‘Lysette!’
She appeared in the doorway. Her face looked stretched, her expression unnatural, like a woman who’d undergone too much cosmetic surgery. ‘What do you want?’
Anyone would think he was the one at fault. ‘Who upset Amber?’
‘She’s fallen out with Nigel, that’s all. She finally woke up to the fact that he’s more interested in Joanna. We were in the restaurant at the Eskdale Arms, but she was an embarrassment. In the end, Nigel went off with Joanna, and Amber’s wailed all the way home.’
‘Who else was there?’
‘Gray, and Ben Kind, and Cheryl, why do you ask? Robbie was drinking in the bar, and playing darts. Oh, and Scott Durham turned up later on, after he’d taken Josh back to the cottage.’ Her green eyes were cold. ‘Happy?’
‘It’s you I want to be happy, Lysette.’
‘That’s not true, is it?’ Her voice trembled with anger. ‘What you want is for Malcolm Whiteley to be happy. The man with the big house and big dick. Successful in business, and brilliant in bed. Adored by his family, and …’
‘Lysette!’ He put up his hand. She was needling him into doing something he’d regret. ‘We need to talk.’
It was a good line, the sort of shit peddled by those women’s magazines she lapped up in the hairdresser’s, but she shook her head. ‘You’d never listen to me.’
‘I’m all ears.’
She breathed in, as if summoning up her courage. ‘Okay, Malcolm, you asked for it. Tomorrow, I’m leaving. My solicitors will be in touch. I want a divorce.’
He swallowed. ‘I don’t think I’m hearing you right.’
‘I said you wouldn’t listen.’
‘You haven’t even got any fucking solicitors!’
‘As a matter of fact, I have. It’s one of many things you don’t know about me.’
He grabbed her by the shoulder. ‘What else don’t I know? Tell me that. I know you’re shagging Scott Durham, you little whore.’
‘Let go of me!’ She struggled, but his grip was too strong for her to escape.
‘You seriously think I’d surrender you to that pathetic toerag?’
‘Surrender me? You talk like I’m something you bought in a raffle.’
He was breathing hard. ‘Lysette, you’re not leaving me.’ The instant he relaxed his hold on her, she wriggled free. She was panting, and her cheeks were crimson.
‘You’re so wrong. Tomorrow, I’m off, and I’m never coming back. We’re finished, Malcolm, and if you don’t sort yourself out, you’ll be finished too. Look at you. Your life’s a mess. Everybody thinks you’re a swollen-headed oaf. They only tolerated you because you had money, and now that’s dribbling away, you’ll soon find out who your friends are. The real question is whether you’ll find any at all.’
She ran out into the hall, and up the staircase. He hesitated before following. She’d reached the half-landing and was staring back at him. Taking care not to fall, she took off first one of the high-heeled shoes, then the other. He took a stride forward, and she threw one of the shoes at him. It struck him on the forearm, a glancing blow that didn’t hurt but took him by surprise. As he hesitated, she spun round and raced off barefoot, up to the third bedroom. Not moving a muscle, he listened to her fiddling with the key in the lock.
‘Bitch,’ he mumbled.
That was it, then. He’d tried everything, now he’d run out of options. Nobody could blame him for what happened next.
For a long time, he sat in the armchair in his study, endlessly polishing the barrel of the Winchester. His mood was almost serene, thanks to the Chivas Regal. The long struggle was over, the uncertainty at an end. Once hope died, it was easy to move forward, and do what had to be done.
He heard a noise. Lysette, unlocking the bedroom door? She’d thought better of her defiance, perhaps, and wanted to talk. Too late, too fucking late. He sat very still, straining his ears. The soft sounds could only be Lysette’s footsteps, as she inched down the staircase, desperate not to disturb him. So she’d decided not to wait until tomorrow after all. She’d probably been listening out, waiting to see if he went up to bed, and left the coast clear. Hoping that drink or pills or exhaustion had knocked him out.
Quiet as a ghost, he picked up the rifle. Energy surged through him. He was about to seize control of his life again.
The study door was ajar. Nudging it open with the butt of the Winchester, he waited for Lysette to appear in his line of vision.
Yes, here she came, in tee shirt and jeans, a zipped and bulging airline bag in her hand. All ready for a quick getaway.
