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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Lake District Cold-Case Mysteries
- Sprache: Englisch
Twenty years ago, Malcolm Whiteley discovers his attractive wife Lysette is having an affair. The Whiteleys are wealthy, and live with their 16-year-old daughter Amber in the magnificent Dungeon House, overlooking Cumbria's remote western coast. But Malcolm is under financial and emotional pressure, and he begins to disintegrate psychologically, suspecting the men in their circle of being Lysette's lover. When Lysette tells Malcolm their marriage is over, he snaps, and takes out the old Winchester rifle he has been hiding from Lysette... Back to the present day, and Hannah Scarlett's cold case team are looking into the three-year-old mystery of the disappearance of Lily Elstone, whose father was Malcolm Whiteley's accountant. Their investigation coincides with the disappearance of another teenage girl, Shona Whiteley, daughter of Malcolm's nephew Nigel. Nigel now lives in the Dungeon House, despite its tragic history. Twenty years earlier, Malcolm shot his wife and apparently killed his daughter before shooting himself. But as Hannah's team dig down into the past, doubts arise about what exactly happened at the Dungeon House twenty years ago...
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Seitenzahl: 432
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
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The Dungeon House
MARTIN EDWARDS
To Helena
Contents
TWENTY YEARS AGO
CHAPTER ONE
‘Tell me his name.’
‘Whose name?’
‘I’m not stupid, Lysette.’
Malcolm Whiteley rested a hand on an armchair to steady himself. His chest felt tight, as if steel arms were crushing him in a murderous embrace. Was this how heart attacks began? He’d know who to blame if he finished up in intensive care. Was that what she wanted, to clear him out of the way, leaving her free to screw around, and spend all his money on her fancy man?
‘I never said you were stupid. What’s got into you, Malcolm?’ The voice of reason, soft and refined. ‘Look, you’re sweating. Remember what the doctor said about your blood pressure. You paid a small fortune to join that gym in Ulverston, and how many times did you go there – once, twice?’
‘There’s nothing the matter with me.’
Lysette’s frown said: You couldn’t be more wrong. Her eyes flicked to the bottle of Chivas Regal on the sideboard, and the empty tumbler. Yes, he felt light-headed, but no way was he drunk. He’d only swallowed a mouthful to calm himself down after arriving back home. Not knowing where she was, or who she was with, or what she was doing.
‘Take it easy, sit yourself down.’
Actually, he wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. Yet her green-eyed gaze hypnotised him, and he found himself stepping back, and lowering his bulky frame on to the sofa. ‘That’s more like it.’
She parked herself next to him. Keeping between them a couple of inches of handcrafted Italian leather, the best money could buy. Her perfume had cost a packet too, even in the duty-free on their way back from Aruba. Leaning toward her, he breathed in, but all he could smell was the citrus tang. Not the faintest whiff of booze or sex. He felt like the detective in her favourite TV crime show. Canny and grizzled, determined to drag out the truth, however long it took. What was his catchphrase? ‘There’s been a murder.’ Well, not yet there hadn’t, but if she took him for a fool, she was making the biggest mistake of her life.
She sighed. ‘What’s up, more hassle about the business?’
‘This isn’t about the business.’
‘What, then?’
Brow furrowed, lips slightly parted. A picture of innocence, butter wouldn’t melt. You couldn’t deceive Malcolm Whiteley that easily.
‘Where have you been all evening?’
‘I told you before you rang Gray. Don’t say you weren’t listening?’ Over the years, she’d perfected the art of putting him in the wrong. ‘I went over to Cheryl’s, to make sure she was clear about the arrangements for tomorrow. I love her to bits, but she can be dizzy.’
A faint smile, but she was watching him like – yes, like a suspect under caution. Easy to spot her game – buying time while she tried to deduce how much he’d found out, how much was guesswork. It was so unlike him to confront her, he’d assumed surprise was the only weapon he needed to make her blurt out the truth.
Lying came easily to her. Funny, he’d never realised until today. In business, you expected people to lie, that’s how the world works. Slutty women out for a good time lied constantly, it was in their DNA. Lysette was different. She exuded class. He’d chased her since she was sixteen, and even when she fled to Leeds after leaving school, and took a job in a bar, not for one moment did it cross his mind to wave the white flag. She’d said she needed space, and all that women’s magazine crap, but he’d pursued her, and in the end she came back home, to Cumbria and an engagement ring. He’d always trusted her. Discovering she kept dark secrets hurt him more than he could bear.
‘It’s half ten,’ she said. ‘Is Amber still out?’
No way would he let her distract him. ‘Amber is fine.’
‘I don’t like it, she’s only sixteen.’
‘Joanna gave her a lift, and if anyone is going to drive carefully, it’s Joanna. Anyway, Amber knows better than to do anything stupid.’ The words not like some hung unspoken in the air.
Lysette shrugged. ‘So what have you been up to, Malcolm?’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
He closed his fingers around her wrist, feeling bone beneath the sheer silk. So tiny, Lysette, pretty as a doll and just as fragile. He could have made her shriek with pain if he’d wanted, but she didn’t bat an eyelid. It wasn’t courage, simply confidence. She was so sure she was untouchable.
‘Because I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Bollocks.’
She wrinkled her nose, to show she could smell the whisky on his breath. ‘We have a big day ahead of us, don’t forget. So much to do. At least Cheryl is sorted.’
‘You weren’t with Cheryl.’
She pulled free of his grip, and pointed to the telephone. It squatted on an occasional table they’d picked up at an antiques fair in Keswick. Victorian rosewood with marquetry inlay. Absolute bargain, she reckoned, and she was the expert; she never missed an episode of Antiques Roadshow. He just wrote the cheques.
