Daniel scrutinised grainy photographs of the victim’s family and friends. One shot showed Tina Howe dressed in black. The expression on her long face was as bleak as winter on the fells, but whether from grief or guilt he could not divine. Had Hannah received a tip-off suggesting that the widow had killed her husband? This might explain why the pictures had sparked her interest. It was the traditional explanation for murder. Relationship meltdown, one spouse murdering another.
His thoughts strayed. Why hadn’t Hannah married Marc Amos? They’d been together for years, but she was a strong woman, she could stand on her own feet. Even so, he couldn’t help wondering. He’d seen her smiling at the child up at the castle. She was at ease with kids; did she want some of her own? Plenty of time yet, but the clock never stopped ticking.
‘And what might you be looking for, Daniel?’
Good question. He turned to see the amiable moon-like face of a librarian with whom he’d enjoyed a chat on a couple of previous visits. An avid fan of his television series, she had an encyclopaedic knowledge of fell-walks in the South Lakes, Hugh Walpole’s novels and the Picturesque Movement of the late eighteenth century. Daniel told her that he’d heard of the murder of Warren Howe and been unable to resist the urge to look it up.
‘They never found who did it, you know.’
‘It’s never too late,’ he assured her. ‘There’s something fascinating about an unsolved crime, don’t you think?’
‘Oh, absolutely! My husband’s family comes from Hawkshead, they know the Gleaves. They’re the folk who owned the garden where the man was murdered. Roz publishes local books; we have a selection of her latest titles in the rack over there. Nice woman. She comes in every six months with her new catalogue; she doesn’t run to a sales force. Actually, Chris Gleave wasn’t around at the time. Poor Roz was there on her own.’
‘He wasn’t around?’
‘He’s a musician, and arty types can be temperamental, can’t they? Mood swings. Well, he disappeared for weeks and it turned out he’d gone off to London and had some sort of mental collapse.’
‘So he wasn’t even in the Lake District at the time of the murder?’
‘No, but then, nobody could ever imagine that Chris Gleave would hurt a fly. I only met him years ago, when he did a gig in Ulverston. I bought a CD of his songs and he autographed it for me. Very meek and mild, not the sort of chap who trashes his hotel room or runs around with young floosies. Roz must have been beside herself when he went off like that, without as much as a by-your-leave, and then she had to cope with all the trauma of policemen tramping through her house and grounds in their size twelves. For all I know, they suspected the poor woman of killing Chris as well and burying his body in the vegetable patch. It must have been hellish. But when he finally showed up and asked for forgiveness, she took him back without a murmur.’
‘And they both lived happily ever after?’
The librarian gave him a guileless smile. ‘Oh yes. They’d been through so much, it must have drawn them even closer together.’
‘Be honest with me, Kirsty,’ Bel Jenner said. ‘You look washed-out and tired. Are you sure you feel well enough to work this evening?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Because if you’re not up to it, you’d be better off going home.’
‘No thanks, I’ll be OK.’
Bel’s face clouded. ‘It’s just that, if you are sickening for something, we don’t want the customers catching a bug, do we? It’s not just your welfare, it’s a question of health and safety.’
Typical. Bel was generous to a fault, and capable of charming and apparently spontaneous little kindnesses, but she took good care of herself and her business at the same time. Kirsty even wondered if she’d had an ulterior motive in starting her relationship with Oliver in the first place. Bel had lost a good chef around the same time as losing her husband. She’d needed someone to fill the vacancy in her kitchen as well as in her bedroom.
‘Honestly, I’ll manage.’ Kirsty lowered her voice. Confidential, woman to woman. ‘It’s just my monthly, that’s all. Sometimes it hits me very hard. You know how it is.’
‘Oh, yes. Of course.’
Bel gave a vague nod and bustled back to the kitchen. Probably to grope Oliver – she was so bloody tactile, that woman, it was past a joke. Kirsty reckoned Bel didn’t have the faintest idea how it was. Her life was so serene. It was impossible to imagine her suffering from period pains.
The blackboard listed the desserts in Bel’s neat, prissy italics. Kirsty picked up a duster and rubbed out the sticky toffee pudding with frantic zeal. If only she could wipe Bel off the map so easily. There’d been a run on the desserts at lunchtime, thanks to a coachload of wrinklies from Hexham. They were members of a Darby and Joan dancing club, on their way to a tournament in Preston, but judging by the amount of food they’d put away, they’d all keel over the minute they got up for a cha-cha.
Since Mum had told her about the anonymous message, she’d been tormenting herself with unanswerable questions. More than anything, she wanted to talk to Oliver. Share her fears with him, let him comfort and reassure her. But it wasn’t going to happen. She wasn’t a fool, she had to be realistic. The minute she started talking to him about the murder, he’d back right off. When she’d first worked here, once or twice she’d mentioned her father, but Warren Howe was a conversational no-go area. Oliver and her father hadn’t known each other well, and Kirsty guessed that Oliver’s distaste stemmed from the fact that Bel was one of the notches on her father’s bedstead. Probably, he was glad that her father was dead. Like Sam.
