The route from Undercrag to The Tickled Trout took Hannah past a trendy bar at the end of a terrace row. Outside it were roadworks and a temporary traffic control, and as she waited an age for the lights to change, a couple of people spilt out of the bar. A man and a woman, arm in arm. Their unsteadiness suggested they’d each had a skinful. As they sank into an embrace, Hannah thought they looked familiar, even though she couldn’t make out their faces. The woman put her back to a brick wall as the man pressed up against her. His hands moved behind her, as if to lift her skirt. Hannah stared with shameless curiosity. Sometimes a detective must become a voyeur.
A furious tooting from the next car in the queue jerked her attention away from the lovers. The lights had changed to green. As she wavered, reluctant to move off, the light switched to red again. She imagined a cry of disgust from the driver in the car behind, and raised a hand in apology, but it was too dark for him to see.
At the sound of the horn, the couple sprang apart. Perhaps they thought the salvo was aimed at them. In a moment, they vanished into a shadowy passage that ran behind the terrace. For a split second, their faces shone in the glare of light from the street lamp. Hannah’s instinct was spot on.
Nathan Clare and Wanda Saffell were back together again.
She put her foot down the moment she escaped the thirty-mile limit, but arrived at The Tickled Trout ten minutes later than promised. The car park was crowded, but she saw Daniel’s Audi and squeezed into the marked space next to it. As she raced across the asphalt to the pub’s front entrance, raucous cheering broke out from the locals’ end of the lounge bar. Nothing personal: this was quiz night, and the home team had taken the lead with two rounds to go.
Daniel leant against the counter, scanning the crowd. Her heart lurched as their eyes met. Absurd: the last thing she needed was to start behaving like a seventeen-year-old on a date. She pushed through the mass of drinkers, envying Daniel’s cool. Nobody had the right to look so laid-back, hours after discovering a tortured corpse. Like his father, he took disasters in his stride. He’d lined up two glasses of Chablis for them. His knack of reading her mind meant she must take care; she’d die of embarrassment if he could read her most private thoughts.
‘Hannah, thanks for sparing the time.’
They shook hands, his grip firm. As he led her to the corner booth they’d occupied the previous evening, a bell rang and a tubby quizmaster, who looked as though his specialist subject was chip suppers, bellowed the next question.
‘Who was murdered by his wife at Battlecrease House in Liverpool?’
‘James Maybrick,’ Daniel murmured. ‘Although some people doubt whether his death was murder.’
‘Is that so?’
‘James developed a taste for arsenic as a medicine, and it boosted his virility into the bargain. His wife served fifteen years in jail, but she may have been innocent. Unlike James. According to one school of thought, he was Jack the Ripper.’
She settled into her seat. ‘You know a lot about crime.’
‘Necessary research. Don’t forget I’m writing a history of murder.’
‘So, how is The Hell Within?’
‘Hell to write, frankly. I’ve not even finished my lecture for Arlo Denstone’s festival. Real life keeps interrupting.’
‘And now you’ve stumbled on a real-life murder.’
‘Finding Stuart’s body reminded me why I chose academic life.’ He gazed up at the black wooden beams, as if trying to decipher a pattern in the knots of the timber. ‘That’s the difference between me and my father, I’d rather watch the world from a safe distance. Thomas De Quincey went into rhapsodies about murder as a fine art, but it looks pretty coarse when you come face to face with it. No way could I ever do your job.’
‘I’ll let you into a secret. At times, I’m not sure I can do it, either.’
He shot her a sharp glance. ‘Are you all right?’
Irrationally, her hackles rose. ‘Any reason I shouldn’t be?’
‘You look unhappy, that’s all.’
She gritted her teeth. ‘That obvious?’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to bite your head off.’
‘Wretched day?’
‘Not as grim as yours.’
‘It was much harder for Louise. The first corpse she’s ever seen, and it belongs to the man she spent Christmas with. Not a pretty sight. But she’ll get through. This evening she said she’d already fallen out of love with Stuart Wagg before he sent her packing.’
‘He was a bastard.’
‘But a charming bastard, by all accounts.’
‘Charm alone is not enough,’ Hannah said fiercely.
‘Louise reckons he used to get away with murder. Now someone has murdered him. The well wasn’t covered up by accident. The sheet lying on top of it was heavy. You’d never shift it from underneath, even if you could climb up that far.’
