’
‘Was Fleur with him at the hunt?’
‘No, if memory serves, she was on holiday with her husband on a cruise in the West Indies at the time. She flew back to be at her brother’s bedside. In the end, he pulled through, although his vertebrae were smashed beyond repair. He was never able to look after himself again.’
‘Fleur was out of the country at the time of the accident?’ Another theory shot down in flames. Hannah was right to be sceptical.
‘Indeed.’ Micah Bridge pursed his papery lips. ‘D
are I enquire as to the reason for your curiosity?’
Daniel contrived an enigmatic smile. ‘I’m fascinated by stories about families. Like the Hinds and the Paynes. Or the Hopes and the Madsens.’
‘Ah, a true historian of England; those families’ stories concern the perennial struggle between land and trade.’ The principal’s moist eyes locked on him; could he really be as other-worldly as he seemed? ‘Alas, we both know that trade always wins. But your current researches are much more targeted. This book of yours about the history of murder. You are not by any chance suggesting—?’
The double doors leading to the corridor swung open behind them. Daniel did not need to turn round to know who was there. The fragrance was unmistakable.
‘Daniel!’ Fleur Madsen’s voice had an uncharacteristic tremble. ‘I saw your car outside, and guessed you were here. Can we talk?’
‘Sorry, Hannah.’ For once in her life, Terri sounded uncomfortable as she placed the mobile down on the table. Her tan was tinged pink with embarrassment. ‘Zygmunt has changed his mind; he’s wetting himself at the prospect of getting involved.’
Hannah swore under her breath, her shoulders stiffening with anger and frustration. They were sitting opposite Stefan at a table on the pavement outside the Windermere pub where he worked. The stop-start of noisy car engines as the traffic snaked past them, heading lakeside, was making her temples pound, and in the sticky atmosphere the stench of petrol made her throat constrict with nausea. The farm labourer had been due to arrive three-quarters of an hour ago, but he’d failed to show. Stefan finally tracked him down on his mobile, but when Terri took the phone and spoke to the man, the conversation didn’t go to plan, and within a minute, he’d cut her off.
‘He doesn’t have a choice.’ Hannah rapped the table’s metal surface to make her point. It made her feel better, even if her knuckles stung. ‘If he has information that would help our enquiries, he has a duty to share it. He’s not at risk, and even if he were, we could look after him. If he’d rather speak to someone other than me, fine. No way can he put his head below the parapet now.’
‘It’s just that—’
‘Listen, Terri, I’m not pissing about. If he tries to melt away into the landscape, we’ll dig him out. If he keeps his mouth shut, there’s every chance he’ll finish up in a cell, looking at a one-way ticket home. He needs to cooperate, and tell us whatever he knows.’
Terri stared as if Hannah had stepped out of an alien spacecraft. ‘All these years we’ve been friends, you’ve never talked to me like a detective chief inspector before.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m not in the mood for games.’ Hannah didn’t often raise her voice, but she was past caring about making a scene. ‘Mario Pinardi found a body dripping in slurry on Saturday night. He won’t forget the stink of death and shit in a hurry. As for Orla Payne, I spoke to her less than forty-eight hours before she died of suffocation. Two people, laid out on mortuary slabs long before their time, do you wonder I’m not prepared to let this bloke wimp out?’
Terri put up her hands, like a boxer on the ropes warding off a flurry of punches. ‘All right, all right, I’m only trying to help.’
‘Give me the phone.’ Stefan stretched out a beefy arm tattooed with a picture of a mermaid with bee-stung lips, and breasts the size of beach balls. ‘I will talk to him.’
‘I’d be grateful,’ Hannah said, as Terri slid the mobile across the table to him.
Stefan was a man of few words, many of them heavily accented and hard to interpret, but that didn’t faze Terri, who talked enough for two. He seemed to be a man of simple pleasures, content to gaze with quiet approval at Terri’s cleavage, even if it wasn’t quite a match for the mermaid’s.
He redialled and spoke with quick-fire fury in Polish to his friend. Whatever he said left no room for argument. Inside a minute, he rang off and thrust the mobile into his trouser pocket as though he never wanted to see it again.
‘He changes his mind, he will come soon.’
‘Thanks, Stefan,’ Hannah said.
It crossed her mind that it would be a mistake to underestimate Stefan. For all his taciturnity, he seemed strong in temperament as well as in physique. Not in the same league as Mike Hinds, no doubt, but cross him, and sparks would fly. Did Terri know what she was getting into? A question for another day.
‘Perhaps you can spare me five minutes in my office, Daniel?’
Fleur Madsen set a brisk pace across the floor of the Old Library, not waiting for an answer. Shaken she might be, but she had a nervous energy that the heat hadn’t sapped, and she took it for granted that Daniel would follow her lead. Her pallor made a striking contrast with the black trouser suit; she resembled an exquisitely tailored ghost. She’d made it clear she wanted to speak to Daniel in private, and Micah Bridge needed no encouragement to make himself scarce; he seemed to find her very presence intimidating.
