Desperate ills called for desperate remedies. Guy regarded himself as a man of his word, yet sometimes you had no choice but to break a promise. Besides, he’d kept to his bargain for long enough. Nothing was forever.
Including, of course, his sojourn at the Coniston Glimpse. It was a tribute to his strength of character that he’d not throttled Sarah, but it was also convenient. He needed a roof over his head until he travelled on, and he couldn’t bank on finding another landlady who didn’t expect rent. When he’d calmed down enough to think straight, he’d persuaded Sarah to ask her ex-husband for a loan on the pretext of needing to buy a new washing machine. Excellent advice. By a lucky chance she’d bumped into Don in the village early that morning. He was out buying a pricey Valentine’s present for his current wife and a combination of guilt and embarrassment prompted him to cough up without demur. He’d even taken her to the cash till and handed over a thick wad of notes.
Guy was still sleeping with Sarah. Despite her shameful behaviour, he didn’t fancy exiling himself to that draughty basement. She was pathetically grateful that he hadn’t packed his bags and left, and at his insistence had disconnected the computer and confessed all to a sympathetic GP, who had referred her to a gambling therapist for specialist counselling. All in all, Guy thought she’d done very well out of him. He might have made a career out of mentoring people with inadequate personalities, he had a gift for it, but he was destined for better things.
‘Lunch in half an hour!’ Sarah called from the kitchen. ‘Cottage pie, your absolute favourite.’
Actually, he much preferred venison. But Coniston Glimpse was a far cry from the Boscolo Palace, and he was adaptable.
‘Any chance of a glass of vino?’
‘Sweetheart, your wish is my command. I’ll open the Rioja.’
Supermarket plonk, buy-one, get-one-free, but needs must. With a sigh, he bookmarked David Copperfield. At this third reading, he’d decided his literary hero was Wilkins Micawber. Guy shared Micawber’s optimism; over the years, a belief that something would turn up had served him well. Micawber was underestimated and it was telling that in the end he’d achieved the status of a colonial magistrate. Dickens knew a thing or two, just as Guy knew that one day he’d make his mark. All he needed was a lucky break. Rather than mope because Sarah had proved a broken reed, he intended to think positive.
He was a good man in a crisis. It would have been so easy to panic once he realised the accidental blow on Emma’s head hadn’t killed her, but he’d kept his nerve. Although it hadn’t been pleasant, he’d done what he had to do. Thank goodness he’d learned presence of mind early on. Where he grew up, you kept your wits about you, or you were finished. He’d hated the Home, but with hindsight he recognised that the experience had sharpened him, taught him to cope with the vagaries of Fate.
He’d told stories, long before encountering yarn-spinners like Dumas, Dickens and Rider Haggard. How better to escape the bad stuff? Booze was fine, but he could take it or leave it. Apart from smoking the occasional joint, he wasn’t into drugs. Who needed artificial stimulants? Making things up intoxicated him. In his youth, he paid a price for letting his imagination run away with him. He started reading for the first time in prison, allowing himself to be persuaded that he was bright enough to live on his wits without spending the rest of his life under lock and key. But he hadn’t been going straight for long before his encounter with Emma on Mispickel Scar led to calamity.
Even then, he reminded himself as he strolled into the kitchen, he’d fallen on his feet. It was a knack.
‘You’re looking very cheerful, darling.’ Sarah dried her hands on a grubby tea towel and gave him a peck on the cheek.
‘Always look for the silver lining, that’s my motto! Matter of fact, I’ve been doing a spot of thinking.’
‘And?’
‘It’s time to call in a favour.’
Miranda was in a good mood. She wasn’t due back in London just yet and would be at home for Valentine’s Day. Daniel’s announcement that he fancied writing something fresh about Ruskin had gone down well and they’d spent most of the morning in bed. Over brunch, she quizzed him on his approach to research.
‘This is a side of you I’ve never seen. Remember, since we met, you’ve barely written a word. Far less a full-length book.’
He munched his toast. ‘Like I said on TV, an American called Robin Winks argued the same case long ago. Every fact must count equally at the beginning of the inquiry, for one may not prejudge the conclusion. To decide at the start whodunit – the middle class, the Fascists, whatever – and why, and What It All Means, is to destroy the historical inquiry. The historian is a detective. Has to be.’
‘You ought to call Hannah Scarlett, pick up a few tips.’
‘I talked to her while you were down in London. Very interesting.’
