The Cipher Garden

by Martin Edwards

  ‘She doesn’t want to come face to face with the man who murdered her husband?’ Daniel racked his brains for a suitable tabloid cliché. The only danger was that he might get carried away and blow it completely. ‘To ask him why? ’

  ‘That wouldn’t bring Warren back.’ Peter sighed as he struggled for a diplomatic form of words. ‘I hate to say this, but he made a habit of getting on the wrong side of people. Tina knew that as well as anyone.’

  ‘Yet she stuck with him.’

  ‘She’s an extremely loyal woman.’

  ‘And your partnership with him survived.’

  ‘Warren loved to provoke a fight, but I refused to rise to the bait. He used to say I was boring, but it preserved a sort of harmony. Not everyone who dealt with him was equally patient. Rumour had it that the police investigation was all over the place, simply because he’d antagonised so many people. The detectives didn’t know where to start.’

  ‘Must be tough for Tina, knowing that someone killed her husband, but not having a clue who did it.’

  ‘She’s a strong woman.’ Peter’s mouth twisted and for an instant Daniel saw that the friendly, intelligent man was capable of chilly scorn. ‘These fashionable notions, closure, bereavement counselling and all that, may be fine for some people. But not Tina. She’s embarked on a new life without Warren. Like I said, all she wants is to be left in peace.’

  The stillness of the clearing was interrupted by a vehicle reversing down the lane. Sam Howe, back to collect his boss. Peter glanced at his watch and clucked in surprise.

  ‘Your wine is too seductive. I’ve outstayed my welcome. I’ll let you have a few plans soon. I’m sure we can create a garden you and Miranda will love.’ He glanced towards the lonely spikes of the monkey puzzle trees. ‘Something very different.’

  They strolled towards the cottage. As they drew closer, a burly figure in a red and blue rugby shirt and fraying jeans appeared, following the grass track by the side of the building. A young man with a wish-I-wasn’t-here demeanour, mouth moving in montonous rhythm as he chewed a piece of gum. The resemblance to the photographs of Warren Howe was unmistakable.

  ‘Sam, meet Daniel Kind. You know, the television historian?’

  From Sam’s expression, the name meant nothing to him. He offered a shovel-like paw, and grunted something unintelligible.

  ‘Have you time for a quick look round?’ Peter suggested. When Sam shrugged in reply, he said, ‘Ignore the brambles. Bags of potential, don’t you agree?’

  Sam Howe spat out his gum and shambled off to explore the grounds without another word. His indifference to Peter bordered on contempt. Daniel wondered if he didn’t believe in kowtowing to the boss. Maybe he just didn’t like the boss sleeping with his mother. Or possibly, just possibly, Sam wondered if Peter had murdered his father and got away with it.

  Bel was a mobile-phone addict. Call herself a businesswoman? Kirsty wasn’t impressed. She spent hours each day glued to her tiny Nokia, texting or gossiping with the likes of Roz Gleave and Gail Flint while everyone else sweated their guts out. All very well for a teenager, but pitiful in a woman old enough to be a grandma. Ever since she’d heard from Roz that the police were looking into the case, Bel had talked about little else. Because she took pride in considering the feelings of others, whenever she thought that Kirsty was within earshot, she changed the subject with more haste than finesse. Sometimes it was so obvious as to be embarrassing.

  ‘Had your visit from the police yet?’ She was chattering away to Gail. ‘Only a detective constable? My God, it’s almost a snub. After Roz got the chief inspector! One consolation, they can’t regard you as a prime suspect. Though I’m not sure whether you should be flattered. What was she quizzing you about?’

  Veselka was coming down the corridor, flip-flops slapping against the vinyl floor. Kirsty bustled out of the kitchen, menu cards in hand, as Bel was putting her phone back in its leather pouch. The Croatian girl smirked at them both; it was becoming her habitual form of greeting. Kirsty ignored her, but treated her boss to a smile. Bel raised her eyebrows and Kirsty wondered if she’d been caught out. Had she come out of the kitchen too quickly and given herself away? Bel would be furious if she thought Kirsty was snooping on her, even if it served her right.