As she made a few noises about the awfulness of Aslan’s death, and the insensitivity of so many journalists, she took him to the back staircase. It led to her office, but so did the main staircase, up from the corridor by the reception desk, and it would have been quicker to go that way. He suspected Fleur didn’t want Sham to know they were having a conversation. And he was beginning to think that he could guess why.
Reaching the first floor, Daniel found himself looking down a narrow passageway that ran the length of the building. Halfway along he saw the landing of the main staircase. Doors spaced at irregular intervals opened off the left-hand side of the passage; on the right, windows looked out on to the drive and car park; beneath them were bookshelves crammed with modern first editions. Fleur pointed out a complete run of Graham Swift first editions as she took out a key for the door marked Chair of Trustees. For a few moments, it rattled clumsily in the lock; her hands were shaking, but at last the door opened and she waved him inside.
The room was spacious, with a dedicated workspace, plus a large leather sofa and occasional table for informal one-to-ones. Everything was predictably neat and well organised; Fleur didn’t strike him as a woman who could bear clutter. Was that why she’d never bothered to complicate her life with kids? Her desk was immaculate, with pens, paper clips and rubber bands stored in the compartments of a bronze tidy, and a sleek wireless laptop. A solitary photograph showed her and her husband shaking hands with Margaret Thatcher. The shot must have been taken long ago; Bryan’s hair was still dark and plentiful. Yet Fleur’s appearance had scarcely changed. She looked steely-eyed enough to have been the Iron Lady’s daughter.
As he took a seat at one end of the sofa, she indicated a door set in the side wall. ‘I even have my own bedroom. A bit of a waste, frankly. My predecessor lived in Whitehaven, and often stayed over. But Bryan and I live so close to the Residential Library, I never need to stay the night. I could walk home, if I was in the mood, but that would mean schlepping through the Hanging Wood, unless I made a twenty-minute detour. So I bring the car, and try not to worry about my carbon footprint.’
You’re talking too much. The torrent of small talk must be down to nerves; she was unfamiliar with not being in control of events, and unsure how to cope with a sense of helplessness.
‘So – you wanted a word?’
‘Yes, um, that’s right.’ She turned round the chair at the desk, and straddled it. ‘The librarian tells me you and your sister were researching my family’s records. I wondered—’
‘Orla Payne said something to Aslan about Castor and Pollux. I think he checked Sir Milo’s memoir and found those were the names of two dogs, buried in the grounds of Mockbeggar Hall. They were painted by Millais, in thanks for the hospitality he’d received.’
‘That’s right.’ Fleur swallowed. ‘The painting is a family heirloom.’
‘I believe it usually hangs in the dining room at the Hall.’
She nodded. ‘We moved it during the renovations. It needs to be sent away for cleaning.’
‘So, not moved simply in order that I sh
ouldn’t see it?’ Her jaw dropped, as much at his insolence as in denial that the Madsens might be so Machiavellian. ‘Doesn’t matter. I reckon Orla discovered, or guessed, that her brother Callum was buried along with the dogs.’
A rictus grin. ‘You can’t be serious?’
‘Sorry, Fleur, but I am.’
‘And your friend, DCI Scarlett, I presume you’ve discussed your theory with her?’ He inclined his head. This was why Fleur had asked him up here, he felt sure. To get an understanding of what he’d shared with Hannah. ‘So what does she think?’
‘She’d like to take a look at the pet graveyard.’
‘The Hall estate is private property,’ Fleur said. ‘We have only opened up a part of it to the holiday park’s residents. Dead animals deserve a dignified resting place, as much as dead people. I doubt Bryan would be willing to allow the police to dig up the grounds on a wild fancy.’
‘Much more than a wild fancy, to be fair. At first, Aslan was unclear how Orla had learnt about Castor and Pollux. After all, it wasn’t long ago that she thought he was really Callum. Because she’d locked the door to her room here, he shinned up the outside drainpipe to break in via the window. Hardly any of them shut perfectly, as you know.’
Fleur stared. ‘Aslan did?’
‘I saw him with my own eyes. He pretended to me he’d simply climbed up on to the parapet on a whim. It took him a while to figure out how Orla might have learnt the truth about Callum. As it did me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Orla and Callum had plenty in common.’ He exhaled. ‘Just as Callum was a voyeur, so Orla was an eavesdropper. She heard enough to work out the rest.’
‘Heard from whom?’
He smiled, even though he felt genuine sorrow. ‘From you, Fleur, or from someone you were entertaining here.’
‘Is this some kind of macabre joke, Daniel? If so, I have to say it’s in very poor taste.’
‘No joke,’ he said. ‘A summer’s day, and with your window and hers next door both open, she must have listened to your conversation. My bet is that she heard enough to be sure that she knew not only that Callum was buried in the dogs’ grave, but also who put him there.’
The Hanging Wood Page 24
