Daniel Kind pushed the oak door of Tarn Cottage and it swung open in silence on newly oiled hinges. In the hall stood his partner Miranda, dressed for a journey in new Barbour coat and Timberland boots. She was smiling at her reflection in the mirror. Another dab of lipstick? No, it’s just right. At the sound of his footsteps, she spun to face him. Holding up her hand like a traffic cop, so that he stopped in his tracks. The smile vanished, her mouth compressed into a thin red line.
‘Before you say a word, I don’t have time now. I need to catch my train.’
‘Relax, it doesn’t leave Oxenholme for another hour. Even if it’s on time.’
‘I daren’t think what will happen if I’m late arriving at Euston. Ethan called while you were out. He wants to meet over dinner this evening.’
‘Let me drive you to the station, it’s no trouble. We can talk on the way and there’ll be time to spare for a cup of tea in the buffet.’
‘Too late, I’ve ordered a taxi.’
‘Ring up and cancel.’
‘No, I hate unpicking arrangements, don’t you think it’s inconsiderate? Besides, you have work to do. That book proposal, is it ready to send to your agent?’
‘Not even close,’ he said, risking a sheepish grin.
‘Oh, for God’s sake! It’s not good, Daniel, you can’t afford to lose your edge. This is the twenty-first century. The Lake District may potter along in the slow lane, but the rest of the world won’t wait for it to catch up.’
‘Don’t you want to talk about last night?’
For reply, Miranda raced off up the stairs, those posh new boots crashing on the wooden treads like drum beats. Next to the doorway, her suitcase bulged complacently. By the look of it, she’d packed for a fortnight. He realised she hadn’t said when she was due back. A question slunk into his head.
What if she doesn’t come back?
Don’t be stupid, he told himself.
Would it matter if she didn’t?
For God’s sake. A single quarrel couldn’t destroy everything that bound them together. It was Miranda who had wanted them to escape to this closed-off valley, shoe-horned between the fells. It was Miranda who’d persuaded him to give up teaching history at Oxford and abandon a career that had taken him onto TV screens on both sides of the Atlantic. Fame meant nothing to him and he didn’t regard it as a sacrifice; it thrilled him to think they could start afresh, make everything new. When he’d brought her to the Lakes last spring, she’d fallen in love with Tarn Cottage and they’d snapped it up on the spur of the moment. He’d resigned his college fellowship and sold his old house. But Miranda wrote a column for a glossy magazine and the time never seemed quite right to give up her flat in London. Now she was setting off for an editorial conference at Canary Wharf. These dark winter days, she got away from it all by heading for the bright lights.
She came back down the stairs, clutching her Gucci bag like a favourite child. Her hips swung like a samba dancer’s and his heart lurched with desire.
‘The car will be here any minute.’
‘What you said last night …’
‘Forget it, Daniel. I should never have opened that second bottle last night. I was pissed, no way should I have ranted like that. I mean, yes, the Lakes are quiet. But of course Brackdale’s not a graveyard. I can’t believe I said that! And I don’t feel trapped, I’m not really lonely. How could I be, in such a gorgeous spot?’
‘So you still want to live here?’
‘’Course I do.’ She pecked him on the cheek. ‘And with you. In case you were wondering.’
At least she was ready to kiss and make up. One thing he loved about Miranda, her bad moods sped past like scurrying clouds. Last night they’d shouted at each other; a watershed, not soon to be forgotten, their first fierce row. No plates thrown, but she’d locked the bedroom door on him. The scrape of the turning key echoed in his brain for hours. He didn’t undress, spent all night lying on the bed in the spare room.
Through the small hours, the downpour battered the new roof tiles. Miranda hated winter, she hated the cold and above all she hated rain. She’d scoured for statistics to prove that Tarn Fold was the wettest place in England. Daniel didn’t believe it, if only because Seathwaite over in Borrowdale was deluged by 120 inches a year. Brackdale probably got no more than 119. But what did that matter? Close the door, stoke the fire, and everything was fine. Miranda said her London flat was a bolt-hole, nothing more. But wasn’t that the point of Tarn Cottage?
