Les was curious. ‘Cheryl told you all this?’
‘No. this came second hand, from Ben. Cheryl and I were never … close.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Hannah felt herself colouring. ‘Cheryl introduced him to Malcolm and Lysette Whiteley after they moved to the Lakes. When he transferred to the Cumbria Constabulary, they came up to her old stamping ground, near Gosforth, and were invited to the Dungeon House more than once.’
‘What did Ben make of Whiteley?’ Maggie asked.
‘They were chalk and cheese. He said Whiteley was matey enough, or at least thought it didn’t hurt to be on good terms with a cop. Lysette he liked. She was fun to be with, and didn’t spend her life talking about herself, or showing off how much money they had.’
‘Did he realise the marriage was on the rocks?’
‘Yes, Cheryl hinted that Lysette was seeing someone else.’
‘Who was the other man?’
‘Ben didn’t know for sure. Cheryl wasn’t in on the secret. Lysette was very discreet, but the smart money was on a local artist. Lysette enjoyed painting, and he gave her one-to-one tuition. Cheryl suspected that wasn’t all he was giving her. Though Ben also wondered about the man who raised the alarm after the shootings. The head gardener.’
Les whistled. ‘Doing a Lady Chatterley?’
‘It crossed Ben’s mind. But he admitted it was very unlikely.’
‘What exactly happened?’ Maggie never liked discussion about a case to be sidetracked. ‘When did the gardener find the bodies?’
‘Sunday, the day after the barbecue. He turned up to finish tidying the grounds after the barbecue. There was no sign of life in the house, but he had a key to the outbuildings where the gardening equipment was stored, so he didn’t give the Whiteleys a second thought – or so he said.’
‘Working on a Sunday?’ Maggie’s suspicions were aroused. ‘That’s devotion to duty for you.’
‘It’s no different from your dad’s farm,’ Les pronounced. ‘The job’s never done, with a garden. Why do you think I started work again after I retired? I was fed up with breaking my back, digging and hoeing, that’s why. Came back for a rest.’
‘Tucked away in the grounds were the remnants of an old quarry,’ Hannah said. ‘Whiteley was transforming it into a landscaped garden. At some point, the gardener’s work took him there, and he found two bodies lying on rocky ground at the bottom of the quarry. Malcolm Whiteley, with his face blown off, and his rifle by his side. His daughter Amber, sprawled next to a boulder with her head bashed in.’
Maggie winced. ‘Not the sort of thing you ever forget.’
‘He ran back to the house, but nobody answered the door. It wasn’t locked, and when he pushed it open, he saw Lysette. She was lying in the hall in a pool of blood. Like the others, she’d obviously been dead for hours. He dialled 999, and waited for the emergency services to arrive. From the start, it looked like a classic case of murder followed by suicide.’
‘What did they think was the sequence of events?’
Hannah cast her mind back. ‘Malcolm shot Lysette first, and this was either witnessed or discovered by Amber. She ran for her life, and her father followed her out of the house. A path ran around the top of the quarry. There were no railings, and the drop was sheer. He pushed her, or possibly she fell. The forensic evidence showed she hadn’t been shot, but died from the impact of hitting the ground. It looked as though Malcolm Whiteley checked she was dead, then shoved his rifle in his mouth, and fired.’
‘Good riddance,’ Maggie said.
‘I gather everyone agreed about that.’
‘So what niggled Ben Kind?’
‘The precise timeline was never clear. By the time police and ambulances turned up, more than half a day had passed since the shootings. The assumption was that Malcolm and his wife had a row, and he killed her. A bag was found at the Dungeon House, filled with Lysette’s things. Presumably she’d broken the news that she was walking out on him for good, and he snapped. What happened to Amber was the unanswered question. It seemed likely she’d run out of the house, and her father followed her. Perhaps he meant to calm her down, who knows? An unfenced path, as I say, skirted the top of the quarry, and one way or another, she went over the edge. The drop was enough to kill her, even if she hadn’t hit her head on a rock.’
‘Sounds plausible.’
‘Ben didn’t deny it. But he felt the SIO settled too quickly for easy answers.’