But if he couldn’t have her, no one else would.
As he lifted the rifle, something caught his eye through the window, from the darkness of the garden. A gleam of light, coming from the summer house. Another malfunction in that extortionately pricey lighting system? No, the summer house wasn’t connected up yet. Was someone out there? No, it was impossible.
He heard Lysette gasp, and realised she’d seen him. And she’d seen the Winchester. Now he’d reached the point of no return, he felt drained of energy. All he wanted was for it to be over.
‘Malcolm, no!’
He took a pace forward. Another stride would take her within arm’s reach. Not that she needed to be so close. The Winchester would do colossal damage at this range. Upstairs a door opened. Was that Amber? He couldn’t allow himself to be distracted.
His eyes met Lysette’s. He saw no sign of contempt or hatred now. Only terror.
‘Put that thing down!’
Her voice was a cracked whisper. Probably she was calculating whether she dared make a dash for the door. But it was too late.
NOW
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Heard the news?’
Les Bryant didn’t wait for an invitation to sit down at the table where Hannah Scarlett was chatting to DC Maggie Eyre. One beefy hand held a mug of strong coffee, the other a half-eaten Cumberland sausage in a bap, dripping brown sauce on to the tiled floor of the cafeteria. He curled his lip at the sight of Hannah’s lentil soup and Maggie’s tuna rice salad.
‘Don’t tell me, let me guess,’ Hannah said. ‘New research has revealed that meat eaters’ life expectancy is longer than previously thought. They are now expected to survive until their sixtieth birthday.’
‘You’re a cruel and heartless woman, DCI Scarlett.’ Les was just three weeks away from his sixtieth. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m a born survivor.’
True enough, Hannah supposed. It wasn’t merely that, years after retiring from West Yorkshire Police, and despite occasional health scares, Les still worked as hard as detectives half his age. He was on contract as a consultant to Cumbria’s Cold Case Review Team, and somehow his post had survived the scything-down of jobs conducted by the grim reapers of Finance and HR. To everyone’s surprise, he hadn’t even committed career suicide by saying something utterly inappropriate when Hannah and her team were summoned to a photo opportunity with the Police and Crime Commissioner.
‘You’d be amazed how much fitter I feel since I went on the veggie detox.’ Her aim was to show solidarity with her friend and colleague Fern Larter, after Fern was placed on a strict diet following a diagnosis of hypertension. The sight of a juicy steak still provoked feelings of lust, but she had no intention of confessing to Les. ‘Seriously, you ought to try it.’
‘I’d sooner stick pins in my eyes. To be fair, you’re not looking terrible on it.’ Les gave her slim figure the sort of appraising gaze nobody else would dare. ‘Take it from me, the feel-good factor is nothing to do with the crap you’re eating. It’s Daniel Kind who’s put a smile on your face. How is he, these days?’
Hannah glared, while Maggie tried to suppress a grin. ‘Fine, thanks. Now, what about this breaking news? I’m all ears.’
Typically, Les strung out the tension, gnawing at his bap, and wondering out loud why no slick marketing man had rebranded long sausages rolled into circular coils. Why not call them Cumbri
a sausages? The historic county of Cumberland had vanished forty years back, when all was said and done.
‘The name’s a reminder of the good old Cumberland pig.’ Maggie’s family had farmed for generations. ‘The boars died out in the Fifties. My granddad owned one of the last in the county. So sad the breed disappeared.’
‘Tragic.’ Les finished his hot dog, and burped shamelessly. ‘All right, then. Another teenage girl has gone missing. She set off from her home, just outside Ravenglass, on Saturday morning, and nobody’s seen her since. Name of Shona Whiteley.’
Maggie leant forward. ‘You’re not suggesting there’s a link with the Lily Elstone case?’
‘Who knows?’ Les sucked in his cheeks. ‘Admittedly, the circumstances aren’t one hundred per cent identical. Young Lily was knocked off her bike, wasn’t she? Shona said she was catching the bus on Saturday morning, forty-eight hours ago. She was supposed to be spending the night at a sleepover with a friend in Eskdale Green, and the alarm wasn’t raised until yesterday evening when she was due back. But the girls are much the same age. Lily was fourteen, Shona’s fifteen, and the places they were last seen are only a few miles apart in west Cumbria.’
