‘Hello, Gray.’ Scott spotted her, skulking behind her boss. ‘Hi there. Joanna, isn’t it?’
God, he’d remembered her! They’d met several times, but had only exchanged brief pleasantries. She’d never dreamt she’d made any impression on him. Scott was only a year or two younger than Gray, and couldn’t have been more different. Fair-haired, boyish, with piercing blue eyes. He was wearing a white tee shirt, and black jeans that showcased his bum. Amber reckoned Mrs Whiteley had a secret crush on him. He supplemented his income by teaching art, and Lysette was a member of a group he led. This spring, she’d enrolled for some one-to-one tuition. According to Amber, her dad was livid.
‘Hi.’ She felt as shy as a schoolgirl. Handsome older men like Scott Durham had that effect on her.
He surveyed the overflowing trolley. ‘Stocking up for the barbie, Gray? Don’t tell me Malcolm wants to deduct the cost of his sausages and burgers as a business expense?’
Gray could be relied on not to rise to the bait. Sure enough, he turned his attention to the artist’s companion. The boy was about thirteen, slightly built, and wearing a Liverpool football shirt. Pretty kid, with a bird’s nest of curly blond hair. No mistaking the resemblance to Scott in those small, neat features.
‘So who’s this?’ Gray asked with forced jollity. ‘Not your famous son, by any chance?’
The boy shook his mass of curls. ‘I’m not famous.’
‘Gray likes to have his little joke, Josh,’ Scott explained. ‘He means, I’ve been telling everyone you’re gonna be a star. The next Bon Jovi.’
The boy rolled his eyes. ‘I’m not that good.’
‘Think positive!’
Gray beamed down on the lad. ‘I hear you’re entertaining us with the guitar this afternoon.’
‘Singing one or two of his favourites,’ Scott nodded. ‘Trust me. He’ll wow the crowd.’
‘I’m sure he will. Anyhow, we’d better get moving. Plenty to do before the festivities begin.’
‘Yeah, I’ve come to pick up a bottle of Bolly for Lysette and Malcolm.’
‘Splendid. Just as long as you don’t try to claim the bubbly against tax!’ Gray’s geniality was heavy-handed, but at least he made an effort. ‘Shall we make tracks, Joanna?’
Scott treated her to a dazzling smile. ‘Lovely to see you.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘I’ll look forward to it.’
She trotted after Gray into the car park, spine tingling. No wonder Amber said her mum liked Scott. He was a charmer. But Lysette was married, and too old for him anyway. She’d celebrated her fortieth birthday a few months ago. Spending a fortune on cosmetics papered over the cracks, but nobody could stop the ticking clock. Oh well, she ought to think positive herself. Suppose Nigel wasn’t interested in getting back together again? Scott Durham might not be so far out of reach after all.
The whisky had done Malcolm a power of good. Simply a matter of gathering strength for the afternoon. The Whiteleys’ barbecues were legendary, but he felt like a man preparing to face a public ordeal. Just as well he still had his self-control.
He’d locked the door of his study. You couldn’t be too careful. If Lysette saw the Winchester, she’d go bananas. She didn’t have the faintest idea of its existence. The rifle was an heirloom. His father enjoyed shooting, and had encouraged his sons to pursue the same hobby. Ted soon lost interest, but Malcolm was keen until he fell for Lysette and started spending every spare moment chasing her. The old man had made him a gift of the rifle, and three boxes of Eley Club ammunition, not long before a stroke claimed him. ‘Don’t tell that wife of yours’, he’d whispered.
No, Malcolm hadn’t uttered a word. Lysette loved antiques, but she had a thing about guns, and had a sentimental distaste for the idea of shooting living creatures. He caressed the rifle, casting his mind back to his teens, hearing his father’s gruff instructions on how to cock it, ready for firing. It was a 22 single shot target rifle, full size with a long barrel and fairly rudimentary sights. Light as a feather, and the recoil pad made it comfortable to hold. He’d not fired it for years, but he’d maintained it in good condition, and the ammo was long-lasting.
A few nights ago, he’d woken up from a crazy dream in which he’d acted as a one-man firing squad in some godforsaken Latin American country, gunning down blindfolded bandits, one after another. That same day, he’d taken the rifle out in his car to the lonely dunes at Drigg, just to make sure it still worked. The shots didn’t make much noise at all, he’d disturbed nothing more than a flock of gulls.
