The Arsenic Labyrinth

by Martin Edwards

  ‘I’m wondering why you forgot to mention that you and she were once an item.’

  Tony Di Venuto was incapable, she thought, of embarrassment. No beetroot flush, no averting of the eyes. Hides didn’t come any thicker. Pursing his lips, he said, ‘Because it was irrelevant.’

  ‘You knew the dead woman’s sister and you say it was irrelevant?’

  ‘Certainly.’ He’d anticipated the question and the words tripped from his tongue, as perfectly choreographed as a West End chorus line. ‘I never met Emma. She was living in Merseyside during the brief time that Karen and I were together. So how could our long-ago relationship have any bearing on the matter of Emma’s disappearance?’

  ‘She says that you hit her.’

  ‘That’s despicable.’

  He meant the accusation, rather than the violence. Hannah snapped, ‘According to Karen, that’s why she dumped you.’

  He winced, but his powers of recovery were worthy of a winded boxer. Within moments of taking the blow, he had fixed on a beam and was saying in a hushed voice, ‘It was my decision that we split up. Karen wanted to settle down and I wasn’t ready for it. I prefer to be footloose and fancy free, Chief Inspector. But she took it badly. No doubt that’s why she’s telling you these terrible things about me. A woman scorned.’

  ‘She says she finished the relationship after you hit her a second time and then that you stalked her until some other woman caught your eye. By the time that was over, Karen was married, but you threatened that she’d never escape from you.’

  ‘I need hardly tell you, this is slander. Actionable. If she repeats it …’

  ‘The way she explained it, your behaviour sounded like a power thing,’ Hannah interrupted. ‘You prefer your lovers to swoon at your feet, but you want more. You insist on being in complete control. When they show signs of having a mind of their own, the sparks fly.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Fantasy, sheer fantasy.’

  ‘Is this why you hinted that Jeremy Erskine might know something about Emma Bestwick’s fate? As a way of getting back at a woman who had wounded your pride all those years ago?’

  ‘My story was a legitimate piece of investigative journalism. A damned good example of it, even if I do say so myself. And may I remind you, Chief Inspector, it got results. Your picture wouldn’t be splashed all over the Press if I hadn’t tipped you off about where the bodies were buried.’

  ‘Strange as it may seem, I didn’t take this job to boost my public profile.’

  When she saw his smirk of triumph, she realised she’d walked into a trap. It wouldn’t do to write this man off as stupid, as well as unpleasant.

  ‘I suppose not,’ he said. ‘A hiding place after the fiasco of the Rao trial might be closer to the mark. If you don’t mind my saying so.’

  Ouch. He was a good enough journalist to have done his homework. And there was a steel fist beneath that velvet glove. Before she could dig herself a deeper hole, Les Bryant cleared his throat and asked a question, broadening his vowels as if in provocation.

  ‘So you had nowt to do with Emma’s death?’

  Di Venuto stared at Les. ‘Don’t be absurd. Why on earth would I kill a woman who meant nothing to me?’

  ‘To hurt her sister?’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  Les sneezed, a minor explosion. ‘Maybe there was no intention to kill. Perhaps you simply cocked up.’

  ‘You can’t be serious. What about the telephone calls? That’s the man you need to find, instead of wasting your time harassing me.’

  ‘The calls, yes. Trouble is, we don’t have much detail about them. They weren’t recorded. As it happens, we only have your word that this mystery caller told you where to find Emma Bestwick.’

  ‘I made contemporaneous notes.’

  ‘Hang on, we all know about notes made by police officers and journalists, don’t we? Sometimes there’s a temptation to improve upon reality. Poetic licence.’

  Di Venuto’s voice rose. ‘You’re casting aspersions on my integrity as a journalist.’

  ‘Simply testing the information you’ve supplied to us.’

  ‘Are you seriously accusing me …?’

  ‘We’re not accusing you of anything, Mr Di Venuto,’ Hannah said. She wondered what Lauren Self would have to say about this conversation if – or when – she ever found out about it. ‘But you must realise, these are questions that need to be asked, given that you haven’t been entirely frank with us.’

