The Arsenic Labyrinth E-Book

Martin Edwards

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Lake District Cold-Case Mysteries
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 458

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

Daniel Kind's relationship with Miranda is on the rocks. After the bright lights of London, Miranda feels isolated in the Lake District and Daniel fears that she will just up and leave. And Miranda wouldn't be the first: ten years ago Emma Bestwick left her cottage and never returned. Her disappearance went unaccounted for, much to the chagrin of DCI Hannah Scarlett, head of the local Cold Case Review Team. But in a small, rural community, someone is bound to know something. And that someone has recently started calling the local newspaper and dropping hints about Emma's death. With the case reopened, Hannah and Daniel are drawn together again, and discover to their cost that one person will preserve the secrets of the past at any price.

Leseprobe

The Arsenic Labyrinth

MARTIN EDWARDS

Dedicated to Carolyn, George, Gary and Karen

Contents

Title PageDedicationJOURNAL EXTRACTPART ONECHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENJOURNAL EXTRACTPART TWOCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENJOURNAL EXTRACTPART THREECHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENJOURNAL EXTRACTPART FOURCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYCHAPTER TWENTY-ONEACKNOWLEDGEMENTSAbout the AuthorBy Martin EdwardsCopyright

JOURNAL EXTRACT

You’d never believe it to look at me now, but once upon a time I killed a man.

My calves ache with the effort of scrambling up the slippery fell. It is not too late, I need not carry out my plan. Murder is a choice, an act of free will. How easy to turn around and go back home. Nobody need ever know the wicked imaginings that twist my soul. It is within my power to let him live.

It is not merely his fate that lies in my hands this afternoon. It is my own.

My knees tremble. In the bag slung over my shoulder, I feel the sharp blade of the knife.

I didn’t turn back, but passed beneath the large stone they called the Sword of Damocles. Long gone, destroyed like so much else that once seemed permanent and immune to change. I am ill at ease in the modern world. I shall not be sorry to bid it farewell. But before I leave, I shall share my secrets. I have this foolish superstition that, if they were buried with me, I should never find peace.

His back is turned, but when he hears my footsteps he spins round, leering with anticipation. He expected someone else. At the sight of me, his smile dissolves. The curl of his lip is familiar. I am accustomed to disappointing him.

‘You contrived this.’

A nod of assent.

‘How long have you known?’

What did it matter? When I did not reply, he let fly with a volley of abuse. I was jealous and selfish and sick in my head. The words glanced off me like arrows striking a shield.

When he reaches out and touches my arm, I recoil. A hungry gleam returns to his eyes. I can read his mind. We are alone and I am at his mercy. He looks about him, his attention caught by a rattle of stones.

I am dying now, withered and weary, but that afternoon I was so alive. More alive than ever before. Or since.

Slowly, he takes off his belt. Followed by his shirt.

I stand in front of him, motionless. He commands me to undress, just as I expected. My hands shake as I pull off my stockings and struggle out of my corselette. I take too long. Grunting with impatience, he strips quickly. When I start to fold my petticoat, he roars in disbelief.

‘For God’s sake, woman!’

I bend down and reach into the bag. I have obeyed him for the last time. He stands in front of me, naked and defenceless. I am almost naked too.

But I have the knife.

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Who shall I be today?

Guy smiled at the landlady as she proffered a ballpoint pen with a bitten top. Her hands were chapped, her pink nail varnish flaking. He reached inside his suede jacket.

‘Thanks, but I always write with my own fountain pen.’

He liked to think of the black lacquer Waterman Expert as an heirloom, though he’d picked it up less than eighteen months previously in a grubby little shop in Camden Town. The landlady opened the register with as much reverence as if it were The Book of Kells. Guy paused; hadn’t Megan described him as a regular Jekyll and Hyde?

Today, no question – Dr Jekyll.

At Haverigg, he’d studied calligraphy, an agreeable means of passing the long days. No need for artistic skill, just patience and attention to detail. Before running out of both, he’d mastered the basics of an elegant script. Bending over the page, he wrote with a flourish.

RL Stevenson.

Perfectly safe, this flight of fancy. He’d once made the mistake of introducing himself as Guy Mannering to a woman who proved to be a closet Sir Walter Scott fan, but Mrs Welsby didn’t strike him as bookish. Bed and breakfast places further up Campbell Road rejoiced in names like Brideshead and Xanadu, but this house, squashed at the end of a three-storey Victorian terrace, was called Coniston Prospect. Not that the name lacked imagination. A tall man looking out of the attic window would need to stand on his toes to see beyond the trees and satellite dishes and catch a glimpse of Coniston Water.

Fanned out on the table were the Daily Express, opened at the gossip page, and a local tabloid. On a scuffed sideboard squatted a Pye transistor radio, so ancient it was probably fashionable retro chic. Through the interference, he discerned Lionel Richie’s breathy enquiry, ‘Is it me you’re looking for?’

‘Welcome to Coniston Prospect, Mr Stevenson.’

The smell of fried bread and burned bacon lingered in the air. Guy gave a contented sniff. He preferred four-star luxury, a boutique hotel by Grasmere or Ullswater would have been more his style, but he didn’t mind roughing it until he sorted himself out. No bad thing to keep your feet on the ground. He found it so easy to get carried away. After leaving Llandudno in a hurry, he was short of cash. Lucky he was adaptable – Megan’s word was chameleon.

‘Please, Mrs Welsby, the name’s Robert.’

Her smile revealed teeth as crooked as the Hardknott Pass. Guy winced. Dentistry counted for a lot, in his opinion. In more affluent days, he’d spent a fortune on caps and straightening.

‘My friends call me Rob.’

‘I’m Sarah,’ she said quickly. ‘I do hope you’ll be happy here.’

Her eagerness to please was unfeigned and he found himself warming to this solid woman in turquoise tracksuit and down-at-heel trainers. Seizing her hand, he found her grip was weak, her flesh soft. Once she’d been pretty, but she’d put on too much weight and years of disappointment had faded her blue eyes. The fair hair was dyed, the roots greying. No rings on the fingers. She could use a little excitement in her life. He pitched his voice lower.

