‘Hannah, you’ve heard the news?’
Daniel’s voice was low and tense and disturbingly good to hear. She pressed the mobile closer to her ear. He’d rung the moment she hurried out of the well-lit entrance of Divisional HQ into the night. It had been a long and hard day and it wasn’t about to improve. Tonight she had to confront Marc about Bethany Friend.
‘Stuart Wagg is dead.’
‘Louise and I found the body.’
‘Horrible for you. I’m sorry.’
‘Louise has never seen a corpse before.’
‘Is she OK?’
‘Shocked, as you’d expect. He was so wrong for her, but she can’t understand why someone murdered him.’
‘Assuming he was murdered. Until the forensic people have finished-’
‘His head was badly wounded and he’d been shoved down an old well which was then covered up. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that he could climb out. I really don’t think there’s any chance of accident or suicide, do you?’ He paused for breath. ‘Hey, this is a bad idea. You’re a chief inspector, it’s more than your job’s worth to discuss what has happened.’
She dug her nails into her palm. I’ve blown it.
‘I didn’t mean-’
‘Louise is a suspect, bound to be.’ He groaned. ‘Stupid of me to call. As a matter of fact, I don’t have an alibi myself.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense.’
He didn’t reply. One of the senior women from Legal stepped into a pool of light cast by the security lamps. She waved as she headed at a brisk clip for her people carrier at the other end of the car park. Hannah waved back and mouthed goodnight.
She softened her tone. ‘Listen, I’m glad you rang me. You want to meet?’
‘Thanks, but I don’t want you to feel compromised,’ he muttered.
‘This isn’t my case, there’s no question of compromising me.’ She was far from certain about that, but what the hell? She was sick of trying to do the right thing. ‘You and I are friends. Your dad was my boss. Nobody can stop us having a conversation.’
A pause.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’
Despite himself, he laughed. ‘All right, you’ve persuaded me. When?’
‘When suits you?’
A pause. ‘I suppose there’s no chance of later tonight?’
And then there were two. The last customer had long gone when Mrs Beveridge finished cashing up and disappeared into the evening cold. Cassie put the Closed sign on the door and collected her coat and scarf. Marc stood at the counter, checking an Internet auction sale, as she approached him.
‘Goodnight, Marc.’
‘Your car’s fixed, I hope?’
She shook her head. ‘The garage said it will be a couple more days. No problem, the bus journey gives me a chance to unwind.’
‘Am I such a taskmaster that you need an hour to unwind?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘What time is your bus?’
She clicked her tongue in annoyance as she checked her watch. ‘Bummer. I just missed one. Never mind. I think they run every half hour.’
‘In January? You’ll be lucky. Don’t worry, I’ll give you a lift.’
‘Very kind, but I don’t want to take you out of your way again.’
‘It’s not out of my way at all.’ He spun round quickly, before she could protest, then called back over his shoulder.‘Give me five minutes.’
As he busied himself, quite unnecessarily, behind the closed door of his office, he told himself this was what she wanted. No harm in it, he deserved a bit of pleasure. Especially after Hannah had concealed her encounter with Daniel Kind. But he didn’t want things to get out of hand.
‘Ready?’ he asked, emerging from his retreat as soon as the stipulated five minutes were up.
‘When you are.’
He set the alarm and followed her outside. The courtyard was deserted. As he locked up, she stamped her feet. He could hear her teeth chattering.
‘God, it’s freezing.’
‘See, I couldn’t let you hang around in the dark, waiting for a bus that might never show up.’
‘I can’t believe you’re my boss,’ she said. ‘Some of the other people I’ve worked for simply couldn’t care less about their staff. But you’re so kind.’
He zipped the shop keys up in his shoulder bag. ‘Perhaps I’m just not very good at being a boss.’
Her smile glittered in the night. ‘You shouldn’t do yourself down all the time. You’re fantastic.’
‘And you’re very good for my morale.’ For a moment, his hand touched hers. Her flesh was cold. ‘You were right, you are freezing.’
She took a couple of strides towards where he was parked. ‘I’ll need to warm up when I get home.’
They climbed into the car. ‘If you like, I’ll buy you a Jameson’s at the godforsaken pub.’
She fastened her seat belt, and smoothed her coat down, demure as a nun. ‘I don’t think so, thanks all the same.’
‘Up to you.’
