Tina Howe was jealous of her husband Warren, so she murdered him.
‘Whatever happened to the finest traditions of anonymous mail?’ Linz tutted as she laid the message flat on the circular table for Hannah and Nick to see. ‘Me, I yearn for the good old days. The golden age of the poison pen. Letters cut out of a newspaper and glued on to paper. They always seem so spookily romantic and mysterious, don’t you think, Sarge?’
‘Too right. Brown capitals in broad felt tip? Hopeless. Totally lacking in character, let alone charm.’ Nick ran a hand through his eternally untidy hair. ‘Even if this note is in freehand, our correspondent might just as well have used a stencil. How bloody inconsiderate.’
‘Would handwriting analysis be a waste of time?’
‘Try it, we need to tick all the boxes. But if you ask me, we’d get better information from an ouija board.’
Linz giggled. She often giggled in Nick’s company. For an idle moment Hannah wondered whether there was something going on between her sergeant and DC Waller. Surely he wasn’t the type. Though in her head sounded the voice of experience. It belonged to Terri, her oldest friend and a woman so jaundiced about the opposite sex that she claimed she could scarcely bear to bank her exes’ maintenance payments.
All of them are that type, Hannah. Trust me. Men I know about, OK?
Terri had trotted down the aisle three times before she was thirty, and each time her wedding dress was cut lower and her heels were higher, but did that prove how much she knew about men or how little? Hannah had never seen Nick flirting with Linz. She always felt safe with him; in weak moments, she’d even found herself fretting that her own charms were fading. Terri must be wrong. Nick had never given Hannah any reason to doubt that he was a happily married man. The odds were that Linz saw him as a challenge. Which was fine by Hannah, as long as her attempts to curry favour with him didn’t mess up morale on the team.
‘What do you reckon, ma’am?’
‘The perfect tip-off. Clear, concise, no sitting on the fence. Only trouble is, there may not be a shred of truth in it.’
‘No signature, ma’am, no contact details. Obviously we have to view a message like this with a huge amount of suspicion.’
Linz shook her mane, initial enthusiasm fading fast. She always took her cue from senior officers. Hannah wanted her to risk backing her own judgement more often, but Linz must have studied the methods that had taken Lauren Self to the giddy heights of ACC. Play the percentages. Never go out on a limb.
‘Chances are, it’s the work of someone with a grudge against this Tina Howe and it won’t take us anywhere in detecting the crime. But that doesn’t mean we should discount it. Especially since the ACC wants the Cold Case Review Project to keep on rolling.’
‘Cool!’
Linz showed a lot of white, hungry teeth. No hint of irony. Hannah felt a spasm of guilt for her own mixed feelings. She had a good team, loyal and cohesive. Not too clannish or inward-looking, like some police units, not too many monster egos. Nick worked tirelessly at keeping colleagues enthused. A natural gift; he’d never read a motivational handbook in his life. Perhaps that was his secret.
‘So in cases where we don’t have anything more than an anonymous tip-off, you might consider a detailed inquiry?’ Nick asked.
‘If it seems justified and we have the capacity to take it on.’
‘We can’t investigate every lead on every case from the past twenty years.’
‘We have to prioritise, but if this message takes us along an interesting road, let’s not turn back at the first bend. When did the message arrive, Linz?’
‘In the morning post, ma’am. The envelope’s on my desk. Same style of writing, addressed to the Cold Case Review Team. Local postmark, no fingerprints. Presumably whoever sent the message wore latex gloves. Should I arrange for the old files to be brought out of archive?’
‘Please. If we decide to investigate in-depth, we can have a full team briefing when everyone’s around. In the meantime, let’s go back to my office for ten minutes. DS Lowther can give us a quick overview of the case from his own recollection.’ She turned to Nick. ‘Did the original inquiry ever put anyone in the frame?’
His face might have been sculpted from the stone of Scafell. ‘One thing stands out in my mind about the murder. When we looked for whoever wanted Warren Howe dead, we only had one problem. We were spoiled for choice.’
‘Daniel, this is Louise.’
‘Louise?’
She’d caught him off guard, otherwise he wouldn’t have repeated her name into the handset in that baffled way, as if uttering a mysterious foreign term for the first time. Of course, being Louise, she allowed a pause long enough for the realisation of his stupidity to sink in. A familiar feeling, as if he were eleven years old again. His shoulders tensed. Never mind garden nettles; the sting of her sarcasm couldn’t be rubbed away with a dock leaf.
