The Cipher Garden

by Martin Edwards

He opened his mouth to speak again, but Linz beat him to it.

  ‘Who was he, the client?’

  Obvious question, but Nick snapped, ‘She was Roz Gleave. Before anyone dreams up an exciting theory about her, let me tell you that she had a cast-iron alibi.’

  Linz’s eyebrows zoomed up. Far enough to irritate Nick.

  ‘She ran a small press from home, literally a cottage industry. The day Warren was murdered, she was in Lytham St Annes, giving a presentation to a business that supplied books to libraries.’

  Hannah said, ‘Did she live alone?’

  ‘Chris Gleave, her husband, wasn’t around at the time.’ Nick hesitated. ‘He’d disappeared from home a while before the murder and didn’t show up again until weeks after it. It turned out that he’d had a sort of breakdown and went off to London until he got himself straightened out.’

  ‘So. A woman on her own has given work to an inveterate womaniser. Perhaps he thought his luck was in.’

  ‘Warren Howe thought his luck was in every time any woman with a pulse exchanged a pleasant word with him. Single or not. Roz’s best friend, Bel Jenner, for instance, he’d always carried a torch for her. She ran the restaurant and had recently been widowed. But Warren didn’t get far with her. Bel had her eye on the young chef. Warren had more joy with his partner’s wife, Gail Flint. Gail admitted they’d had a fling, but claimed it was all over between them.’

  ‘Did she have the opportunity to commit the crime?’

  ‘We couldn’t prove it. She was laid up in bed at the time with a badly sprained ankle. No witnesses – and no evidence she was lying, either. The injury was genuine, but whether it was as serious as she cracked on was anybody’s guess.’

  ‘Would a woman have had the strength to kill him?’ Linz asked.

  Nick nodded. ‘It looked as though he’d fallen or maybe been pushed, and attacked when he was on the floor. The scythe belonged to Warren, it wasn’t brought to the scene. The blade was a brute, you wouldn’t have needed to be Schwarzenegger to slash someone to pieces with it. The corpse wasn’t a pretty sight.’

  ‘An opportunistic crime, then?’ Linz asked. ‘The killer didn’t come equipped with a murder weapon. Presumably they quarrelled and the crime was committed on impulse?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Warren had used the same scythe for years, it was a prize possession. Roz Gleave’s garden was a jungle. Anyone who knew him might have expected he’d have it close at hand.’

  ‘Anyone seen in the vicinity around the time of the murder?’

  ‘The house is at the end of a track. We interviewed walkers, as well as the locals, but they gave us nothing to work with. The forecast that morning was bad enough to deter any faint-hearts and the all-weather fanatics kept their heads down, making sure they didn’t lose their footing in the wet. No reliable sightings of suspicious cars or vans around the crucial couple of hours.’

  ‘Any problems in the gardening business?’

  ‘Not if you don’t count Warren shagging his partner’s missus.’

  Linz giggled. ‘Were they making money?’

  ‘Plenty. Flint was a studious type, a creative thinker, he specialised in garden design. Warren Howe provided the muscle and the green fingers. They were polar opposites, but the combination worked. If Flint knew Gail was sleeping with Warren, he didn’t open his heart to us. To listen to him, Warren Howe was the perfect foil.’

  ‘Tell us about Tina,’ Hannah said.

  ‘Some of the lads on the team reckoned she looked like a horse, nicknamed her Black Bess. But she was sexy. Strong, too. Had to be, to cope with Warren. My guess is that he could respect someone who stood up to him. If anyone was weak, he steam-rollered them. Tina knew what he was like, none better, but she coped. If his affairs bothered her, she didn’t let it show.’

  ‘Did she get her own back?’

  ‘During the inquiry, she played the loyal wife. I actually heard her saying that life with him had its compensations. Such as their kids. Kirsty was sixteen, Sam eighteen. And they looked after her. Both of them confirmed her alibi.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Tina was a keen amateur photographer. The day of the murder, she took the SUV and drove over the Hardknott Pass towards Wasdale, looking for fresh scenes to snap. The kids came along with her for company. At the time her husband was killed, they were all up by the old Roman fort. No independent witnesses that we could trace, but she did show us the pictures she’d taken.’