‘Is that all?’ Maggie had never mastered the art of hiding disappointment. She was desperate to come up with something fresh, but it was hardly unknown for teenagers to go missing. Even in the Western Lakes, it had happened several times since Lily vanished without trace. Each time the kid had turned up safe and sound. Usually the explanation was a row with the parents.
‘He’s just ratcheting up the suspense,’ Hannah told her. ‘Our Mr Bryant is more of an old ham than any of your granddad’s Cumberland pigs. Come on, Les, spit it out. And I don’t mean that bloody sausage. Did the two girls come from the same village, or attend the same school?’
‘Not as far as I know. But there is a link between their fathers.’
Maggie’s eyes widened. ‘You’re talking about the accountant, Gray Elstone?’
‘And Shona’s dad, yes. Name of Nigel Whiteley. Ring a bell, Hannah?’
‘Uh-huh.’ He peered at her across the little table, smug as a quizmaster when an answer teases the tip of a contestant’s tongue. ‘Whiteley, Whiteley …’
‘You’ll kick yourself when I tell you.’
‘Was he …?’
‘The Dungeon House killer?’ Les’ bleak smile resembled a ‘before’ picture in a commercial for cosmetic dentistry. ‘You’re getting warm.’
‘But his name wasn’t …’
‘Nigel? No, you’re right. The man responsible for the murders at the Dungeon House was Malcolm Whiteley. He was the uncle of this Nigel Whiteley.’
‘Ah.’ Hannah pondered. ‘Gray Elstone was a friend of Malcolm Whiteley, wasn’t he? His financial adviser?’
He applauded lavishly. ‘Go to the top of the class. Not sure he was such a great adviser. Whiteley’s finances were in meltdown at the time of the shootings.’
‘Small world, eh?’ Maggie said. ‘Though I don’t see what this has to do with it.’
‘The world’s even smaller than you think.’ Les sat back, ready to play his ace. ‘You’ll never guess where Shona Whiteley was last seen.’
‘Try me,’ Hannah said.
‘At her father’s home, before she set off to catch a bus.’
‘So?’
‘These days, it’s called Ravenglass Knoll. Twenty years ago it was known as the Dungeon House.’
Joanna Footit wasn’t even watching the television when Nigel Whiteley’s face appeared on the screen. She liked to keep her set on in the background, even in the morning, when there was nothing on worth watching. It was company, especially when Darcy was at his most aloof; it was true what they said, dogs have owners, but cats have staff. The regional news was on, and Joanna was hoovering the living room carpet in her pyjamas, looking even more of a sight than usual. She was waiting for the local weather forecast, although if anyone had asked, she’d have struggled to explain why she followed the weather news with almost religious devotion. It wasn’t as if she spent a lot of time out of doors.
‘All we want is to have Shona back, as soon as we can.’
That voice, oh God! The timbre was imprinted in her brain. She’d misheard Nigel’s name when the reporter mentioned it, but she’d never mistake the sound of him. Fumbling with the switch of the vacuum cleaner, she tripped over the lead in her haste to catch sight of him on the screen.
Yes, there he was, tall and square-jawed. He’d aged well. His hair was short and flecked with grey, but it made him look distinguished. He wore a sombre suit, and an expression to match, but he was still the Nigel Whiteley she’d once adored.
The news item was brief, but she played it back half a dozen times until she had the story off by heart. The gist was that Nigel’s daughter had vanished into thin air. A photograph showed Shona at a party, giving a thumbs-up to the camera. An attractive girl, with shoulder-length dark hair, and a brace on her teeth. Good cheekbones, inherited from her Dad.
‘Shona has never done anything like this before.’ Nigel said. ‘I’m desperately worried.’
Shona had told him she’d arranged to stay the night with another girl, and it wasn’t clear to Joanna whether the friend was actually expecting her. You never got the full story on television. Sometimes, Joanna knew, this was due to ‘legal reasons’, a phrase which covered a multitude of sins. The police liked keeping their cards close to their chest.