He’d breakfasted early. The coffee tasted bitter and he didn’t finish his toast. The bedroom was still a no-go area and she didn’t answer when he rapped on the door and called that he was leaving for Kendal. He was giving a talk at Abbot Hall: Victorian Eco-Warrior – John Ruskin and Climate Change. Ruskin’s green campaigning was the first history he’d researched since his last lecture at Oxford and the applause proved he hadn’t lost his touch. But his mind was elsewhere as people pumped his hand and he barely glanced at the praise on the feedback forms. He’d driven too fast all the way home and scraped his wing mirror against a tree as he swung into Tarn Fold.
‘I’ll call you tonight.’
‘No need,’ she said hastily. ‘I expect I’ll be out late with Ethan.’
Ethan, bloody Ethan.
‘OK.’
‘Don’t look like a wet Wednesday in Wasdale, huh? I’ll catch up with you as soon as I’ve got a minute, all right?’
A horn tooted outside and she’d gone before he could utter a word.
‘Now will you take this seriously?’ Tony Di Venuto demanded.
Hannah Scarlett squeezed her fingers tight around the phone. Did strangling a troublesome journalist count as justifiable homicide? ‘Trust me, we always take our work seriously.’
‘In that case, how will you respond to this amazing development?’
‘You’ve not given us much to go on. An unknown person calls you, presumably because of the article …’
‘He mentioned it specifically.’
‘… and tells you Emma Bestwick won’t be coming back. He doesn’t even say she is dead. How do we know he isn’t a time-waster? You haven’t even got his name.’
‘For God’s sake, he rang off before I could question him.’ The tightness of his voice told her that the rebuke stung. ‘Hey, this wasn’t some boozed-up teenager having a laugh at my expense. It was quite clear what he meant. She is dead.’
Hannah’s gaze flicked to her computer screen as an email from Lauren Self jumped into her inbox. The ACC was moaning because Les had skived off the diversity training workshop. The fact that he was on a fixed term contract was not an excuse. The need to implement good practice applied to everyone, no exceptions. Yawn.
‘You don’t tape incoming calls?’
‘Not routinely.’
She punched delete and Lauren’s message vanished. The tiny act of defiance cheered her. ‘So what can you tell me about him?’
‘Man of my age, or thereabouts. Local accent, but he only said a few words.’
‘Was he calm?’
‘Curt, perhaps a bit flustered.’
‘You’ve interviewed people close to Emma in connection with your story. This wasn’t a man you’ve spoken to before? Jeremy Erskine, for instance?’
His laughter had a mocking edge. ‘No way.’
‘Before she bought her own house, Emma lodged with a couple called Francis and Vanessa Goddard. They became good friends. Might your caller have been Francis Goddard?’
‘I spoke briefly with Mr Goddard on the phone when I was researching my article. It wasn’t him. Or her old boss, Alban Clough.’
‘Who, then?’
‘Not a former boyfriend, that’s for sure.’
‘Stranger things have happened, Mr Di Venuto.’
‘Forget it, Chief Inspector. Emma wasn’t interested in men, everyone knew that.’
A thought tiptoed into Hannah’s head. ‘Did you know her?’
After thirty seconds of silence he muttered, ‘We never met. Why do you ask?’
‘Just wondered. You’re taking such a close interest in one old case. There’s not a shred of proof Emma didn’t leave the Lakes of her own free will. But if you had some personal involvement with her …’
‘Aren’t you listening, Chief Inspector? I said I never set eyes on her. It’s not so surprising the Post should revive the investigation. We covered her disappearance in depth ten years ago. Look at our files if you don’t believe me.’
‘And Mr Erskine?’
‘What about him?’ Sharp, defensive.
‘Reading between the lines, you don’t care for the way he’s writing off Emma’s disappearance as old news.’
