‘I suppose you could call it that.’ The man’s tone was disapproving, for a reason Daniel could not understand. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Her husband was my father.’
The old man coughed; it seemed to be his way of showing astonishment. ‘You’re Ben’s son?’
‘Yes.’
‘Daniel? Good God.’ He stared fiercely. ‘I can see the likeness now. The eyes, anyway. Of course, he was burlier to start with and he did put on a few pounds after he retired. Who would have thought it? He used to talk about you. You’ve had a programme on the television, isn’t that right? Historical stuff, not my cup of tea. Gardening’s my thing. My wife watched it after Ben told us it was on.’
Daniel blinked. Somehow he’d never imagined that his father would have mentioned his name to anyone up here. He’d presumed that Ben Kind would have been determined to keep his first marriage a secret, too ashamed ever to reveal the existence of the family he’d deserted for the hedonistic pleasures of life in Oxenholme.
The rain was drumming against the roofs. The man took off his spectacles and wiped them with his handkerchief. ‘What did I say? Now then, you’d better come inside, have a cup of tea and a scone. You can say hello to Edna, she’ll shoot me if I let you go without introducing you. It isn’t every day that a celebrity turns up on our doorstep.’
‘The only mercy is that is was quick,’ Edna Whiston said. She was a dainty little woman whom Daniel and her husband had interrupted in the middle of knitting a Postman Pat jumper for an infant grandchild. ‘Another scone?’
Daniel put down his tea cup on a coaster depicting a view of the harbour at Whitby. The only word for the Whistons’ living room was cosy. It smelled faintly of roast beef and gravy. Photographs of beaming family members covered the tops of the sideboard and a nest of occasional tables. A magazine rack bulged with copies of The Radio Times and Bella. In the background, the James Last Orchestra blasted out non-stop hits on an aged Bush stereo system.
‘Thanks, but I’d better be going soon. You have been very kind.’
‘Well, as I say, we were very fond of your father and it was a dreadful tragedy when he died. Such an active chap, loved his garden. You can see how carefully he tended it, even though nothing much has been done since he passed away. Cheryl has a man in one afternoon a week, to keep up appearances. Of course, she doesn’t spend much time around here nowadays.’
‘I see that she’s selling the house. Staying in the area?’
‘Moving to Grange-over-Sands, she said.’
Edna pursed her lips, rather as if Cheryl had decided to re-locate to Gomorrah. The Whistons had evidently enjoyed Ben Kind’s company, but it was apparent that they cared less for his second wife. Daniel caught the couple exchanging a look and wondered what it might signify.
‘I should have given her a ring. Perhaps I’ll do that when she’s back.’
George Whiston cleared his throat noisily, like a 1950s father preparing to tell his son the facts of life. ‘Um, it’s none of our business, young man, but you might want to think over whether it’s such a good idea.’
‘You think she won’t want to talk to me? I realise it’s not so long since Dad died, but…’
‘This is a bit difficult for Edna and me, lad. We don’t care to interfere, like. But between you and me, Cheryl has a gentleman friend. He has a house in Grange-over-Sands and that’s where she is now.’
‘Oh, right.’ All was becoming clear. ‘Thanks for telling me, I’ll be discreet. Obviously I don’t begrudge her a new relationship.’
‘Right you are. But there is one thing…’ George Whiston coughed in noisy embarrassment and took a sudden interest in his shoes, ‘…it’s not a new relationship at all.’
‘So your father got a taste of his own medicine?’ Miranda asked.
They were snacking while the cottage echoed to the beat of Status Quo, thanks to the muscular builder who had brought a portable CD player along. At least the music drowned out the rain, which was bouncing off the paving stones outside the kitchen window. This was the fiercest downpour since they had moved in.
‘Sounds like it. According to Edna and George, she’d been having a long-term affair with her boss. They’d seen him call at the house when my father was out. He wouldn’t leave for hours. In the meantime, she drew the bedroom curtains.’
Miranda clicked her tongue. ‘Scandalising the neighbourhood. Not a good idea.’
‘Especially when your neighbours don’t care for you and have a soft spot for the husband you’re cuckolding.’