‘Ring her up and ask her yourself.’
He remembered the fat, sweaty dealer ogling Lysette as she haggled over the table’s worth. That smelly old slob, what a loser. By the time she was done with him, the bloke was ready to give her the table as a present. Considering how little they paid, he might as well have.
‘No point.’ This sounded like an admission of defeat, so he made up for it by raising his voice. ‘Is there?’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re shouting about.’
‘Cheryl’s your mate, isn’t she? You’ll have primed her.’
‘All right.’ Her eyes narrowed, but he hadn’t provoked her into losing her cool. ‘I’ll ring her myself.’
She bustled over to the telephone, fizzing with energy, an actress giving the performance of her life. What man with red blood in his veins wouldn’t give his right arm to be with her for one night, just one night? The envious glances cast his way gave him more of a buzz than the thrill of someone spotting his Tiffany gold watch, or swerving for safety as his Jaguar XJ flew past. One rule was set in stone. Other men could look, but never touch.
‘Don’t waste your time,’ he said, as she picked up the receiver.
‘Who’s wasting time? You want to check on me, hear what I’ve been up to, who I’ve been with. Cheryl can give you chapter and verse.’
‘Put it down.’
She started to dial. ‘No, we need to sort this out, once and for all.’
He snatched the receiver from her hand. ‘Forget it.’
‘For God’s sake, Malcolm.’
She put her hands on her hips. The plain white shirt and brand-new Gucci jeans suited her, but she’d look smart in a bin bag. Even when she was in a bad mood, she looked fantastic. Eye shadow purple, cheeks tinged with pink, lips a shocking shade of red. She never walked out of the door without putting her face on, not even to see her old school friend, so the make-up wasn’t proof that she’d been with a lover, but he didn’t have a shred of doubt. Never mind evidence, never mind clues. Any decent detective would say, it’s all about gut instinct.
‘All I want is to know his name.’ He banged the receiver down on the cradle.
Not true, of course. He also wanted to lock his hands around the other man’s neck. To watch the bastard’s eyes bulge, and hear him gurgle in terror once he understood what would happen next.
‘You’re having a rough ride,’ she said ‘All this trouble over the business would be bad enough, even if Ted wasn’t dying.’
Through the full-length glass doors, you could see the garden lights changing colour. Red, green, yellow, blue, then back to red. Vivid splashes illuminating potted plants on the patio, and the bushes and the new summer house beyond. Tomorrow the grounds of the Dungeon House would teem with people, brimming with envy and admiration. He needed to straighten things out with Lysette before the first guest arrived.
‘The business isn’t a problem. Gray reckons the new board is just playing a game. As for Ted, he’s a waste of space. I won’t shed any tears when he’s six feet under.’
She put her hand to her mouth. ‘You don’t mean that. He is your brother, after all.’
‘Stop changing the subject.’
He found her expression impossible to decode. Not so long ago, she’d adored him. It wasn’t too late for them, even now. Once she rid herself of the boyfriend, they could start again and make everything right. Believing that was all that stopped him from losing the plot, good and proper.
‘What’s got into you, Malcolm?’
He snorted with laughter. ‘Question is, who have you let get into you?’
She didn’t blush with shame, just pursed her lips, and took a step toward the door. ‘If you’re going to hurl filthy insinuations, I’m off to bed. You’d best do the same. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day. You need to sober up, and start thinking straight.’
‘It’s not Ted, is it?’ He was itching to wipe the disdain off her face. ‘For God’s sake, you’ve not …’
‘Enough!’ Still no embarrassment, only anger. ‘Listen to me, Malcolm. I can understand why you’re sorry for yourself because you sold the company and now the buyers want to rat on the deal. I can understand you drowning your sorrows while I’m out seeing Cheryl. But I can’t understand these needlessly offensive remarks. Not only about me, but your own brother. A sick man! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Tomorrow morning, I hope you will be.’
That was it. She’d crossed a line. Scrambling to his feet, he snatched hold of her arm. She tried to pull away, but he was too strong.
‘All right. Not Ted, then. Tell me it’s not Robbie?’
‘Let go! You’re hurting me!’
And he’d hurt her some more if she kept pissing him about. Yes, he could put up with a good deal, but every man had his limits.
‘Robbie Dean?’ He tightened his grip. ‘Years younger than poor old Ted. Is it Deano you’re screwing?’
She lifted her free hand, as if to slap him, but he seized it before she could land a blow. As she wriggled in his grasp, he pushed her back against the wall. There was nothing she could do. He stood right in front of her. She was breathing hard. It was weird, he’d not felt this excited in a long time.
‘You’re making a terrible mistake.’
‘Not me, Lysette. After you left this evening, I waited five minutes, then set off for Gosforth myself.’ He couldn’t resist a smile of triumph. She was still panting. Was she turned on too? Women were strange, you never could tell. ‘Left the Jag in the lane a hundred yards away from Cheryl’s cottage, and had a good look round. The lights were on, her Mini was in the drive. Not a trace of your Alfa. One thing about a car painted canary yellow, there’s no missing it.’
‘You followed me?’
‘Yeah, lately I’ve been worried about you.’
‘About me?’
Her eyes almost popped out of her head. Anyone would think he did have his hands round her throat. He relaxed his hold. Maybe now she’d see reason. Pity she’d made it such hard work.
‘You’ve not been the same lately. Pushing me away, I couldn’t make head or tail of it. And you’ve been going out more at night. I know Cheryl’s your mate, and you’re glad she’s come back home again, but even so. Come on now, answer the question. Robbie Dean?’
A strange glint came into her eyes. ‘I think you’re going mad.’