‘Yes, Louise. For Heaven’s sake, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten who I am?’
‘Sorry.’ He could hardly say: I’ve been hoping for a call from someone else. Especially not with Miranda draped over the rug a yard away. The moment she heard Louise’s name, she spread herself out in a pastiche of a Modiglani model, mischievously hoping to distract him into a further gaffe. She’d never met his sister, but from what he’d said about her, she guessed the two of them would never be soulmates. He dragged his eyes away from her and tried to focus on appeasement. ‘Louise, long time no speak. How are things?’
‘All right.’ She didn’t sound it. ‘And you? Settled into your leafy idyll?’
‘We can finally move from room to room without choking on dust or gagging at the smell of paint. I love walking the Brackdale Horseshoe and I’ve never felt fitter. At least I hadn’t until I started trying to civilise the garden. I’m not sure my back will ever forgive me.’
‘I would never have thought it of you.’
‘You sound like a priest scolding a choirboy for nicking the silver collection.’
Louise sighed, a low gust of disappointment echoing down the line. In her teens, she’d specialised in sighs the way impressionists specialise in funny voices. Tragic sighs, frustrated sighs, patronising sighs; her stock was inexhaustible. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean. Ever since you were a child, you always had your nose buried in a book. You were so desperate to make it to Oxford. I never imagined that you’d leave of your own free will.’
‘Things change, Louise. Run their course.’
‘True.’ She spoke so softly that Daniel wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. Louise agreeing with him? Amazing. She’d be voting in favour of closer European integration next. ‘Mind you, I’m glad that Mum isn’t alive to hear you say that. Honestly, Daniel, I bet she’s turning in her grave. She was so proud when you started publishing. Let alone when you signed up with the BBC. She insisted on recording all your television programmes, you know.’
Daniel held his tongue. When Louise talked about their mother, it was usually the prelude to a dig about their father. She’d never forgiven the old man after he’d abandoned them for a blonde floosie. Their mother had made them promise never to speak to him again and Louise had kept her word, although many years later Daniel had talked to him on the phone. Like his sister, he’d been hurt by the betrayal, but he didn’t want to be soured by bitterness. He’d been sure his father loved them and he’d yearned to know Ben Kind’s side of the story. But he’d never heard it.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Uh-huh.’
Miranda continued to distract him. She’d become bored with giving him a show and was hunting around for the bra that she’d dropped somewhere three-quarters of an hour ago.
‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve called like this. Out of the blue.’
He groaned inwardly. Surely I remembered your birthday? What else can I have done wrong?
‘It’s good to hear from you.’ As soon as he said the words he realised, almost to his surprise, that he meant them. ‘We ought to keep in closer touch now I’m up here in Brackdale. The Lake District’s much nearer to Cheshire than Oxford. Straight up the M6; you could be here in no time.’
Miranda paused in the act of slipping on her thong as she heard him extend the invitation. She raised her eyebrows and mouthed: is that such a good idea?
‘Kind of you,’ Louise said.
She sniffed loudly. For a moment Daniel thought she might have a cold before realising to his horror that she must be trying to suppress tears.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes, yes, I am. Well…no, not really.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘No, it’s nothing. I feel so pathetic. Me, a grown woman, behaving like a soppy teenager.’
One thing about Louise, she’d never been a soppy teenager. After their father’s disappearance, she’d grown up fast. Mum had leaned on her and she never had the time for self-indulgence.
‘Rodney and I have split up.’
He had to restrain himself from punching the air. Rodney was an up-and-coming associate in a large firm of solicitors, a specialist in mergers and acquisitions, aiming to make partner in the next couple of years. Louise was a lecturer in law and they’d met at a seminar, proving that romance can blossom even over a chat about minority shareholders’ rights. Rodney had acquired Louise, it seemed to Daniel, in much the same spirit as he’d picked up the PG Wodehouse first editions that he kept in a display cabinet. He didn’t do a lot of reading; he didn’t have the time, and frankly he didn’t have much of a sense of humour. But a client had told him that Wodehouse was a sound investment.
‘Louise…’
‘He’s met someone else. She’s a junior lawyer in the corporate department. Name of Felicity, they call her Fliss, can you imagine? Sometimes they work through the night together, working on big deals. She’s set her sights on him from day one, if you ask me. And he’s fallen for it. Formed a merger all of his own.’
