Lost Summer

by Stuart Harrison

  She stared at him uncomprehendingly. He wanted to stop her from leaving, but he didn’t know what he could say to her. She didn’t believe David was capable of what he was suggesting. She couldn’t. But then why should she? David was her husband. It was clear they had problems, and so what if he was drinking heavily? That didn’t mean she could stop loving him, didn’t mean she could suddenly see the man who was the father of her child as capable of taking another life. And she was right, David wasn’t the only one who had a motive. Apart from anyone else there was Nick of course. Not forgetting Nick. Well, maybe David didn’t act alone.

  She left without saying another word, and he didn’t try to stop her. He watched the door swing closed behind her, aware of the curious glances from a couple at the bar.

  What could he say? She thought she knew David, but she didn’t know about Meg. Nobody did. Nobody except him.

  When he went outside she was nowhere to be seen. As he drove into the village he passed a taxi parked outside a garage. He glimpsed a figure through the garage window and slowed when he saw that it was Angela, but even as he stopped she came out and climbed into the back of the taxi. As she did she glanced along the road, perhaps seeing the Porsche out of the corner of her eye, and for a moment she hesitated, but then the door closed and the taxi pulled away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The Websters lived in a large stone house surrounded by a wall and within a stone’s throw of a squat church with a square tower. Adam assumed the house was the old rectory. A wild cherry tree grew in the middle of the lawn. The gates were open so he drove in and parked next to a Mercedes estate. When he climbed the steps and rang the bell a woman with short grey hair opened the door. She wore a tweedy skirt and a string of pearls and greeted him with a polite questioning smile. He introduced himself and told her he had phoned earlier.

  ‘Oh, yes. Do come inside. It’s rather cold today isn’t it? We’ve had such lovely weather too. Let me take your coat.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He shrugged it off and she hung it on a stand in the hall.

  The woman introduced herself as Cecilia Webster and told him that her husband was in the front room.

  ‘He likes to read in front of the fire after lunch,’ she said, and then leaned a little closer with a conspiratorial air. ‘He usually falls asleep actually, so you’ve come just at the right time. Follow me and I’ll take you through.’

  She led the way past open doors, through which he glimpsed large well-furnished rooms, the walls of which were painted in traditional deep reds and greens, the carpets thick and luxurious. The front room was in fact on the southern side of the house. French windows opened onto a stone flagged terrace with steps that led into a formally laid out garden.

  ‘Colin. This is the young man I told you about who phoned earlier.’ She turned slightly towards Adam. ‘Mr Turner, this is my husband.’

  Colin Webster rose from a comfortable-looking wing chair on one side of the fireplace in which some huge logs burned fiercely. He had the kind of thin, refined features that lent him a slightly aloof and vaguely aristocratic air, an effect that was heightened by the fact that he wore a greenish-coloured suit with a dark striped tie. His smile was polite, but lacking in warmth. It was easy to imagine him wearing a white coat over his suit, striding the wards of Carisbrook Hall with the detached manner of an intellectual observer, issuing instructions to subordinates who trotted along in his wake. He shook Adam’s hand and gestured to a chair.

  ‘Please, do sit down, Mr Turner.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Are you going out Cecilia?’

  ‘Yes, I’m just going into the village to get a few things.’

  ‘Perhaps we could have some tea first?’

  ‘Of course.’ She smiled at Adam. ‘Do you drink tea, Mr Turner?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. That would be nice.’

  ‘Right. I shan’t be long then.’

  She left the room and closed the door behind her, and only then did Webster sit down again. He crossed his legs and steepled his fingers. ‘My wife tells me you phoned earlier. You mentioned that you wish to discuss Carisbrook Hall?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Adam said that he was a journalist from London covering the protest at Castleton Wood. ‘You’re aware of the development plans for the estate?’