And like her mother? Kirsty had never been able to read her mind. As a kid, she’d assumed that her parents were deeply in love, that the late-night rows and the crockery-throwing were not signs of anything wrong with the marriage, but rather a token of how much they cared. Growing up, she’d assumed that her mother was devastated by the murder. If she’d been sleeping with Peter Flint at the time, that changed everything. What if Dad had found out? His temper was volcanic.
She went down the passageway leading to the customer toilet. Out of hours, it was a sanctuary. She locked herself in the cubicle and dialled Sam on her mobile. It was a lovely afternoon, he should be hard at work, but as soon as he answered, she could tell that he was on the skive. In the background she could hear heavy metal music blaring from a jukebox and shrill drunken female laughter.
‘I need to talk to you. It’s about Mum. She’s had an anonymous letter and it says she was sleeping with Peter at the time Dad was killed.’
‘What are you mithering me for?’ The disembodied tones combined boredom with bad temper. With each year that passed, he sounded and acted more like their father at his worst. Obviously there was no chance of his apologising for hurting her.
‘Is it true?’
‘How the fuck should I know? I’m hardly going to ask her, am I?’ His voice was faintly slurred. It was still early, but he was a fast drinker. She only hoped he’d left his motorbike at home. One of these days, he’d kill someone. If not himself.
‘What about asking Peter?’
‘Are you losing your marbles? What do you expect me to do, walk up to my boss and demand to know if he was shagging Mum while Dad was alive? He may be a feeble little wimp, but even he would sack me for that.’
‘But don’t you see? If it is true, and this person who’s sending the letters knows all her secrets, who knows what else is going to come out?’
‘It was a long time ago. Who cares?’
‘I care, Sam. And so should you. Don’t you see? If the police found out, Mum would be a prime suspect.’
For a few moments she could hear nothing except the racket from the pub jukebox. She knew her brother well enough to realise he was scouring his vocabulary for some brutal putdown.
‘You’re mad. I don’t have the foggiest when they first got it together. But if anyone should be shitting himself, it isn’t Mum, it’s that smug bastard Peter. A
fter all, he finished up with her and the business, didn’t he?’
Chapter Eight
While Daniel visited Kendal, Miranda and Louise had gone to Grasmere, destination Dove Cottage. Returning home, he remembered that he hadn’t eaten anything since toast and marmalade for breakfast. Hunger pangs reminded him of Oxford, when he could spend a day delving into the Bodleian archives before thinking of his stomach. Talking to Hannah had made him forget about food but now he was ready for a little self-indulgence. Miranda was on a healthy-eating crusade, but her absence gave him a chance to sin with a chunky bacon and egg bap coated in brown sauce. After washing his lunch down with a can of lager, he went upstairs to continue his researches.
The makeshift study would become a spare bedroom once the renovations were completed, although if the builders didn’t get a move on, he might be ready for a stairlift by the time the project was finished. Even now most of his books were in crates. A handful of whodunits squatted on low shelves alongside a pile of CDs and a snap he’d taken of Miranda, showing off her long smooth legs as she lazed on a recliner by the tarn. There was nothing to remind him of Oxford, far less of Aimee. He’d wanted to leave his past behind. Though sometimes he wondered if it was madness to believe that might be possible.
A Google search didn’t add much to his stock of knowledge about the murder and soon he was navigating the Flint Howe Garden Design website, learning that Peter Flint was a Royal Horticultural Society Chelsea Flower Show medal winner among various other accolades. A gallery of photographs showed ‘before’ and ‘after’ shots of drab patches of lawn becoming mini-Sissinghursts. Encomiums abounded from clients whose herbaceous borders, rockeries and patios had been transformed into visions of light, water and colour. The website answered frequently asked questions about the sensitive use of decking in a suburban environment and offered tips on composting and establishing an organic garden. No suggestion that dumping a body in your back yard was recommended for fertilising the ground for years to come.
Daniel clicked on to the site contact details. In the corner of the page was a name in small type. Enquirers were invited to email the firm’s ‘Client Liaison Partner’. Her name was Tina Howe.
He swivelled in his chair, closing his eyes to let the news sink in. Presumably Tina had inherited her husband’s share in the business, but wouldn’t most widows take their money and run? Back at the home page, he studied the photo of Peter Flint. Curly, greying hair, spectacles, crooked front teeth. He looked vague and good-natured, not accustomed to getting his hands dirty. Perhaps Tina Howe had tired of her rugged husband and fancied offering his partner a spot of personal assistance? What if…?
Don’t go there. He slammed his fist on the desk. He should have learned, it was dangerous to get involved in a case of murder. Not so long ago, he’d looked death in the eye and hadn’t liked what he’d seen.
And yet, hunting the truth fired him; it became a obsession impossible to quell, whatever the cost. At last he’d come to understand why his father cared for police work. They shared the need to know.
The front door crashed. He imagined Miranda sniffing the air before calling out, ‘Who’s been having a fry-up, then?’