‘His legs were broken, and his kneecaps shattered.’ Why shouldn’t Daniel know, where was the harm? He’d already seen the body, and the precise nature of the injuries didn’t need to be a state secret. ‘There was a monkey wrench down underneath the body. Someone tossed it into the well after using it to cripple Stuart before they dropped him down.’
His eyes widened with horror. ‘He was deliberately maimed?’
‘Presumably to prevent him hauling himself up to safety. Whoever put him down there was determined he would never escape.’
Daniel winced. ‘Don’t tell me he was alive when he went down there?’
‘Still conscious, yes.’
‘Fuck,’ he said quietly.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Whatever his faults, he didn’t deserve to die like that.’
‘What was the cause of death?’
‘The post-mortem results weren’t ready when I left work this evening. Hypothermia, possibly heart failure, I’d guess. His head was gashed, you must have seen, that may have been the blow that incapacitated him before his legs and knees were smashed. His injuries didn’t kill him, but he wasn’t kitted out for a night underground in these temperatures.’
Daniel swallowed hard. ‘Imagine his last hours. Trapped in the dark, suffering terrible pain. Nightmarish for anyone, but for a claustrophobe…’
‘Your father thought I relied too much on imagination.’ The wine tasted flinty on Hannah’s tongue. She should have grabbed something to eat, so there’d be no risk of the alcohol going to her head. ‘He worried that I’d let it get in the way of the business of detection.’
‘Dad wasn’t always right.’
‘It helps to try to think myself into the head of the victim. And the criminal.’
‘Not easy to inhabit the mind of someone capable of torturing a man before killing him.’ Daniel swallowed more wine. ‘Someone must have hated Stuart very badly to do that to him.’
‘Has Louise any clue about who might fit the bill? Did Stuart admit to having enemies?’
‘This isn’t a rational crime. Surely it’s the work of a sociopath.’
‘Maybe, but I don’t believe it was a random crime, either. Stuart Wagg wasn’t a fool. How did he allow someone to do that to him?’
‘If the killer incapacitated him with a blow to the head, maybe he was dragged to the well at gunpoint or knifepoint.’
‘How did the murderer get so close? Crag Gill was fitted out with state-of-the-art security.’
‘The storm-’
‘Had nothing to do with the fact that the power supply to the house wasn’t working. I gather the lines were cut. Deliberate sabotage.’
‘So, the murder was premeditated?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Stuart didn’t have to let anyone into his home if he was suspicious or afraid.’
‘The best guess is that he knew his visitor. He or she was a friend or acquaintance.’
‘Not Louise,’ he said quickly.
‘Of course not.’ So he wasn’t quite as laid-back as he looked, at least where his sister was concerned. ‘There will be more questions for her, I’m afraid, but she’ll be OK. I’m sure she couldn’t have hurt Wagg like that. Lashing out with scissors in a moment of despair is very different. The sheer brutality of this murder isn’t in her nature.’
‘Let’s hope your colleagues are equally open-minded,’ he muttered.
‘They are only doing their job, Daniel.’ Why did she sound so defensive? ‘Everyone who knew Stuart Wagg will come under the microscope.’
‘Are we talking about a hired killer?’
‘Who knows? Nine times out of ten, hit men shoot their victims. Why dump him down the well without even making certain he was dead first? That’s gratuitously vicious.’
‘Maybe not so gratuitous,’ he suggested. ‘A sign of intense personal hatred.’
‘Which is why I’m surprised Louise can’t come up with any likely candidates.’
‘Wagg acted for the rich and famous, people who have skeletons in their closet. If he was caught up in criminal shenanigans, money laundering, or drug deals or something-’
‘Did he use drugs?’
‘Not to my knowledge. Louise would never touch them, and if she’d found out that Wagg was involved with drugs, she’d have run a mile. When she was sixteen, the brother of her best friend died after taking an ecstasy tablet and the tragedy left a scar. She’s never so much as ventured a quick drag on a joint.’
‘Ever heard Louise or Stuart mention the name of Bethany Friend?’
From the other side of the bar came a chorus of whistles and guffaws. It sounded more like the climax of a rugby match than a general knowledge quiz.
‘Never. Why would there be a connection between Stuart and a young woman who died of drowning?’