  ‘Suppose the son drove and the daughter took the pictures?’

  ‘Quite a conspiracy.’

  ‘Stranger things have happened.’

  ‘You’re right. They could have been lying, but we couldn’t break their stories.’

  ‘Were the children suspects?’

  ‘We ruled nobody in and nobody out. Warren wasn’t exactly a caring father. But if there’d been sexual abuse, incest, whatever, nobody was admitting it. Kirsty constantly broke down in tears, but she was a kid and her dad had been murdered, so it wasn’t a surprise. We never got much sense out of her. When Sam was interviewed, he answered in sullen monosyllables. Chip off the old block. He’d felt the back of Warren’s hand more than once, even though he’d left school and was as big as his father. I could picture him retaliating with a punch or a kicking. But murder? We had nothing to pin on him.’

  ‘All the data tells us that patricide is rare,’ Linz said.

  ‘Sad epitaph for the tombstone,’ Hannah said. ‘Everyone wanted me dead.’

  ‘One more thing. Whoever killed Warren Howe pushed him into the trench he’d excavated and threw a bit of sacking and a few rose petals over him.’

  A picture formed in Hannah’s mind, as dark as if painted by Cézanne in his bleakest mood. The torn and blood-soaked corpse, dumped in the damp ground.

  ‘To my mind,’ Nick said, ‘that was Warren Howe’s epitaph. He dug his own grave.’

  Chapter Three

  The gathering dusk had become a favourite time for Daniel. He wandered outside the cottage and savoured the scent of old roses, and the colours mingling on the fell, tints of blue and indigo deepening as the sky grew dark. The slopes looked so rich and sensuous that if he could only brush them with his fingertips, it would be like touching velvet.

  The evening air was chill after the heat of the day, but he stoked the cast-iron chiminea and smelled the logs as they burned. A fox on the prowl rustled in the bracken, a trio of brown-breasted mallards squealed and flapped as they rose from the tarn and fled over the trees. But whatever the tourist brochures said, Brackdale wasn’t a wholly peaceful place. Years back, a young man who lived at Tarn Cottage, Barrie Gilpin, had been suspected of killing a woman whose body was laid out on the Sacrifice Stone.

  Thank God, that was done with. Sitting down on an upturned crate between the potted lavenders, he shut his eyes. It awed him that the bedrock of the Lake District was as old as any in the world. The constancy of the lakes and mountains satisfied a need within him. Ever since his father had torn their family apart, he’d burned with desire to belong, to feel complete. At last he’d found a place he wanted to become part of.

  He would love Louise to see the Lakes as he saw them. Splitting up with Rodney might be the making of her. Like a modern counterpart of a tightly corseted Victorian, she needed to unbutton herself, learn the art of relaxation. The last time they’d spoken, she’d made it clear that for Daniel to downshift to the Lakes at the precise moment his career was taking off was madness.

  But he’d needed to escape. For as long as he could remember – certainly since his father abandoned the family – Daniel had worked. And worked and worked. After school studies, academic research. Each year he set new goals, more demanding than the last. He didn’t care about the money, although he earned a lot of it. What mattered was to break new ground. Soon everyone wanted a piece of him. Success made him a minor celebrity, people he didn’t know envied him and he’d overheard someone in the Senior Common Room referring to him as The Lu
cky Kind. Always another project, always another offer he could not refuse. No time to think, no time to relax, but that didn’t matter because he was doing so well and you had to make the most of every opportunity and, and, and, and…

  And he’d been away when his father died and he’d missed the funeral, and then Aimee, his lover, had embarked on another suicide attempt and he’d been too late to save her from throwing herself from the top of a tower.

  * * *

  Miranda came into the sitting room, wrapped in a yellow bath towel. She loved aromatherapy and there was a glow of contentment about her. He could smell rosemary and juniper.

  ‘Any luck at the church?’

  ‘I asked the rector if I could see the parish records, but all he could do was refer me to the County Records Office, and I didn’t find anything useful there. But I had a look around the graveyard and found where the Quillers were laid to rest.’

  Their cottage had been built over a century ago, by a cousin of the man who owned Brack Hall. His name was Jacob Quiller and after he and his wife died the place had changed hands several times before the Gilpins arrived.