‘I’m sure I will be.’

He meant it. A threadbare carpet wasn’t the end of the world. All she needed was encouragement. There was more to life than wiping cobwebs from picture rails or scrubbing ketchup stains out of your pinafore.

‘I suppose you’d like to unpack?’

He nodded. It wouldn’t take five minutes. He travelled light, out of habit as well as need.

‘I’ll put the kettle on. A cup of tea is so refreshing after a journey. Have you travelled far?’

‘I’m not long back in England, as it happens.’

No less than the truth. He’d spent too long in rain-soddenLlandudno, gazing out at wind-whipped waves. The tan came courtesy of a solarium in Deganwy. No matter; the sparkle of delight in Sarah Welsby’s eyes told him that she was thinking south of France rather than the coast of North Wales. It would be unkind to disillusion her and Guy hated being unkind. He was about to murmur that the world was becoming smaller when his eye caught a headline in the local newspaper, above a blurry photograph of a face he would never forget.

What happened to Emma Bestwick?

‘Detective Chief Inspector Scarlett!’

Hurrying towards the entrance of Divisional HQ, coat collar raised against the cold bite of February, Hannah heard pounding feet and someone shouting her name. She stopped in her tracks and swivelled.

A man was racing across the car park towards her. As he drew closer, his shoes skidded on the rain-greased tarmac and he lost his balance. With a stifled cry, he tumbled to the ground.

She walked over and helped him rise gingerly to his feet. He was about five feet seven, but lean and sinewy, with his clothes so slickly tailored that he did not seem small. She smelled cedarwood; he’d overdone the after-shave. He squinted at the streak of mud on his cream trousers with as much pain as if he’d broken his ankle.

‘All right?’

‘I’ll live.’ Scots accent, gritted-teeth smile. ‘You know, this is the first time I’ve ever been picked up by a senior police officer.’

Early thirties, features as sharp as his suit. Gel glistening on coal-black hair. Despite his fall, not a strand out of place.

‘Tony Di Venuto, I presume?’

‘So you know who I am without being introduced. Proof positive you’re a top detective!’

Di Venuto knew she’d recognised his voice from their phone conversation, but still treated her to a roguish smirk. Hannah groaned inwardly. A phrase of Les Bryant’s echoed in her mind. If he were a chocolate pudding, he’d eat himself.

‘What can I do for you?’

‘When we spoke last Friday, you promised to consider reopening the Emma Bestwick file. You’re in charge of cold cases. It’s a perfect project for …’

‘As I said, the moment you provide any new information, we’ll be glad to study it.’

‘Hopefully my piece in the Post will jog a few memories.’

‘Hopefully. Now if you’ll excuse me …’

‘I realise you’re very busy.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I believe she was murdered, Chief Inspector. Emma deserves justice. Her killer is still at large.’

He even talked in tabloid headlines. Hannah summoned the stonewall smile she reserved for press conferences when she had no titbits to offer.

‘We never found any evidence she was dead. People disappear from home every day of the week. Plenty of them are never seen again.’

‘Ten years have passed. Nobody has heard from Emma in all that time. It’s inconceivable that she’s still alive.’

Hannah cast around for the right words. She didn’t want a casual remark to finish up as a sensational quote in a newspaper article. The media relations people would send her off on another press training day for punishment.

‘Stranger things have happened.’

‘Won’t you let me take you through the facts?’

‘That won’t be necessary.’ Hannah stepped away. ‘One thing you ought to know. I was a member of the team that investigated Emma Bestwick’s disappearance.’

Guy’s new quarters occupied the basement at Coniston Prospect. He’d mentally rechristened it Coniston Glimpse. Mrs Welsby advertised en suite facilities, which meant he had exclusive benefit of a chilly toilet and separate bathroom on the other side of a short passageway. A yellowing spider plant drooped on the mantelpiece above the gas fire. The room reeked of damp, and as he lay on the stiff mattress Guy noticed patches of rot around the window frame. The radiator and pipes kept cackling, as though Macbeth’s witches were trapped inside.

His lips moved but no sound came as he read once again the opening paragraph from the article in the newspaper that he’d cadged from the landlady.

This week sees the tenth anniversary of one of Cumbria’s strangest unsolved mysteries. Thirty-year-old Coniston reflexologist Emma Bestwick vanished from home and was never seen again. Police were unable to establish whether she left of her own accord or was the victim of suicide, accident or murder. Perhaps the time has come for the Cumbria Constabulary’s Cold Case Review Team to take another look at whatever happened to Emma.

How bloody typical. Talk about media irresponsibility. With so much strife in the world, how could it make sense to scour through the past, looking for trouble? People disappeared all the time, what was so odd about that? Why make a front page story out of one woman who went missing long ago? Emma Bestwick was a troubled woman who might easily have given up her old life and gone in search of something new. It was perfectly plausible; he’d made a fresh start himself more than once. Why bully an over-worked police force into raking up old ashes?

A timid knock at the door.

‘Only me! I brought your tea down.’

He tossed the newspaper to one side, scrambled off the bed and flung open the door. Mrs Welsby’s face was pink, as though she felt like an intruder in her own home. He took the hot mug, blenching as it scalded his fingers, yet managing to preserve a grin of thanks.

‘I meant to come back upstairs, but truth to tell, I needed forty winks. Travel can be exhausting, don’t you find? It’s wonderful to have the chance to put my feet up.’

‘You do take milk?’

The mug bore a smiley face and he tried not to wince as he sipped. He loved leaf tea; his favourite was Assam, followed by Darjeeling, but this muddy mess was courtesy of two Coop tea bags.

‘Mmmmm. Lovely.’

He saw her eyes flicker in the direction of the newspaper. He’d left it on the bedside table.

‘Thanks for letting me have a glance. Good to catch up.’

‘You know the Lakes?’