‘I’m the sanest man you’ll find for miles around, and that’s a promise. Okay, say it isn’t Deano. Who, then? Please don’t say Gray Elstone. Please, I’m begging you. I wouldn’t know whether to laugh or cry.’
‘Not Gray,’ she whispered. ‘Not Robbie, either.’
‘Tell me who.’
She sucked in air. ‘Ben came back home early today. He’d been up all night investigating a robbery, and just wanted to chill in front of the telly. He’d taped a documentary from the weekend, so Cheryl and I went out together, and left him to it. One of her tyres has a puncture, so she borrowed his car. We went to a quiet pub in Seascale, and talked about tomorrow. I wanted to make it go well for you. I wish I’d never bothered.’ She glared at him. ‘Satisfied?’
Oh yes, she loved climbing on to that moral high ground as much as other folk enjoyed scrambling up Helvellyn. He wasn’t in the mood for her condescension.
‘It’s Scott Durham, isn’t it?’
She blinked, said nothing.
Gotcha!
‘Be honest with me, Lysette.’
She put her hands up, and for an instant it looked like a gesture of surrender. Then she shoved him away from her.
‘Go to bed, Malcolm. Before we say anything else that we regret in the morning.’
‘It is Scott, isn’t it?’
Deep down, he’d always been sure. He just didn’t want to believe it.
She opened her mouth, but no sound came. Outside, the front door slammed. Amber was home.
‘I’m back!’ she bellowed. ‘Night, night.’
He heard his daughter’s feet, running up the open treads of the wooden staircase. Lysette frowned, like a bookie calculating odds.
‘I’m going up as well.’
‘Not before you admit it.’
‘Malcolm! You’re obsessed.’ Amber’s arrival had given her time to dream up a counter-attack. ‘Seriously, love, you’ve got a problem. Yes, you’ve had a tough year, but that’s no excuse for this paranoia. There’s this doctor in Ulverston, he’s a member of Scott’s art group, I’m sure if I asked, he’d be willing to have a chat with you.’
‘Don’t tell me he’s shagging you, as well as Scott.’
She slapped his face before he could move a muscle to defend himself. His cheek stung. How did she get up the nerve, after what she’d done to him?
‘I’ll be in the spare room, and I’m locking the door. Don’t even think about disturbing me. Tomorrow’s a big day, and you haven’t got long to sober up. When it’s over, we’ll thrash this out, once and for all.’
She flounced out of the living room, banging the door behind her. He’d never known what flounce meant until now. All at once he felt a hundred years old. His knees were aching, the unreliable bastards. He hobbled over to the sofa and put his head in his hands.
Sweat soaked his shirt, and the pinching waistband of his trousers reminded him of his abandoned diet. How long had his gut hung over his belt, when had his hair started thinning, and his eyesight begun to lose its sharpness? Time was passing, his life was careering in the wrong direction, like a lorry out of control.
Cheek smarting, head throbbing, he heaved himself to his feet, and poured whisky into the tumbler. He downed it in one, and trudged across the hall to the study. His lair, his private kingdom, a sanctuary looking out toward the Irish Sea. A computer sat on a desk, and a small bookcase stood beside the radiator. He yanked a key from his pocket, and unlocked a cupboard facing the window.
Inside lay the Winchester, polished and smooth. He took it out, and started stroking the barrel. Strange, the comfort given by the caress of a weapon. A mysterious impulse prompted him to raise the barrel to his lips, and he tasted the kiss of cold, hard steel.
CHAPTER TWO
Joanna Footit squinted through her bedroom curtains. Seven forty-five, and already sunlight streaked the painted stonework of Ulverston. Perfect weather for this afternoon’s barbecue at the Dungeon House. Across the road from her flat, scarlet begonias blazed in hanging baskets, and bunting fluttered above cars humming through the labyrinth of streets.
Two burly traders were manhandling crates in the direction of the market hall, and she dodged out of their line of vision. She looked so dreadful before she got herself ready. As for the see-through nightie, she meant it for Nigel Whiteley’s eyes only. She’d definitely not given up hope of getting back together with him. Far from it. Her parents were on holiday in Filey, and she was staying overnight at their cottage in Holmrook. You simply never knew what might happen.
Nigel was bound to fancy the pants off Amber, who wouldn’t? But whatever Amber thought, Nigel wasn’t interested in a serious relationship with a kid her age, even if Amber was sixteen going on twenty-six. Amber was Nigel’s cousin, and besides, Joanna was sure he preferred more mature women. Last weekend, she’d bumped into him in Ravenglass, and he’d greeted her warmly, with a kiss on each cheek. He’d even asked if she was going to the barbecue at the Dungeon House. When she said yes, she was helping out, he’d grinned and said he’d better volunteer too.
On the grapevine, she’d heard that he’d gone out with two or three other girls, but nothing serious, nothing that lasted. Give her another chance, and he wouldn’t regret it. The prospect of seeing him again made her knees weak. What happened at the barbecue today might change her life forever.
Her flat was carved out of a converted loft space in the town centre. There was a sweet shop at street level, and a watch repairer’s on the first floor. The landlord, a local businessman, was one of Gray Elstone’s clients. When she’d complained about being fed up at home, Gray said the chap owed him a favour, and offered to have a word. The flat was tiny, with barely enough room for her clothes, let alone all her books, but the rent was next to nothing. She was saving a fortune on petrol, now she no longer had to commute back and forth from Holmrook.