‘Did they give him any hints about what was happening?’
‘No need. He and George were in the same pub quiz team. One night, after a few pints, he confided in George. He’d had his suspicions for a while and when he confronted her, she didn’t deny it. He gave her an ultimatum, said she had to choose. Her boyfriend was married but his wife had cancer and he wouldn’t leave her, in fact he had retired from work to spend his time caring for her. Cheryl promised Dad that she’d finish with him. It never happened, she couldn’t let go. The boyfriend’s wife died a month before dad. Now Cheryl’s in the process of moving in with him.’
‘Presumably you don’t want to see her any longer?’
He finished his tuna sandwich. The act of putting his plate and tumbler in the new dishwasher gave him time to compose a reply. ‘This makes no difference. She broke up my parents’ marriage, then her own, but there’s no changing the facts. She lived with my father for the past twenty years. If anyone can tell me about him, she can.’
‘Yes, but how much more do you want to know about him?’
He hesitated. ‘I – I need a clearer picture of him than the old blurry snaps in the family photo album.’
‘How can you be sure that Cheryl would be a reliable witness?’
‘I can’t. But she’s the best that I have.’
Despite failing to find her at Oxenholme, Daniel remained unwilling to phone Cheryl and give her advance warning of his arrival. That would give her the chance of making an excuse, or refusing outright to have anything to do with him. Judging by what the Whistons had said about her, this was more than likely. He’d rather take the risk that she was out.
Even if she eluded him, his journey would not be in vain. He planned to stop off en route. Like a child husbanding a special treat for a rainy day, Daniel had been saving up his first visit to Amos Books. The shop was supposed to be something special, an Elysium for seekers after secondhand and antiquarian books. There was even a café which earned high marks in the guide-books for value and atmosphere. Best of all, the shop was only a short drive from Brack.
He found it without difficulty, one of half a dozen small businesses grouped around a large yard. Most of the units produced and sold crafts of one sort or another: wall hangings decorated with Lakeland themes, pottery and wooden gifts, hand-made greetings cards, and teddy bears with large, beseeching eyes. The bookshop occupied a section of a converted mill, the rear of which overlooked a weir. Rain was rattling on the gravel and although Daniel ran from his car, his sweatshirt was soaked by the time he was inside. The rich aroma of Kenyan coffee blended with the smell of old books and he recognised the andante movement of Hanson’s Romantic Symphony coming from discreet speakers near the entrance. The front part of the lower floor was devoted to fiction and the rear to the café, which spilled out on to an elevated area of decking from which on a fine day customers could sit out and watch the beck rushing past.
This afternoon an elderly couple taking shelter from the weather were pretending to interest themselves in slip-cased effusions of the Folio Society while a pair of earnest back-packers studied a glassed cabinet containing a complete set of Wainwright first editions as if glimpsing the Crown Jewels. A quick reconnaissance established that one of the upstairs rooms had a stock of historical titles that many libraries might envy. A yellowing pamphlet called Ancient Corpse Ways of Cumberland and Westmoreland caught his eye and he started leafing th
rough it.
‘Looking for anything in particular?’ A man with floppy fair hair paused in the act of filling a box with dog-eared National Geographics and gave him an amiable grin.
‘Just browsing.’
‘Fine. Have a browse over a latte, if you like. No obligation to buy. It’s not a bad way to spend a few minutes drying off until this downpour eases.’
‘You’ve talked me into it. Do I gather that you’re Mr Amos?’
‘That’s me.’ The man extended a slim, well-manicured hand. ‘Now tell me, why is your face familiar? I don’t think we’ve met…’
‘My name’s Daniel Kind.’
‘The historian? Good Lord, quite an honour.’ He squinted at the pamphlet Daniel was reading. ‘Don’t tell me you’re planning a programme about corpse roads?’
Daniel shook his head. ‘The editor of Contemporary Historian called a couple of days ago and asked if I’d like to contribute an article. I thought that corpse roads might be a suitable subject. But television – no. One or two of my colleagues seem to think I’ve done enough harm already, creating a generation of historical illiterates. From now on I’ll be writing, not presenting.’