The car seemed as quiet as a hearse. To break the silence, he switched on the radio. Duffy, covering a Sixties heartbreaker, begging her lover: Don’t go, please stay. He squeezed the steering wheel, aware of Cassie’s body, inches from him. He couldn’t guess what might be in her mind. She kept blowing hot and cold. Was teasing her stock-in-trade, a means of exercising her power over men? The ballad reached a melodramatic climax as he paused at the junction with the main road. At this hour, he usually had to queue, waiting for a gap in the traffic, but tonight both lanes were deserted, as if everyone had already fled home.
Six o’clock. Time for the local headlines.
‘The body of a man has been discovered in the grounds of a house near Bowness,’ the announcer said. ‘Police have refused to confirm reports that the deceased is prominent local solicitor Stuart Wagg. Mr Wagg is believed to have been missing for the past twenty-four hours. Meanwhile, as weather conditions deteriorate across the county…’
‘Shit!’
Marc came within inches of steering the car into a road sign at a fork. They juddered to a halt. Neither of them spoke as their breath misted the windscreen.
‘It’s…’ He found himself lost for words.
‘Unbelievable?’ she murmured.
‘It must be a mistake.’
‘It’s no mistake.’
He peered at her through the darkness. ‘What makes you so certain?’
‘Elementary, my dear Amos. The media wouldn’t mention the name if they weren’t sure of his identity. Imagine the outrage if they’d got it wrong.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘Don’t take my word for it. Your partner’s a detective, she’s bound to be in the know. Why don’t you ask her?’
He’d forgotten that Cassie had once met Hannah. At the time, he’d felt a pinprick of irritation about her visit to the shop: she didn’t take any interest in the business usually, and he suspected her of wanting to size up his latest recruit. Still, it was as well that Cassie knew he was in a relationship. That way there could be no misunderstanding. No recriminations.
‘She’s in charge of the Cold Cases team. Investigating crimes from the past, not in the here and now.’
‘Yes, but she’ll have the inside track. She knew Stuart, you told me you were taking her to his party on New Year’s Eve.’
‘He was in good form that night.’ Marc gazed out into the night. There was no moon; they might be anywhere. Just the two of them, alone in the dark. ‘What in God’s name has happened to him? They said the body was discovered out of doors.’
‘It must have been an accident.’
He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Like George Saffell?’
‘Hey there.’ She might have been a mother soothing a fractious child. ‘They were customers, not your best friends.’
‘George Saffell was murdered, it’s a stone-cold certainty.’ He was almost talking to himself, struggling to get his head round what had happened to his clients. ‘For all we know, so was Wagg. The same person may have killed them both.’
‘Or else it’s a spooky coincidence.’
‘The police don’t believe in coincidences. That’s one thing I’ve learnt from Hannah.’
‘Don’t say you’re worried they will treat you as a suspect?’
‘Christ knows.’
‘Hannah will look after you.’
He didn’t answer.
‘I mean, you’re the last person who would have wanted them dead. Two rich book collectors?’
‘Of course, it’s madness. But I’ve learnt from Hannah how the police work when they are in a jam. If they find a convenient fall guy…’
‘Don’t sound so anxious.’ Her fingers brushed against his cheek, then scuttled away, as though embarrassed at their presumption. ‘You feel like a cold case too, Marc Amos.’
His body tensed, his heart was beating faster…
‘You need that whisky more than I do,’ she murmured.
In for a penny…
He cleared his throat. ‘Won’t you change your mind about having a drink with me?’
‘In that wretched pub? Are you joking? I’ve visited more cheerful mausoleums. Or do I mean mausolea?’ She hesitated. ‘Tell you what, if you have a few minutes to spare, come up to the flat and I’ll make you a mug of Irish coffee. Special recipe, with double cream to soak up the alcohol.’
‘Sounds tempting.’ He paused, as if deliberating over pros and cons. ‘OK, it’s a deal.’
‘Fine.’ As he turned on the ignition, she settled back in the passenger seat and shut her eyes. ‘How good to have a chauffeur. Wake me up when we get home, will you?’
He listened to her soft, rhythmic breathing as he drove, unsure if she was asleep or dreaming. This felt different from the last time he’d taken her home. They were growing closer to each other, but he meant to be careful. Go so far, but no further.
When they arrived at her place, he nudged her awake and then, without a word, followed her up a narrow flight of stairs to a tiny landing on the first floor. There was a door with her name next to the bell.