Hannah looked down and saw her glass was empty. ‘Can I get you another drink?’
‘Don’t you need to get back home?’
‘No rush.’
When she glanced up, she saw his gaze fixed upon her. She’d taken care to make sure that her expression gave nothing away, but he was his father’s son. Skilled at seeing through people.
‘Then I’ll have a cranberry juice.’
Waiting her turn at the bar, she decided it made a change to be looked at with any sort of curiosity. Stuck in a rut, at work and at home, she was bound to feel flattered by the attention of an attractive man. Especially one who wasn’t spoken for any longer. Miranda, the lovely narcissist, hadn’t appreciated how lucky she was. As the barmaid dragged herself away from a chat with a colleague, Hannah ventured a quick glance back at the corner booth. The shape of Daniel’s head, the jut of his chin, reminded her of Ben. If the hair had been grey instead of dark, she’d swear she was seeing a ghost.
Physical, primitive desire jolted her. Hot and shocking, as if she’d touched a live wire.
‘What would you like?’ the barmaid asked.
Hannah’s throat was dry, her knees were mushy and about to buckle. Stuttering her order, fumbling with her purse, she felt her cheeks burn, as though all her clothes had slid off, and everyone could see exactly what she was made of. The barmaid rolled her eyes, thinking she was pissed. Somewhere in the distance, the question master announced that the capital city of Senegal was Dakar.
Pull yourself together. You’re not sixteen anymore.
Deep breaths.
The moment she’d steadied herself, she ferried the drinks to their table, taking extravagant care not to spill a drop. Daniel stuffed a felt-tip pen back in his trouser pocket. He’d been doodling on a beer mat. A picture of a hangman.
‘Cheers,’ he said absently. ‘I was thinking…’
‘Yes?’
Shit, she was almost reduced to a nervous squeak.
‘They are an odd trio, aren’t they? Bethany Friend, George Saffell, Stuart Wagg? But they do have at least one thing in common.’
She stiffened. ‘And what’s that?’
A roar of delight gusted over from the other side of the bar. The fat question master had finished reading out the answers. If only every puzzle had a ready-made solution. Daniel drummed his fingers on the surface of the table.
‘All three of them loved books.’
A ludicrous connection, yet the more they tossed it around, the more she was intrigued. Millions of people still loved books, even in the electronic age, but with Bethany, George, and Stuart alike, books were a consuming passion. Bethany yearned to write books, the two men simply collected them.
‘So, what are you suggesting?’ She enjoyed playing devil’s advocate with him. ‘Three people murdered by someone who loathes the printed word?’
He grinned. ‘Maybe the opposite. The man you’re looking for might be mad about books.’
Marc? No question, her partner matched the profile. He knew each of the victims. But the idea that Marc might be responsible for three deaths made no sense. She’d lived with him, slept with him, she believed with all her heart that he was incapable of violence. No doubt he’d revelled in Bethany’s admiration. As for Saffell and Wagg, how absurd to imagine that he’d bite the hands that fed him, far less cut them off for ever.
‘What makes you think the murderer is a man?’
‘The level of cruelty, I suppose.’ Daniel ticked the names off on his fingers. ‘Bethany, tied up so that her head could be put beneath the water. George, bound so that he couldn’t escape being roasted alive. Stuart, crippled and then dumped down a well hole so that he froze to death.’
‘Women can be crueller than men, I think.’
‘When provoked?’
She gave a tight smile. ‘Men can be very provocative.’
‘It would take muscle power to lift that metal cover over the well,’ he mused. ‘Though a strong woman could do it.’
‘Your father always warned me against making assumptions based on stereotypes. Not a matter of political correctness, just good police work. You can’t presume that Stuart was murdered by a man.’
‘I stand corrected,’ he said, so meekly that she had to laugh.
‘That’s one difference between you and Ben. He never admitted he was wrong.’
‘Yeah, I remember.’
‘Not that he was often wrong. He decided early on that someone had murdered Bethany. It hurt him that he never managed to give her justice.’
‘Suppose the same person killed George and Stuart. Why the six years of inactivity? Hardly the pattern of a conventional serial crime.’
‘You’re an expert in serial crimes?’
‘Everyone is nowadays. Have you not seen the television schedules?’
‘No time for telly, but of course, you have a point. The time gap is a puzzle.’