‘She was his sister-in-law. He ought to be concerned.’
‘Presumably his loyalty is to his wife. That’s why he wants her to move on.’
‘Very commendable.’ Sarky sod.
‘But you’ve never met him before?’
‘Not until I talked to him a week ago. Listen, Chief Inspector. I’m not the story here. This is all about Emma Bestwick, nobody else.’
‘Of course,’ Hannah said.
But she didn’t believe him.
* * *
Daniel closed down his computer and slung on a fleece before wandering outside for a breath of Lakeland air. This corner of Brackdale was as peaceful as anywhere in England, but it was never entirely silent. Stop and listen and you could hear faint rustlings in the undergrowth, the distant cough of an invisible raven. He’d fallen for the Lakes as he had for Miranda, swept away on a tide of passion. Now he couldn’t contemplate living anywhere else. The beauty entranced him, and the history too. The only thing he knew for sure about his next book was that it would be rooted in the Lakes. Historians needed to soak up the spirit of the places they studied. Sitting in a library wasn’t enough.
As he wandered by the tarn, a pale light filtered through the dripping trees, spreading patterns on the dark water. Mist curtained the upper reaches of the hillside; dusk was gathering and he could barely make out Priest Edge and the grim bulk of the Sacrifice Stone. He could not guess how many men, women and children had met their death on the Stone in pagan times. Lives given up in the hope of buying salvation.
Few people came to Tarn Fold, but it was never as still as Miranda said. A fox rustled through the undergrowth, in search of food. The air smelled of damp earth and fallen leaves. His path twisted this way and that before arriving at an inexplicable dead end. The garden of Tarn Cottage had tantalised him for months until he discovered its melancholy secret.
He hadn’t seen Hannah Scarlett since the end of summer, when they’d both been caught up in the violent climax to one of her inquiries. In its stunned aftermath, they reached an unspoken understanding that they needed time apart. Daniel’s late father, Ben Kind, had been Hannah’s boss for years and she reckoned he’d taught her all she knew about detecting crime. A bond had formed between her and Ben’s son. But they were both in relationships and it was unwise to grow too close. Once or twice during the past six months, Daniel had picked up his mobile, wanting to hear her cool voice again. He’d deleted her number from the quick dial menu, but the digits had lodged in his brain, like squatters determined to stick it out. So far he’d never made the call.
Safer to take refuge in history. At auction last October, he’d bought a yellowing set of letters, in which an acquaintance debated Ruskin’s dread of industry encroaching on the glory of the Lakes. That horror of the smoke-belching steelworks of Barrow-in-Furness became the starting point for the Kendal lecture. But Daniel didn’t have enough fresh material to justify a full-length book, and much as he loathed the treadmill of contracts and deadlines, he could use the cash. Since leaving Oxford, he’d lived off royalties from the TV series he’d presented, while the profit from selling his old home was swallowed by the cost of renovating Tarn Cottage. Following the death of his partner Aimee, he’d needed to break from the past, even just writing about the past. But Miranda was right: a sabbatical was one thing, opting out altogether quite another.
There is no wealth but life, Ruskin said. True, but you still had to pay your grocery bills.
Daniel retraced his steps and sat down on a bench looking over towards the lower slopes of Tarn Fell. Fishing his mobile out of his pocket, he punched in a familiar number.
‘Amos Books.’
He recognised the girl’s smoky voice. ‘Trecilla? This is Daniel Kind … Fine thanks, how are you? Is Marc around?’
‘He’s scouting for new premises in Sedbergh.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re moving?’
‘No, they’re talking about opening another branch. Can I help?’
‘I’m interested in finding out more about John Ruskin’s life in the Lake District. His battles with local industrialists, that sort of thing.’
‘You’d be best speaking to Marc. I’m afraid I’ve never got into Ruskin, but Marc’s a fan. He’s back in tomorrow.’
‘I’ll drop in, see if I catch him.’