  Tony Di Venuto brushed a lock of hair out of his eye. A consciously handsome gesture, which also bought a couple more seconds to decide what to say. When he did speak, his tone was magnanimous.

  ‘Look here, my fling with Karen was a long time ago. Passions ran high. There were faults on both sides. You’re a woman of the world, you know what I’m saying? But I’ve always had her interests at heart. When Emma disappeared, I felt so sorry for Karen. She still meant a lot to me, even though she’d settled down with Erskine. I’ve never cared for the sound of the man.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A man like that isn’t to be trusted.’ The Diva leaned back on his chair, gaze travelling along the ceiling, relishing the chance to play moral censor. ‘He began an affair with Karen while he was still married to a plain little librarian. The minute his glamorous blonde girlfriend got pregnant, he left his wife for her. Not exactly honourable. If my kid was a pupil at Grizedale, I’d be asking questions. Who’s to say that he didn’t take a shine to Emma and then cut up rough when he found she wasn’t interested? I was worried for Karen.’

  ‘For Karen?’

  ‘Certainly. Who knew what he might be capable of? I couldn’t live with myself if anything ever happened to her, because I’d not bothered to probe. When the ten-year anniversary came along, the story was a natural for the Post. I couldn’t turn a blind eye, even if I wanted to. I wanted to do her a service, even though so much water had flowed under the bridge. I hoped our campaign would bring out the truth about what happened to Emma. Of course I was careful what I said about her husband. My editor’s brother is a shit-hot London libel lawyer and I sought his advice. But I never dreamed of spiking the story. If the finger of guilt pointed at Jeremy, wasn’t it about time he paid the price for his crime?’

  ‘You were doing a public service?’ Les suggested, his face stripped of expression.

  If he caught the sarcasm, Tony Di Venuto gave no hint of it. ‘Absolutely. That’s what local journalism is all about.’

  ‘So what did you make of that?’ Hannah asked, buttoning her jacket as they walked out of the stale air into the flesh-nipping cold.

  ‘Lying toad,’ Les muttered.

  ‘No, don’t sit on the fence. Tell me what you really think.’

  A shadow of a smile. ‘Never liked journalists, never will. And he thinks the sun shines out of his arse. But does that make him a murderer?’

  ‘He might be crediting Jeremy with his own motive, his own crime.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You’re not convinced?’

  ‘Just because you’re a creep, doesn’t mean you’re a murderer.’

  This was unarguable. Hannah unlocked the car with a click of her remote key. She was about to climb in when she caught a glimpse of Les in profile. Head bowed, wrinkles like ravines around his eyes and mouth.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Do I sound like it?’

  ‘I don’t mean your cold. I mean …’

  He glared at her and pulled open the car door. ‘Listen, if you fancy yourself as a trick cyclist, leave me out of it, all right?’

  ‘I was only …’ Her voice trailed away. Dourness was par for the course, but she’d never seen Les look as woebegone as he did right now.

  He glanced up at the heavens, then closed his eyes. ‘If you must know, the wife’s left me.’

  ‘Les, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. I’ve had a while to get used to the idea. A month since, she packed her bags and went off w
ith someone else. It’s not the first time and I thought she’d come running back, like she’s done before. My mistake. I’ve had a letter from her solicitor, telling me she wants a divorce. So she can marry the stupid bastard. Happy bloody Valentine’s Day, eh?’

  ‘If I can …’

  ‘Bloke she’s run off with, he’s my best mate. Well, he was my best mate. Can you imagine that?’

  Hannah tried to visualise Terri canoodling with Marc. For a moment, she was seized by a wild fantasy, of Marc covertly going online to pick up women and then having the shock of his life when he realised that his date was Hannah’s closest friend. The two of them were so different. Terri was loud and funny, Marc quiet and intense. They had never hit it off. At least that was the impression they gave.

  For God’s sake. She ought to be paying attention to Les as he mused.

  ‘The daft bloody bugger. I only hope he likes trailing round shoe shops.’ He sneezed again. ‘Come on, then, we’d best be getting back. Lots to do.’