‘Welcome,’ she said, shrugging off coat and scarf and waving him into a small sitting room. ‘Sorry, it’s not exactly Crag Gill.’
Stuart Wagg again. For a few minutes he’d banished the man’s suspected death from his mind.
‘It’s incredible. Within a few weeks, my two best customers…’
The gas fire roared into life, and she lit a trio of candles before switching off the main light. In one corner stood an old-fashioned Japanese hi-fi unit; she pulled a Neil Young CD out of a rack and put it on. The room reminded him of a student house. Furnished on the cheap, but she had an eye for casual chic. Indian wall hangings, throws over the armchairs and sofa, and a warm red and brown kilim spread over the carpet tiles. On every available surface were incense burners decorated with Chinese dragons, exotically carved wooden boxes and trinket pots. Even the paperbacks in the bookcase by the window seemed chosen to fit the colour scheme; although every spine was creased with reading.
‘Maybe someone has got it in for you.’
The ironic grin made him blush. It was a knack she had, of constantly pushing him onto the back foot.
‘Sorry, did I sound very self-absorbed?’
‘No need to look shamefaced. You run a business, and times aren’t easy. The likes of Stuart and George pay the bills. And my wages, I’m not forgetting. I hope this won’t cause you any grief.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll get by.’
‘Phew, that’s a relief. I’ve had more jobs already than some people have in a lifetime. I’d be sad if you chucked me out on the street.’
‘No danger of that, Cassie.’
‘Let me fix that Irish coffee while you take the weight off your feet.’
She vanished into a tiny kitchen, leaving him to sprawl across the sofa. Neil Young was singing ‘Tonight’s the Night’. It excited him, to be invited up here, but he was determined not to succumb to his old weakness of allowing himself to get carried away. He didn’t want Cassie to misunderstand him. Not that he was confident that he entirely understood himself.
He closed his eyes. How easy to drift away. What if she invited him to smoke a joint, or share a line of cocaine? He found it impossible to predict her; there was no knowing how far she might go. Suppose the invitation to coffee was a ruse? He’d made himself vulnerable, he wasn’t in control. What might she be stirring into his drink, what pills or potion might the whisky and cream disguise?
As he opened his eyes, she walked through the door, carrying a tray. She cleared a space on the bamboo table by the sofa and set the drinks down.
‘Here.’ She passed him one of the mugs and sat down in the chair facing him. ‘Take a sip. See how you like it.’
He tried the coffee. She’d made it very strong.
Cassie’s lips were parted as she waited for his reaction.
They exchanged smiles. Yes, he was taking a risk, but the weird thing was, he didn’t care.
He took another taste.
‘What did Hannah say?’
Louise was curled up on the sofa in the living room of Tarn Cottage, dressing gown wrapped tight around her. The lights shone bright, the fire blazed, the aroma of their hot chocolate lingered in the air. It couldn’t seem cosier; but appearances deceived.
She had barely stopped shivering after an hour spent answering questions from the police while her lover’s body was hauled out of the well by the CSI specialists. Daniel had called in a solicitor from Preston to represent her, a cadaverous pessimist in a washable but unwashed brown suit. All the lawyers they knew in the Lakes were either colleagues of Stuart Wagg or competitors with an axe to grind. The solicitor’s demeanour suggested that all his clients pleaded guilty in the fullness of time. His advice so far consisted of instructing her to say as little as possible about her relationship with the dead man, and at least this curtailed the inquisition. Perhaps he was smarter than his clothes. But the DC conducting the interview made it clear that Louise was only postponing the inevitable. He’d talk to her again, once the shock began to subside.
Daniel prodded the burning logs with a poker before warming his hands in front of the fire. Louise must feel as numb. If only he could scrub from his mind the surreal vision of Wagg’s body, stuffed down that hole in the ground. Perhaps he’d imagined it, and was about to wake from a nightmare.
Except for this — how could anyone invent that fetid smell wafting up from the hole cut in the ground, that rotten stench of dirty death?
‘We’ve agreed to meet at The Tickled Trout.’
Flames leapt in the fireplace. Louise seemed hypnotised, like an onlooker spellbound by a ritual dance.
‘Who could have done this?’ she whispered.
‘Stuart was selfish, and ruthless. Must have made a new enemy every week.’
‘It’s not a motive for murder. The legal profession is full of people like that and they aren’t all cramming the mortuary drawers. Trust me, I’ve met plenty, and most of them didn’t have a fraction of Stuart’s charm.’