Why not? It couldn’t do any harm. Ruskin had made his home in the Lakes for thirty years, there was always the outside chance that some rare treasure might lurk on a dusty shelf in Marc’s rambling emporium, casting fresh light on Ruskin’s life and work. Yet as he ambled back towards the cottage, Daniel admitted to himself that this wasn’t really about research. Marc Amos lived with Hannah and tomorrow he’d have the chance to ask after her. Out of curiosity, nothing more.
Les Bryant wiped the froth from his mouth and said, ‘Better dig out the old files.’
‘They’re already on my desk,’ Hannah said.
They were closeted in a sepulchral corner of the mahogany-panelled bar at the back of the Woollen Shroud, a pub on the outskirts of town. As usual it was deserted save for a handful of grizzled regulars who seldom spoke or even moved. For years, Hannah had met informants here, people who didn’t want it known they were talking to her. The privacy compensated for the graveyard ambience. She wondered how the landlord earned enough to live on. Probably best for a police officer not to know.
Proving that miracles do happen, Les had blown the dust off his wallet and bought the first round. His way of making up for exposing her to criticism from the ACC. He’d even promised to move heaven and earth to attend the next scheduled seminar on dignity at work. Though his snoring might distract the other attendees.
‘So you’re more interested than you let on to Di Venuto?’
‘It’s not about whether I’m interested. As it happens, I hated it when we gave up on the case. The snag is, Di Venuto has no new info for us and the files don’t hold any clues.’
‘Give me a flavour.’
She savoured the nip of her wine. ‘Emma Bestwick vanished off the face of the earth without forewarning. What happened to her, nobody knows. She lived alone and several days passed before her disappearance was reported to the police by a neighbour. We searched her home, but didn’t find any indication of where she might have gone. Wherever it was, she hadn’t taken her passport with her. She kept her credit cards in her wallet and that was missing, but they were never used.’
‘What did she do for a living?’
‘Self-employed reflexologist.’
‘Oh yeah?’
His leathery features crinkled in scorn. Les didn’t hold with touchy-feely crap like reflexology. He’d once revealed that his wife was passionate about yoga and gave the impression that one of his motives for joining the Cold Case Review Team was to avoid watching her tie herself in knots on a mat in the living room when all he wanted was to switch on the football.
The temptation to tease was irresistible. ‘Yeah, Reiki and sekhem healing, chakra colour balancing, metamorphic techniques, Indian head massage …’
‘For Chrissake,’ he said in disgust.
‘Listen, hasn’t Mrs Bryant recommended it for your sinusitis? Hopi ear candle therapy could work wonders, removing the impurities …’
‘Get on with the story, eh?’
Hannah grinned. ‘All right. Emma worked from home. A bungalow she’d bought a few months earlier, down the road from Coniston Water.’
‘Local woman?’
‘Grew up in the Eskdale Valley with a younger sister. Spent a few years working in Merseyside before coming back to Cumbria. At first she lodged with a couple called Goddard who lived in Coniston. At the time she was working at the Museum of Myth and Legend. Ever visited it?’
Even in the gloom, Les’s derision was unmistakable. On second thoughts, Hannah realised it was a silly question. The old curmudgeon would have no time for such flights of fancy. Impossible to picture him traipsing round museums and galleries, guide-book in hand, camera primed for action. His idea of interactive entertainment was sitting in the stand at Elland Road, yelling at Leeds United’s shot-shy strikers to have a crack at goal.
‘Never heard of it.’
‘The museum’s at Inchmore Hall, off the Ambleside Road. A baroque mansion, all turrets and crazy gables. Think Hogwarts. The owner was – still is, I checked – a wealthy eccentric called Alban Clough. He’s obsessed with Lakeland legends and he’s devoted his life and most of his fortune to keeping them alive. His daughter, Alexandra, manages the museum, and both of them live at Inchmore Hall. Emma helped on the counter and took visitors round. Interesting job, but poorly paid.’