He couldn’t explain, even to himself, what had prompted him. Anyway, he found it oddly reassuring to know the rifle fired as well as ever. People let you down, but you could always rely on the Winchester.
CHAPTER THREE
‘The Dungeon House?’ Ben Kind said to his host. ‘A sinister name for somewhere so idyllic.’
His airy wave took in the lily pond and lavender bed, the winding beck and the distant sea, shimmering in a haze of heat. The view beyond the grounds of the house had scarcely changed since Roman legions marched down from the fort at Hardknott to their garrison on the coast. You could tune out the hum of conversation, and even Amber’s favourite rock bands screeching from the temporary loudspeakers.
A sudden peal of laughter from Amber’s friends knotted Malcolm’s stomach. They were mocking the way he’d stumbled over his words in welcoming everyone to the annual Dungeon House barbecue. He’d kept his speech brief, on Lysette’s strict instructions, and despite having drunk more booze than he’d intended, he thought he’d got away with it. But Cheryl struggled to keep her face straight, and the ghost of a smile flickered even on her boyfriend’s poker face.
Ben Kind unnerved him. It wasn’t simply that the man was a police officer. This wasn’t some local PC Plod, but a flinty Mancunian who’d cut his teeth detecting serious crime in the city before meeting Cheryl, and leaving his missus and kids to be with her. According to Lysette, the wife had begged Ben to come back, but Ben Kind was determined to make a new life for himself in the Lakes. A stubborn man, judging by the set of his jaw, someone who stuck to his guns. Those dark eyes seemed to read your thoughts, and his cynical jokes implied that anyone living in a big house must have paid for it with ill-gotten gains. Malcolm wouldn’t want to be on the other side of an interrogation conducted by Ben Kind.
‘This name, Dungeon, goes back centuries.’ He chewed his steak. Red meat, there was nothing tastier, and fried onions complemented it to perfection. ‘Not that we have our own underground prison cell, if you’re in search of an overflow for Millom Jail.’
‘You’ve got mustard all over your chin,’ Lysette said. ‘Here, use this.’
Snatching the paper napkin without a word, he wiped the yellow smear away. Lysette had hung her daubs inside the summer house. She reckoned her painting had come on in leaps and bounds since she’d started taking lessons from Scott Durham. What else was the bastard teaching her? His nephew Nigel and his accountant, Gray Elstone, were cooking in the gazebo, while Amber and Joanna served from trestle tables covered in gingham cloth. Deano and two lads who helped him in the garden were in charge of the booze, giving host and hostess a chance to mingle.
Not that Malcolm was in the mood for social chit-chat, least of all with a detective inspector. It wasn’t as if he could quiz Ben Kind about the alibi Cheryl had supplied for Lysette’s tryst with her secret lover. The policeman’s abandonment of marriage for someone pretty, vivacious, and unworthy had set a disturbing precedent of betrayal.
Ben downed a mouthful of lager. His self-assurance made Malcolm’s flesh creep. What had Cheryl been saying, were she and Ben poking fun at him behind his back? Adultery meant nothing to this pair. Ben’s divorce was nowhere near finalised. Lysette said the wife was fighting tooth and nail, but she’d never win.
‘You saw the deep split in the rocks beyond the stretch of grass where everyone is parked?’ Malcolm demanded. ‘Dungeon means fissure
.’
‘As in Dungeon Ghyll?’ Cheryl gave Ben a lover’s smile. ‘That’s a marvellous spot, in Great Langdale. We must go walking there, one of these days.’
Lysette nodded. ‘Dungeon Ghyll is fantastic, but we have our very own tiny sandstone quarry, the other side of those trees. Robbie Dean is turning it into a garden.’
‘Wonderful,’ Cheryl said. ‘Hey, why don’t we check on progress?’
‘I’ll lead the way.’ Lysette adjusted her Ray-Bans. ‘We don’t want any accidents. Robbie hasn’t put railings around the top path yet, and there’s a twenty-five foot drop. Are you coming, Malcolm?’