  Kirsty distributed the menu cards and wrote up the specials in chalk on the blackboard next to the bar. Her script was large and extravagant, a stark contrast to Bel’s neat calligraphy. Bel, Bel, Bel, the bloody woman haunted her. Behind that eternal smile lay the calculating mind of an Olympic gold medallist in the sport of getting her own way. Look at how she’d given Oliver a stake in her business to tie him to her apron strings. Suppose she’d guessed about Kirsty’s feelings for him, suppose she feared that, deep down, he felt the same? She was like a Persian cat, gorgeous and pampered. Threaten her, and she’d unsheathe her claws.

  Oliver seemed tense and distracted and who could blame him? Falling for the daughter of a murder victim was one thing, falling for the daughter of a woman who had killed her husband was quite another. The anonymous letters might have been designed to wreck Kirsty’s chances with him. Bel was agog at the revived inquiry into the murder. What if she’d instigated it, as a means of hurting Kirsty and her family? Perhaps it suited her plan for Kirsty to overhear endless conversations about the police’s investigations. Psychological warfare.

  Yes, if Bel had written the anonymous letters, the two of them were at war. And Kirsty had nothing to lose. She would fight to the death.

  Hannah waved Linz Waller and Les Bryant into vacant chairs around the table in her office. Everyone else in the team was out. Nick was up in Cockermouth all day. Hannah guessed he was glad of the excuse to make himself scarce. She ought to stop worrying about him, but she still felt tense and on edge and she didn’t think it was just down to the heat. Better submerge herself in the Warren Howe case.

  ‘So tell us about Gail Flint.’

  ‘Attractive lady,’ Linz said, ‘at least ten or fifteen years ago, she must have been.’

  ‘Miaow,’ Les Bryant said.

  ‘Yeah, probably more your type than mine, Les. Bottle blonde, trim figure. CD collection packed with Abba, Neil Diamond and Barry Manilow. You could make sweet music together, I think.’

  ‘Sounds like a follow-up interview is called for. Conducted by a more mature officer.’

  ‘Mature’s the word, is it?’ Linz asked sweetly. ‘Not semi-retired?’

  Les yawned. Thirty years as a cop had given him a hide that any rhino would envy. He’d made it to detective superintendent, acting as SIO for the Whitby caravan shootings and the Beast of Leyburn case along the way. After opting for pipe, slippers and pension, he’d discovered that he missed the job; or maybe Mrs Bryant didn’t care to have him under her feet so much. Lauren Self had hired him on a short-term contract for the Review Team. They called it Dream Policing, this combination of gurus and young Turks, but managing the generation gap was, Hannah found, occasionally a bit of a nightmare.

  ‘What does Gail say about her affair with Warren Howe?’ she asked.

  ‘Her story is that they were just good friends who happened to go to bed with each other a few times.’

  ‘Being married to other people wasn’t an obstacle?’

  ‘Obviously there isn’t much else to do in Old Sawrey than sleep around. Tell you what, the village has a pretty efficient grapevine. She let it slip that she knew you’d interviewed Roz Gleave, ma’am. I think she was miffed that she only rated a lowly DC.’

  That wouldn’t have gone down well with Linz, whose ego was as well nourished as Les Bryant’s. Sometimes Hannah wondered if this was where she went wrong. Fast though she’d climbed the ladder, status had never mattered much to her. She cared about meeting her own standards, not other people’s.

  ‘Do I get the impression the two of you didn’t exactly hit it off?’

  Linz made a face. ‘She’s in the wrong business, if you ask me. The wine trade isn’t healthy for some
one with a drink problem. She offered me a drink the minute I walked through the door. I said no, but it didn’t stop her pouring herself a large one.’

  ‘She’s taken the divorce hard?’

  ‘She says it was her decision to split up, but there doesn’t seem to be another man around. The booze keeps her company, I’d guess. She did her best to come over as nice as pie, but beneath the pleasantries, she’s a cold-hearted bitch. She shagged Tina’s husband, now Tina is returning the compliment. Serves her right.’

  ‘Don’t sit on the fence,’ Les Bryant murmured. ‘Tell us how you really feel.’