‘His mask slipped sometimes. Remember?’
She flinched, as if he’d prodded her with the poker. ‘You think this is personal?’
‘What else?’
‘He was the most self-centred man I ever met. Which is saying something. But his ego was part of the package.’
‘He hurt you,’ Daniel said. ‘I won’t forgive that.’
‘But people did forgive him, that’s the whole point about Stuart, don’t you see? However badly he behaved, he managed to get away with it. I lost control when he dumped me, but I’d have got over it, promise. It’s not as if I really loved him.’
He stared at her. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Never more so.’ She kept her eyes on the fire. ‘I was infatuated, it’s not the same as love. A temporary insanity. By the time Christmas came, the magic had worn thin.’
‘You changed jobs, you moved home, you were willing to turn your life around for him.’ It was as if he’d never really known her. ‘Are you telling me it was all done on a whim?’
‘The truth is more complicated, as usual.’ She sounded as though she’d suddenly sobered up after an all-night drinking binge. ‘Meeting Stuart gave me the chance to break with the past. I was bored with my job, bored with my students, bored with my bloody ordinary life. He offered me an escape route. It wasn’t his money that turned me on, it was the excitement. Coupled with the ego boost, that a man who could have pretty much any woman he wanted had fallen for me. I’d dared to do something different. Something wild and life-changing. Like you did, when you left Oxford and moved up here with Miranda.’
‘You told me not to be a fool.’
‘My mistake, as usual.’ She turned to face him. ‘Here in the Lakes, I could start again. Don’t forget, I haven’t sold the house in Manchester yet. And I knew if it didn’t work out with Stuart — at least you’d be here, and I’d have a shoulder to cry on.’
‘Always,’ he said, ‘but then, why go off the deep end when he dumped you?’
‘Pride and temper, of course, what else?’ She seemed astonished that she needed to explain. ‘I’d told myself that the minute I felt trapped with Stuart, I’d make the break. But I never dreamt it would come so soon. And I didn’t want Stuart to be the one who finished it. I’ve never trusted men since Dad walked out on us, but I keep making bad choices. How humiliating to be thrown out as soon as the New Year party was over. It was as if he’d made a resolution to tidy up his life, and get rid of me along with the ripped wrapping paper and empty champagne bottles.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It was so sudden and brutal. Even now, I can’t believe he changed so quickly.’
‘What caused it, do you think?’
‘God alone knows. I hate not being able to understand what’s going on in my life. Which is why I lost control. Does that make sense?’
‘Sort of.’ He shook his head. ‘I bet you barely touched him with those scissors.’
‘I suppose you’re right. For a few moments, I hated him. I might even have summoned up the anger to do him real damage. But now the red mist has cleared, I feel so bad. It’s as if I wished him dead.’
‘Not your fault. Whoever killed him, he brought it on himself.’
‘Nobody deserves to die in such a terrifying way. I can’t imagine anything worse for him, to be trapped underground, cold and alone, with no means of escape. You saw the steep sides of that well, he couldn’t have got enough of a grip to climb out, even if he hadn’t hurt his head, even if the well hadn’t been covered over. What makes it even worse is his claustrophobia. He never even took the lift in his own office block, he always ran up the stairs. I pray he wasn’t conscious when he was dumped down the well. Otherwise, his suffering must have…’
‘Someone must have hated him intensely.’
‘Impossible. Nobody hated Stuart.’
‘Are you kidding? Come on, he trod on a lot of toes.’
‘Yes, but whenever he did someone a bad turn, he managed to wriggle out of the consequences. I saw it time after time. An apology, some ludicrously generous gesture to show his remorse, he was brilliant at mea culpa. It was his redeeming virtue. And he never bore grudges.’
A picture swam into Daniel’s head. His last sight of Stuart Wagg’s body. He needed to learn how to forget, or the scene might haunt his nights as Aimee’s suicide did.
‘But someone bore a grudge against him.’
Hannah spoke with Fern Larter before leaving for the day. For the brass, the decision to ask Fern to handle the Stuart Wagg case was a no-brainer. Not only because of a possible link with George Saffell’s death, but because the bug meant nobody else of sufficient seniority was available.
The only sign of a wound on the corpse appeared to be a graze on the shoulder. So Louise Kind was in the clear. No surprise there, but at least Daniel had no need to worry about her.