He shook his head. In the quarry garden, she’d be out of harm’s way. He needed to keep a close eye on Scott Durham, and make sure he didn’t sneak off somewhere to be alone with her. Lysette had volunteered Durham to look after the music this afternoon, and Malcolm hadn’t come up with a good excuse to wield a veto. ‘Supersonic’ had given way to Whitney Houston, wailing ‘I Will Always Love You’. Shit, was he sending Lysette a romantic message, coded in his choice of music? Malcolm wouldn’t put anything past the man. Right now, Durham was chatting to his son, the curly-haired wannabe pop star. The kid had performed a handful of songs like ‘Blaze of Glory’, prompting the guests to clap like mad, even though you could see better on television talent shows any day of the week.
‘Gray says Morkel wants a word,’ he said. ‘I’d better speak to them.’
‘Business!’ Lysette yawned. ‘Okay, we’ll leave you to it.’
Making his way down the slope, Malcolm felt a burning sensation behind his breastbone. Heartburn, or simply indigestion? He’d probably over-indulged in the steak and kebabs. Comfort eating, yes, but who could blame him?
Might Ben Kind, not Scott Durham, be the man Lysette was seeing? What if Ben had taken Lysette to some hotel last night? The way he’d dumped his wife and family revealed a ruthless streak. Perhaps continued close exposure to Cheryl had made him realise she was a pain, and he’d taken a fancy to his lover’s best friend. Would Lysette have dared to ask Cheryl for an alibi if she was sleeping with her best friend’s lover? Or was it a daring bluff, had she never bothered with an alibi because she was banking on her husband’s reluctance to humiliate himself by checking with Cheryl?
No, no, it had to be Scott Durham. Back when Lysette was sweet sixteen, a weedy, four-eyed loner in her class had written a fawning poem about her, and she was so flattered, Malcolm had to deal with him. The poet was a crybaby, and next time Lysette spotted him in the street, he scuttled off in the opposite direction. But Scott Durham wasn’t as soft as he looked, even though people pitied him because he’d lost his wife, and admired his tireless fundraising for the hospice where she’d died. He was a keen fell-racer, and kept himself in shape. It would take more than a knee in the groin to scare off Scott Durham.
‘Malcolm, how the devil are you? Thought I should come over, matter of courtesy.’
A hand the size of a shovel thumped him on the back as he heard the South African voice in his ear, consonants spat out like bullets from an Uzi. Hansie Morkel was about the least courteous person you could wish to meet.
‘You talked with Gray?’
Morkel mopped his brow with a red handkerchief. The heat was unrelenting, and he was overweight and out of condition, the legacy of too many expense account dinners. Corpulence was all that he and Malcolm had in common.
‘I asked a few questions, he had no answers. Not much of a dialogue, to be candid with you. Malcolm, the board will consider a resolution of no confidence in you at its next meeting. Meantime, consider yourself suspended from duty with immediate effect. The lawyers asked me to give you this.’
He thrust an envelope into Malcolm’s hand. ‘Give my best to that lovely wife of yours. And thanks for the invite. Impressive place you have here. Take my advice, and enjoy it while you can.’
Malcolm’s head was swimming. He stuffed the envelope into his pocket unopened. ‘Don’t … don’t underestimate me, Hansie.’
A grin cracked Morkel’s face. It was like watching a rock split in two. ‘Truth to tell, Malcolm, my mistake was overestimating you. As well as the value of your shitty little company. Ah well, we live and learn, eh?’
With a derisive laugh, he strolled away in the direction of the makeshift car park at the back of the house. Malcolm’s chest felt on fire. What had possessed him to jump into bed with those South African thugs? It was like selling your soul to the Mafia. No way would he surrender, even if they set out to bankrupt him. The Durham kid’s song said it all. If he did go down, he’d make sure he went in a ‘Blaze of Glory.’
‘All right, Malcolm?’ Robbie Dean asked.
‘I’ve had better days.’ No point in bullshitting Deano. ‘Fancy a pint?’
‘Sure.’
Deano’s expression never gave much away. He wasn’t the sort to offer well-meant advice to go easy on the booze. His indifference to others was a strength. Malcolm’s problem was that he cared too much. Most of all about Lysette.
‘The lawn is bone dry,’ Malcolm said as they reached the bar. ‘Two pints, Dave, thanks. Remember when it pissed down last August, and finished up like a mud bath? See those bare patches.’
‘I’ll put the sprinklers on full blast tomorrow.’
Malcolm lifted the plastic tankard. ‘Cheers.’
