She put up her hands in surrender. ‘Taken hostage by terrorists? What’s wrong with these people?’
‘Can’t get the staff, Stan Mustoe’s very words. He mourns the old apprenticeships.’ Daniel put on a cod local accent. ‘“All the kids keep boogering off to university, that’s the trouble. Lads have got fancy ideas these days, they’re poncing around on courses about media studies and suchlike. What’s wrong with plumbing and plastering? That’s what I want to know.”’
‘Just as well I have a bit of good news, then.’
On the way home, he’d decided she was building up to something. Something he wouldn’t like, so she needed to pick her moment. They’d chatted about London and she kept saying how much of a buzz there was in the city. Suki, who edited the magazine she wrote for, had taken her out clubbing. Not that she really liked clubbing, she added quickly, but it made a change. And Suki was fun.
‘What news might that be?’
‘Suki’s introduced me to her old boss, Ethan Tiatto. He likes my work. Next month he starts publishing a new magazine and he’d like me to contribute lifestyle features.’
‘Perfect.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘Congratulations.’
She drew back. ‘There’s just one snag. I’ll have to spend more time in London. Ethan wants me to attend the editorial conference every fortnight.’
‘You could go to Kendal or Lancaster or somewhere, talk to them by videolink.’
‘Sorry. It’s part of the deal. I have to be there in the flesh. Ethan sets a lot of store by brainstorming ideas. Remote discussions won’t do. But it isn’t so bad. I’ll need to stay overnight, though he did say he’d pay for me to fly from Manchester.’
‘They must be keen.’
She gave him a mock bow. ‘Of course they are.’
She loved writing, it was one of the things that had drawn them together in the early days of love’s madness. She saw her journalism in mystical terms; the way she talked about it was exhilarating. Once, after they’d shared a bottle of Merlot, she’d confided that although she wasn’t sure about having kids, every piece she wrote was like a child of her imagination.
Suitcase in hand, he led the way up the front path. ‘That’s great. I’m pleased.’
‘I thought you might be cross with me,’ she said when they’d settled in the living room. She was lying on the sofa and he was cradling her head in his arms.
‘Why?’
‘Well…this was my idea, wasn’t it? The rural idyll.’
‘It was a wonderful idea. I’m a convert to this way of life. Dangerous as it is out there. See the scratches on my arm?’
She laughed. ‘I never realised you’d go native.’
‘So you said in your last column for Suki.’
‘You don’t think I wanted to buy the cottage simply because I was looking for copy?’ Her voice rose. ‘I mean, nothing could have been further from my mind. I adore this place. It’s so peaceful, so – away from it all. It’s just that…well, I like London too. That’s why I don’t want to sell my flat. It’s a bolt-hole.’
‘Why do you need one?’
‘Hey, you don’t understand. I want a foot in both camps. I need to keep writing.’ A line of counter-attack struck her. ‘And we could use the cash. The money you made on your place in Oxford won’t last forever. Not at the rate we’re spending on these vanishing builders. Your TV royalties are down to a trickle. I want to live the dream too, but we can’t live on fresh air.’
‘At least here it is fresh.’
She feigned a coughing fit. ‘Am I imagining this dust?’
‘You know what I mean.’
When they’d met she’d been miserable and unfulfilled. He’d sacrificed his career to move here with her – his choice, no regrets. Yet he hadn’t managed to give her peace of mind. Not that she was a pessimist. She believed that happiness was just around the corner. Her life revolved around her latest passion, until a few months later, she was ready to move on. In dark moments, he wondered if one day her passion for him would burn out too.
He bent down and they kissed long and hard while he started unfastening her silk shirt. Soon they were making love on the rug by the hearth. Afterwards, she propped herself up on one elbow and smiled at him.
‘Trust me, Daniel, we can do it. You and me, we can get the best of all possible worlds.’
Before he could answer, the phone rang.
Chapter Two
Tina Howe was jealous of her husband Warren, so she murdered him.