‘Who was the SIO?’
‘Desmond Loney.’
‘Oh.’ Maggie’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Say no more.’
Desmond Loney had risen to giddy heights in the force, largely on the strength of an undeniable capacity for putting in the hours, coupled with an imperturbable demeanour suggestive of wisdom and sound judgment born of long experience. A classic case of appearances deceiving. His career, Hannah reflected, was one long story of investigative incompetence. Some of his mistakes hadn’t surfaced for years, and others no doubt remained undiscovered, ticking away quietly in the filing cabinets like unexploded bombs. When his luck finally ran out, he’d snatched at the chance of spending more time with his family, his holiday home, and his pension pot, enjoying a premature but well-upholstered retirement while his former colleagues laboured long and hard to clear up the mess he’d left behind. Hannah’s team had been called upon more than once to re-examine cases where his habitual blind optimism and instinctive faith in his least reliable officers had led to clues being missed, and crimes remaining unsolved. Maggie’s own career had not quite overlapped with his, but she belonged to a new generation of detectives for whom Desmond’s reputation amounted not only to a legend, but also a dreadful warning.
‘Ben had no time for Desmond, but to be fair, the man was under intense pressure, and public scrutiny. The Dungeon House shootings were one of the bloodiest crimes that Cumbria had seen in years. It was brutal and shocking, and people were very frightened. The national media descended, the force was in the spotlight. The temptation to draw a line under the whole horrible business was almost irresistible, and Desmond wasn’t the man to resist it. He made it very clear that the police weren’t looking for anyone else in connection with the incident, and exuded confidence and calm at every press conference.’
‘Can you blame him?’ Les asked.
‘Ben did.’
‘But why?’ Maggie asked.
‘He couldn’t believe – and Cheryl couldn’t believe – that Whiteley would have killed his own daughter. Whatever the man’s faults, everyone agreed that he adored her.’
‘It’s a classic pattern with family annihilators,’ Maggie said. ‘A man decides to end his own life, and can’t contemplate his children living without him. So the bastard murders them. It’s a vicious, perverted kind of love. Most of all, these people love themselves.’
‘True. And we have gained more experience of these cases, unfortunately, since the deaths at the Dungeon House. But Ben had other reservations. He wasn’t sure the forensic work in the quarry was as thorough as it should have been. There hadn’t been any rain, so it seemed unlikely that the girl had slipped over the edge of the quarry. The path wasn’t fenced, but it was quite wide. Would Malcolm really have pushed her to her death, rather than shooting her? Why the change of M.O.? Killers don’t usually switch methods like that.’
‘Paper thin,’ Les murmured. ‘Was that it?’
‘No, there was something else. A witness claimed to have seen someone fleeing the scene that night.’
‘Any I.D.?’ Maggie asked.
‘This chap was driving along the lane that passes by Dungeon House. He was taking it slowly, because he’d been out on the ale, and was probably well over the limit. He came forward a few days after the murders, and said he’d nearly hit someone who ran out into the road in front of him. He swerved, and managed to avoid a collision, at the price of hitting a dry stone wall. This person seemed to come out of nowhere, and had vanished by the time the man got
out of the car. The car was damaged, but he managed to drive home in one piece. When he sobered up and went back over the incident in his mind, he reckoned it occurred right outside the gates to the Dungeon House. The gates were never locked, and he thought the person he saw had run out from the grounds.’
Les made a sceptical noise. ‘Don’t suppose he came up with anything as useful as a clear description?’
‘No such luck. But he claimed that he’d seen a man, dressed in a woman’s clothes.’
Joanna’s expedition proved a triumphant success, and she arrived home exhausted yet elated. Her spur-of-the-moment decision to decamp to Ravenglass meant there was no need to stock up with food, but she’d enjoyed her toastie, and treated herself to a carrot cake. Just as tasty as Edna’s, she decided over a blissfully solitary cup of camomile tea, even if shop-bought. For good measure, she’d bought herself three new outfits. Quite a spending spree, but she could afford it. She’d hardly opened her purse for months, except for bare essentials. Her illness might prove a blessing in disguise. The sales girl had boosted her morale by admiring her trim waist, and in the changing room mirror, Joanna had persuaded herself that she really was capable of looking svelte. So often lately, she’d felt closer to sixty-plus than forty-plus, but her legs were as slender as ever, and at least her breasts weren’t big enough to sag. On her way home, she felt young again. She’d rediscovered the spring in her step, and the only reason she’d caught the bus back was that she was weighed down by her parcels. All this thanks to that glimpse of Nigel on the telly. The next step must be to see him in the flesh. What would he make of her?