  Webster made a small gesture, both of acknowledgement and dismissal. ‘Only in the vaguest terms I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, anyway, during the course of preparing some background material I learned that one of the protesters, a young woman, had come across some information that might throw the development into question. I believe it may have had something to with Carisbrook Hall.’

  Webster raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. ‘Really?’

  ‘I understand this young woman may have been to see you? Her name is Jane Hanson.’

  Webster thought for a moment and then raised one finger in recognition. ‘Yes, now that I think about it I do recall a young woman by that name. She telephoned once.’

  ‘Did you ever meet her?’

  ‘No. In fact I only spoke to her briefly.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask what you discussed?’

  ‘Not at all. As I recall she was, as you say, interested in Carisbrook Hall.’ Webster frowned slightly as he sought to remember their conversation. ‘I recollect that she asked me some questions about patient numbers, the kind of complaints that were commonly treated, that kind of thing. It was really very general information.’

  ‘She didn’t ask to meet with you?’

  ‘No. Actually, I was rather surprised that she had phoned me at all, to be frank. The things that she wanted to know are readily available in far more comprehensive form than anything I could tell her. There have been several books written about the history of Carisbrook Hall that are available in the local library. In fact, I told her as much.’

  ‘She didn’t ask you anything else? Nothing about a specific patient for example?’

  ‘No,’ Webster said, his tone stiffening. ‘And of course if she had I would not have been able to answer her questions anyway. I’m sure you’re aware of the rules of patient confidentiality, Mr Turner.’

  ‘Yes, of course. What about a particular period? Did she mention a specific date or period that she was interested in?’

  ‘No. As I said, her enquiries were of an extremely general nature.’

  Just then the door opened and Cecilia Webster wheeled in a tea trolley. She bustled about pouring for them both, while her husband ignored her presence other than to murmur a faint thank you when she passed him his cup. Dr Webster, Adam thought, was a man used to having people attend to his needs. Cecilia Webster told Adam that it had been nice meeting him.

  ‘I’ll be back soon,’ she said to her husband.

  Webster barely acknowledged her. After she had left he picked up his cup and saucer and stirred methodically, his spoon clinking against the china cup. Then he sipped his tea and put his cup and saucer down on the table. He offered Adam a biscuit from some arranged on a plate before choosing one himself. The entire sequence was like a well-practised ritual that never varied.

  ‘You said that this young woman you mention had information pertinent to the development on the Castleton Estate,’ Webster said at length. ‘But I don’t understand what that has to do with Carisbrook Hall.’

  ‘Frankly, Doctor, neither do I,’ Adam said. ‘In fact, that was what I was hoping you could help me with.’ He decided not to mention Marion Crane specifically, since Webster had already made it clear where he stood on patient confidentiality.

  ‘I see. I take it there is a reason that you can’t ask Ms Hanson directly?’

  ‘At the moment I don’t know where she is, other than somewhere in London.’

  ‘Ah.’ Webster nodded and picked up his cup and saucer again. After a few moments he said, ‘Tell me, how exactly did you know that Ms Hanson had contacted me?’

  ‘Actually, somebody at the new clinic told me that Jane had been there asking wh
ere she could find you,’ Adam answered, not mentioning a specific name, though Webster guessed who it had been.

  ‘Dr Grafton I imagine. Yes, of course.’

  After that Webster seemed even more remote and answered Adam’s questions in clipped, almost curt tones. He could well imagine this man clashing with Dr Grafton. Webster’s style would have been autocratic, the type who expected unquestioning obedience from his staff.

  Adam asked a few general questions about Webster’s time at the hospital in the hope that something would turn up. It turned out that Webster had been in charge there from the late seventies until the Hall had closed, at which point he had retired. It was clear though that whatever had led Jane Hanson to find Marion Crane’s records, and what their significance was, he wasn’t going to find the answers here. Over the years he’d become used to dead ends and disappointments, to leads which at first appeared promising vanishing like smoke. But the feelings he was left with remained the same. A sense of frustration and the ever present question, where to next? And sometimes there was nowhere else. Sometimes the trail went cold and eventually he was forced to admit defeat. He hoped this wouldn’t prove to be one of those times.