‘There must be an explanation.’
‘The simplest being that the literature link is coincidental, and Bethany’s death has nothing to do with the other two.’
‘Is that what you think?’
He sounded like a crestfallen teenager. It took an effort of will not to squeeze his hand and reassure him that his theory was plausible. Even though she couldn’t see where it took the investigation.
‘To tell you God’s honest truth, Daniel, I’m not sure what to think.’
‘Doesn’t sound like you, ma’am.’
Out of nowhere, DS Greg Wharf had appeared at her elbow, twinkling like a genie unwilling to wait for a lamp to be rubbed. His breath smelt of beer and his expensive teeth formed a smile bright with lascivious triumph as his gaze flicked from Hannah to Daniel and back again. Anyone would think he’d caught them in flagrante.
A tidal wave of embarrassment swept through her. For a moment, she thought she was going to throw up all over his nice new lambswool jersey.
She managed a curt nod, not trusting herself to speak.
‘This your local, ma’am? First time here for me. Cosy, innit?’ Greg squatted on his haunches, relishing her discomfiture. ‘The bloke next door found out I like a good quiz and asked me along. Our team lost, the other lot had a couple of ringers — one of them was last year’s Brain of Cumbria. No worries, it’s all a bit of fun.’
He beamed at Daniel and offered his hand. ‘Greg Wharf. I’m lucky enough to be a member of DCI Scarlett’s team. First week, and so far I’m loving every minute.’
Sarky bastard. Hannah pictured him regaling the lads back at Divisional HQ with the story of how he’d chanced upon the DCI, playing away from home. He’d probably attribute it to good bobbying. Following his nose.
‘Daniel Kind.’
‘I recognised the face. Seen you on television, haven’t I?’ A wolfish grin. ‘You’re the son of the detective?’
‘You remember my father?’
‘We never met, but I’ve not been in this neck of the woods for long, and even I have heard about Ben Kind. You worked for him, didn’t you, ma’am?’
Hannah nodded, not wanting to guess what Greg had heard about her and Ben. She stole a glance at Daniel. His face gave nothing away.
‘You’ve heard about the lawyer who was found dead this afternoon, Sergeant?’
‘Stuart Wagg? It’s-’
‘My sister and I found his body,’ Daniel interrupted swiftly. ‘DCI Scarlett wanted to ask me a few questions, and naturally, I’m glad to help. She seems to believe there may be some tie-up with a cold case she’s investigating.’
Hannah found her voice. ‘We’re almost done, thanks, Greg; we have a joint briefing tomorrow with DCI Larter’s team. Nine o’clock.’
Wharf scrambled to his feet. She saw he was itching to ask why their inquiry was to be joined with Fern’s. But in front of Daniel, he could not talk shop.
‘Good to meet you, Mr Kind.’ His eyebrows lifted; he just couldn’t help himself, Hannah thought. ‘See you in the morning, ma’am.’
Turning on his heel, he blew a kiss towards a skinny girl with a sunbed tan and a skirt slit to her thighs. Her name was Millie, and she was a clerk from Payroll at Divisional HQ. Say what you liked about bloody Greg Wharf, he was a fast worker.
Daniel leant back in his seat and expelled a breath.
‘Don’t worry about him.’
‘Who says I’m worried?’ she said tightly. ‘Greg’s a stirrer, but you handled him perfectly. All those hours in front of lecture audiences and television cameras were well spent. Of course, a decent DCI shouldn’t be fazed by a subordinate turning up out of the blue.’
‘You have nothing to be fazed about.’ Something made her say, ‘I’ll let you in on a secret.’
He leant towards her, his expression unreadable.
‘Go on, then.’
‘When I worked with your dad, there was a bit of banter about the pair of us.’
‘Banter?’
‘Young woman, older man, you can fill in the blanks. The canteen culture thrives on gossip, preferably salacious. Of course, it was all made up. There was never anything personal between Ben and me. No relationship, I mean.’
‘He rated you as a detective. And he liked you.’
‘The feeling was mutual. But he never laid a finger on me.’
He checked his watch. Reluctantly, she hoped. But the conversation was straying into dangerous territory.
‘Marc will wonder what is keeping you.’
‘He won’t wait up.’