Did Gray’s kindness have an ulterior motive? Soaping herself in the shower, she imagined her boss lurking outside, summoning up the nerve to part the plastic curtain and get an eyeful. He was thirty-eight, and had never married. If he’d had a girlfriend, nobody knew about it. People pulled his leg, calling him a Gray bachelor, and worse. Yet he was interested in women, not men, she was sure of it. More than once in the office, she’d caught him sneaking a glance at her when he thought she was preoccupied with her work. Three times in the past month, he’d invited her for a quick drink after work. Different pub each time, as if he didn’t want to be seen to be making a habit of it. But he’d kept his hands to himself, and hadn’t so much as brushed against her ‘unintentionally’, far less ventured a peck on the cheek when she said she really must be going. Perhaps he simply wanted to be friendly.
Amber said he was a dirty old man, but that was Amber for you. Gray was impossibly ancient as far as she was concerned. They’d talked about him last night, after their trip to the Film Club at the Roxy. A Danish movie, all subtitles and full-frontal nudity. Amber lied about her age to get in, but it wasn’t worth the effort. After five minutes Amber started yawning and saying she preferred the real thing. Half an hour in, Joanna surrendered to the inevitable, and followed her friend to the pub round the corner. Amber told the leering barman she was nineteen, and he was happy to take the size of her boobs as corroboration. ‘Of course your creepy old boss wants to get inside your knickers,’ Amber had said. ‘Who wouldn’t?’
That was one of the things Joanna liked about Amber. It was impossible not to feel like an ugly sister, squashed next to her on the plush banquette. Quite apart from their very different looks, they hadn’t much in common. Amber wasn’t interested in history or reading, and turned up her neat little nose when Joanna extolled the virtues of Pride and Prejudice. But Amber was fun to be with, and generous with her compliments. She never missed an opportunity to boost Joanna’s ego. Might her kindness have an ulterior motive, did she reckon that sticking close to Joanna somehow brought her closer to Nigel? Each time the thought slipped into Joanna’s mind, she swatted it away, as if fending off a wasp about to sting.
‘Gray is a respectable professional man. He’s a chartered accountant, for goodness’ sake.’
‘Honestly, Jo, you have no idea what men are like.’
Amber had slept with three boys, and had shared the gory details with Joanna. She certainly wasn’t backward in coming forward, but she was too young for Nigel. He was a real man.
‘Gray is kind. Look at how he sorted out my flat. How many bosses would do that for a member of staff?’
‘Wants you at his beck and call,’ Amber diagnosed, taking a slurp of shandy. ‘No chance of throwing a sickie and taking the day off to soak up the sun when the office is so close the head honcho can pop in at lunchtime for a so-called welfare visit. Trust me, Jo, it’s your body he’s after.’
Joanna giggled. ‘I don’t think so.’
Would it be so terrible if Amber were right? Suppose things didn’t work out with Nigel, suppose he wasn’t willing to try again? Her mother’s mantra was that a girl couldn’t hang around forever. Gray Elstone was no Piers Brosnan, but looks weren’t everything. He had good manners, and a nice house, with the mortgage paid off.
‘Mum reckons he’s pervy.’
‘She didn’t say so!’ Joanna was startled. Mrs Whiteley seemed too polite to talk like that.
‘Not in so many words. But the way his tongue hangs out when he’s watching her and thinks no one’s looking, well … all I’m saying is, if he touches you or anything, you don’t have to stand for it. Take him to an industrial tribunal. He’d cough up thousands to keep his name out of the papers.’
‘He’s not like that. Really.’
‘Oh well, don’t say I didn’t tip you off. All set for tomorrow, then?’ Amber had allocated enough time to trashing Gray, and was ready to return to her favourite topic. ‘You’re sure Nigel will be there?’
Joanna didn’t want to mention the conversation she’d had with him. Best keep her cards close to her chest. ‘According to Dad, he will.’
A disingenuous answer, but plausible. Nigel’s father and Joanna’s were old mates. They’d played in the same football team for years, and after age took its toll and they were no longer able to run or tackle, they’d stood in the cold and rain, cheering Nigel on. The Whiteleys lived five minutes away from the Footits, and the two families were always in and out of each other’s houses. After Linda Whiteley lost her long battle with breast cancer, Mum took pity on Ted and his boy, and they often came round for meals or a trip to the chippie. Both Joanna and Nigel were only children, and for years she’d acted like his older sister, though barely twelve months separated them. When he didn’t make the grade as a footballer, and was forced to take a job in Malcolm Whiteley’s company, it hit him hard. Working for his uncle, he’d said in a rare moment of self-revelation, felt like a punishment for failure. She’d become a shoulder to cry on. And eventually, something more.
Amber fiddled with a beer mat. ‘I was afraid my dad wouldn’t let Nigel come.’
‘Why? It’s Nigel’s dad he fell out with, not Nigel.’
‘He’s a pig-headed old bugger. I keep saying he ought to let bygones be bygones and make it up with Uncle Ted before it’s too late. But he’s not going to blink, those were his very words. I said it’s not about blinking, it’s about common humanity, but he simply won’t listen.’
‘You never told me what Ted did to make him so angry.’
Amber gave her a meaningful look. ‘It’s all to do with Mum.’
‘You don’t mean he and she …?’ Joanna was agog with shock and excitement.
‘Sorry to disappoint you.’ Amber’s teeth flashed. ‘There was nothing in it. Far as I know, anyway. Uncle Ted was just flirting, and she probably gave him too much encouragement. Dad went apeshit. He can’t bear anyone so much as giving her a second glance.’
‘Must be hard for your mum. It’s not her fault she’s so lovely.’
Joanna wondered what it felt like, to look so good that you drove a rich man wild with jealousy. Lysette Whiteley was the most gorgeous older woman she knew. Not that she knew her very well, but whenever their paths crossed, she seemed pleasant and kind, never more so than after the accident. Every time they met, she asked how Joanna was getting on, and sympathised about how awful the car crash must have been. Very ladylike, Amber’s mum, no airs and graces. Yet to hear Amber after they’d had a row, you’d think her mother was a cross between Margaret Thatcher and the bunny boiler in Fatal Attraction.