Better give her the chance to let all the poison out. He recalled one night in Manchester when, over a glass of Glenfiddich, Rodney expounded his business credo. His cheeks were pink, his breath had a touch of halitosis, and his pupils dilated as he described how much he admired his most aggressive clients. Actually, Daniel old chum, there’s no such thing as a merger. There are only takeovers.
‘You know what he said? He told me he’d been striving to fight temptation! Pity he didn’t fight a bit harder. Anyway, he says he wants to spend the rest of his life with her. No reflection on me, blah, blah, blah. He’s moved into her place in Didsbury. We’ll have to sell the flat, of course. The mortgage is crucifying.’
He could hear her crying and wanted to fling his arms around her. But she was far away and all he could do was scrape around for words.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Thanks,’ she said in a muffled tone. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t mind if I came to stay? The new term doesn’t start for ages. I have a few things to sort out here, but I could be with you on Friday.’
Miranda was checking her hair in the mirror for split ends. He covered the phone with his hand as he consulted her.
She shrugged. ‘If you’re sure you won’t be at each other’s throats.’
He said into the phone, ‘Louise? Yes, that’s fine. We’d love to see you.’
‘Warren Howe.’
Nick let the name hang in the air, for Hannah and Linz to absorb. Warren Howe, Warren Howe, Warren Howe. In murder cases, names of the dead echoed in your brain.
‘He was a gardener. Partner in a landscaping business with a man called Peter Flint. Tina Howe was Warren’s wife. They had two teenage children, Sam and Kirsty. They all lived in Old Sawrey, a stone’s throw from Esthwaite Water.’
‘Old Sawrey, isn’t that where Beatrix Potter lived?’ Linz asked. ‘So Warren Howe was a latter day Mr Macgregor?’
‘Warren didn’t chase rabbits. He preferred going after the ladies and by all accounts he usually caught up with them. As for the Potter house, it’s at Hill Top, a mile away in Near Sawrey. Old Sawrey is at the end of a lane that wanders around Claife Heights. There’s a restaurant and bar as well as a handful of houses.’
They were sitting around the small circular table in Hannah’s office. A whiff of peppermint came from the packet of sweets she kept in her top drawer. The icons on her computer screen were lined up in neat rows, Stone’s, Blackstone’s and the PACE manuals stood to attention on the single shelf. A pair of graceful palms arched over matching pots on the window sill. Nick said the room suited her craving for order, it was her refuge from the untidiness of the world outside.
‘How did he die?’ she asked.
‘The Grim Reaper called early. Warren was murdered with his own scythe.’
Linz wrinkled her nose, a favourite mannerism. ‘In his own back yard?’
‘No, he was working in a client’s garden, in between the Sawreys and Hawkshead, looking out over the lake. Lovely setting, Wordsworth probably wrote a poem about it, but the crime scene was a mess. Scythes may be old-fashioned, but they can do plenty of damage to soft human flesh. Trust me.’
Nick paused, letting their imaginations roam. In his twenties he’d acted in a local drama group. Charley’s Aunt and period thrillers like Gaslight, the occasional Oscar Wilde or Francis Durbridge. He’d given up because police work and marriage were incompatible with committing to weeks of rehearsals, but he hadn’t lost the knack of drawing an audience into his world.
He opened his mouth to speak again, but Linz beat him to it.
‘Who was he, the client?’
Obvious question, but Nick snapped, ‘She was Roz Gleave. Before anyone dreams up an exciting theory about her, let me tell you that she had a cast-iron alibi.’
Linz’s eyebrows zoomed up. Far enough to irritate Nick.
‘She ran a small press from home, literally a cottage industry. The day Warren was murdered, she was in Lytham St Annes, giving a presentation to a business that supplied books to libraries.’
Hannah said, ‘Did she live alone?’
‘Chris Gleave, her husband, wasn’t around at the time.’ Nick hesitated. ‘He’d disappeared from home a while before the murder and didn’t show up again until weeks after it. It turned out that he’d had a sort of breakdown and went off to London until he got himself straightened out.’
‘So. A woman on her own has given work to an inveterate womaniser. Perhaps he thought his luck was in.’