  Grizedale College was a throwback in time, reminding Daniel of school stories he’d read as a boy. Black and white buildings and a clock tower, complemented by cloisters, a chapel and a cricket pavilion. A motto in Latin was carved over the imposing entrance to a hall in which he imagined young voices belting out the school song as a warm-up for ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’ and ‘God Save the Queen’. Easy to picture Billy Bunter en route to the tuck shop, or Mr Chips as he reminisced about succeeding generations of pupils studying Virgil.

  The hall was galleried, dark and gloomy even in the middle of the day. The walls were lined with oil paintings of long deceased head teachers resplendent in their caps and gowns. He asked the way to Jeremy Erskine’s room, and was helped by a boy and a girl in blazers of a hideous violet hue, suggestive of a bad case of acne. The pupils’ diction was so clear, their manners so impeccable, that he suspected they were aliens who had cunningly assumed the form of twenty-first-century teenagers, only for their invasion plans to be betrayed by excessive and unnatural politeness.

  Daniel’s shoes squeaked as he walked across the parquet floor and he flinched in anticipation of a prefect’s reprimand. He rapped on a solid oak door and a lordly voice commanded, ‘Come!’

  The large, well-upholstered room boasted the warm and comfortable ambience of a Victorian gentlemen’s club. On the walls hung framed certificates and photographs of Jeremy standing next to teams of school cricketers and rugby players. The oak desk was covered with pictures of an attractive blonde woman and two young children, together with a pile of essays for marking. History textbooks crowded a glass-fronted bookcase, an ocelot rug stretched across the floor. On a table was spread lunch for two. The cutlery was Sheffield steel, the napkins bore the College crest. There was a hot fire made with fat logs which gurgled and spat.

  Jeremy wrung his hand. ‘Welcome to Grizedale, Mr Kind! What a pleasure to meet you. Cook has prepared a little something for us, as you can see. Ham, cheese or salmon sandwiches, whatever suits.’

  For half an hour they ate and talked history and Daniel found they shared an enthusiasm for exploring the dustier corners of life in Victorian Britain. Jeremy proved a knowledgeable and unexpectedly witty conversationalist, the pomposity Hannah had described melting away as they discussed how historians go about detecting the truth about the past.

  ‘I tell my students to learn to ask the right questions, it’s the most important trick of all. Strip out the irrelevancies – the red herrings, as you call them in your book – and focus on what will carry them through to a proper conclusion.’

  Ask the right questions. Yes, Daniel preached the same message at Oxford. But it was easier said than done.

  ‘You mentioned your Association purchased several of the lots at the auction where I bought the letters about Ruskin. Do you know what happened to them?’

  ‘We were fortunate to receive a substantial bequest in the will of the late Mrs Elizabeth Clough. Her son Alban founded the Museum of Myth and Legend, you know.’

  ‘I’ve met him.’

  ‘He isn’t a serious historian, I fear, but his mother was a good friend of our Secretary, Sylvia Blacon. Poor Sylvia is very frail these days, but she sent a nephew to bid on the Association’s behalf and he came back with a rich haul. Worth peanuts in monetary terms, perhaps, but enormously valuable in giving us a fuller understanding of life in Coniston and its neighbourhood over the past couple of centuries.’

  ‘Where do you store it all?’

  ‘We keep a small archive here in the College library, by kind permission of the Governors. Scarcely the Bodleian, but you would be more than welcome to take a look. Not that what we have can offer you much help with your current project. Occasionally we have inquiries from people researching Ruskin, but we direct them to Brantwood and the specialist collections.’

  ‘I’d love to look over the stuff Sylvia’s nephew bought. Ever since the auction, I’ve regretted not taking a closer look at the lots I didn’t bid for. I only decided to turn up at the last minute, so I went in under-prepared. For all I know, I overlooked half a dozen gems.’

  ‘So far we haven’t added the auction lots to the collection. They still await cataloguing. Sylvia keeps them at home. During the past few months, she’s been unwell and I haven’t wanted to press her. She’s in her mid-eighties, our longest-serving committee member. Quite a character, she was a history teacher for thirty odd years. She was so anxious to study the materials; her mind is still as sharp as a knife. Unfortunately, when we last spoke, she hadn’t made any progress.’