  She feigned a yawn. ‘Am I right in thinking you won’t rest till you’ve made sense of that crazy garden?’

  He glanced through the window. Outside, darkness had fallen. A lamp cast a pool of brightness over the path leading to the tarn, but the effect was to make the dark shapes of the trees beyond reach of the beam all the more mysterious. He caught sight of a movement in the plants by the side of the path. The fox was getting bolder. At night-time the garden became a different place, the kingdom of unseen creatures. The patterns that men imposed on the landscape were only skin deep.

  ‘I must admit I’m intrigued.’

  ‘Another crusade, huh?’ She wasn’t into the past; the present was all that mattered to her. Already she was preoccupied with unbuckling his belt. ‘Come and join me on the rug. Better make the most of our freedom before your sister arrives.’

  He was glad she’d changed the subject. Too easy for him to develop a fresh obsession with the mystery of the garden. It had scarcely been touched for many years and he suspected that the underlying design dated back as far as the Quillers’ time. Their grave was situated under the leaves of a spreading oak in the churchyard. Its marble headstone was large, but lacked the grandeur of the vaults dedicated to the squires of Brack Hall and their families. No twee verses, no doleful epitaphs.

  Three people were buried there. And here was an oddity: Quiller and his wife Alice had died on the same day, the first anniversary of the date given for the death of their son. He was named as Major John Quiller of 1st Northumberland Fusiliers and he’d died on 5 April 1902. The tail end of the Boer War, though there was no indication that he’d been killed in action. Beneath his parents’ names were four words.

  Died of broken hearts.

  Warren Howe’s face leered at Hannah out of the glossy file print, as if he were about to proposition her. Hannah contemplated the dead man, wondered how to climb inside his mind. Murder victims forfeited their privacy. Human rights? Forget them, they were an indulgence for the living. She stared into his eyes, searching for a clue to what he’d done to earn such a savage fate.

  He wasn’t bad-looking in a louche kind of way. Unruly dark hair and old-fashioned sideburns, full lips, a wide fleshy face. Teeth marred by a chipped front incisor that accentuated a small gap. The deep-set eyes were his best feature, startling and blue. One ear had a discreet ring. A strong face, with a touch of devil-may-care. Easy to understand why some women fell for him, despite knowing he was a serial seducer.

  The picture featured in a brochure extolling Flint Howe Garden Design and a dog-eared copy had been kept in the file. A footnote credited the photographer, Tina Howe. She’d also been responsible for the shot of her husband’s partner. Bespectacled, with a fuzz of greying hair, high forehead and long nose, Peter Flint looked as though he’d be more at home in a college library than getting his hands dirty in the great outdoors.

  Family snaps spilled out of a buff folder. The Howes, parents and children, lifting celebratory glasses at a table in a restaurant. ‘In happier times’, as the gossip columns might say. A painting of a crimson sunset above shadowy heights hung behind them; Hannah guessed at nightfall over the Langdale Pikes. A card propped up next to an empty bottle of Bollinger depicted popping corks and proclaimed Have a Wonderful Anniversary!

  Tina Howe’s equine appearance lived up to its advance billing, but her bone structure had a subtle elegance. Hannah understood why Nick had seen past the horsy jaw and tombstone teeth, and discerned a formidable spirit. Plenty of men would be attracted to such a woman, and not merely because her black top displayed a dramatic cleavage. Few would be a match for her.

  Sam was a more obviously handsome version of his father. His sister had laid a hand on his arm, as though trying to protect him from committing some faux pas. A mass of auburn hair tumbled on to her shoulders, and her features were unmistakably those of a Howe. She must have been about sixteen and her demure cocktail dress hinted at a figure that might one day rival her mother’s, but Hannah thought the smile was misleading. Everyone else was enjoying themselves, but Kirsty Howe had anxious eyes.

  Nick came in and glanced at the file. ‘Taken at the restaurant in the village, a couple of weeks before the murder. Warren and Tina’s china wedding anniversary.’

  ‘China?’

  ‘Twentieth.’

  ‘You know everything.’

  ‘I wish. Finished the file yet?’

  ‘Halfway through. Seems the team never got near to making an arrest.’