When he leaned towards her, she could smell tobacco. Les was an unrepentant heavy smoker. There was probably more tar on his lungs than on the A49. He coughed, as if in confirmation.
‘Was her pay relevant?’
‘As part of the puzzle, yes. There was so much we couldn’t explain about Emma Bestwick. When she returned to the Lakes from Liverpool, she’d scarcely a penny to her name. Within a year, she was putting down a deposit on a nice little bungalow and buying herself a brand new Fiat.’
‘Lottery win?’
‘So she told her sister and Alban Clough. We checked and found she’d lied. And she didn’t always tell the same tale. She led Francis and Vanessa Goddard to believe that the money was inherited. But who from? Not a family member, otherwise Karen would have known about it.’
Les took another swig from his tankard. ‘Young woman comes into money for the first time in her life, then disappears for no apparent reason. No wonder we didn’t write her off as one more runaway.’
One thing about Les: he never forgot that all police officers were on the same side. He always talked about we and us, not them.
‘But how long can you keep banging your head against a brick wall? The file may not have been closed, but nobody was begging us to keep it open.’
‘Not even her family?’
‘There were no near relations except Karen and she seemed certain that Emma would turn up again one day.’
‘But she never did.’
‘Karen’s husband, Jeremy, went to see Emma just before she disappeared. His story was that he had back trouble and she’d offered to help.’
A sardonic chuckle. ‘Spot of massage?’
‘We found no evidence of any affair. To all appearances the Erskines were happily married.’
Les’s face made it clear that happy marriages were as common as fairies at the bottom of the garden. Come to think of it, would Mrs Bryant be content for him to stay on this side of the Pennines for another twelve months?
‘How about her friends?’
‘Vanessa Goddard seemed cut up about her disappearance, but she was Emma’s only close friend. Emma wasn’t interested in men and although she’d had an affair with Alexandra Clough while she worked at the museum, that came to an end months earlier. No hard feelings, according to Ms Clough.’
‘Did you believe her?’
‘Do me a favour. How many relationships end with no hard feelings? But there was no evidence to link Alex Clough – or anyone else – with Emma’s disappearance. Every avenue turned out to be a dead end.’
‘So over the years nobody has bothered too much about her.’
‘Until Tony Di Venuto.’
‘And then, someone rings him up and implies that Emma is dead.’
‘All he said was that Emma wouldn’t be coming back. Which leaves us no wiser.’
‘You think Di Venuto made it up?’
‘Perish the thought that a journalist might tell porkies.’ He burped and patted his belly. ‘So what was your take on the case? What did you think happened to Emma?’
Hannah sucked in her cheeks. ‘You have to remember, I was wet behind the ears.’
‘Even so.’
‘The SIO was Sid Thornicroft. Decent detective, but he was coming up for retirement and he was more focused on collecting his pension than clues. The investigation ran out of steam as soon as he decided that Emma had done a runner. I didn’t agree, but so what?’
‘You thought she was dead?’
She nodded. ‘Like Di Venuto. My hunch was that she’d been murdered. But without evidence …’
‘Lauren will want us to delve. Make sure we’re on the right side of the Press.’
‘Christ, Les, don’t tell me you’re becoming media-savvy in your old age.’
He propped his elbows on the table and cupped his chin in his hands. ‘It’s you I’m thinking of. Cold case work is a cul-de-sac, ideal for boring old farts like me. You were shunted into it after you screwed up on a trial, but soon you’ll be ready to get back in the swim. Which means giving the ACC an occasional stroke, even if you’d sooner shove her statistics up her bum.’
Hannah wanted to argue, but if she said she was happy to paddle in a backwater forever, he wouldn’t believe her.
‘All right. We start at nine tomorrow.’