‘We have one of your books here, as it happens. Not just the TV tie-in, but your very first.’
‘So I see. Like all authors, I can’t resist checking in any bookshop whether it stocks a title of mine. I see you’re asking a good price.’
‘It’s a sought-after book, especially in such a pretty dustjacket. Maybe I can persuade you to sign it for me, make it even more special? Don’t worry, I won’t sell it for an even more vastly inflated sum. It will go into my private collection. However hard I try, it keeps growing. My bibliomania is pretty acute.’
‘Worrying in a bookseller,’ Daniel said. ‘Like trying to diet when you own a chocolate shop.’
As Daniel inscribed the book, Amos asked, ‘You’re up here on holiday?’
‘We’ve bought a cottage over in Brackdale.’
‘My favourite spot, I’ve walked every fell in the valley. Hope to see you dropping in here more often, then.’
‘You won’t be able to keep me away. Especially if the coffee’s as good as the stock.’
‘No worries on that account. When you’ve finished browsing, come and meet Leigh Moffat. She runs the café.’
Amos led the way back down the steps. They creaked just as, Daniel believed, all floorboards in secondhand bookshops should creak. It was an essential part of the ambience, like the giddy sense of claustrophobia that came from squeezing between tottering towers of books and the clouds of dust that had to be blown from the ancient volumes lingering in the darkest recesses. In the other half of the old mill, the cafeteria was fresh and airy, with seductive cakes arrayed beneath a transparent cover. A pretty woman with shiny auburn hair in a neat bob was washing up behind the counter.
‘Leigh is a near-neighbour of yours,’ Amos announced after making introductions. ‘Brackdale born and bred.’
‘I live opposite the lychgate at the side of the church.’ Her voice was husky and the aroma of orange cake that clung to her appealed to Daniel just as much. ‘Where are you?’
‘The cottage at the end of Tarn Fold.’
She glanced sharply at the bookseller. ‘I know it, of course. The story I heard was that Mrs Gilpin’s relatives had sold it to a couple from down South.’
‘Word gets around.’
‘You know the history of the place?’
‘I’ve heard what happened to Barrie Gilpin.’
‘Poor boy.’ She sighed. ‘We were at school together.’
‘You liked him?’
‘We were never close. There was no harm in him, but I remember the way he prowled round the playground, day after day. He always followed exactly the same routine, patting the same railings on the wall, as if to prove everything was where it should be.’
Amos stared. ‘There was no harm in him?’
Daniel said quickly, ‘You lost touch with Barrie later on?’
‘You never lose touch completely, not in Brackdale. It’s too small for that. But I’m sure his mother found him a handful. As he grew older, he became more and more of an outsider, even though he’d spent the whole of his life in the valley. Not a recluse, but not “one of us”. I felt sorry for him. Most of all after he died and people nodded and winked and hinted that he’d killed a woman.’
‘Come off it.’ Amos was brusque. ‘There wasn’t any doubt that he killed her.’
‘Innocent until proved guilty,’ she said, her tone defiant. ‘Whatever the police may believe.’
She held Marc Amos’s gaze until he looked away and changed the subject. Something lay unspoken between them, but Daniel could not guess what it was.
Grange-over-Sands lay just outside the National Park, perched above the shores of Morecambe Bay, a last resort for the over-sixties. Daniel remembered a childhood trip to Grange, and the accompanying sense of disappointment. At twelve, he’d associated English seaside towns with the raffish seediness of Blackpool or Brighton, but anyone in search of big dippers or louche entertainment at the end of the pier would, he discovered, be wise to skip Grange. It might have been sheltered by the fells and warmed by the Gulf Stream, it might even have boasted an improbable palm tree and a promenade, but it didn’t possess a pier. The only thing he’d enjoyed about his visit was his father’s quip that the town’s demographic profile had earned it the nickname of ‘God’s waiting room’. As the rain thinned, the gentle slopes of Grange still didn’t set his pulse racing, but as he paused at a red light, a glance over to the bay startled him. As a boy, he hadn’t paid any attention to the view but now, even in steady drizzle, the panorama took his breath away.