‘What do you think, Darcy?’ she giggled ‘A flame-haired temptress?’
Ravenglass was an inspired choice as somewhere to stay. She was right to trust her instinct. Such a pretty spot, where the National Park met the sea. Full of historic significance, an old railway line and Roman remains. Seascale didn’t compare, and as for Millom and the Furness Islands, forget it. Ravenglass was perfect.
Joanna had never booked accommodation online. In fact, she’d not had a proper holiday for the past three years. Since those nightmarish months with that conman Eoin, she’d withdrawn into herself, relying on Darcy and the television for company. No wonder her health had suffered, along with her work, but it wasn’t too late to make a fresh start. She picked up the phone, and started making enquiries.
Within twenty minutes, she’d secured a room in a guest house for a fortnight. The place sounded snug, and the proprietor eager to please. You couldn’t ask for a more beautiful location, overlooking the estuary, and the price per week was very reasonable, all things considered. Joanna’s luck was turning at long last. She hugged herself with delight.
‘I’ll see you when I see you,’ she told Darcy. ‘This will be quite an adventure.’
‘I’m guessing the mystery transvestite never came forward?’ Maggie said.
‘And was never traced.’ Hannah took a final taste of the cappuccino before giving up on it. ‘Desmond decided early on that the witness was pissed, or a time-waster, or both. To be fair, everyone in the team agreed. We all know that any major incident attracts sensation-seekers.’
Les grunted. ‘Like pigs in muck.’
‘The Dungeon House killings provoked a flurry of unlikely stories from losers gagging for a share of the limelight. A Masonic conspiracy led by the people who bought Malcolm’s company was behind the killings. The Whiteleys hosted regular swingers’ parties, and Malcolm became jealous when Lysette started enjoying them too much. You name it. There wasn’t a shred of evidence to back up the wildest theories. The inquest decided that Lysette was murdered, and Malcolm committed suicide. As for Amber, they recorded an open verdict. Logically, you couldn’t argue.’
‘But?’
‘Ben knew the witness. This was a bloke who liked a drink, and wasn’t chasing fifteen minutes of fame. He never uttered a word about what he thought he’d seen to anyone outside the police, so the Press never got wind of it. Ben felt Desmond should have taken his story more seriously.’
‘Any men in the Whiteleys’ circle known to have a taste for dressing up as women?’ Les asked wryly.
‘None. Ben had a quiet word with the witness, and tried to persuade Desmond to take him more seriously, but Ben was a newcomer, and his views didn’t count. We all know it takes time to gain respect when you join a new force. People hate loose threads, they prefer narratives with a beginning, a middle, and an end. Nobody was sure whether the girl fell or was pushed, but Malcolm Whiteley was obviously the villain of the piece. Desmond’s team wasn’t looking for anyone else, and once the inquest was over, they had every incentive to wind down the investigation.’
Maggie was growing restive. ‘I can’t see any connection between those three deaths and Lily Elstone’s disappearance. Even allowing for her father being Malcolm Whiteley’s financial guru.’
‘I’m not saying there is one,’ Hannah replied. ‘The burning question is whether there’s a link between what happened to Lily, and the disappearance of Malcolm’s niece. Who’s in charge of the search for Shona Whiteley?’
‘Ryan Borthwick,’ Les said. ‘Billie Frederick is on his team, and the FLO is Grizzly. I’ve already had a word with her.’
Griselda Hosein, he meant. Plump and maternal, she made a very sympathetic Family Liaison Officer. In that job, you needed to be a good listener, and Grizzly was skilled at picking up clues to family secrets.
‘What does she have to say?’