Fern intended to quiz Wagg’s partners and staff in the morning, but Hannah expected Raj Doshi and the rest would close ranks. She gave Fern a quick summary of her interview in Ambleside, without mentioning what Wanda had said about Marc. Better talk to him first, see what he had to say for himself.
‘Not only did Wanda work with Bethany Friend,’ Fern mused, ‘she was married to one dead man, and caused a scene at a party given by another.’
‘Why would she want to kill Stuart Wagg?’
‘God knows.’
‘The fact that Bethany worked for George and Stuart. You think it’s significant?’
‘Unlikely.’ Fern frowned. ‘I can tell from your expression that you don’t agree, but think about it. Bethany was a temp, they were employers in the neighbourhood where she worked. It would be as much of a surprise if she hadn’t spent time in their offices.’
‘Saffell and Wagg both had an eye for a pretty girl. They may have tried their luck with Bethany.’
‘Even if they did, does that take us anywhere?’ Fern shook her head. ‘I’m not convinced. But believe me, if there were any clandestine affairs, I’ll ferret them out.’
It was so hard to keep secrets in the Lakes, Hannah thought as she drove into Lowbarrow Lane. A detective simply needed to know the right questions to ask. Cumbria comprised so many small, tightly woven communities that someone always knew more than they should about someone else’s business. Just as Wanda Saffell knew about Bethany and Marc.
As she rounded the last bend, Undercrag stood in front of her. There were no lights on, other than the security lamp that came on as the car came within range of the front door.
He hadn’t warned her that he would be late. What was he up to?
‘Comfortable?’ Cassie asked.
Marc stretched his legs and stifled a yawn. Not that he was bored, just weary. She hadn’t poisoned him with the Irish coffee, though she’d gone overboard with the whisky, and he had to hope that tonight was too cold for the traffic cops to be out with their breathalysers.
‘Perfect.’
‘I’m glad.’
On top of the bookshelves was a clock fashioned from a seven-inch vinyl single by the Beatles. ‘Please, Please Me.’ Quarter to seven. She’d perched on the edge of the sofa, but he couldn’t tell if she was waiting for him to go, or hoping he would stay.
‘More coffee?’
‘I’d love to, but no. I’d not be fit to get behind the wheel if I had any more.’
‘My fault,’ she said. ‘I have this terrible habit of going overboard.’
‘Is that so terrible?’
She leant closer to him. ‘Believe me, Marc.’
His throat was dry. He wasn’t sure where this would lead, but he had a good idea.
A mobile ringtone chirruped. Another snatch of the Beatles: ‘Lady Madonna’.
She stood up and moved towards the kitchen. ‘Saved by the bell, huh?’
She left the door ajar and he strained to eavesdrop. But she was whispering, and he couldn’t make out the words. Within a moment she was back in the sitting room, clutching the phone as tightly as though it were a grenade. Breathing hard.
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘No.’ Her eyes were fixed on the patterns of the kilim, avoiding his scrutiny. ‘Well, in truth, yes. But it doesn’t matter.’
‘You look unhappy all of a sudden.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘The boyfriend?’
‘Ex-boyfriend.’ She coloured. ‘He’s so persistent.’
‘Can’t blame him for that.’
She looked at the mobile screen. ‘Oh God, he’s just sent a text.’
He craned his neck to read the message.
Got 2 c u.
‘He’s stalking you?’
‘It’s my problem, not yours.’
‘Can I help?’
‘I’ll sort it.’
‘What are you going to do?’
She thought for a moment and mustered a sardonic grin. ‘Let you get back home to your chief inspector.’
‘Is that what you want?’
She took a stride towards him and dropped a kiss on his cheek. Her lips were chilly, but for a moment he felt her slim, hard body press against him, before she withdrew.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Thanks for the lift, I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Showdown time.
Hannah was checking her lipstick in front of the hall mirror as Marc banged the door shut. She was due to see Daniel in half an hour, and she didn’t want to keep him waiting. But she didn’t mean to delay questioning Marc until she arrived back from The Tickled Trout.
‘I didn’t expect you to be this late.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t realise I needed to seek permission.’
She groaned inwardly. Sounded like he’d had a bad day at the bookshop. Maybe he’d heard about Stuart Wagg. He couldn’t afford to lose too many good customers.
‘There’s food in the kitchen.’
‘Thanks.’ He eyed her suspiciously. ‘Going out?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t realise I needed to seek permission.’