‘No?’ He frowned, but if he meant to say More fool him, he changed his mind. ‘I’d better let you go, all the same. Writing a book is a perfect excuse for not working office hours, but I suppose you’ll be up at the crack of dawn. Let me see you to your car.’
Outside, flecks of snow had begun to stick on the ground. The roads would be icy in the morning. When they reached the cars, he stopped in his tracks. The bright light of a security lamp illuminated his face, but she couldn’t see what was in his mind. She murmured goodnight and grasped the door handle. For a moment, he was motionless. Then a strange look came into his eyes and, in a smooth, swift movement, he bent forward and kissed her hard, full on the lips.
‘Goodnight, Hannah.’
He strode away and was starting up his car before she’d drawn breath. She sat in the driver’s seat, not switching on the engine, watching his tail lights disappear down the lane.
It took her five minutes to move off. How to deal with Marc? By the time she was back at Undercrag, it would be past eleven o’clock. The best guess was that he’d be up in bed in the spare room, like a teenager in a strop, punishing her for having the temerity to challenge him. One of these days, maybe he’d grow up.
As for Daniel, she’d made her first resolution of the New Year. She was determined not to feel guilty about him. Nor about the look in his eyes, something so rare and unexpected that it had taken a moment to recognise it as the gaze of a man who yearned for her, body and soul.
No lights shone from Undercrag as she pulled up outside. A fox scurried away as she jumped out of the Lexus. An owl hooted as she heaved open the garage door.
Marc’s car was nowhere to be seen.
She walked a hundred yards up and down the lane, to check that he had not, for some bizarre reason, parked outside the holiday cottages or under the trees. Of course, he hadn’t. The front door of the house was locked, a sure sign that he wasn’t inside. She checked the downstairs rooms to see if he’d left a message for her. He might have ventured out for a night drive, to clear his thoughts.
The house was as cold as a cemetery. Bare floorboards creaked, and the wind whistled through the windows yet to be replaced by double glazing. Only two of the bedrooms were habitable, and there wasn’t even a railing at the top of the stairs — the first floor was work in progress and the builders hadn’t started work again after their New Year break. Marc said there was an argument about an overdue payment. He said he didn’t owe a penny, and their accounts people had made a mistake.
Better check the first floor, just in case. But the instant she pressed the light switch by the staircase, the house plunged into darkness.
‘Shit, shit, shit!’
All of a sudden, this didn’t seem like home. Why had they come to Ambleside? Since moving in, they’d seen everything turn sour.
Picking her way down the steps to the cellar, she found the fuse box and the lights flicked back on. She ran back up and searched the bedrooms. Not a trace of him, but their best suitcase had vanished, along with some of his clothes. At least he’d left of his own accord, and wasn’t trussed up somewhere, the latest victim of whoever killed Stuart Wagg. But this wasn’t the comfort it should have been. She conducted a quick inventory and concluded that he’d taken enough to get by for several days. Maybe a week.
Bastard. He must be determined to make her sweat. They’d had rows before, plenty of them, but he’d never walked out on her. It was in his nature to fret about her friendships with other men — Ben Kind and Nick Lowther sprang to mind — but she hadn’t expected him to go overboard about Daniel. It wasn’t even as if anything had happened between them. Not counting the kiss.
Back in the kitchen, she filled a mug with coffee. Strong, black and scalding hot. Pinned up on the cork noticeboard by the filter machine was a photo of the two of them. He’d asked a fellow diner to snap them, in a restaurant outside Keswick where he’d taken her to celebrate her last birthday but one. They were laughing for the camera. His hand snaked around her waist. She had a bad habit of frowning when her picture was taken, but in this snap, neither of them looked as if they had a care in the world. She’d wondered if he kept it to remind himself that sometimes they could make believe they were a typical happy couple. Tonight they needed more than a photograph to bind them together.
Where could he be? Her best guess was that he’d run off to his mother’s in Grange-over-Sands. Mrs Amos would welcome him back with open arms. He was her pride and joy, and no woman was ever really good enough for him. The old lady had never been a member of Hannah’s fan club; as recently as their shopping expedition over Christmas, she’d mused aloud that there was something unfeminine about police work.
A phrase of Daniel’s sneaked back into her head. For once she shivered at the sound of his voice, as it echoed in her brain.
‘The man you’re looking for might be mad about books.’
Not Marc, surely.
It couldn’t be Marc.