‘My favourite place in the whole world!’ As soon as he said it, he realised it was the truth. Keep your Costa del Sols and your Corfus. Even the glory that was Rome was of another day. If he belonged anywhere, it must be here. The Lake District felt like home, even in the rain. Especially in the rain. ‘Mind you, this is my first time back in a decade. Too long.’

‘Well, I mustn’t interrupt.’

‘Any time!’

They swapped smiles, and as the door closed behind her, he climbed back on to the bed. The journalist was called Tony Di Venuto. What had caused him to light upon the disappearance of Emma Bestwick? News must be thin, there was no other explanation. The tenth anniversary wasn’t much of a peg to hang a story on.

Since he’d last walked the streets of Coniston village, Guy had stopped thinking about Emma. He had a gift for blocking out unpleasantness, found it as easy as closing a door on a draught. Yet memories lurked like invisible weeds beneath the surface of a tarn. After heading out of North Wales, he might have journeyed anywhere. But the Lakes pulled him back; he was a puppet on an invisible string. True, he’d given a promise never to return. But ten years was long enough. Nothing was forever.

Hannah switched off the tape recorder and yawned as Les Bryant lumbered into her room. She’d spent the past hour listening to interviews conducted by Maggie Eyre, a young DC in her team. Dip sampling of tapes was a tedious part of the job and some DCIs were quick to delegate it, but for her it was not a task to be skimped, however predictable the outcome. The idea was to check whether the interrogation techniques of junior officers was up to scratch and it was unwise to take much for granted. But it came as no surprise that Maggie’s questioning of witnesses had been diligent, firm and courteous. Another tick in another box.

‘Jobs they never tell you about at the student recruitment fairs,’ she muttered.

Les shrugged and deposited his ample backside on a chair on the other side of her desk. ‘Wouldn’t know, I was never a student.’

She couldn’t resist a grin. ‘University of life, huh?’

‘School of hard knocks, yeah.’ He considered her. ‘You look different today.’

‘Thanks for noticing.’

He went through a pantomime of guesswork. ‘Ummm … your hair’s not the same. More blonde than brown these days.’

‘We’ll make a detective out of you yet. And don’t dare to say that you liked it the way it was. Now, have you squared things with Lauren?’

That morning the Assistant Chief Constable had scheduled a meeting with Les to review his conditions of service. He’d shambled out of retirement to lend his expertise to the Cumbria Constabulary’s Cold Case Review Team. He was a dour Yorkshireman, a veteran of such fabled cases as the Whitby caravan shootings. The young DCs nicknamed him In my day, a tribute to Les’s favourite phrase, but Hannah liked his morose humour as well as his nose for crime. He’d forgotten more about detective work than most cops would ever know. Once Lauren Self sorted out a few niggles about expenses, they could talk about extending his contract.

‘Her ladyship was too busy. Press conference announcing that the force merger has been put on hold. I heard on the grapevine that some reporter asked if she thought the Home Secretary should be charged with wasting police time. By all accounts, she nearly jumped off the podium and slapped him.’

‘Christ, I’ll keep out of her way, then.’

The Home Office had decided that big was beautiful. Small forces must be gobbled up by larger neighbours, supposedly because terrorism and organised crime didn’t recognise local boundaries, more likely because some number-cruncher in Whitehall imagined it might save cash. Goodbye bobby on the beat, hello regional call centre. Now the politicians were wetting themselves because they’d got their sums wrong. Most of Hannah’s colleagues were praying that soon mergers wouldn’t merely be shelved, they’d be dead and buried. If forces amalgamated, people in the countryside would lose out, as per usual. If it came to a choice between throwing resources into some urban sink estate or cosy Keswick or Kendal, there would only be one winner.

‘Reason I’m here, I wondered if you wanted me to have a quiet word with this reporter who’s been stalking you.’

‘I can fight my own battles. He turned up here as I was arriving, but I sent him off with a flea in his ear.’

‘What do you reckon to him?’

‘Looks a bit like the young Frank Sinatra.’

‘Christ. Is that good?’

‘Not really. I never was that keen on “My Way”.’

‘Not what I heard,’ he muttered. ‘Any road, journalists are like pit bull terriers. Good idea to throw ’em a bone now and then.’

‘Thanks, Les, but there’s nothing you or I can do to satisfy Di Venuto. We don’t have the resources to look into every case the force never managed to close. He’s come up with nothing new. Emma was a mixed-up lady. In the end we had to go along with the SIO’s gut instinct.’

‘Which was?’

‘He reckoned she didn’t want to be found.’

* * *

‘Recharged the batteries, Mr Stevenson?’

The landlady gave a shy glance of greeting and Guy wagged a finger in playful reprimand.

‘Rob, please.’

‘Rob.’ She tittered. ‘Sorry.’

‘Wonderful what a nap can do.’ He stretched his arms. ‘I feel at home already.’

‘That’s marvellous.’ Regret made the corners of her mouth turn down. ‘The Lakes are full of hotels with spas, Jacuzzis and gourmet cuisine. Foreign chefs, glowing write-ups in the Michelin Guide. How can a woman on her own compete?’

‘Don’t beat yourself up over it, Sarah. Give me traditional home comforts any day.’ In time he’d accustom himself to the sinister rumble of the central heating. ‘Here I feel like a house guest, not an entry on some computer system. As for food, I’m very much a full English breakfast man.’

She brightened. ‘Fried egg, two sausages, baked beans, grilled tomato?’

‘Perfect! I draw the line at black pudding, though.’

‘Oh, me too.’ A comical shiver. ‘Blood frightens me.’

He drew breath. ‘I’m looking forward to tomorrow morning already.’

‘You move on in a week’s time, then?’

‘That was the plan.’ So as to negotiate a discount on the daily rate. Always handy, even though Coniston Prospect must be the cheapest B&B south of Carlisle. ‘But you never know. Seems like I’ve been on the road for years. Perhaps it’s time to put down one or two roots.’

‘Really? What do you do for a living?’