Pausing the television, Joanna made herself a cup of Nescafé. Perched on her favourite chair, she sipped slowly, and asked herself what could have happened to Nigel’s daughter. The obvious assumption was that she’d run off with some lad, but if the police took the same view, would the story make the TV news? Then again, Nigel was a wealthy man these days, and the rich were different. They had influence with the media.
Nigel’s name cropped up in the papers now and then. He was sometimes described as one of the North West’s leading entrepreneurs. His company, Accident Payback, was highly successful, but courted controversy. She’d read news items accusing them of encouraging people to make false claims, and putting up the insurance premiums of innocent motorists. For Nigel, it was water off a duck’s back; he insisted he was performing a public service. Joanna supposed he was right, and found it impossible not to dwell on what-might-have-been. This wasn’t foolish fantasising about a celebrity who was hopelessly out of reach. Her spine tingled at the memory of him running his hands along her body.
If only Robbie Dean hadn’t crashed his car, things would have been so different. The accident might not have harmed her physically, but it had destroyed her nerves. They had a name for it now, post-traumatic stress disorder, but back then, everyone thought she should just be thankful she’d survived in one piece. She and Nigel were the lucky ones, but Joanna didn’t see it that way, not for a long time.
She pressed the TV remote. Nigel spoke directly to the camera. ‘Shona, love, please. All I want is to hear that you’re safe and well.’
Heartbreaking to see him in such distress. Joanna knew what heartbreak felt like. She’d been so happy that final night, that terrible night of the Last Supper. They’d kissed and made up on the foreshore at Ravenglass. She had a good job, a little nest egg in the bank, and the man of her dreams. It felt like Heaven.
Except that, in the space of a few hours, came the blood-soaked Hell at the quarry garden.
The Dungeon House nightmare had destroyed her fragile recovery from the horror of the fatal car crash. She’d lost the ability to think straight. Malcolm Whiteley had so much to answer for. It wasn’t just that he was a murderer. He’d ruined her life, and, yes, Nigel’s too. Money didn’t count for everything, and Nigel looked so pale and drawn. Twelve months ago, when she’d read about the death of his wife from pancreatic cancer, she’d almost got up the nerve to drop him a line and offer her sympathy, but at that stage Eoin was still around, and the moment had passed.
‘You’re not in any kind of t
rouble. Just get in touch, and let me know you’re okay, yeah?’
Nigel was distraught, naturally, but Joanna’s instinct told her the girl would turn up safe and sound. Teenagers often did ridiculous things. The authorities would pull out all the stops to find her, but would the joy and relief of reunion with Shona be enough to answer all Nigel’s prayers? Joanna suspected he was suffering from a deeper unhappiness. Pain was visible in his dark eyes. While everyone hunted for the girl, who was taking care of him?
‘If we’re raking over the past,’ Hannah said, ‘let’s do it in my office, and let someone else grab this table.’
‘You’ve not finished your soup,’ Les said. ‘What’s wrong, too many lentils?’
‘It got cold while I waited for you to tell us about this Whiteley girl.’
He bared his teeth again. ‘No loss. Why not forget the veggie experiment, and grab yourself a pork pie, build yourself up? With you in a minute. Just let me collect my bits and pieces.’
Hannah watched his retreating back. ‘He’s getting worse.’
Maggie laughed. ‘You did tell me to watch him and learn.’
Not long ago, Maggie had split up with her fiancé, and further dismayed her parents by deciding to prioritise the job, rather than marriage and raising a family. She was aiming for promotion, though with salary budgets under tight control and competition fierce, the odds were against her. Hannah was giving her more responsibility, with Les acting as her mentor. In the last forty-eight hours, Maggie had fronted a press conference about the case, under the watchful eye of a woman from PR, and made a fleeting appearance on local TV. She’d done well, and resisted the journos’ invitations to promise a swift and miraculous solution.
Lily’s bike had been found in a ditch next to the lane she cycled along to reach home, but no trace of her had ever been found. It looked as though she’d been knocked off the bike and abducted, but without a body – assuming she was dead, of course – there was little to go on. But you never knew what diligent re-examination of witness testimony might turn up. Someone knew the truth about what had happened to the kid, and the best way to find that someone was through patience and determination. Qualities that Maggie possessed in abundance.
The Dungeon House (Lake District Mysteries) Page 5