  He finished his tea and thanked Webster for his time.

  ‘I’m sorry that I couldn’t be of further help, Mr Turner.’

  He drove back through the village the way he had come, stopping on the way at the garage to fill up. He didn’t pay any attention to the blue Mercedes on the other side of the pumps until Cecilia Webster appeared from the shop door putting her purse away in her bag. She smiled brightly when she saw Adam.

  ‘Hello again. Did you and Colin have a nice chat?’

  ‘I’m afraid I wasted your husband’s time, Mrs Webster.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. He has plenty to waste these days. He misses his work you know. He used to spend more time at that horrible old place than he did at home.’

  Adam smiled. There was a faint wistfulness in her tone that made him think that she had preferred it that way. He supposed it was natural enough. People spent their entire working lives living partly independent existences, and then suddenly were forced together during retirement. For some it must be a difficult transition.

  ‘Personally I loathed the place. Such a dreadful atmosphere,’ she went on. ‘I think the new clinic is much nicer. Colin fought against the closure of course. If they hadn’t shut it down I expect he would still be there.’

  Perhaps that was the root of the rancour between Dr Grafton and Webster, Adam thought. The old and the new. It was a familiar enough story. Changing times bred deep resentments.

  ‘I suppose now that it’s empty people have become interested in it again.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Adam said.

  ‘Carisbrook Hall.’

  ‘Oh, I see, yes.’

  ‘You’re the second person in as many months.’

  ‘The second?’

  ‘Yes. A young woman came to see Colin, in August I think it was.’

  ‘Right. Actually, your husband mentioned her. Jane Hanson wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, that was her name. Do you know her?’

  ‘Not really. You say she came to the house?’

  ‘Yes. A pretty girl. Anyway, I must be going. Goodbye, Mr Turner.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ Adam said.

  As she drove away he finished filling his tank. For some reason it hadn’t occurred to him that Webster would have lied about Jane, but now that he knew that he had, he found he wasn’t surprised. The question was: why had Webster lied?

  Instead of driving directly back to Castleton, Adam took the road towards Haltwhistle and then turned off to climb the fells. High up above the forest he found the turn-off that he was looking for. A wooden gate barred the way across a rutted track, and a painted sign announced LAKE LODGE, though another that had been nailed over it announced that the lodge was closed for the season. The gate wasn’t locked, so he opened it and drove carefully down the track. It was rough and potholed in places, not exactly ideal terrain for a Porsche. He winced every time he felt a thump against the floor.

  The lodge consisted of a main wooden building the size of a large house which was surrounded by a number of small cabins connected by a network of pathways through overgrown grass. Adam got out of his car. A stiff easterly wind blew across the fells and chilled his bones. From the lodge he could see the forest and Cold Tarn far below. It looked small and black and seen from this perspective was much more obviously hardly a lake at all. Overhead, clouds raced across the sky pursued by shadows that flew over the barren landscape of the hills where a few hardy sheep grazed here and there. A bunch of crows wheeled and flapped around a solitary pine nearby.

  He approached the main building and found the doors were firmly locked and secured with chains, the ground-floor windows shuttered against the elements and vandals. There was no sign indicating a contact address or number for the owner out of season, though clearly whoever it was didn’t live on the premises year-round. It wasn’t difficult to understand why. In the winter this would be about as desolate and windswept a place as you could hope to avoid. The pervading air that clung to the cabins and the unkempt grounds they sat in was of slow disintegration. The repairs done at the start of each season were probably inadequate, the revenue from hikers and the like insufficient to pay for what was really needed. Several of the cabin’s roofs sagged alarmingly.

  He guessed that Ben and his friends had chosen to come here after the attack on the camp because it was both cheap and out of the way. He assumed the letterhead he’d found in the wreck was the remains of their bill, but other than the name of the lodge it hadn’t told him anything else. He’d been hoping to speak to somebody who remembered them, but once again it seemed he’d hit a dead end. The cold wind eventually drove him back to his car.