Anyway, the barbecue was guaranteed to be fantastic. Amber’s Mum and Dad would be on their best behaviour, and so would Gray. She knew from the invoices that Malcolm Whiteley was Elstone and Company’s most valuable client, and she didn’t mind Gray offering the services of his secretary (correction, PA – he’d written the new job title into her contract after her last pay rise) as an extra pair of hands. Robbie Dean would be there too, unfortunately, but she’d put behind her the way he’d behaved at Seascale that night. All she cared about was spending the afternoon with Nigel.
‘You two had a row?’ Amber demanded as she tipped her breakfast things into the dishwasher. ‘I mean, you’ve not spoken a word to each other all morning.’
‘All morning?’ Her father strove for jollity, but the shadows under his eyes told a different story. Despite the time he’d spent in the sun this summer, his skin looked sallow. No wonder his doctor was worried. She hoped he wasn’t going to have a coronary or something, and leave her on her own with Lysette. ‘Give us a chance, it’s barely nine o’clock.’
‘I’m the lawyer, better leave the quibbles to me.’ She wasn’t a lawyer, of course, but the plan was for her to study law at York or Leeds. This was her father’s idea; he liked to say he’d never known a solicitor to starve. Mum’s idea of humour was to trot out the line that Amber was ideally suited to becoming a lawyer, given how much she loved an argument.
‘Nothing to fret about.’ Malcolm patted her head, as if she were still nine years old. Anyone else, and she’d have smacked his face. ‘We’re suffering a bout of pre-barbecue stress, that’s all. Big day for us, princess. Lots of important guests, we need to make sure they all have a great time.’
He’d coated himself with after shave, but up close, the stench of last night’s booze was unmistakable. Lately, he’d been drinking too much, and on his own too.
‘Even those scumbags who bought your company?’
‘Even them. Don’t forget, they paid through the nose for the privilege.’
The breakfast kitchen stretched from the front of the house to the back. French windows gave on to a paved area, and the pink, cream, and yellow blooms of the rose garden. A large, fiercely trimmed lawn sloped down toward the summer house, and a low hedge surrounding the lily pond. Robbie Dean stood on the grass, putting up a green canvas gazebo.
Deano was stripped to waist, muscles rippling. He spotted her, and raised a hand. Was that a smirk on his face? Yes, she was still in her pyjamas. Deano fancied her, she felt sure, but he wasn’t her type. She turned away to face her father.
‘Weren’t they threatening to take you to cleaners?’
Her father bit into the last piece of toast. ‘No fear. Gray is on top of the situation. Worst case scenario, we botched the small print of the deal. A breach of the warranties and indemnities, just a technicality. Nothing to lose sleep over.’
Amber didn’t have a clue what warranties and indemnities were, but she was certain he was fibbing. She’d persuaded Joanna to indulge in some industrial espionage, borrowing a key without Gray’s permission, and sneaking the confidential takeover file out of a locked filing cabinet. Jo reported that Gray had consulted some pricey barrister in London whose advice was stuffed with dire warnings about fraud and tax penalties. Whatever this meant, now wasn’t the moment to make an issue of it. If the new company chairman, that slimy greaseball Morkel, so much as touched her arm, she’d scream the place down, and insist on her father calling the police. Serve the scumbag right. In her mind, she pictured Nigel rushing to comfort her.
‘What are you wearing this afternoon?’ her mother asked.
‘In this weather?’ A sweet smile. ‘I thought the crop top and those shorts I bought in Aruba.’
Her mother winced, but kept her mouth shut. Amber had made a bet with herself that she would be spared the stop-dressing-like-a-hooker lecture. Neither of her parents could afford to waste energy on an argument, with so much still to do. Especially when they were so keen, so pathetically keen, to pretend they were the perfect family.
How come no one saw through the bullshit? For no one did, not even Jo. Since selling the business, Dad had reinvented himself as a member of the idle rich, spoilt for choice between playing golf and quaffing champagne, with the lovely Lysette as his adoring soulmate, a devoted wife and doting mother. Depressing to think people were so gullible. Everyone except her. And Nigel, of course.
‘You’re looking very … um … summery this morning, Joanna.’
Gray Elstone held open the door of his Honda Legend with an old-fashioned courtesy Joanna rather liked. His compliment was awkward, but so was Gray. Six feet three, hopelessly uncoordinated and possessing an Adam’s apple with a mind of its own.
His clumsiness and shambling gait matched his ham-fisted way with words. A numbers man, he found comfort in balance sheets and profit and loss accounts. Whenever conversation veered toward stuff that normal people talked about, like pop music and fashion, he became twitchy and inept, and started chewing his mangled fingernails. Joanna arranged herself carefully on the passenger seat, making sure she wasn’t showing too much leg. Gray needed to keep his eye on the road. To be involved in another accident would be too much for her to bear.
‘Thanks, Mr Elstone. Lovely morning for it.’
‘Gray, please.’ He wagged his finger playfully, to the bemusement of a woman crossing the road in front of them. ‘Now, now, what have I told you?’
‘Sorry, Gray.’ She bestowed a brilliant smile on him, and tightened the seat belt. ‘So we’re heading for the cash and carry first?’
‘That’s right.’ They moved out into the line of traffic waiting for the lights to change. ‘Save our host and hostess a job, eh?’