I live dangerously. The phrase trembled on his lips. It excited him, the glamour of adventuring into the unknown. But over the years he’d learned not to show too many cards too soon.

‘Financial services. Internet-based stuff, mainly. Have laptop, will travel. That’s me.’

‘Goodness. Sounds very high-powered.’

A modest shake of the head. ‘Not as glamorous as you might think. Money’s all very well, but if it’s all tied up off-shore, it isn’t much use in the short term, don’t you agree?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘And then there’s the hours. This 24/7 economy is terrific but we all need to sleep. Good people burn out too often. I tell myself, the simple pleasures are best.’

‘Oh, you’re absolutely right.’

‘And where better to enjoy them than here, in God’s own country – and in good company?’

Their eyes met. Blushing, she jumped out of her chair.

‘I’d best be off to the supermarket. Stock up on eggs and bacon!’ At the door she wavered. ‘If you wanted an evening meal, it’s no bother.’

‘I don’t want to put you to any inconvenience.’

‘Not a bit of it. I’d be glad of someone to talk to apart from the cat. The German couple who have the room on the first floor, they don’t say much. Only have eyes for each other.’

‘Young love, eh?’ He sighed in amiable reminiscence.

‘Well, I’ll see you later.’

When she opened the door, a Siamese cat stalked in. Svelte and snooty, with almond-shaped eyes, its demeanour suggested a commandant in Bridge over the River Kwai, sneering at a sweaty prisoner of war.

‘Rob, meet Clooney,’ the landlady said.

The cat gave a dismissive flick of its tail. Guy contrived a weak grin and kept his mouth shut. The animal looked as though it wouldn’t believe a word he said. The landlady said how intelligent Clooney was and left Guy in peace.

After the door had closed behind Sarah Welsby and her pet, he settled into an armchair and flicked the TV remote. Half a dozen soldiers had been blown up by a suicide bomber in the Middle East and a minister was insisting that their sacrifice hadn’t been in vain. Five turgid minutes of regional news focused on wind farms and planning permission for affordable housing. The weather forecaster promised squally showers. Nothing about Emma Bestwick. No surprise; there simply wasn’t a story.

Against expectation, this irked him. A ten-year anniversary ought to mean something to someone. At least Tony Di Venuto remembered. It was plain from the article that he’d done his homework. He’d mentioned stuff that was new to Guy.

Emma’s sister and her husband, Karen and Jeremy Erskine, have lived with the torment of not knowing Emma’s fate for a decade. Mr Erskine, who teacheshistory at exclusive Grizedale College, was one of the last people to see Emma before she disappeared. Yesterday, however, he stated that his wife did not wish to make any public comment. ‘This is a private family matter,’ he commented, before adding, ‘My wife has lost hope of seeing her sister again. Ten years is a long time, we don’t believe she will ever come back. Karen needs to move on.’

Jeremy Erskine. Interesting that Di Venuto had made the point that he was one of the last to see Emma – alive was the implication. How could Karen get on with her life if she had no idea whether Emma might turn up? Always there was the tantalising chance that one day the doorbell would ring and she’d open up to stare into a familiar, much-loved face. Guy’s heart went out to her.

He made a note of the phone number of the editorial office and slipped on his wet weather jacket, tying the knot of his hood tight beneath his chin. Outside, the sky was the same colour as the slate buildings and passing cars had their headlights on. Opposite the Glimpse stood a chip shop, its lights dazzling in the murk, and a shuttered fudge emporium that specialised in clotted cream and rum ’n raisin flavours. No wonder Sarah Welsby was running to fat.

Rain spat into his eyes, but he blinked hard and kept moving, scanning the streets for somewhere to phone from. He didn’t have a mobile – who would he ring, who would want to get in touch? Besides, this wasn’t a call he could allow to be traced.

When he saw the phone box, he remembered the last time he’d used it. To ring up Emma Bestwick.

The kiosk was empty and he was in a hurry. No point in ignoring it out of some kind of superstition. He stepped inside and dialled. The switchboard girl at the newspaper office put him straight through.

‘Tony Di Venuto?’

Of course, he disguised his voice. A whisper does not have a recognisable pitch, hadn’t Nicole Kidman said so in The Interpreter?

‘Speaking.’

The Scottish accent didn’t match the name. Guy pictured a hawk-eyed newshound, bristling with ambition. Dreaming of the scoop that would carry him into Fleet Street, or Wapping or wherever the modern Press congregated.

‘You wrote the piece about Emma Bestwick.’

‘Who is this?’

Guy’s heart was beating faster. Why was he doing this? A question he often had cause to ask himself. Not all his instincts were sound. He was apt to act on a whim, he made too many mistakes.

‘Are you still there?’ Tony Di Venuto asked.

Grinding his teeth so hard they might crack, Guy forced himself to focus on the here and now. This clammy kiosk with steamed-up windows, heavy with the reek of chips and battered fish, disfigured by graffiti extolling the sexual tastes of Bazzer and Kylie. He dared not let his mind roam.

‘Don’t hang up.’

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Guy counted silently, fighting for calm.

‘Who – who are you?’

Guy breathed out. Di Venuto deserved a crumb. Something to pass on to the sister. It was the least he could do. Where was the harm, where the risk?

‘Jeremy Erskine is right,’ he hissed, ‘Emma Bestwick won’t be coming back.’

‘How do you know?’

Guy slammed down the phone. He knew better than to give away too many secrets.

CHAPTER TWO

Daniel Kind pushed the oak door of Tarn Cottage and it swung open in silence on newly oiled hinges. In the hall stood his partner Miranda, dressed for a journey in new Barbour coat and Timberland boots. She was smiling at her reflection in the mirror. Another dab of lipstick? No, it’s just right. At the sound of his footsteps, she spun to face him. Holding up her hand like a traffic cop, so that he stopped in his tracks. The smile vanished, her mouth compressed into a thin red line.

‘Before you say a word, I don’t have time now. I need to catch my train.’