‘Whatever happened to the finest traditions of anonymous mail?’ Linz tutted as she laid the message flat on the circular table for Hannah and Nick to see. ‘Me, I yearn for the good old days. The golden age of the poison pen. Letters cut out of a newspaper and glued on to paper. They always seem so spookily romantic and mysterious, don’t you think, Sarge?’
‘Too right. Brown capitals in broad felt tip? Hopeless. Totally lacking in character, let alone charm.’ Nick ran a hand through his eternally untidy hair. ‘Even if this note is in freehand, our correspondent might just as well have used a stencil. How bloody inconsiderate.’
‘Would handwriting analysis be a waste of time?’
‘Try it, we need to tick all the boxes. But if you ask me, we’d get better information from an ouija board.’
Linz giggled. She often giggled in Nick’s company. For an idle moment Hannah wondered whether there was something going on between her sergeant and DC Waller. Surely he wasn’t the type. Though in her head sounded the voice of experience. It belonged to Terri, her oldest friend and a woman so jaundiced about the opposite sex that she claimed she could scarcely bear to bank her exes’ maintenance payments.
All of them are that type, Hannah. Trust me. Men I know about, OK?
Terri had trotted down the aisle three times before she was thirty, and each time her wedding dress was cut lower and her heels were higher, but did that prove how much she knew about men or how little? Hannah had never seen Nick flirting with Linz. She always felt safe with him; in weak moments, she’d even found herself fretting that her own charms were fading. Terri must be wrong. Nick had never given Hannah any reason to doubt that he was a happily married man. The odds were that Linz saw him as a challenge. Which was fine by Hannah, as long as her attempts to curry favour with him didn’t mess up morale on the team.
‘What do you reckon, ma’am?’
‘The perfect tip-off. Clear, concise, no sitting on the fence. Only trouble is, there may not be a shred of truth in it.’
‘No signature, ma’am, no contact details. Obviously we have to view a message like this with a huge amount of suspicion.’
Linz shook her mane, initial enthusiasm fading fast. She always took her cue from senior officers. Hannah wanted her to risk backing her own judgement more often, but Linz must have studied the methods that had taken Lauren Self to the giddy heights of ACC. Play the percentages. Never go out on a limb.
‘Chances are, it’s the work of someone with a grudge against this Tina Howe and it won’t take us anywhere in detecting the crime. But that doesn’t mean we should discount it. Especially since the ACC wants the Cold Case Review Project to keep on rolling.’
‘Cool!’
Linz showed a lot of white, hungry teeth. No hint of irony. Hannah felt a spasm of guilt for her own mixed feelings. She had a good team, loyal and cohesive. Not too clannish or inward-looking, like some police units, not too many monster egos. Nick worked tirelessly at keeping colleagues enthused. A natural gift; he’d never read a motivational handbook in his life. Perhaps that was his secret.
‘So in cases where we don’t have anything more than an anonymous tip-off, you might consider a detailed inquiry?’ Nick asked.
‘If it seems justified and we have the capacity to take it on.’
‘We can’t investigate every lead on every case from the past twenty years.’
‘We have to prioritise, but if this message takes us along an interesting road, let’s not turn back
at the first bend. When did the message arrive, Linz?’
‘In the morning post, ma’am. The envelope’s on my desk. Same style of writing, addressed to the Cold Case Review Team. Local postmark, no fingerprints. Presumably whoever sent the message wore latex gloves. Should I arrange for the old files to be brought out of archive?’
‘Please. If we decide to investigate in-depth, we can have a full team briefing when everyone’s around. In the meantime, let’s go back to my office for ten minutes. DS Lowther can give us a quick overview of the case from his own recollection.’ She turned to Nick. ‘Did the original inquiry ever put anyone in the frame?’
His face might have been sculpted from the stone of Scafell. ‘One thing stands out in my mind about the murder. When we looked for whoever wanted Warren Howe dead, we only had one problem. We were spoiled for choice.’
‘Daniel, this is Louise.’
‘Louise?’
