The Serpent Pool

by Martin Edwards

  ‘All right, Greg,’ Fern said. ‘Let’s have the benefit of your wisdom, eh?’

  ‘So, Bethany knew Wanda, George and Stuart through work, so what? This is the Lake District. The most incestuous bloody place in Britain, if you ask me. Leave out the tourists and itinerants, and everybody knows everybody else. Sometimes seems like everybody shags everybody else, too; it’s the only thing to do in this bloody place during the long, cold nights of winter.’

  Maggie Eyre, fiercely loyal to her home turf, turned crimson with outrage. She shot him an angry look, but it would take more than that to bother Greg Wharf.

  ‘We need to face facts. If every dodgy relationship led to murder, the streets of Windermere would be as deserted as Wasdale.’

  Fern intercepted the glance he tossed at Hannah.

  ‘Hang on, Greg. Touch of exaggeration there, don’t you think? Grasmere isn’t exactly Gomorrah.’

  He shrugged. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Sure, but you know rejection can be painful. It breeds resentment, might even be a motive for murder. Though I guess you’re lucky, and nobody’s ever turned you down.’

  Donna sniggered, and Roz raised her neat eyebrows, but Fern’s sarcasm bounced off Greg Wharf like slingshot fire off armour-plating.

  ‘These people live in each others’ pockets. If someone knows one of the murder victims – assuming they were all murdered – chances are, they will know the others. The question isn’t whether Wanda was one of Wagg’s fancy women, never mind Bethany’s. What we really want to know is this…’ He allowed himself a rhetorical pause, a performer skilled at holding an audience in the palm of his hand. ‘A woman drowned, a man burnt to a cinder, another buried alive. So brutal – but why?’

  Fern frowned. ‘And your answer?’

  ‘Sorry, don’t have one. That’s why I’m still a DS.’

  He leant back even further in his chair, testing gravity to the limit. Drawing everyone’s eyes to him. A sly smile crept across his face, and Hannah saw how much he loved to be the centre of attention.

  ‘One thing is for sure. The motive has to be powerful. Overwhelming, I’d say. Never mind profilers, we need to ask what could drive someone to such extremes? Find that out, and we’ll find our murderer.’

  On her way out of Divisional HQ, Hannah looked in on Fern’s office. Both of them were pleased with the briefing, except for the last few minutes.

  ‘Bloody Greg Wharf,’ Fern said. ‘Complete pain in the arse.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with him after I’ve seen Clare and Saffell.’ Hannah hesitated. ‘There is just one thing.’ Fern gave her a curious look. ‘What?’

  ‘Has Greg worked this patch before?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Spent most of his career in Newcastle, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Can you check if he ever had a secondment on this side of the Pennines? Keep it low-key, I’m just ticking a box.’

  Fern was suspicious. ‘So, what box do you want to tick?’

  ‘Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m sure there’s nothing in it.’

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘Well, he arrived in the county a month before Saffell was killed. If he was around six years ago…’ Fern laughed. ‘You can’t seriously believe he had anything to do with those three deaths?’

  ‘No, but…’

  A wicked glint came into Fern’s eyes. ‘Yeah, but I catch your drift. Won’t do any harm to rattle his cage, will it?’

  ‘I’ve moved out,’ Marc said.

  Cassie took a long time to answer. He began to worry that she’d hang up. For the past hour, he’d kept wandering the streets; now he was perched on a low wall near the library. This was the third time he’d called her. Until now, her phone had been switched to voicemail. He’d left two messages, but she hadn’t called back. Busy, or simply playing hard to get?

  ‘You’ve left home?’ Her voice was small and wondering, like a child’s at Christmas. ‘I never expected—’

  ‘Things are…difficult.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. Hannah’s seeing someone else.’

  ‘What makes you think so?’

  ‘I know so. The man is Daniel Kind, the television historian. They’ve been meeting in secret. She used to have a soft spot for his father. Daniel’s better looking and more successful than his old man; no wonder she’s acting like a star-struck teenager.’