‘Relax, it doesn’t leave Oxenholme for another hour. Even if it’s on time.’

‘I daren’t think what will happen if I’m late arriving at Euston. Ethan called while you were out. He wants to meet over dinner this evening.’

‘Let me drive you to the station, it’s no trouble. We can talk on the way and there’ll be time to spare for a cup of tea in the buffet.’

‘Too late, I’ve ordered a taxi.’

‘Ring up and cancel.’

‘No, I hate unpicking arrangements, don’t you think it’s inconsiderate? Besides, you have work to do. That book proposal, is it ready to send to your agent?’

‘Not even close,’ he said, risking a sheepish grin.

‘Oh, for God’s sake! It’s not good, Daniel, you can’t afford to lose your edge. This is the twenty-first century. The Lake District may potter along in the slow lane, but the rest of the world won’t wait for it to catch up.’

‘Don’t you want to talk about last night?’

For reply, Miranda raced off up the stairs, those posh new boots crashing on the wooden treads like drum beats. Next to the doorway, her suitcase bulged complacently. By the look of it, she’d packed for a fortnight. He realised she hadn’t said when she was due back. A question slunk into his head.

What if she doesn’t come back?

Don’t be stupid, he told himself.

Would it matter if she didn’t?

For God’s sake. A single quarrel couldn’t destroy everything that bound them together. It was Miranda who had wanted them to escape to this closed-off valley, shoe-horned between the fells. It was Miranda who’d persuaded him to give up teaching history at Oxford and abandon a career that had taken him onto TV screens on both sides of the Atlantic. Fame meant nothing to him and he didn’t regard it as a sacrifice; it thrilled him to think they could start afresh, make everything new. When he’d brought her to the Lakes last spring, she’d fallen in love with Tarn Cottage and they’d snapped it up on the spur of the moment. He’d resigned his college fellowship and sold his old house. But Miranda wrote a column for a glossy magazine and the time never seemed quite right to give up her flat in London. Now she was setting off for an editorial conference at Canary Wharf. These dark winter days, she got away from it all by heading for the bright lights.

She came back down the stairs, clutching her Gucci bag like a favourite child. Her hips swung like a samba dancer’s and his heart lurched with desire.

‘The car will be here any minute.’

‘What you said last night …’

‘Forget it, Daniel. I should never have opened that second bottle last night. I was pissed, no way should I have ranted like that. I mean, yes, the Lakes are quiet. But of course Brackdale’s not a graveyard. I can’t believe I said that! And I don’t feel trapped, I’m not really lonely. How could I be, in such a gorgeous spot?’

‘So you still want to live here?’

‘’Course I do.’ She pecked him on the cheek. ‘And with you. In case you were wondering.’

At least she was ready to kiss and make up. One thing he loved about Miranda, her bad moods sped past like scurrying clouds. Last night they’d shouted at each other; a watershed, not soon to be forgotten, their first fierce row. No plates thrown, but she’d locked the bedroom door on him. The scrape of the turning key echoed in his brain for hours. He didn’t undress, spent all night lying on the bed in the spare room.

Through the small hours, the downpour battered the new roof tiles. Miranda hated winter, she hated the cold and above all she hated rain. She’d scoured for statistics to prove that Tarn Fold was the wettest place in England. Daniel didn’t believe it, if only because Seathwaite over in Borrowdale was deluged by 120 inches a year. Brackdale probably got no more than 119. But what did that matter? Close the door, stoke the fire, and everything was fine. Miranda said her London flat was a bolt-hole, nothing more. But wasn’t that the point of Tarn Cottage?

He’d breakfasted early. The coffee tasted bitter and he didn’t finish his toast. The bedroom was still a no-go area and she didn’t answer when he rapped on the door and called that he was leaving for Kendal. He was giving a talk at Abbot Hall: Victorian Eco-Warrior – John Ruskin and Climate Change. Ruskin’s green campaigning was the first history he’d researched since his last lecture at Oxford and the applause proved he hadn’t lost his touch. But his mind was elsewhere as people pumped his hand and he barely glanced at the praise on the feedback forms. He’d driven too fast all the way home and scraped his wing mirror against a tree as he swung into Tarn Fold.

‘I’ll call you tonight.’

‘No need,’ she said hastily. ‘I expect I’ll be out late with Ethan.’

Ethan, bloody Ethan.

‘OK.’

‘Don’t look like a wet Wednesday in Wasdale, huh? I’ll catch up with you as soon as I’ve got a minute, all right?’

A horn tooted outside and she’d gone before he could utter a word.

‘Now will you take this seriously?’ Tony Di Venuto demanded.

Hannah Scarlett squeezed her fingers tight around the phone. Did strangling a troublesome journalist count as justifiable homicide? ‘Trust me, we always take our work seriously.’

‘In that case, how will you respond to this amazing development?’

‘You’ve not given us much to go on. An unknown person calls you, presumably because of the article …’

‘He mentioned it specifically.’

‘… and tells you Emma Bestwick won’t be coming back. He doesn’t even say she is dead. How do we know he isn’t a time-waster? You haven’t even got his name.’

‘For God’s sake, he rang off before I could question him.’ The tightness of his voice told her that the rebuke stung. ‘Hey, this wasn’t some boozed-up teenager having a laugh at my expense. It was quite clear what he meant. She is dead.’

Hannah’s gaze flicked to her computer screen as an email from Lauren Self jumped into her inbox. The ACC was moaning because Les had skived off the diversity training workshop. The fact that he was on a fixed term contract was not an excuse. The need to implement good practice applied to everyone, no exceptions. Yawn.

‘You don’t tape incoming calls?’

‘Not routinely.’

She punched delete and Lauren’s message vanished. The tiny act of defiance cheered her. ‘So what can you tell me about him?’

‘Man of my age, or thereabouts. Local accent, but he only said a few words.’

‘Was he calm?’

‘Curt, perhaps a bit flustered.’