  ‘I wonder if I could talk to her?’

  ‘I remember her saying how much she enjoyed your TV series. Since she was taken poorly, she’s not had much to get excited about. I’m sure she’d be thrilled by the prospect of meeting you.’

  ‘There seems to be plenty of excitement around here at present. I read about the bodies the police have discovered up in the fells.’

  ‘Ah.’ Jeremy coloured. ‘That business is rather close to home, as it happens. The police believe that one of the bodies they have found is my wife’s sister.’

  Years of swimming through the shark-infested waters of a Senior Common Room in an Oxford college had schooled Daniel in the black arts of disingenuous conversation. His sister had told him more than once that he wasn’t as nice as everyone thought he was, and of course she was right. He expressed profound apologies while trying to prise more information out of the bereaved brother-in-law. At least, if Hannah was to be believed, Jeremy wasn’t suffering too much grief.

  ‘You know DCI Scarlett, I gather?’

  ‘My father used to work with her.’

  ‘I suppose she’s only doing her job.’ Jeremy adopted a long-suffering tone.

  ‘The police are treating the case as murder, from what I read in the papers.’

  A derisive snort. ‘The papers have a lot to answer for, if you ask me. Especially the local rag that has made all the fuss about the tenth anniversary of Emma going missing.’

  ‘At least now your wife knows the truth. Emma can have a proper burial.’

  Jeremy shook his head. Now his expression was as bleak as the north face of Great Gable.

  ‘But that won’t be the end of it, not by a long chalk. Emma will continue to haunt us like one of Alban Clough’s ghosts. Your friend DCI Scarlett won’t let Karen or me to escape her. Have you seen what the police say about cold case work on their website? They have a proud boast. An unsolved murder never goes away.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Who shall I be tomorrow?

  Guy smiled at himself in the bathroom mirror. He always had a wet shave; electric razors didn’t cut close enough. He liked the sharp touch of the blade on his jaw, slicing away the five o’clock shadow. His hand was steady, he never nicked himself.

  Soon he would be out of here. Goodbye threadbare towels liberated from a hotel in Morecambe, farewell rusting Salter scales, kept so that Sarah’s conscience could torment her as comfort eat
ing piled on the pounds. He wouldn’t miss any of it, not the stink of the disinfectant she kept in the airing cupboard, not the clamminess of damp clothes drying on the hangers suspended over the bath tub.

  And he wouldn’t miss Sarah, either. Her non-stop prattle was getting on his nerves. The brutal fact was, her best hope was for the bailiffs to come in, take possession of the Glimpse and sell off her worldly goods. Together, hopefully, with that bloody cat – if anyone was stupid enough to give such a cussed animal houseroom. The council would be forced to house a homeless woman, she’d be better off in a little flat, with no access to online betting sites. Bankruptcy might be the making of her.

  He couldn’t afford to think of anyone but himself. This time, he was determined get it right. Ten years ago, young and naïve, his philosophy was easy come, easy go. He’d left the Lakes with a huge wad of cash burning a hole in his wallet. For the first time in his life he felt rich and in his innocence he resolved to spend, spend, spend. No wonder the money had run out so fast and once again he’d needed to resort to living on his wits. Even that became harder as the years scurried by. Each time a relationship ran its course, you were bound to move on. Flying by night, before the woman figured out that you’d taken her purse or not repaid the loan from her rich grandma or whatever. It was no sort of life for anyone with talent. He wanted to take time out. Pamper himself, weigh up his options. Find a lovely lady capable of lasting the course. What was the old joke about the perfect mate: a nymphomaniac whose dad owned a brewery? Someone like that.

  ‘Are you decent?’ a voice trilled from the other side of the door.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, stroking the blade before he put the razor down.

  She walked in and burst into a delighted fit of giggles when she saw that he was naked. ‘You said that …’

  ‘Nothing indecent about the human body,’ he interrupted. Her tee shirt proclaimed Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life. He lifted it up. ‘God’s greatest work of art.’

  ‘Rob Stevenson, you’re insatiable!’