She’d caught him off guard, otherwise he wouldn’t have repeated her name into the handset in that baffled way, as if uttering a mysterious foreign term for the first time. Of course, being Louise, she allowed a pause long enough for the realisation of his stupidity to sink in. A familiar feeling, as if he were eleven years old again. His shoulders tensed. Never mind garden nettles; the sting of her sarcasm couldn’t be rubbed away with a dock leaf.
‘Yes, Louise. For Heaven’s sake, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten who I am?’
‘Sorry.’ He could hardly say: I’ve been hoping for a call from someone else. Especially not with Miranda draped over the rug a yard away. The moment she heard Louise’s name, she spread herself out in a pastiche of a Modiglani model, mischievously hoping to distract him into a further gaffe. She’d never met his sister, but from what he’d said about her, she guessed the two of them would never be soulmates. He dragged his eyes away from her and tried to focus on appeasement. ‘Louise, long time no speak. How are things?’
‘All right.’ She didn’t sound it. ‘And you? Settled into your leafy idyll?’
‘We can finally move from room to room without choking on dust or gagging at the smell of paint. I love walking the Brackdale Horseshoe and I’ve never felt fitter. At least I hadn’t until I started trying to civilise the garden. I’m not sure my back will ever forgive me.’
‘I would never have thought it of you.’
‘You sound like a priest scolding a choirboy for nicking the silver collection.’
Louise sighed, a low gust of disappointment echoing down the line. In her teens, she’d specialised in sighs the way impressionists specialise in funny voices. Tragic sighs, frustrated sighs, patronising sighs; her stock was inexhaustible. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean. Ever since you were a child, you always had your nose buried in a book. You were so desperate to make it to Oxford. I never imagined that you’d leave of your own free will.’
‘Things change, Louise. Run their course.’
‘True.’ She spoke so softly that Daniel wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. Louise agreeing with him? Amazing. She’d be voting in favour of closer European integration next. ‘Mind you, I’m glad that Mum isn’t alive to hear you say that. Honestly, Daniel, I bet she’s turning in her grave. She was so proud when you started publishing. Let alone when you signed up with the BBC. She insisted on recording all your television programmes, you know.’
Daniel held his tongue. When Louise talked about their mother, it was usually the prelude to a dig about their father. She’d never forgiven the old man after he’d abandoned them for a blonde floosie. Their mother had made them promise never to speak to him again and Louise had kept her word, although many years later Daniel had talked to him on the phone. Like his sister, he’d been hurt by the betrayal, but he didn’t want to be soured by bitterness. He’d been sure his father loved them and he’d yearned to know Ben Kind’s side of the story. But he’d never heard it.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Uh-huh.’
Miranda continued to distract him. She’d become bored with giving him a show and was hunting around for the bra that she’d dropped somewhere three-quarters of an hour ago.
‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve called like this. Out of the blue.’
He groaned inwardly. Surely I remembered your birthday? What else can I have done wrong?
‘It’s good to hear from you.’ As soon as he said the words he realised, almost to his surprise, that he meant them. ‘We ought to keep in closer touch now I’m up here in Brackdale. The Lake District’s much nearer to Cheshire than Oxford. Straight up the M6; you could be here in no time.’
Miranda paused in the act of slipping on her thong as she heard him extend the invitation. She raised her eyebrows and mouthed: is that such a good idea?
‘Kind of you,’ Louise said.
She sniffed loudly. For a moment Daniel thought she might have a cold before realising to his horror that she must be trying to suppress tears.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes, yes, I am. Well…no, not really.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘No, it’s nothing. I feel so pathetic. Me, a grown woman, behaving like a soppy teenager.’
One thing about Louise, she’d never been a soppy teenager. After their father’s disappearance, she’d grown up fast. Mum had leaned on her and she never had the time for self-indulgence.
‘Rodney and I have split up.’