  ‘That’s an objective and professional assessment, actually. She made a point of saying that she and her ex-husband are still best mates, and she doesn’t bear him any ill will, but I didn’t buy it. Even though she made a joke of it, said what goes around, comes around. She smiles with her mouth, but not her eyes.’

  ‘What did she have to say about Warren?’

  ‘She comes from Hawkshead, just down the road from Old Sawrey, but she hardly knew him until he and Peter set up in business together. Like everyone else she was aware Warren played around, but for years nothing happened between them except for an occasional snog at parties when everyone had had plenty to drink. The Flints and the Howes don’t seem to have had much in common and that was true of the wives as well as the husbands. Tina worked in an office and spent her spare time taking photographs, Gail preferred being her own boss. Over time, Gail and Peter drifted apart. Neither of them was interested in kids, so that wasn’t an issue, but he wanted a little woman at home to take care of him and she was determined to be her own person.’

  ‘So far,’ Hannah said, ‘she’s got my sympathy.’

  ‘Her story is that Warren chased her. He had the advantage of knowing when Peter would be out of the way. I suppose if you’re going to carry on with someone else’s wife, it helps if he’s a bloke you can keep tabs on. He turned up at the house one evening when Gail was there on her own. Reckoned he expected to find Peter there, but later he admitted he knew Peter was out of harm’s way up at Cleator Moor, quoting for a new job. Anyway, she offered him a drink and one thing led to another.’

  ‘How long was this before Warren was killed?’

  ‘Four months, give or take. They both got what they wanted, a bit of no-strings sex. She said he was a terrific lover. Lots of experience, of course. And she enjoyed telling me that it made her realise what she was missing with Peter. As if to rub it in that Tina had got the worst of the bargain. But she said she went into the relationship with her eyes open. She didn’t want to settle down with Warren, what she really wanted was her freedom.’

  ‘So why didn’t she leave Peter Flint years ago?’

  ‘She claims that Warren’s murder horrified them both. In a strange kind of way, it brought them closer together. But they were only papering over the cracks. She’d tasted excitement and she couldn’t get enough of that from poor old Peter.’ Linz laughed. ‘She said that if he was as inventive in bed as he was when it came to designing pergolas and water features, they’d still be together.’

  ‘Why did her affair with Warren end?’

  ‘She said they both recognised it was going nowhere and tongues were wagging in the village. His van had been seen outside her house a bit too often. She was getting cold feet and he didn’t want any more grief from Tina. So they parted by mutual agreement.’

  Les sniffed. ‘That’s what they call it when a company sacks an unsuccessful executive or a football club dumps its manager when it’s bottom of the league. Pack of lies. Who do you think really finished it?’

  ‘Warren.’

  ‘Would she have been as relaxed about it as she claims?’ Hannah asked.

  ‘Not if she wasn’t ready to give him up. If you ask me, she isn’t one of life’s gracious losers. I bet she can scratch and claw with the best of them.’

  Les puffed out his cheeks. ‘She didn’t have much of an alibi for the murder and there’s a possible motive. I’ll follow up, shall I? If all else fails, mebbe she’ll let me listen to her Abba records.’

  As he shambled out, Linz said, ‘One more thing, ma’am. I did just wonder – is DS Lowther OK?’

  ‘Any reason why he shouldn’t be?’

  ‘Only that I was in early this morning, before he set off. He had rings under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept and when I said hello, he didn’t answer. Yesterday, when I asked him something, he bit my head off. Perhaps it’s this weather. So oppressive.’

  ‘You’re telling me, I feel shattered…’

  As the door shut behind Linz, Hannah thought the trouble with working alongside detectives was that you couldn’t hide things for long. On the shelf next to her desk was a dog-eared paperback with an orange cover. Police Interrogation: A Handbook for Investigators. It had been Ben Kind’s bible until he’d presented it to her years ago. She turned to the page with a quote from Freud that always rang true:

  He that has eyes to see and ears to hear may convince himself that no mortal can keep a secret. If his lips are silent he chatters with his fingertips; betrayal oozes out of him at every pore.

  Her mobile rang and she recognised the caller’s number on display. Daniel.

  ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’

  He felt guilty because it wasn’t yet five o’clock and she was a busy woman, while he was free to roam the fells. Miranda and Louise were back at the cottage and he’d been seized by the urge to hear her husky voice again. Talking to her was a treat, like an extra glass of Chablis. It would be all too easy to overindulge.

  He’d gone for a walk up Tarn Fell, halting by the stone cairn to take out his phone. The mobile signal from this point was better than usual on the slopes of Lakeland. His new boots were pinching and he sat on the rocky ground to ease them off. In the distance a buzzard hung motionless in the air. It seemed so calm that it was hard to believe it had murder on its mind. He imagined its small dark eyes, scanning the landscape for prey.

  ‘I wanted to let you know I’ve met Peter Flint. As well as the dead man’s son.’

  ‘Is your garden sorted now, then?’

  ‘Far from it. But you might be interested in what Peter told me.’

  ‘You didn’t prise a confession out of him, by any chance?’

  ‘No such luck. All the same, he talked freely enough and I found out a few things. Have you got five minutes?’

  As he recounted his discussions with Peter and Sam, Daniel pictured her closing her eyes as she listened. As he answered her questions, he guessed she was sifting through the answers, assessing whether there was anything she didn’t know already. He liked the way she concentrated her full attention upon him whenever they talked. She didn’t disapprove, she took him seriously. He couldn’t help finding it flattering.

  ‘I spoke to Tina Howe on the phone and Peter Flint told me the daughter is a waitress at a restaurant called The Heights.’

  ‘The woman she works for, Bel Jenner, was an old flame of her father’s.’

  ‘Small world. My sister offered to take Miranda and me out for a meal. I might suggest The Heights.’

  Through the crackling, he could make out her laughter. ‘You’re incorrigible.’

  ‘’Fraid so.’ Any minute the line would go dead. Time to take a chance. ‘I wondered. Would you like to meet up for a drink one evening?’

  As he held his breath, the buzzard moved. First it soared into the air, and then it swooped down towards an unsuspecting victim in a patch of gorse. For a long time Hannah didn’t speak. Shit. Had the signal gone, or had he simply overplayed his hand?

  Then he heard her voice again. Faint but clear.

  ‘Yes, why not?’

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Oliver, we need to talk.’

  Kirsty dug her nails into her palms. This was a huge risk. If it went wrong, she’d lose him forever. And they didn’t have much time before Bel locked the doors for the night. She’d finished b
lowing out the candles and clearing the tables, but it had taken the last diners fifteen teeth-grinding minutes to agree amongst themselves how to split the bill. Never mind hoping for a tip, she almost volunteered to pay out of her own wages, just to get rid of them. As soon as she managed to bundle them out of the premises, she went in search and bumped into him coming out of the kitchen.

  ‘Talk?’ His body language spelled uncertainty. He might have been a quiz contestant, stumped by the simplest question. ‘What about?’

  ‘Please. Two minutes, that’s all I ask.’

  Raised voices were coming from the kitchen. Veselka and Danica, arguing about who should mop up. Bel was in the bar, chatting about nothing in particular to Arthur while they washed the glasses. Once the job was done, Bel would spend five minutes restocking the fridge so that enough beer, wine and soft drinks were chilled overnight, and then she would want to lock up. It was now or never.

  Oliver brushed a stray hair out of his eyes and focused on her. His eyes were like lasers, she thought, penetrating her soul. She knew she was blushing, but she no longer cared.

  ‘All right, Kirsty, if that’s what you want. Two minutes maximum, though, OK?’

  ‘Thank you,’ she breathed and led him outside.

  The overspill car park at the rear of The Heights was empty except for Arthur’s rusty Fiesta. Beyond lay the small garden, separated from the grounds of the house next door by a six-foot willow screen. That lazy sod Sam still hadn’t got round to doing the work that Bel wanted. Typical, bloody typical. When she clutched Oliver’s hand, he didn’t resist. His palm was warm. When the moon passed behind a cloud, they were alone in the darkness.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Oliver, you’re not going to like this, but I have to say it. I think Bel knows about you and me.’