‘You’ve interviewed people close to Emma in connection with your story. This wasn’t a man you’ve spoken to before? Jeremy Erskine, for instance?’

His laughter had a mocking edge. ‘No way.’

‘Before she bought her own house, Emma lodged with a couple called Francis and Vanessa Goddard. They became good friends. Might your caller have been Francis Goddard?’

‘I spoke briefly with Mr Goddard on the phone when I was researching my article. It wasn’t him. Or her old boss, Alban Clough.’

‘Who, then?’

‘Not a former boyfriend, that’s for sure.’

‘Stranger things have happened, Mr Di Venuto.’

‘Forget it, Chief Inspector. Emma wasn’t interested in men, everyone knew that.’

A thought tiptoed into Hannah’s head. ‘Did you know her?’

After thirty seconds of silence he muttered, ‘We never met. Why do you ask?’

‘Just wondered. You’re taking such a close interest in one old case. There’s not a shred of proof Emma didn’t leave the Lakes of her own free will. But if you had some personal involvement with her …’

‘Aren’t you listening, Chief Inspector? I said I never set eyes on her. It’s not so surprising the Post should revive the investigation. We covered her disappearance in depth ten years ago. Look at our files if you don’t believe me.’

‘And Mr Erskine?’

‘What about him?’ Sharp, defensive.

‘Reading between the lines, you don’t care for the way he’s writing off Emma’s disappearance as old news.’

‘She was his sister-in-law. He ought to be concerned.’

‘Presumably his loyalty is to his wife. That’s why he wants her to move on.’

‘Very commendable.’ Sarky sod.

‘But you’ve never met him before?’

‘Not until I talked to him a week ago. Listen, Chief Inspector. I’m not the story here. This is all about Emma Bestwick, nobody else.’

‘Of course,’ Hannah said.

But she didn’t believe him.

* * *

Daniel closed down his computer and slung on a fleece before wandering outside for a breath of Lakeland air. This corner of Brackdale was as peaceful as anywhere in England, but it was never entirely silent. Stop and listen and you could hear faint rustlings in the undergrowth, the distant cough of an invisible raven. He’d fallen for the Lakes as he had for Miranda, swept away on a tide of passion. Now he couldn’t contemplate living anywhere else. The beauty entranced him, and the history too. The only thing he knew for sure about his next book was that it would be rooted in the Lakes. Historians needed to soak up the spirit of the places they studied. Sitting in a library wasn’t enough.

As he wandered by the tarn, a pale light filtered through the dripping trees, spreading patterns on the dark water. Mist curtained the upper reaches of the hillside; dusk was gathering and he could barely make out Priest Edge and the grim bulk of the Sacrifice Stone. He could not guess how many men, women and children had met their death on the Stone in pagan times. Lives given up in the hope of buying salvation.

Few people came to Tarn Fold, but it was never as still as Miranda said. A fox rustled through the undergrowth, in search of food. The air smelled of damp earth and fallen leaves. His path twisted this way and that before arriving at an inexplicable dead end. The garden of Tarn Cottage had tantalised him for months until he discovered its melancholy secret.

He hadn’t seen Hannah Scarlett since the end of summer, when they’d both been caught up in the violent climax to one of her inquiries. In its stunned aftermath, they reached an unspoken understanding that they needed time apart. Daniel’s late father, Ben Kind, had been Hannah’s boss for years and she reckoned he’d taught her all she knew about detecting crime. A bond had formed between her and Ben’s son. But they were both in relationships and it was unwise to grow too close. Once or twice during the past six months, Daniel had picked up his mobile, wanting to hear her cool voice again. He’d deleted her number from the quick dial menu, but the digits had lodged in his brain, like squatters determined to stick it out. So far he’d never made the call.

Safer to take refuge in history. At auction last October, he’d bought a yellowing set of letters, in which an acquaintance debated Ruskin’s dread of industry encroaching on the glory of the Lakes. That horror of the smoke-belching steelworks of Barrow-in-Furness became the starting point for the Kendal lecture. But Daniel didn’t have enough fresh material to justify a full-length book, and much as he loathed the treadmill of contracts and deadlines, he could use the cash. Since leaving Oxford, he’d lived off royalties from the TV series he’d presented, while the profit from selling his old home was swallowed by the cost of renovating Tarn Cottage. Following the death of his partner Aimee, he’d needed to break from the past, even just writing about the past. But Miranda was right: a sabbatical was one thing, opting out altogether quite another.

There is no wealth but life, Ruskin said. True, but you still had to pay your grocery bills.

Daniel retraced his steps and sat down on a bench looking over towards the lower slopes of Tarn Fell. Fishing his mobile out of his pocket, he punched in a familiar number.

‘Amos Books.’

He recognised the girl’s smoky voice. ‘Trecilla? This is Daniel Kind … Fine thanks, how are you? Is Marc around?’

‘He’s scouting for new premises in Sedbergh.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re moving?’

‘No, they’re talking about opening another branch. Can I help?’

‘I’m interested in finding out more about John Ruskin’s life in the Lake District. His battles with local industrialists, that sort of thing.’

‘You’d be best speaking to Marc. I’m afraid I’ve never got into Ruskin, but Marc’s a fan. He’s back in tomorrow.’

‘I’ll drop in, see if I catch him.’

Why not? It couldn’t do any harm. Ruskin had made his home in the Lakes for thirty years, there was always the outside chance that some rare treasure might lurk on a dusty shelf in Marc’s rambling emporium, casting fresh light on Ruskin’s life and work. Yet as he ambled back towards the cottage, Daniel admitted to himself that this wasn’t really about research. Marc Amos lived with Hannah and tomorrow he’d have the chance to ask after her. Out of curiosity, nothing more.

Les Bryant wiped the froth from his mouth and said, ‘Better dig out the old files.’

‘They’re already on my desk,’ Hannah said.