Malcolm Whiteley had delegated the food shopping to them. Amber found it hilarious that Gray tolerated acting as his client’s dogsbody. Anybody else would be embarrassed, she said, especially when her Dad was semi-retired, and Gray worked at full pelt. Joanna didn’t see it the same way. Malcolm’s fees had paid for this big brute of a car, and for a chunk of Gray’s new detached house. When your key client asked you to jump, the only question you asked was, ‘How high?’
Although the takeover was done and dusted, Malcolm remained a key client. He still rang up every five minutes. The potential litigation with the new owners of the company was causing both men a lot of grief. The difference was, Gray charged handsomely for the time he spent dealing with it. Things weren’t as one-sided as Amber imagined. Malcolm had made Gray rich. In return for financial security, bending the knee to the guy who held the purse strings was a small price to pay.
‘Deano looks as though he’s working up a thirst. I’d better ask him if he wants a coffee. Or something.’
Lysette had moved to the window, her gaze lingering on Robbie Dean’s bare chest. An act of deliberate provocation. Malcolm couldn’t detect any clue that she was in the mood to kiss and make up. Had she spent the night working out how to hit back at him, and opted for a campaign of taunts and humiliation?
Fists clenched behind his back, he said, ‘Yeah, go ahead.’
Surely Deano would never make a move on Lysette? Since the death of that girl he’d been seeing, he didn’t seem to have anyone special, but Lysette was way out of his league. Lately, she’d pretended to take an interest in him, but this was a blind, Malcolm would stake his life on it. The more he mulled things over, the more certain he was that Lysette was diverting attention away from the man she was really screwing. Scott Durham, it had to be. She liked to think of herself as artistic. Creative, a free spirit. Load of bollocks.
Malcolm marvelled at his own self-control. He could feel – actually feel, without so much as looking in a mirror – a vein throbbing at the side of his head. In the face of endless provocation, it was a miracle he kept so calm. How many other men had to cope with this amount of shit?
Lysette had spent the night in the spare room, and he’d collapsed on to the bed before he had time to undress. Lysette would have called it a drunken stupor. She could be bitchy when she was in a bad mood.
Amber padded upstairs to put some clothes on. About time too, though she didn’t intend to wear that many clothes by the sound of it. Lysette kept shooting herself in the foot, making a fuss about Amber’s tarty dress sense. Kids liked to shock their parents, and Amber was addicted to making them squirm. Hence the piercings on nose and lip. What had happened to the little girl who used to sit on his knee, and tell him how much she loved him?
Where had it all gone wrong? All those years spent slogging his guts out, working round the clock, building his firm to secure their future. It wasn’t easy money, hiring out skips. After expanding into waste management, he’d taken plenty of shortcuts to make sure work kept coming through the door. Kill or be killed, that was the choice when you worked in waste.
Lysette poured coffee into a decorated gardener’s mug, adding heaped spoonfuls of sugar. Neither of them uttered a word. She opened the glazed door and strode out on to the patio.
‘Here, get this inside you!’ She held aloft a mug emblazoned with the legend Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Shed.
Sweetness and light. If only people knew. Shit, was that a tremor in his hands? Not the effects of the booze, he was certain, just one more symptom of the stress he was battling. Better steady his nerves. A quick swig of whisky was all he needed, while his wife – his wife! – was outside, flirting with Deano. A bloke with a young woman’s death on his conscience, for God’s sake.
The loaded trolley had a mind of its own. As Gray Elstone wheeled his shopping outside, he almost collided with two people coming in to the cash and carry, a man and a young boy who skipped out of his way at the last moment, nimble as dancers.
‘Sorry, sorry!’ Gray gasped. ‘Oh, it’s you, Scott.’
Of course. Joanna recognised the man now. A client of Gray’s with no idea about finance, one of those hapless sole traders who dumped a barrow-load of receipts and scribbled apologies for records at the office a week before the deadline for filing his tax return, and expected his accountant to wave a magic wand, and turn the mess into something coherent and credible that wouldn’t tempt the Revenue into launching an investigation. Unlike the second hand car dealers and window cleaners Gray acted for, at least Scott Durham could plead artistic temperament as an excuse. He made a living flogging watercolours, tourist fodder with innumerable different perspectives on Wastwater and Windermere.
‘Hello, Gray.’ Scott spotted her, skulking behind her boss. ‘Hi there. Joanna, isn’t it?’
God, he’d remembered her! They’d met several times, but had only exchanged brief pleasantries. She’d never dreamt she’d made any impression on him. Scott was only a year or two younger than Gray, and couldn’t have been more different. Fair-haired, boyish, with piercing blue eyes. He was wearing a white tee shirt, and black jeans that showcased his bum. Amber reckoned Mrs Whiteley had a secret crush on him. He supplemented his income by teaching art, and Lysette was a member of a group he led. This spring, she’d enrolled for some one-to-one tuition. According to Amber, her dad was livid.
‘Hi.’ She felt as shy as a schoolgirl. Handsome older men like Scott Durham had that effect on her.
He surveyed the overflowing trolley. ‘Stocking up for the barbie, Gray? Don’t tell me Malcolm wants to deduct the cost of his sausages and burgers as a business expense?’
Gray could be relied on not to rise to the bait. Sure enough, he turned his attention to the artist’s companion. The boy was about thirteen, slightly built, and wearing a Liverpool football shirt. Pretty kid, with a bird’s nest of curly blond hair. No mistaking the resemblance to Scott in those small, neat features.
‘So who’s this?’ Gray asked with forced jollity. ‘Not your famous son, by any chance?’
The boy shook his mass of curls. ‘I’m not famous.’
‘Gray likes to have his little joke, Josh,’ Scott explained. ‘He means, I’ve been telling everyone you’re gonna be a star. The next Bon Jovi.’
The boy rolled his eyes. ‘I’m not that good.’
‘Think positive!’