She made it sound as if she didn’t care, but her heart was beating faster. This wasn’t about keeping Lauren sweet. Hannah had never been able to forget the photograph of Emma Bestwick in the old file, the same picture that accompanied Di Venuto’s article. Her looks would never stop traffic. The face was round and pleasant, but flabby at the jaw-line, and instantly forgettable. Yet the puzzled frown and parted lips had stuck in Hannah’s mind. She imagined Emma searching for something just beyond the horizon, could almost hear her murmuring what’s it all about?
How had she come to vanish in an instant? If Hannah understood the woman, she might understand her fate. Emma seemed so ordinary, but she’d proved elusive in more ways than one. Hannah had never managed to wriggle inside her head.
A sense of failure had nagged at her over the years like an arthritic joint, yet to devote precious resources to a hopeless case would have seemed self-indulgent. Hannah didn’t care for Tony Di Venuto, but he deserved her thanks. He’d given her a second chance to do right by the woman everyone else preferred to forget.
Guy’s landlady made a conspicuous effort with the dinner. Sarah Welsby might not specialise in exotic cuisine, but the roast chicken was wonderfully tender, the potatoes and carrots cooked to perfection. He’d invested in a decent bottle of Soave and she poured them each a generous measure of Harvey’s Bristol Cream before they sat down to eat by candlelight. Cosy, verging on intimate. Too bad his mind kept wandering. Ever since speaking to Tony Di Venuto, he hadn’t been able to concentrate on the here and now.
Sarah did most of the talking. Probably she wasn’t accustomed to having anyone listen to her. Even Clooney the cat took no notice, endlessly washing his paws. There had been a husband called Don, a building society manager. On their fifteenth wedding anniversary, a jealous colleague tipped her off that Don and his secretary were having an affair. Five years after the divorce was finalised, Sarah was still raw at his betrayal.
‘You never had children?’
She lifted her coffee cup with a trembling hand. ‘His decision. I accepted it, in my book it’s wrong to bring a baby into the world if you aren’t both keen. But by the time they tied the knot, she was six months pregnant. What did she do for him that changed his mind, I wonder?’
Just as well they’d drained the bottle. Any more wine would make her maudlin and Guy found that unattractive in a woman. But he had a talent for sympathy.
‘He hoodwinked you. A respectable professional man. Disgraceful.’
A timid smile. ‘Sorry. Listen to me, pouring out my woes. You must be bored stiff.’
He leaned across the table. Not quite invading her personal space. ‘On the contrary. This whole evening has been – so delightful.’
A little giggle. ‘You know, the German couple are always late for breakfast. I think I might leave the washing-up until tomorrow morning.’
‘Splendid idea.’
The silence lasted half a minute before she stretched and said, ‘Well, I suppose I’d better be going up.’
She ventured another smile, bolder this time, and he smiled back. But he didn’t move closer. Timing is everything.
‘You know something, Rob? I’m afraid I’m a bit tipsy. Hopeless, aren’t I? Normally I don’t have more than a single glass with my meal.’
‘You’ll sleep all the sounder tonight.’
‘Yes.’ She rose clumsily to her feet. The pale blue eyes weren’t focusing. ‘Well, goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Sarah.’
He ambled back downstairs. This was one of his Garbo moments; he could do sociable, but he did love being on his own. Flinging himself on to the bed, he couldn’t help congratulating himself. Moving into Coniston Glimpse might seem counter-intuitive, given his taste for the dolce vita, but he could make a virtue out of a necessity. Sarah was sure to refuse to take his money when he offered it. Already they were becoming friends, they could do each other a good turn.
He buried his face in the pillow, to shut out the noise from the pipes. He wanted to replay in his head that conversation with the journalist. The moment he’d put the phone down, his stomach lurched – with excitement, not fear. Over the past ten years, he’d travelled far and wide and spent a great deal of money, some of it his own. Yet it was as if he’d been sleepwalking, all that time. It had become an article of faith, that he must forget Emma Bestwick, scrub the memories out of his mind. Guilt was a passing phase, like the quarters of the moon, he should have learned that at Haverigg.
But the truth was, you couldn’t undo the past.