He wandered downstairs and they told him about their day. To listen to Miranda bad-mouthing selfish drivers in Grasmere and the unpredictability of the bus services, one might think she was a native. As she chatted, Daniel kept glancing at Louise. She was on her best behaviour, nodding agreement at suitable intervals and laughing at every witty remark. The perfect guest.
He nodded towards the garden. ‘We need help sorting this out. There’s a good firm Hawkshead way. I thought I’d give them a ring, ask them to take a look and give us their advice.’
‘Fine.’
Miranda resumed her account of what she would show Louise tomorrow. For her, the garden was a place to relax, nothing more. She wouldn’t have minded if he’d announced that he meant to dig it all up and replant every square inch. As long as she could sit by the water’s edge and soak up the sun, who cared if someone had long ago laid out the grounds according to an unfathomable design?
When she took the tea things back inside, Louise pulled her chair closer to Daniel’s. ‘So then, what did you get up to in Kendal?’
‘I spent an hour in the library. Nothing special.’
‘Is that all?’
He frowned at her. ‘Meaning?’
‘You’re wearing your faraway look. Suppressed excitement, something going on in your own little world while you nod your head at appropriate points in the conversation. You weren’t listening to Miranda, she doesn’t know you well enough yet to realise. I remember that look from when Mum was scolding you for not putting your bike in the garage and all the time you were thinking about that tarty girl from Manor Drive.’
He couldn’t help grinning. ‘You never liked Simone, did you? Just because she overdid the make-up.’
‘It wasn’t only the make-up. And don’t change the subject. What are you up to?’
He shifted under her steady gaze. ‘I’ve been doing some research.’
Her smile was sceptical. ‘It’s obviously turning you on.’
‘Just because I’ve escaped from Oxford, that doesn’t mean I want my brain to atrophy.’
‘It’s not your brain I’m wondering about.’
Miranda called from the open kitchen window, ‘Anyone fancy a glass of Chablis?’
Louise turned her head and waved her thanks. Softly, she said, ‘Miranda’s lovely, Daniel. Not your usual type of lady friend, though.’
‘Is there a type? Leaving Simone out of it?’
‘Well, yes. Pretty, intense, introspective.’
‘Christ.’ He was startled that she’d given his love life a moment’s thought. He’d assumed she was too wrapped up in her own affairs of the heart. ‘Actually, I’d say Miranda fits the bill.’
‘Mmmmm. Not sure about introspective. I’m not saying that it matters. I just want you to be happy, that’s all.’
‘We are.’
‘Long term, I mean.’
‘We will be.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ she whispered as Miranda approached, bearing a tray laden with wine cooler and glasses.
But he wasn’t sure that she believed him.
‘Your garden is gorgeous,’ Hannah Scarlett said.
Roz Gleave nodded. ‘I can see what you’re thinking. A lovely place to die.’
Hannah grimaced, not least because she seldom encountered strangers who could read her mind. Even in the heat of the afternoon, Roz was cool and composed in white blouse and jeans. She was a tall woman with decisive movements; it was impossible to imagine her giving a slinky wiggle of the bum. With her thick grey hair and lack of make-up, she made no concessions to vanity, yet there was something about her cast of features and strong jawline that was oddly attractive. Not glamorous, but striking. Handsome, even.
They were facing each other across a wrought-iron table on the patio at the back of Keepsake Cottage. Behind them was an extension to the original house, from where Roz ran her publishing business. Through the windows Hannah could see piles of shrink-wrapped books in cardboard boxes. On the slope above the cottage was the spot where Warren Howe’s slashed corpse had been dumped in a hole in the earth, but his only memorial was a rose bush with huge yellow blooms. Roz had served Earl Grey and Battenberg cake; de Quincey was snoozing at their feet in a wicker basket. Very civilised: a murder site transformed into a backdrop for a tea party.
‘Tell me about finding the body.’
‘You must have this in your files.’
‘Refresh my memory.’
Roz sighed. ‘I spent the day in Lancashire, with a firm of library suppliers. A nerve-shredding presentation of our latest titles. I left home at half seven, to make final preparations at our office before I set off. Warren’s van passed me in the lane; he used to say he liked an early start and an early dart. The weather was miserable, but he didn’t care.’
&n
bsp; ‘Did you stop for a word?’
‘No, I waved, he winked back, and we drove past each other. It was the last time I saw him alive, but I didn’t give him another thought until I got home. My main aim was to keep myself busy. Anything to avoid dwelling on what might have happened to Chris. What I dreaded might have happened…’
A frown flitted across Roz Gleave’s face as she adjusted her dark glasses. A woman unwilling to surrender to her emotions, or to the urge to colour her hair. If she’d been shaken by the request for a meeting, she’d given no sign of it, agreeing a convenient time with the brisk efficiency of a woman who had succeeded in keeping a small press afloat in an unforgiving business climate.
Hannah said gently, ‘You and Warren were friends?’
The Cipher Garden Page 10