They were closeted in a sepulchral corner of the mahogany-panelled bar at the back of the Woollen Shroud, a pub on the outskirts of town. As usual it was deserted save for a handful of grizzled regulars who seldom spoke or even moved. For years, Hannah had met informants here, people who didn’t want it known they were talking to her. The privacy compensated for the graveyard ambience. She wondered how the landlord earned enough to live on. Probably best for a police officer not to know.

Proving that miracles do happen, Les had blown the dust off his wallet and bought the first round. His way of making up for exposing her to criticism from the ACC. He’d even promised to move heaven and earth to attend the next scheduled seminar on dignity at work. Though his snoring might distract the other attendees.

‘So you’re more interested than you let on to Di Venuto?’

‘It’s not about whether I’m interested. As it happens, I hated it when we gave up on the case. The snag is, Di Venuto has no new info for us and the files don’t hold any clues.’

‘Give me a flavour.’

She savoured the nip of her wine. ‘Emma Bestwick vanished off the face of the earth without forewarning. What happened to her, nobody knows. She lived alone and several days passed before her disappearance was reported to the police by a neighbour. We searched her home, but didn’t find any indication of where she might have gone. Wherever it was, she hadn’t taken her passport with her. She kept her credit cards in her wallet and that was missing, but they were never used.’

‘What did she do for a living?’

‘Self-employed reflexologist.’

‘Oh yeah?’

His leathery features crinkled in scorn. Les didn’t hold with touchy-feely crap like reflexology. He’d once revealed that his wife was passionate about yoga and gave the impression that one of his motives for joining the Cold Case Review Team was to avoid watching her tie herself in knots on a mat in the living room when all he wanted was to switch on the football.

The temptation to tease was irresistible. ‘Yeah, Reiki and sekhem healing, chakra colour balancing, metamorphic techniques, Indian head massage …’

‘For Chrissake,’ he said in disgust.

‘Listen, hasn’t Mrs Bryant recommended it for your sinusitis? Hopi ear candle therapy could work wonders, removing the impurities …’

‘Get on with the story, eh?’

Hannah grinned. ‘All right. Emma worked from home. A bungalow she’d bought a few months earlier, down the road from Coniston Water.’

‘Local woman?’

‘Grew up in the Eskdale Valley with a younger sister. Spent a few years working in Merseyside before coming back to Cumbria. At first she lodged with a couple called Goddard who lived in Coniston. At the time she was working at the Museum of Myth and Legend. Ever visited it?’

Even in the gloom, Les’s derision was unmistakable. On second thoughts, Hannah realised it was a silly question. The old curmudgeon would have no time for such flights of fancy. Impossible to picture him traipsing round museums and galleries, guide-book in hand, camera primed for action. His idea of interactive entertainment was sitting in the stand at Elland Road, yelling at Leeds United’s shot-shy strikers to have a crack at goal.

‘Never heard of it.’

‘The museum’s at Inchmore Hall, off the Ambleside Road. A baroque mansion, all turrets and crazy gables. Think Hogwarts. The owner was – still is, I checked – a wealthy eccentric called Alban Clough. He’s obsessed with Lakeland legends and he’s devoted his life and most of his fortune to keeping them alive. His daughter, Alexandra, manages the museum, and both of them live at Inchmore Hall. Emma helped on the counter and took visitors round. Interesting job, but poorly paid.’

When he leaned towards her, she could smell tobacco. Les was an unrepentant heavy smoker. There was probably more tar on his lungs than on the A49. He coughed, as if in confirmation.

‘Was her pay relevant?’

‘As part of the puzzle, yes. There was so much we couldn’t explain about Emma Bestwick. When she returned to the Lakes from Liverpool, she’d scarcely a penny to her name. Within a year, she was putting down a deposit on a nice little bungalow and buying herself a brand new Fiat.’

‘Lottery win?’

‘So she told her sister and Alban Clough. We checked and found she’d lied. And she didn’t always tell the same tale. She led Francis and Vanessa Goddard to believe that the money was inherited. But who from? Not a family member, otherwise Karen would have known about it.’

Les took another swig from his tankard. ‘Young woman comes into money for the first time in her life, then disappears for no apparent reason. No wonder we didn’t write her off as one more runaway.’

One thing about Les: he never forgot that all police officers were on the same side. He always talked about we and us, not them.

‘But how long can you keep banging your head against a brick wall? The file may not have been closed, but nobody was begging us to keep it open.’

‘Not even her family?’

‘There were no near relations except Karen and she seemed certain that Emma would turn up again one day.’

‘But she never did.’

‘Karen’s husband, Jeremy, went to see Emma just before she disappeared. His story was that he had back trouble and she’d offered to help.’

A sardonic chuckle. ‘Spot of massage?’

‘We found no evidence of any affair. To all appearances the Erskines were happily married.’

Les’s face made it clear that happy marriages were as common as fairies at the bottom of the garden. Come to think of it, would Mrs Bryant be content for him to stay on this side of the Pennines for another twelve months?

‘How about her friends?’

‘Vanessa Goddard seemed cut up about her disappearance, but she was Emma’s only close friend. Emma wasn’t interested in men and although she’d had an affair with Alexandra Clough while she worked at the museum, that came to an end months earlier. No hard feelings, according to Ms Clough.’

‘Did you believe her?’

‘Do me a favour. How many relationships end with no hard feelings? But there was no evidence to link Alex Clough – or anyone else – with Emma’s disappearance. Every avenue turned out to be a dead end.’

‘So over the years nobody has bothered too much about her.’

‘Until Tony Di Venuto.’

‘And then, someone rings him up and implies that Emma is dead.’

‘All he said was that Emma wouldn’t be coming back. Which leaves us no wiser.’

‘You think Di Venuto made it up?’

‘Perish the thought that a journalist might tell porkies.’ He burped and patted his belly. ‘So what was your take on the case? What did you think happened to Emma?’

Hannah sucked in her cheeks. ‘You have to remember, I was wet behind the ears.’

‘Even so.’

‘The SIO was Sid Thornicroft. Decent detective, but he was coming up for retirement and he was more focused on collecting his pension than clues. The investigation ran out of steam as soon as he decided that Emma had done a runner. I didn’t agree, but so what?’