He had to restrain himself from punching the air. Rodney was an up-and-coming associate in a large firm of solicitors, a specialist in mergers and acquisitions, aiming to make partner in the next couple of years. Louise was a lecturer in law and they’d met at a seminar, proving that romance can blossom even over a chat about minority shareholders’ rights. Rodney had acquired Louise, it seemed to Daniel, in much the same spirit as he’d picked up the PG Wodehouse first editions that he kept in a display cabinet. He didn’t do a lot of reading; he didn’t have the time, and frankly he didn’t have much of a sense of humour. But a client had told him that Wodehouse was a sound investment.
‘Louise…’
‘He’s met someone else. She’s a junior lawyer in the corporate department. Name of Felicity, they call her Fliss, can you imagine? Sometimes they work through the night together, working on big deals. She’s set her sights on him from day one, if you ask me. And he’s fallen for it. Formed a merger all of his own.’
Better give her the chance to let all the poison out. He recalled one night in Manchester when, over a glass of Glenfiddich, Rodney expounded his business credo. His cheeks were pink, his breath had a touch of halitosis, and his pupils dilated as he described how much he admired his most aggressive clients. Actually, Daniel old chum, there’s no such thing as a merger. There are only takeovers.
‘You know what he said? He told me he’d been striving to fight temptation! Pity he didn’t fight a bit harder. Anyway, he says he wants to spend the rest of his life with her. No reflection on me, blah, blah, blah. He’s moved into her place in Didsbury. We’ll have to sell the flat, of course. The mortgage is crucifying.’
He could hear her crying and wanted to fling his arms around her. But she was far away and all he could do was scrape around for words.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Thanks,’ she said in a muffled tone. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t mind if I came to stay? The new term doesn’t start for ages. I have a few things to sort out here, but I could be with you on Friday.’
Miranda was checking her hair in the mirror for split ends. He covered the phone with his hand as he consulted her.
She shrugged. ‘If you’re sure you won’t be at each other’s throats.’
He said into the phone, ‘Louise? Yes, that’s fine. We’d love to see you.’
‘Warren Howe.’
Nick let the name hang in the air, for Hannah and Linz to absorb. Warren Howe, Warren Howe, Warren Howe. In murder cases, names of the dead echoed in your brain.
‘He was a gardener. Partne
r in a landscaping business with a man called Peter Flint. Tina Howe was Warren’s wife. They had two teenage children, Sam and Kirsty. They all lived in Old Sawrey, a stone’s throw from Esthwaite Water.’
‘Old Sawrey, isn’t that where Beatrix Potter lived?’ Linz asked. ‘So Warren Howe was a latter day Mr Macgregor?’
‘Warren didn’t chase rabbits. He preferred going after the ladies and by all accounts he usually caught up with them. As for the Potter house, it’s at Hill Top, a mile away in Near Sawrey. Old Sawrey is at the end of a lane that wanders around Claife Heights. There’s a restaurant and bar as well as a handful of houses.’
They were sitting around the small circular table in Hannah’s office. A whiff of peppermint came from the packet of sweets she kept in her top drawer. The icons on her computer screen were lined up in neat rows, Stone’s, Blackstone’s and the PACE manuals stood to attention on the single shelf. A pair of graceful palms arched over matching pots on the window sill. Nick said the room suited her craving for order, it was her refuge from the untidiness of the world outside.
‘How did he die?’ she asked.
‘The Grim Reaper called early. Warren was murdered with his own scythe.’
Linz wrinkled her nose, a favourite mannerism. ‘In his own back yard?’
‘No, he was working in a client’s garden, in between the Sawreys and Hawkshead, looking out over the lake. Lovely setting, Wordsworth probably wrote a poem about it, but the crime scene was a mess. Scythes may be old-fashioned, but they can do plenty of damage to soft human flesh. Trust me.’
Nick paused, letting their imaginations roam. In his twenties he’d acted in a local drama group. Charley’s Aunt and period thrillers like Gaslight, the occasional Oscar Wilde or Francis Durbridge. He’d given up because police work and marriage were incompatible with committing to weeks of rehearsals, but he hadn’t lost the knack of drawing an audience into his world.
The Cipher Garden Page 2