  ‘Spotted the name of the SIO?’

  ‘Clueless Charlie deceased? Yeah, explains a lot. The criminals of Cumbria were heartbroken when he suffered that coronary.’

  ‘It wasn’t brought on by overwork. He could have scuppered the force’s spidergram single-handed if he was still around. Charlie certainly lived up to his nickname during the Howe case. The inquiry was all over the place, we seemed to do nothing but thrash around in the dark. One thing about Charlie, he gave good PR, and the Press loved him for it. Did you ever work with him?’

  ‘No, but I gather I missed a treat.’

  ‘He was a throwback to the Fifties, Fabian of the Yard plus handlebar moustache. Rumours swirled that he might even dust off his old trilby for the cameras. Anything to divert attention from lack of progress to report. Before it came to that, the trail got cold and the media lost interest. So did Charlie. One more unsolved crime. You and I owe him a vote of thanks. For cold case work, he was a one-man job creation scheme.’

  Hannah laughed. ‘So he never came close to an arrest?’

  ‘I actually once heard him say cherchez la femme. At least I think that’s what he said. With a Geordie accent that strong, it’s not easy to tell. He liked women almost as much as food, did Charlie, but the female psyche baffled him in a way shepherd’s pie and chips never did. When Roz Gleave confounded him with her alibi, he turned his attention to her mate Bel Jenner. Personally, I suspected it was an excuse to ogle her while sampling three courses of home cooking in her restaurant.’

  ‘And did you fancy Bel Jenner?’

  ‘A beautiful woman,’ Nick said carefully, ‘none the worse for being a wealthy widow still on the right side of forty. Her husband was much older and he’d died a couple of months earlier and the new young chef was drooling over her. For all we knew, they’d been having an affair while the husband was on his deathbed. Oliver, the chef ’s name was, Oliver Cox. The little boy who kept coming back for more, Charlie called him.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Tell me about the husband’s death.’

  ‘Don’t get too excited, it was natural causes. Brain tumour. As far as Bel Jenner was concerned, Charlie was pissing in the wind. She had no motive, and it was the same with Roz. Suppose Warren Howe tried it on with one of them, so what? Bel and Roz had grown up with him, they were ex-girlfriends with no illusions about the great charmer. If they
were in the market for a quick shag, fine, but they’d have known there wasn’t any more to it than that. You ask me, he was content to stay married to Tina.’

  ‘Why did she put up with him?’

  ‘Why do so many women put up with unsatisfactory men?’

  Hannah shrugged. Good question.

  ‘Christ knows how long the marriage would have lasted once their children left home. Why resort to murder? Charlie wondered about Kirsty Howe, before he decided that his prime suspect wasn’t female at all, but her brother Sam. As far as most of us were concerned, that as good as ruled the boy out of contention. Poor old Charlie, he had a reverse Midas touch.’

  Legend had it that Clueless Charlie’s final promotion to the heady rank of detective superintendent was intended to keep him out of harm’s way, far from the sharp end of detective work carried out by the humble foot-soldiers. By a bitter irony, he hadn’t been smart enough to draw the fat pension earned by dint of fabled incompetence. He’d made the ultimate bad career move in succumbing to the charms of a voluptuous civilian worker from police HQ. Her voracious sexual demands had taxed his portly frame once too often. Result: a massive coronary and a funeral where his widow wept for more than one reason.

  ‘How about Sam as a father-killer?’

  ‘If every kid who ever had a set-to with his dad turned to murder, the world would soon be an empty place. In any case, I told you that Sam’s sister and mother alibied him. That trip up the Hardknott was convenient for all three of them.’

  ‘Too convenient?’

  ‘I was reluctant to believe it. Sam was supposed to have been helping his father in Roz Gleave’s garden, but he cried off at the last minute. Our difficulty was, they had their story and they stuck to it. Word perfect.’

  ‘Suspicious in itself, then.’

  ‘Yes, but who was covering up for whom?’ The careful grammar struck Hannah as a clue to Nick’s character. His instinct was always to obey the rules. ‘Tina may have been guilty, but we never found any buttons to press that would have prompted Kirsty or Sam to grass up their mum. To lose one parent is a misfortune, as Lady Bracknell said; to lose two…’