‘Warren Howe thought his luck was in every time any woman with a pulse exchanged a pleasant word with him. Single or not. Roz’s best friend, Bel Jenner, for instance, he’d always carried a torch for her. She ran the restaurant and had recently been widowed. But Warren didn’t get far with her. Bel had her eye on the young chef. Warren had more joy with his partner’s wife, Gail Flint. Gail admitted they’d had a fling, but claimed it was all over between them.’
‘Did she have the opportunity to commit the crime?’
‘We couldn’t prove it. She was laid up in bed at the time with a badly sprained ankle. No witnesses — and no evidence she was lying, either. The injury was genuine, but whether it was as serious as she cracked on was anybody’s guess.’
‘Would a woman have had the strength to kill him?’ Linz asked.
Nick nodded. ‘It looked as though he’d fallen or maybe been pushed, and attacked when he was on the floor. The scythe belonged to Warren, it wasn’t brought to the scene. The blade was a brute, you wouldn’t have needed to be Schwarzenegger to slash someone to pieces with it. The corpse wasn’t a pretty sight.’
‘An opportunistic crime, then?’ Linz asked. ‘The killer didn’t come equipped with a murder weapon. Presumably they quarrelled and the crime was committed on impulse?’
‘Not necessarily. Warren had used the same scythe for years, it was a prize possession. Roz Gleave’s garden was a jungle. Anyone who knew him might have expected he’d have it close at hand.’
‘Anyone seen in the vicinity around the time of the murder?’
‘The house is at the end of a track. We interviewed walkers, as well as the locals, but they gave us nothing to work with. The forecast that morning was bad enough to deter any faint-hearts and the all-weather fanatics kept their heads down, making sure they didn’t lose their footing in the wet. No reliable sightings of suspicious cars or vans around the crucial couple of hours.’
‘Any problems in the gardening business?’
‘Not if you don’t count Warren shagging his partner’s missus.’
Linz giggled. ‘Were they making money?’
‘Plenty. Flint was a studious type, a creative thinker, he specialised in garden design. Warren Howe provided the muscle and the green fingers. They were polar opposites, but the combination worked. If Flint knew Gail was sleeping with Warren, he didn’t open his heart to us. To listen to him, Warren Howe was the perfect foil.’
‘Tell us about Tina,’ Hannah said.
‘Some of the lads on the team reckoned she looked like a horse, nicknamed her Black Bess. But she was sexy. Strong, too. Had to be, to cope with Warren. My guess is that he could respect someone who stood up to him. If anyone was weak, he steam-rollered them. Tina knew what he was like, none better, but she coped. If his affairs bothered her, she didn’t let it show.’
‘Did she get her own back?’
‘During the inquiry, she played the loyal wife. I actually heard her saying that life with him had its compensations. Such as their kids. Kirsty was sixteen, Sam eighteen. And they looked after her. Both of them confirmed her alibi.’
‘Which was?’
‘Tina was a keen amateur photographer. The day of the murder, she took the SUV and drove over the Hardknott Pass towards Wasdale, looking for fresh scenes to snap. The kids came along with her for company. At the time her husband was killed, they were all up by the old Roman fort. No independent witnesses that we could trace, but she did show us the pictures she’d taken.’
‘Suppose the son drove and the daughter took the pictures?’
‘Quite a conspiracy.’
‘Stranger things have happened.’
‘You’re right. They could have been lying, but we couldn’t break their stories.’
‘Were the children suspects?’
‘We ruled nobody in and nobody out. Warren wasn’t exactly a caring father. But if there’d been sexual abuse, incest, whatever, nobody was admitting it. Kirsty constantly broke down in tears, but she was a kid and her dad had been murdered, so it wasn’t a surprise. We never got much sense out of her. When Sam was interviewed, he answered in sullen monosyllables. Chip off the old block. He’d felt the back of Warren’s hand more than once, even though he’d left school and was as big as his father. I could picture him retaliating with a punch or a kicking. But murder? We had nothing to pin on him.’
‘All the data tells us that patricide is rare,’ Linz said.
‘Sad epitaph for the tombstone,’ Hannah said. ‘Everyone wanted me dead.’
‘One more thing. Whoever killed Warren Howe pushed him into the trench he’d excavated and threw a bit of sacking and a few rose petals over him.’
A picture formed in Hannah’s mind, as dark as if painted by Cezanne in his bleakest mood. The torn and blood-soaked corpse, dumped in the damp ground.
‘To my mind,’ Nick said, ‘that was Warren Howe’s epitaph. He dug his own grave.’