  For a while he considered his next move. The lake down below appeared deserted again. He wondered why Dr Webster had lied about having met Jane Hanson. It seemed likely that however Marion Crane figured in all of this it had to do with the time she’d spent at Carisbrook in the mid-eighties. But who was she? And what had Jane Hanson learnt that had set her on a path that had at some point led to these medical records? And how did any of it fit with the development in Castleton Wood? Questions, plenty of questions but no answers.

  Again he experienced a sense of events turning full circle. He thought about Angela and was tempted to call her, but he had no idea what he would say to her. Outside the wind picked up, rocking the car when it gusted down from Cold Fell. The sky seemed close enough to touch, a heavy leaden mass that turned the afternoon into a kind of semi-dusk. Even up there surrounded by open space he felt oppressed and enclosed. The long sunny days of autumn were coming to an end it seemed, and winter was approaching with a vengeance.

  He started the car and drove to the tourist information office in Brampton. The woman he spoke to told him the owner of Lake Lodge was somebody called Gordon King. The bad news was that Mr King spent the winter each year in India.

  ‘There used to be a caretaker until two years ago, but he retired. Apparently he wasn’t replaced.’

  That made sense, Adam thought, judging from what he’d seen of the state of the place. He thanked the woman for her help and went outside. Another dead end. But then maybe not. It was almost six. In a lane off the square the Border Raiders pub was open for business. It was as good a place as any to kill some time while darkness fell. He was contemplating a second night of illegal breaking and entering.

  The lounge bar was warm and cosy, a coal fire glowing hot in a fireplace that dominated one side of the room. The polished wooden bar gleamed softly in the dim light, and the brass beer pumps were buffed to a faultless shine. Several groups of suited men stood around drinking and talking. Apparently the Border Raiders was the favoured hangout of Brampton’s professionals, small-town accountants and bank managers drinking pints of dark bitter in a fog of cigarette smoke.

  Adam ordered a Scotch an
d as the barman poured a Grants there was a loud laugh from across the room where three men stood by the fire. One of them clutched a pint glass in one hand and a fat cigar in the other. He was florid-faced and overweight, a bluff, imposing figure. His face looked familiar, but Adam couldn’t place him.

  ‘Do you know who that is over there?’ he asked the barman. ‘The big one?’

  ‘That’s Councillor Henderson.’

  Suddenly Adam recalled where he’d seen the face before. It had been on a pamphlet at the district council offices. It seemed that Henderson liked to be the centre of attention. He talked loudly and laughed at his own jokes.

  ‘Who’re the men with him?’ Adam asked, as the barman polished glasses with a soft white cloth. He glanced over.

  ‘The one in the blue suit is Councillor Campbell. The other gentleman is Mr Kirk.’

  Campbell was wiry and thin-faced. He had a hawkish, sharp-eyed look about him but both he and the other man deferred to Henderson. They laughed when Henderson did and agreed with everything he said. When Henderson drained his glass the others quickly followed suit. Henderson collected their glasses and came to the bar.

  ‘My round, Arthur,’ he said.

  The barman obediently began pouring while Henderson stuck out his belly and puffed on his cigar, surveying the room with the air of a fat potentate secure in his own kingdom. He glanced at Adam and nodded briefly.

  ‘Councillor Henderson?’

  ‘Aye, that’s me.’

  ‘Adam Turner. We’ve met. I was with David Johnson.’

  Henderson searched his memory and like a good politician smiled with false recognition, though his eyes were shrewdly appraising. ‘Oh, yes, I remember now. Turner. How are you?’

  ‘Fine. Glad to see that Forest Havens got the go-ahead, by the way.’

  ‘Yes,’ Henderson said, but now he sounded cautious. ‘This area needs more schemes like that. What did you say your name was again?’