  ‘She’ll get over it. And come back to you.’

  He took a breath. ‘I’m not sure either of us want that.’

  Was that true? He didn’t know, he wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

  ‘Really?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘So, where are you?’

  ‘Staying with Mum in Grange. For a day or two, while I make plans.’

  Another pause. What was Cassie thinking?

  ‘And what plans do you have in mind, exactly?’ she asked.

  ‘Hate to disappoint you, Hannah, my dear, but not only don’t I own a car, I never even learnt to drive. My contribution to saving the planet, you know. Sorry I can’t be of more assistance.’

  If Nathan Clare experienced even a twinge of dismay at his inability to help, he hid it with an insolent leer. Payback for Hannah’s temerity in interrupting his day.

  They were sipping allegedly hot, but actually tepid, chocolate in a draughty cafeteria on the Staveley campus of the University of South Lakeland. There wasn’t a student in sight: term hadn’t started yet, and in any event, Hannah guessed the first thing they learnt here was the inadequacy of the catering. Clare had been summoned to a meeting of external lecturers, and at first he’d insisted he didn’t have time to fit her into his busy schedule. When she offered an alternative of an interview at Busher Walk, he grudgingly agreed to spare her ten minutes. No more, he was a busy man.

  ‘How do you get around?’

  ‘Some of us possess genuine green credentials.’ He tutted in mock rebuke. ‘I’m a passionate believer in public transport. If only the people who run the trains and buses shared my faith, all would be well. As it is, I do a lot of walking.’

  Hannah suppressed a groan of irritation. She’d hoped against hope he might blurt out something that contradicted what he had told Fern. Suppose he’d lent Wanda a car to drive to Crag Gill? But it had been the longest of long shots. Nathan Clare might not be as clever as he thought he was, but he wasn’t stupid.

  ‘And Wanda Saffell?’

  ‘She drives a sports car. A BMW, I believe, but you’ll need to confirm that. Cars mean nothing to me.’

  ‘She doesn’t happen to have a second car?’

  His nose twitched, as if smelling sour milk. ‘Why would she bother with two cars?’

  ‘She could afford to buy a runabout. What about her late husband’s car?’

  With exaggerated patience, he said, ‘George’s car was leased by his firm, I remember her mentioning that it went back when he died.’

  ‘It’s clear the two of you are very close.’ He took a swig from his mug, and the chocolate left a frothy moustache.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘You don’t deny it?’

  ‘You know Wanda and I have been friends for years.’ He wiped his mouth, rather to Hannah’s regret. ‘She admires my work. Why do you think she published my latest book of poetry?’

  ‘Because you sleep with her?’

  ‘Hannah, you have a waspish tongue in that pretty head of yours. No one would ever realise.’

  ‘So, you admit that you and she are lovers?’

  ‘It’s no cause for shame. Wanda and I have been intimate for years.’ His long tongue licked the rim of his mug. ‘Off and on, as you might say.’

  ‘You first slept together around the time of Bethany’s death.’

  His brows knitted together, increasing his resemblance to an ill-tempered gorilla. ‘Poor Bethany’s death had nothing to do with our relationship. Or with either of us.’

  ‘Did she commit adultery dur
ing her marriage to George Saffell?’

  ‘I would not presume to speak for Wanda.’

  ‘Did she sleep with you before he died?’

  He shook his head. ‘A gentleman never tells. Suffice to say, we all deserve a little treat, now and then. Live for the moment is a good philosophy, don’t you agree?’

  ‘Did you know Saffell personally?’

  ‘We weren’t friends, we had nothing in common, except that we’d both shagged Wanda. Not that the poor old fellow did it particularly well, I gather. As for books, their appeal for him was as items for his collection. His understanding of literature itself was skin-deep.’

  He’d answered a question she hadn’t asked. ‘So, you did meet him?’

  ‘Our paths crossed a few times. His firm sponsored various university activities. Showing the acceptable face of estate agency by subsidising the work of needy academics. I bumped into him once or twice at events.’

  ‘What form of sponsorship?’