Deano wasn’t the most skilled plantsman in the world, but he didn’t mind putting in a shift, and how many homeowners had a one-time football star on the payroll? He was a far better player than Ted’s son, Nigel, and after he was picked for England schoolboys, some good judges had predicted he’d go all the way. Preston North End signed him on, and only a bad tackle that tore his cruciate ligaments had kept him out of the first team. While trying to regain his fitness, he went out clubbing one night with Nigel and two girls. One of them was Gray’s PA, the girl who was potty about Nigel. Robbie took a bend too fast, showing off to the pretty blonde in the front passenger seat, and veered off the road and into a tree. Neither he nor the blonde girl was wearing a seatbelt. She went through the windscreen, and was dead on arrival at A & E.
Thinking aloud, he said, ‘Life’s a bugger.’
Robbie Dean’s moody face stared over the rim of his glass. ‘You never said a truer word.’
People were drifting away, and an elderly couple Malcolm hardly knew came up to say cheerio. He mumbled pleasantries, keeping one eye on Scott Durham, but the bloke was on his best behaviour. He and Lysette must have made a pact: do nothing to stoke up suspicion. Cooking had finished for the afternoon, and Gray Elstone, angular frame draped untidily over the iron-work bench outside the rose garden, signalled to him. Gray had forgotten to take off his ketchup-stained apron, making him look like a butcher taking a break from bloodthirsty work. His grimace was usually reserved for funerals and bad news from the Revenue.
‘You spoke to Morkel?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Malcolm took another swig. ‘He gave me this envelope. Inside are my marching orders. I nearly shoved them up his arse.’
Gray winced. ‘Morkel hinted he’d drop all claims if you walk away from the business and repay sixty per cent of the purchase price. A clean break.’
Malcolm almost choked on a mouthful of ale. ‘I’ll break his fucking neck first. Chuck away everything, in return for a measly forty per cent? He must think he’s fucking well tipping a servant back in Joburg. It’s a joke.’
‘Don’t fly off the handle.’ Gray nibbled his thumbnail. ‘Bad for your blood pressure. Honestly, you need to think about his offer. It’s an opening shot, my guess is that he’ll settle for fifty-fifty. We might even squeeze out better terms in return for a quick deal. At least he’s prepared to compromise. The alternative …’
‘The alternative is to see him in court.’ He laughed, more raucously than he’d intended, and some folk nearby, including Scott Durham and his kid, looked round to see what he found so funny. ‘Dead easy.’
‘You can’t win, Malcolm. The con
sortium’s pockets are deeper than Wastwater.’ Gray’s Adam’s apple bobbed unhappily. ‘The man’s talking about bringing in the Fraud Squad, never mind pursuing a civil claim.’
‘Relax, it isn’t gonna happen.’ Malcolm made a lordly, sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘Trust me.’
‘Of course I trust you, Malcolm.’ A nervy lick of the lips. ‘The problem is, that makes me part of an endangered species.’
Malcolm slapped him on the back. ‘You worry too much. Leave everything to me. I know what I’m doing.’
‘Your very words when I suggested you look at that offer from the American venture capitalists. Instead, you bit Morkel’s hand off.’
To be rebuked by Gray Elstone was like being mugged by a boy scout. Malcolm was so startled, he didn’t even lose his rag. ‘Past history.’
‘Sorry.’ Gray’s voice was barely a whisper. ‘It’s just such a disastrous situation that we are in …’
His hands were shaking. It wasn’t the drink, the man was terrified. Malcolm hadn’t sussed that until now. Crazy to be talking doom and disaster out here in the sunshine in the loveliest place on God’s earth, but if he sank, Gray would sink with him. They’d finish up sewing mailbags together. Even if somehow Gray wriggled off the hook, what did the future hold for a dodgy accountant who was as ugly as sin?
‘Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.’
Gray’s crumpled expression registered a vote of no confidence in his client’s forward thinking. No point in wasting any more time trying to inject some backbone. With a dismissive grunt, Malcolm abandoned him to his misery, and stumbled up the slope to the gazebo, where Nigel and the girls were clearing the trestle tables. At the sight of him, Amber made a face.
‘Dad, you’re staggering.’
‘I’ve not recovered from having my eardrums shattered by that rock rubbish of yours. Oasis, you call them? Desert would be nearer the mark. Not a patch on the Beatles.’
The Dungeon House (Lake District Mysteries) Page 3