‘Nigel’s charming, she says, but a loner. He was married to a much older woman, who died a year back, but he doesn’t want mothering. Already he’s made it clear that there’s no need for Grizzly to hang around. She can report when there’s some progress, but that’s all he wants from her.’
‘Any suggestion he might have harmed his own daughter? Killed her in a rage, and hidden the body?’
‘Absolutely none, in Grizzly’s opinion. She’s convinced he adored Shona. As for concealing the remains, he does own a large garden. The house doesn’t actually have a dungeon, but there is a wine cellar, and Grizzly persuaded him to show her round, just in case he’d buried her there. Nothing to report, except that it’s full of rare vintages worth a fortune. He doesn’t drink them, they are strictly an investment.’
‘Shocking waste,’ Hannah said. ‘How the other half live, eh?’
Maggie stood up. ‘Chances are, Lily’s case and Shona’s are entirely separate.’
‘True, but we can’t take it for granted,’ Hannah said. ‘The same goes for the Dungeon House killings. Three teenage girls connected to the Whiteleys and, over the space of twenty years, bad things have happened to all of them.’
Les levered himself to his feet, and waved at the papers covering the table. ‘I’ll leave you in peace to digest the stuff I’ve dug up. For starters, there’s one particular question I’d like answering,’
‘I can guess,’ Hannah said. ‘Nigel Whiteley is made of money, or so it seems. Rich enough to pick and choose where he lived. So with its horrible history, why of all places did he set up home in the Dungeon House?’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Each time Hannah returned to Brackdale, she found something else to love about the narrow, wooded valley, criss-crossed by streams, and surrounded by steep slopes. In the depths of winter, when the fields were silent, and the fells shrouded in snow, you felt you were in a world of your own. Especially at Tarn Cottage, with its mysterious garden snaking below the shadowy bulk of the Sacrifice Stone. Daniel’s home stood close to the coffin trail, where centuries ago the dead were carried over the tops on packhorses for Christian burial in consecrated ground. Not another house was in sight, and when darkness came, Tarn Fold seemed to Hannah as remote and mysterious as anywhere in England.
Springtime was different. Light flashed through the trees, and danced on the clear water and uneven rocks, making the ancient landscape seem fresh and young. She parked at the end of the rutted track, and walked toward the co
ttage, breathing in the lemon scent of the magnolia blooms, and spotting two white butterflies with orange-tipped wings fluttering around the camellias beneath the shade of a rowan tree. Daniel appeared from around the side of the house, barefoot, and wearing dark glasses and shorts. At the sight of his lightly tanned skin, she felt desire stirring. He clutched a fat airport thriller in one hand, and waved with the other.
‘Thought I heard the car. I was out by the pond. Good day?’
‘Fine.’ She kissed him, and pointed to the paperback. ‘Flogging yourself to death, I see.’
‘Coming to live here taught me to seize the moment. Or at least the sunshine. Tomorrow it may bucket down. I need it to, so I won’t be distracted from finishing my talk for the local publicity tour. I’ve been shaking off the remnants of jet lag out in the garden.’
‘Are you really going to find inspiration in a Scandinavian serial killer novel?’
‘You’ll hate me for saying this, but I’m tempted to write another book about murder. My agent says the American publishers won’t commit until they see sales figures for The Hell Within. They’re nervous about my becoming typecast as a murder maven. I see their point, but I’m not in the mood for yet another orthodox social history. Murder intrigues me, I can’t help it. You’re a bad influence.’
He’d arrived back in England thirty-six hours ago, after a fortnight spent on the road in the States, promoting the American hardback of his newly published history of homicide. Five hundred pages sparked by a fascination with the work of a long ago denizen of the Lake District, Thomas De Quincey.
Hannah had never come to terms with the concept of considering murder as a fine art. She’d seen too much of the misery it caused. Yet she shared Daniel’s fascination with the motives that led to murder. So had Ben Kind, despite his frequent reminders that the CPS were only interested in proof, not psychology. For Hannah, as for Ben, solving the puzzle of why one human being might wish to end the life of another was the ultimate challenge for any detective.
The Dungeon House (Lake District Mysteries) Page 7