  ‘I struggle to recall. The bursar can provide you with the details. He and the vice chancellor will still be in mourning. Losing George Saffell’s munificence must have hit the university hard. I expect they’ll use it as an excuse to hike up tuition fees.’

  ‘Wanda must be a wealthy lady. No wonder you were keen to renew the relationship.’

  ‘I couldn’t care less about Wanda’s money.’

  ‘Is that so?’ At last she’d touched a nerve. ‘What were you saying about deserving academics? How refreshing to meet someone who is not remotely interested in filthy lucre.’

  He slurped another mouthful of hot chocolate, didn’t speak.

  ‘You’ll have heard that Stuart Wagg’s body was found yesterday afternoon. His business supported the university too. Did you know him?’

  ‘You think I could afford his fee rates?’

  ‘Are you saying the two of you never met?’

  His eyes narrowed, as if he’d detected a trap she didn’t know she’d set.

  ‘When you look into his records, you will find that he represented me once. Six or seven years ago, when his reputation was a little less lustrous and he undertook work on legal aid, not just for privately paying fat cats.’

  ‘Why did you need his services?’

  ‘If you must know, I was charged with supplying cannabis to some of the students I taught.’

  She gripped her mug handle. ‘This would be about the time you were seeing Bethany Friend?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Was she a witness in the case?’

  ‘It was nothing to do with her, and the only time we smoked a joint together, she nearly choked. Bethany craved excitement and fresh experiences, but in truth she was an innocent. She’d led a dull life, and I’m afraid it rather suited her. Of course, the charge against me was a deplorable misunderstanding.’

  Somewhere behind them, a member of the cafeteria staff broke the silence by rattling a canister of cutlery. Hannah leant towards Nathan Clare.

  ‘Did the case reach court?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. However, Stuart Wagg managed to pick so many holes in the prosecution’s version of events that the judge threw the case out. It never even reached the jury, and I walked away with my character unstained.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  Justice denied, as per bloody usual.

  ‘I was innocent, naturally, but the experience destroyed my remaining faith in British justice. Without Stuart Wagg’s advocacy, I might have been found guilty.’

  ‘Perish the thought,’ she said through gritted teeth.

  ‘So, I had every reason to be grateful to the fellow. If you’re suggesting I had a reason to murder him, my dear Hannah, you’re not only barking up the wrong tree, you aren’t even in the right forest.’

  The self-satisfied grin was back. Even if he dabbled in drug dealing, so what? When it came to finding a motive for three murders, she’d drawn a blank, and they both knew it. He made a show of consulting his watch, and then leapt to his feet with agility startling in such a heavy man.

  ‘Your ten minutes ran out some time ago, Hannah. Sorry, must dash. Can I leave you to find your own way out?’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The fog cloaking Tarn Fold didn’t lift an inch as the hours drifted by. Louise said she ached to escape from the cottage, and do some shopping; besides, the cupboards of the cottage were bare. Daniel, ready to seize on any excuse to avoid being handcuffed to The Hell Within, proposed lunch in Ambleside. He could drop in at the De Quincey Festival office. Arlo Denstone hadn’t answered his latest emails, or a voice message asking if the talk needed any revision. Once that was sorted, he could make headway with the book. Or maybe it was just a writer’s displacement activity.

  Neither of them spoke on the journey. Louise wrestled with her private thoughts and Daniel needed to focus on the road. Visibility was down to fifty metres.

  Ambleside seemed to be brooding because normal life was on hold. Doom-mongers from the Met Office had scared off even the hardiest walkers, and Daniel was spoilt for choice when looking for a space to park. Louise hurried away to indulge in some retail therapy, while he picked up a copy of the Westmorland Gazette – the newspaper De Quincey edited was still going strong – before strolling past the market cross to the Festival office. Above the door, you could still see the name of a vanished photographer’s studio killed off by digital technology. The unit was surrounded by charity shops on short-term lets, windows stuffed with dog-eared chick lit, faded watercolours, and second-hand climbing gear. Even affluent Ambleside wasn’t spared the tide of change washing through the high streets of England.