Gray beamed down on the lad. ‘I hear you’re entertaining us with the guitar this afternoon.’
‘Singing one or two of his favourites,’ Scott nodded. ‘Trust me. He’ll wow the crowd.’
‘I’m sure he will. Anyhow, we’d better get moving. Plenty to do before the festivities begin.’
‘Yeah, I’ve come to pick up a bottle of Bolly for Lysette and Malcolm.’
‘Splendid. Just as long as you don’t try to claim the bubbly against tax!’ Gray’s geniality was heavy-handed, but at least he made an effort. ‘Shall we make tracks, Joanna?’
Scott treated her to a dazzling smile. ‘Lovely to see you.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘I’ll look forward to it.’
She trotted after Gray into the car park, spine tingling. No wonder Amber said her mum liked Scott. He was a charmer. But Lysette was married, and too old for him anyway. She’d celebrated her fortieth birthday a few months ago. Spending a fortune on cosmetics papered over the cracks, but nobody could stop the ticking clock. Oh well, she ought to think positive herself. Suppose Nigel wasn’t interested in getting back together again? Scott Durham might not be so far out of reach after all.
The whisky had done Malcolm a power of good. Simply a matter of gathering strength for the afternoon. The Whiteleys’ barbecues were legendary, but he felt like a man preparing to face a public ordeal. Just as well he still had his self-control.
He’d locked the door of his study. You couldn’t be too careful. If Lysette saw the Winchester, she’d go bananas. She didn’t have the faintest idea of its existence. The rifle was an heirloom. His father enjoyed shooting, and had encouraged his sons to pursue the same hobby. Ted soon lost interest, but Malcolm was keen until he fell for Lysette and started spending every spare moment chasing her. The old man had made him a gift of the rifle, and three boxes of Eley Club ammunition, not long before a stroke claimed him. ‘Don’t tell that wife of yours’, he’d whispered.
No, Malcolm hadn’t uttered a word. Lysette loved antiques, but she had a thing about guns, and had a sentimental distaste for the idea of shooting living creatures. He caressed the rifle, casting his mind back to his teens, hearing his father’s gruff instructions on how to cock it, ready for firing. It was a 22 single shot target rifle, full size with a long barrel and fairly rudimentary sights. Light as a feather, and the recoil pad made it comfortable to hold. He’d not fired it for years, but he’d maintained it in good condition, and the ammo was long-lasting.
A few nights ago, he’d woken up from a crazy dream in which he’d acted as a one-man firing squad in some godforsaken Latin American country, gunning down blindfolded bandits, one after another. That same day, he’d taken the rifle out in his car to the lonely dunes at Drigg, just to make sure it still worked. The shots didn’t make much noise at all, he’d disturbed nothing more than a flock of gulls.
He couldn’t explain, even to himself, what had prompted him. Anyway, he found it oddly reassuring to know the rifle fired as well as ever. People let you down, but you could always rely on the Winchester.
CHAPTER THREE
‘The Dungeon House?’ Ben Kind said to his host. ‘A sinister name for somewhere so idyllic.’
His airy wave took in the lily pond and lavender bed, the winding beck and the distant sea, shimmering in a haze of heat. The view beyond the grounds of the house had scarcely changed since Roman legions marched down from the fort at Hardknott to their garrison on the coast. You could tune out the hum of conversation, and even Amber’s favourite rock bands screeching from the temporary loudspeakers.
A sudden peal of laughter from Amber’s friends knotted Malcolm’s stomach. They were mocking the way he’d stumbled over his words in welcoming everyone to the annual Dungeon House barbecue. He’d kept his speech brief, on Lysette’s strict instructions, and despite having drunk more booze than he’d intended, he thought he’d got away with it. But Cheryl struggled to keep her face straight, and the ghost of a smile flickered even on her boyfriend’s poker face.
Ben Kind unnerved him. It wasn’t simply that the man was a police officer. This wasn’t some local PC Plod, but a flinty Mancunian who’d cut his teeth detecting serious crime in the city before meeting Cheryl, and leaving his missus and kids to be with her. According to Lysette, the wife had begged Ben to come back, but Ben Kind was determined to make a new life for himself in the Lakes. A stubborn man, judging by the set of his jaw, someone who stuck to his guns. Those dark eyes seemed to read your thoughts, and his cynical jokes implied that anyone living in a big house must have paid for it with ill-gotten gains. Malcolm wouldn’t want to be on the other side of an interrogation conducted by Ben Kind.
‘This name, Dungeon, goes back centuries.’ He chewed his steak. Red meat, there was nothing tastier, and fried onions complemented it to perfection. ‘Not that we have our own underground prison cell, if you’re in search of an overflow for Millom Jail.’
‘You’ve got mustard all over your chin,’ Lysette said. ‘Here, use this.’
Snatching the paper napkin without a word, he wiped the yellow smear away. Lysette had hung her daubs inside the summer house. She reckoned her painting had come on in leaps and bounds since she’d started taking lessons from Scott Durham. What else was the bastard teaching her? His nephew Nigel and his accountant, Gray Elstone, were cooking in the gazebo, while Amber and Joanna served from trestle tables covered in gingham cloth. Deano and two lads who helped him in the garden were in charge of the booze, giving host and hostess a chance to mingle.
Not that Malcolm was in the mood for social chit-chat, least of all with a detective inspector. It wasn’t as if he could quiz Ben Kind about the alibi Cheryl had supplied for Lysette’s tryst with her secret lover. The policeman’s abandonment of marriage for someone pretty, vivacious, and unworthy had set a disturbing precedent of betrayal.