The address the Whistons had given him was a substantial thirties detached house, set back from the road leading out to Cartmel. By moving in with her boss, Cheryl had scrambled up several rungs of the property ladder. She’d been personal assistant to the company’s finance director and it was a safe bet that her lover’s remuneration package was a good deal healthier than Ben Kind’s police pension.
The door opened and a small woman in a lime green trouser suit appeared. Her heart-shaped face was immaculately made up, mascara and lipstick applied with painstaking care. His first thought was that he’d seen her before. As he trawled through his memory, he introduced himself. He’d been expecting surprise rather than instant, naked hostility, but as soon as she realised that her ex-husband’s son had shown up on the doorstep, she glared as if the Boston Strangler had paid a call.
‘Why have you come?’ Her tone was combative, her whole body trembling with barely suppressed anger. ‘What do you want here?’
‘I drove over to Oxenholme this morning and the Whistons told me I might find you here. I won’t take up much of your time, Cheryl. I just want to talk.’
Her cheeks reddened, as if she found his use of her forename an offensive act of enforced intimacy. She folded her arms, one more barrier between them. ‘You and I don’t have anything to talk about.’
‘Sorry if it’s a shock, my turning up out of the blue. I don’t want to cause any trouble or disturb you and your…friend.’
‘My fiancé, you mean?’
With a snort of defiance, she flourished her ring finger with its winking diamond. Suddenly he remembered who she reminded him of. His father had always had a soft spot for Elaine Paige, had owned most of her albums and played them interminably. Even now Daniel could remember the lyrics to her greatest hits by heart. Twenty years ago, Cheryl must have looked like Elaine playing Evita and she still had a feisty prettiness. Daniel pictured Cheryl opening her lungs and bursting into “Don’t Cry For Me Argentina” and even with his nerves stretched taut, he had to suppress the urge to laugh out loud.
‘Dad is dead,’ he said. ‘What you make of your life now is none of my business.’
‘Very generous of you, I’m sure.’
‘Please. I don’t want a quarrel. You meant a lot to him,
he told me so. I tried to explain in my letter.’
It had never occurred to him to blame Cheryl for the delay in getting the news of his father’s death to him, but he wondered now if she felt a pang of guilt. Maybe she hadn’t wanted him at the funeral. It didn’t matter: he’d written to her afterwards, a short, civil letter of sympathy. He hadn’t expected a reply. Why would she want to mend fences with a family she’d never met?
She tapped her heel on the doorstep, waiting for him to give up and walk away. ‘No point in raking over the past. I really don’t have anything to say to you.’
‘If you could just spare me a few minutes.’
From inside the house came the sound of a door opening. Looking past Cheryl, Daniel could see into a long hallway with highly polished parquet floor. Framed photographs of brooding mountains covered the walls. At the far end of the hall a stooped bespectacled figure appeared.
‘Have you seen my golf clubs?’ the man called. ‘Surely you wouldn’t have moved them again after what I said before?’ His voice had a grumbling, disconsolate note that Daniel guessed was habitual. Unexpectedly, he felt a pin-prick of sympathy for Cheryl.
‘Not today,’ she said hurriedly, glancing over her shoulder to offer a tense smile of apology. ‘I’ll look for them in a minute.’
The man shuffled out of sight, muttering to himself.
‘Look,’ Daniel murmured, ‘I’m sorry if it’s a bad time…’
She compressed her lips. ‘No point in saying you’ll be back another day. It would always be a bad time.’
Daniel wouldn’t give up. ‘He investigated a case. The woman who was found on the Sacrifice Stone. I wondered…’
‘He and I never talked much about the job.’ She spoke so quickly that he felt sure she was fibbing.
‘You worked for the police.’
‘Only as a civilian, and not after we moved up here and got married. When he came home, it was better for him to forget about all the crime and squalor. I tried to make the house nice for him, help him to unwind. He worried too much about his cases, he could never let them go. I hated that, hated the way his work mattered more than…’
The Coffin Trail Page 7