‘You thought she was dead?’

She nodded. ‘Like Di Venuto. My hunch was that she’d been murdered. But without evidence …’

‘Lauren will want us to delve. Make sure we’re on the right side of the Press.’

‘Christ, Les, don’t tell me you’re becoming media-savvy in your old age.’

He propped his elbows on the table and cupped his chin in his hands. ‘It’s you I’m thinking of. Cold case work is a cul-de-sac, ideal for boring old farts like me. You were shunted into it after you screwed up on a trial, but soon you’ll be ready to get back in the swim. Which means giving the ACC an occasional stroke, even if you’d sooner shove her statistics up her bum.’

Hannah wanted to argue, but if she said she was happy to paddle in a backwater forever, he wouldn’t believe her.

‘All right. We start at nine tomorrow.’

She made it sound as if she didn’t care, but her heart was beating faster. This wasn’t about keeping Lauren sweet. Hannah had never been able to forget the photograph of Emma Bestwick in the old file, the same picture that accompanied Di Venuto’s article. Her looks would never stop traffic. The face was round and pleasant, but flabby at the jaw-line, and instantly forgettable. Yet the puzzled frown and parted lips had stuck in Hannah’s mind. She imagined Emma searching for something just beyond the horizon, could almost hear her murmuring what’s it all about?

How had she come to vanish in an instant? If Hannah understood the woman, she might understand her fate. Emma seemed so ordinary, but she’d proved elusive in more ways than one. Hannah had never managed to wriggle inside her head.

A sense of failure had nagged at her over the years like an arthritic joint, yet to devote precious resources to a hopeless case would have seemed self-indulgent. Hannah didn’t care for Tony Di Venuto, but he deserved her thanks. He’d given her a second chance to do right by the woman everyone else preferred to forget.

Guy’s landlady made a conspicuous effort with the dinner. Sarah Welsby might not specialise in exotic cuisine, but the roast chicken was wonderfully tender, the potatoes and carrots cooked to perfection. He’d invested in a decent bottle of Soave and she poured them each a generous measure of Harvey’s Bristol Cream before they sat down to eat by candlelight. Cosy, verging on intimate. Too bad his mind kept wandering. Ever since speaking to Tony Di Venuto, he hadn’t been able to concentrate on the here and now.

Sarah did most of the talking. Probably she wasn’t accustomed to having anyone listen to her. Even Clooney the cat took no notice, endlessly washing his paws. There had been a husband called Don, a building society manager. On their fifteenth wedding anniversary, a jealous colleague tipped her off that Don and his secretary were having an affair. Five years after the divorce was finalised, Sarah was still raw at his betrayal.

‘You never had children?’

She lifted her coffee cup with a trembling hand. ‘His decision. I accepted it, in my book it’s wrong to bring a baby into the world if you aren’t both keen. But by the time they tied the knot, she was six months pregnant. What did she do for him that changed his mind, I wonder?’

Just as well they’d drained the bottle. Any more wine would make her maudlin and Guy found that unattractive in a woman. But he had a talent for sympathy.

‘He hoodwinked you. A respectable professional man. Disgraceful.’

A timid smile. ‘Sorry. Listen to me, pouring out my woes. You must be bored stiff.’

He leaned across the table. Not quite invading her personal space. ‘On the contrary. This whole evening has been – so delightful.’

A little giggle. ‘You know, the German couple are always late for breakfast. I think I might leave the washing-up until tomorrow morning.’

‘Splendid idea.’

The silence lasted half a minute before she stretched and said, ‘Well, I suppose I’d better be going up.’

She ventured another smile, bolder this time, and he smiled back. But he didn’t move closer. Timing is everything.

‘You know something, Rob? I’m afraid I’m a bit tipsy. Hopeless, aren’t I? Normally I don’t have more than a single glass with my meal.’

‘You’ll sleep all the sounder tonight.’

‘Yes.’ She rose clumsily to her feet. The pale blue eyes weren’t focusing. ‘Well, goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, Sarah.’

He ambled back downstairs. This was one of his Garbo moments; he could do sociable, but he did love being on his own. Flinging himself on to the bed, he couldn’t help congratulating himself. Moving into Coniston Glimpse might seem counter-intuitive, given his taste for the dolce vita, but he could make a virtue out of a necessity. Sarah was sure to refuse to take his money when he offered it. Already they were becoming friends, they could do each other a good turn.

He buried his face in the pillow, to shut out the noise from the pipes. He wanted to replay in his head that conversation with the journalist. The moment he’d put the phone down, his stomach lurched – with excitement, not fear. Over the past ten years, he’d travelled far and wide and spent a great deal of money, some of it his own. Yet it was as if he’d been sleepwalking, all that time. It had become an article of faith, that he must forget Emma Bestwick, scrub the memories out of his mind. Guilt was a passing phase, like the quarters of the moon, he should have learned that at Haverigg.

But the truth was, you couldn’t undo the past.

CHAPTER THREE

Guy was stretched out in a coffin, but he wasn’t dead. Prising his eyes open, he saw nothing but darkness. He was cold and naked save for a coverlet of coarse cloth. The air was foetid and he found himself fighting for breath. His mouth tasted of wet earth and he knew he’d been buried six feet under. He banged on the lid until his knuckles bled, but there was no way out. He screamed for help, but nobody heard. When he prayed for rescue, nothing happened.

He awoke drenched in sweat. Relief at the sight of the white walls of his room and the rumble of the basement plumbing was soured by dismay. So many years had passed since he’d last had the nightmare of being buried alive. He’d persuaded himself that it had gone forever. On his first night back in the Lakes, memories swarmed like mosquitoes to torment him.

Forcing himself to quit the warmth of the bed, he padded across the corridor to the bathroom. The shower was temperamental. When he jiggled the switch, it did not respond. He tried again and, all of a sudden, was half-drowned by a hot gush. It reminded him of Megan.