Ben downed a mouthful of lager. His self-assurance made Malcolm’s flesh creep. What had Cheryl been saying, were she and Ben poking fun at him behind his back? Adultery meant nothing to this pair. Ben’s divorce was nowhere near finalised. Lysette said the wife was fighting tooth and nail, but she’d never win.
‘You saw the deep split in the rocks beyond the stretch of grass where everyone is parked?’ Malcolm demanded. ‘Dungeon means fissure.’
‘As in Dungeon Ghyll?’ Cheryl gave Ben a lover’s smile. ‘That’s a marvellous spot, in Great Langdale. We must go walking there, one of these days.’
Lysette nodded. ‘Dungeon Ghyll is fantastic, but we have our very own tiny sandstone quarry, the other side of those trees. Robbie Dean is turning it into a garden.’
‘Wonderful,’ Cheryl said. ‘Hey, why don’t we check on progress?’
‘I’ll lead the way.’ Lysette adjusted her Ray-Bans. ‘We don’t want any accidents. Robbie hasn’t put railings around the top path yet, and there’s a twenty-five foot drop. Are you coming, Malcolm?’
He shook his head. In the quarry garden, she’d be out of harm’s way. He needed to keep a close eye on Scott Durham, and make sure he didn’t sneak off somewhere to be alone with her. Lysette had volunteered Durham to look after the music this afternoon, and Malcolm hadn’t come up with a good excuse to wield a veto. ‘Supersonic’ had given way to Whitney Houston, wailing ‘I Will Always Love You’. Shit, was he sending Lysette a romantic message, coded in his choice of music? Malcolm wouldn’t put anything past the man. Right now, Durham was chatting to his son, the curly-haired wannabe pop star. The kid had performed a handful of songs like ‘Blaze of Glory’, prompting the guests to clap like mad, even though you could see better on television talent shows any day of the week.
‘Gray says Morkel wants a word,’ he said. ‘I’d better speak to them.’
‘Business!’ Lysette yawned. ‘Okay, we’ll leave you to it.’
Making his way down the slope, Malcolm felt a burning sensation behind his breastbone. Heartburn, or simply indigestion? He’d probably over-indulged in the steak and kebabs. Comfort eating, yes, but who could blame him?
Might Ben Kind, not Scott Durham, be the man Lysette was seeing? What if Ben had taken Lysette to some hotel last night? The way he’d dumped his wife and family revealed a ruthless streak. Perhaps continued close exposure to Cheryl had made him realise she was a pain, and he’d taken a fancy to his lover’s best friend. Would Lysette have dared to ask Cheryl for an alibi if she was sleeping with her best friend’s lover? Or was it a daring bluff, had she never bothered with an alibi because she was banking on her husband’s reluctance to humiliate himself by checking with Cheryl?
No, no, it had to be Scott Durham. Back when Lysette was sweet sixteen, a weedy, four-eyed loner in her class had written a fawning poem about her, and she was so flattered, Malcolm had to deal with him. The poet was a crybaby, and next time Lysette spotted him in the street, he scuttled off in the opposite direction. But Scott Durham wasn’t as soft as he looked, even though people pitied him because he’d lost his wife, and admired his tireless fundraising for the hospice where she’d died. He was a keen fell-racer, and kept himself in shape. It would take more than a knee in the groin to scare off Scott Durham.
‘Malcolm, how the devil are you? Thought I should come over, matter of courtesy.’
A hand the size of a shovel thumped him on the back as he heard the South African voice in his ear, consonants spat out like bullets from an Uzi. Hansie Morkel was about the least courteous person you could wish to meet.
‘You talked with Gray?’
Morkel mopped his brow with a red handkerchief. The heat was unrelenting, and he was overweight and out of condition, the legacy of too many expense account dinners. Corpulence was all that he and Malcolm had in common.
‘I asked a few questions, he had no answers. Not much of a dialogue, to be candid with you. Malcolm, the board will consider a resolution of no confidence in you at its next meeting. Meantime, consider yourself suspended from duty with immediate effect. The lawyers asked me to give you this.’
He thrust an envelope into Malcolm’s hand. ‘Give my best to that lovely wife of yours. And thanks for the invite. Impressive place you have here. Take my advice, and enjoy it while you can.’
Malcolm’s head was swimming. He stuffed the envelope into his pocket unopened. ‘Don’t … don’t underestimate me, Hansie.’
A grin cracked Morkel’s face. It was like watching a rock split in two. ‘Truth to tell, Malcolm, my mistake was overestimating you. As well as the value of your shitty little company. Ah well, we live and learn, eh?’
With a derisive laugh, he strolled away in the direction of the makeshift car park at the back of the house. Malcolm’s chest felt on fire. What had possessed him to jump into bed with those South African thugs? It was like selling your soul to the Mafia. No way would he surrender, even if they set out to bankrupt him. The Durham kid’s song said it all. If he did go down, he’d make sure he went in a ‘Blaze of Glory.’
‘All right, Malcolm?’ Robbie Dean asked.
‘I’ve had better days.’ No point in bullshitting Deano. ‘Fancy a pint?’
‘Sure.’
Deano’s expression never gave much away. He wasn’t the sort to offer well-meant advice to go easy on the booze. His indifference to others was a strength. Malcolm’s problem was that he cared too much. Most of all about Lysette.
‘The lawn is bone dry,’ Malcolm said as they reached the bar. ‘Two pints, Dave, thanks. Remember when it pissed down last August, and finished up like a mud bath? See those bare patches.’
‘I’ll put the sprinklers on full blast tomorrow.’
Malcolm lifted the plastic tankard. ‘Cheers.’
Deano wasn’t the most skilled plantsman in the world, but he didn’t mind putting in a shift, and how many homeowners had a one-time football star on the payroll?