‘Ouch.’ For an instant, she glimpsed the grin that had attracted her so much the first time they met, all those years ago. But it faded as fast as the gold and silver cascades of fire they’d watched at Crag Gill, and was replaced by an expression both watchful and sardonic. ‘Meeting a source?’
‘Not exactly.’ She was about to tell him she would be seeing Daniel Kind, but something stopped her. Maybe she just didn’t want the conversation to digress. ‘You know Stuart Wagg is dead?’
‘Uh-huh.’ He sighed. ‘So, two people I know have died in mysterious circumstances.’
He’d gifted her with an open goal. ‘Three people, surely?’
‘Three?’
‘There’s Bethany Friend as well.’
‘What makes you think I know Bethany?’
‘Do you deny it?’
‘Deny what?’
‘Deny knowing Bethany?’
She recognised his expression: she’d seen it a thousand times on the faces of politicians playing for time while they groped for a form of words that avoided the lie direct.
‘No, I never have denied it.’
‘You never said she worked for you. Not at the time of her death, not even when we discussed her on New Year’s Eve, when we walked to the Serpent Pool. Are you telling me it slipped your mind?’
‘I was sad about what happened to her, it depressed me. She was a nice girl. I preferred to remember her as she was, not dwell on her death.’
‘For God’s sake, Marc! I’m reinvestigating her death, and it was asking too much to expect you to tell me what you knew about her?’
‘Nothing to tell.’
‘She fancied you.’
He gritted his teeth. ‘You have been doing your homework.’
‘Did you shag her?’
‘No!’
They stared at each other. His gaze didn’t waver. She decided that probably he was telling the truth.
‘OK. So what did you make of her?’
‘What else do you want to know? She was a sweet girl and I don’t have a clue either why she might commit suicide or why someone might kill her. Satisfied?’
‘Why weren’t you straight with me?’
He wagged a forefinger at her. ‘Don’t push your luck. Everyone has secrets, even you.’
Her spine chilled. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Where are you off to this evening? You never wear lipstick to office briefings. Anybody would think you were scuttling off for a tryst with some man.’
Hannah strangled a cry of anger and snatched her jacket from the stand near the door. The zip stuck, and as she fumbled, it broke. Bloody typical. Everything was falling apart.
She took in a gulp of air. ‘I’m meeting Daniel Kind, if you want to know. It’s no secret. He and his sister found Stuart Wagg’s body.’
‘Don’t try to tell me you’re investigating Stuart’s death.’
It felt as though he’d kneed her in her weakest part, but she fought for calm. ‘There may be a connection between the deaths of Saffell and Wagg, and what happened to Bethany Friend.’
‘A woman who died six years ago?’ His voice rose. He was a skilled exponent at phoney outrage and used it as a weapon whenever they had a row, but she didn’t think his astonishment was feigned.
‘She worked for both Saffell and Wagg. Did she sleep with them, too?’
‘Don’t be stupid. Bethany was confused about her own sexuality, she wasn’t some sort of slapper. It’s madness to think anything could link those three deaths.’
Wanda Saffel is one link, she thought. And there are bound to be others. But she buttoned her mouth. She’d already said more than she should. The snag was, he took her silence as a sign she had a chink in her armour. He was determined to seize back the initiative.
‘Go on, Hannah. Admit it.’
Her gaze settled on the hall ceiling. It still needed plastering. The way she and Marc were heading, it would be a job for some other couple.
‘Admit what?’
‘This is your second cosy get-together with Daniel Kind inside twenty-four hours. What did he want to talk about last night? Not prophesying Stuart’s death, I bet.’
Shit, shit, shit. The spasm of guilt was like stomach cramps. For a moment she wished the ground would open up beneath her. Why hadn’t she come clean about last night, when there was nothing to hide? She couldn’t guess how he’d found out. Maybe one of his customers had spotted Daniel and her at The Tickled Trout.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she muttered.
‘Touched a nerve, have I? Of course, Daniel is Ben’s son.’
She spun round. ‘Meaning what?’
‘You had the hots for Ben.’
‘We were colleagues, it never went further than that. Now I’m going out. Not sure when I’ll be back.’
‘Take as long as you like.’ She knotted the scarf in silence. Resisting the temptation to wrap it around his neck.
‘Oh, and Hannah?’
‘What?’
‘Your lipstick smudged. Better wipe up if you want to look your best for Daniel Kind.’