  The tiny office overflowed with glossy posters advertising the Festival, racks of tourist information leaflets, and a display of classics by the usual Lake District suspects. Behind a desk sat a large, grey-haired woman, whose yellow and red badge proclaimed her as Sandra, Festival Volunteer. She was engrossed in a chat magazine and Daniel found himself hypnotised by its lurid cover: ‘Life! Death! Prizes!’ ‘A vulture tried to EAT me’, ‘The wife who SLICED OFF her hubby’s bits (“I still love him”)’, ‘We sold our pets to pay for Mum’s funeral’, ‘My Reg was banged up for being psychic’, ‘Fab Faye’s big day boob job’. When he coughed, she treated him to a cheery smile.

  ‘At last, a customer!’ she exclaimed. ‘How wonderful to see you, Mr Kind.’

  Daniel hadn’t given his name, but she was a fan of the TV series, and had just bought his latest book. They chatted for five minutes about history and when she might see him on the box again. If, rather than when, he said.

  ‘But you’re far too young to retire!’ she protested.

  ‘Too young to stay on a treadmill, you mean. I’m happy to hide away in my cottage and write.’

  Try to write, you mean.

  ‘I’ve been looking forward to your talk at the Festival.’ The note of regret puzzled him. She sounded like a child expecting to be deprived of a long-awaited treat.

  ‘Speaking of which, is Arlo Denstone around?’ The grey head shook. ‘Could he give me a ring, when he gets back?’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath.’ She lowered her voice, as if about to confide a secret vice. ‘To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure if he’s coming back.’

  ‘Later today, you mean?’

  ‘No, ever.’

  His stomach tightened, a spasm of selfishness tinged with outrage. Had Arlo walked out on the job, or chucked it in? And after he’d sweated blood to deliver the wretched talk by the deadline?

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Sandra became pink and indecisive, torn between discretion and the desire to unload. ‘The last time we saw him was when he did an interview on television with that Grizelda Richards,’ she said. ‘Nobody seems to know where he is.’ ‘Is he poorly?’

  Arlo Denstone was a cancer survivor, he recalled. Sometimes cancer came back.

  ‘He seemed as right as rain when I last saw him.’ The corners of her mouth turned down. ‘To tell you
the truth, he’s never here. It’s us who are worried sick.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing’s happening with the Festival, not a sausage. One of the other volunteers told me yesterday that the conference centre arrangements still haven’t been confirmed. The university phone us every day, chasing the deposit. They’ve threatened to scrub the booking if we ignore the latest reminder. The lady who does our accounts says we don’t have any funds in the bank. Two of the other speakers are losing patience because he hasn’t been in touch. We don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Arlo is still making plans for the Festival. He called at my cottage this week, chasing my talk before the printers’ deadline.’

  ‘I don’t know about any deadline.’ She twisted a skein of wool around her fingers. ‘See those posters? We owe the printers for them, the bill’s seriously overdue. At half past nine, they rang to say they were putting the matter in the hands of their solicitors. I know cash is tight, but we feel so embarrassed.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s lined up another firm of printers.’

  ‘I don’t know if he’s bothered about the Festival anymore.’

  ‘Surely he wouldn’t walk out on it?’

  ‘He’s a volunteer, like the rest of us. What if he’s received a better offer?’

  A volunteer? Arlo was keen on De Quincey, but Daniel hadn’t realised he was that keen.

  ‘Seriously? He isn’t being paid?’

  ‘He was full of enthusiasm at first, we were thrilled when he agreed to do the work for nothing but expenses. He’s organised festivals all over Australia, you know. But…’

  A movement on the other side of the window caught his eye. Someone walking past on the pavement. Hannah Scarlett, brisk and full of purpose.

  ‘I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding,’ he said hastily. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse—’

  Sandra reached into her knitting bag and pulled out his most recent book, beaming like a conjuror with a rabbit. ‘I wonder, before you go, would you mind signing this to me? I must have something to write with somewhere…’