He was glad of the chance to slip in a confession to having met Hannah. Yet, what was there to feel guilty about? He and she had chatted over a drink. Nothing had happened. Nothing to be ashamed of, as long as you didn’t count the treacherous thoughts that sneaked into his mind every now and then when images of Hannah came into his mind.
‘Did she fancy your father?’
He stared. ‘What makes you ask that?’
‘Just wondered. The way you described it, he was this smart detective, she was a rookie cop he took under his wing. She must have looked up to him.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Miranda shrugged. ‘She’s the type.’
She and Hannah had only met once and had conversed for less than five minutes, but Miranda prided herself on her ability to make snap judgments of character. Before he could argue, she added, ‘You’d better be careful.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If she did like your dad, perhaps she’ll take a shine to you.’
There was a mocking light in her eyes and he realised that she didn’t rate Hannah as competition. And why should she?
‘She told me her latest cold case involved the disappearance of a woman from Coniston ten years ago.’
Miranda’s eyebrows lifted. ‘That item on the news, about the bodies they have discovered up in the fells.’
‘Sounds like they found the woman.’
Each time he’d rung Hannah’s mobile over the past couple of days, she’d been engaged on another call and he hadn’t left a message. All he’d wanted was to say he’d enjoyed seeing her. Her missing person case must have turned into a murder inquiry. And the news that not one but two corpses had been found up at the back of Coniston suggested she had a lot on her plate. Too much to waste time in idle conversation with her old boss’s son.
‘So when do you set off?’
‘Ten minutes.’
‘Good luck.’
His decision to spend the afternoon at the Ruskin Archive had met with her full approval. He hadn’t mentioned that the librarian currently responsible for the Archive was Vanessa Goddard. Self-indulgence on two levels. Historical research and a chance to meet someone who had known Emma Bestwick. Listening to Hannah, he’d become fascinated by Emma’s story, intrigued by mention of this Arsenic Labyrinth. If Emma was dead, he was seized by the urge to learn how she had met her fate.
‘So, DCI Scarlett, is there any doubt that one of the bodies is that of Emma Bestwick?’
Tony Di Venuto sprawled back in his chair as though he’d just taken over as Chief Constable. Pity he was such a prat, he wasn’t a bad journalist. After ten years of nothing, within days he’d conjured up enough interest in Emma’s disappearance to prompt his mystery caller to disclose where her body was hidden. Lauren wanted her to throw him a few bones in return for his help, over and above the titbits given out at the press conference. Reasonable enough; if anyone was entitled to be smug about this case, it was Di Venuto. But every time that self-satisfied smile oozed across his dark features, she wanted to scrub it away with a dripping cloth.
‘Off the record, not a lot. We haven’t received the pathologist’s report yet, and there’s not much left of Emma, of course, but the clothing we’ve retrieved from the scene matches descriptions of what she was likely to have been wearing.’
He clenched his fist. ‘I knew it!’
‘You were sure that the man who rang you up wasn’t a time-waster.’
A vigorous nod. ‘Dead right.’
‘Why?’
‘Let’s just say I have a nose for bullshit.’
Not surprising, he spouted his fair share.
Aloud, she said, ‘What can you tell me about him?’
‘No more than I said last time. Around my age. Disguised his voice by whispering. Making that call can’t have been easy. But he wanted me to think he was ringing to do Karen a favour. As if.’
‘Conscience pricking?’
‘No way. If you ask me, he didn’t even sound like a murderer.’
‘And what would a murderer sound like?’
He grimaced. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘Not sure I do.’
‘He wanted me to believe it wasn’t his fault that Emma was buried beneath the Arsenic Labyrinth. As it happens, he succeeded. I don’t believe he killed her. Somehow – maybe recently, maybe ten years back – he’s found out where she was buried, and he’s decided not to keep it to himself any longer. Oh no, I don’t think your work will be done when you track him down. But perhaps he’ll lead you to whoever did murder Emma.’
‘Any theories of your own?’
For a rare moment, Tony Di Venuto seemed to be in two minds. Then he said, ‘I don’t have any evidence, Chief Inspector.’
‘But just between us?’
He leaned over the desk. The after-shave was more pungent than ever.
‘Jeremy Erskine called on her just before she vanished. Supposedly for the benefit of his bad back. But he’s vain, you only have to speak to him for five minutes to realise that. He wouldn’t be put off by the fact a woman was a lesbian if he took a shine to her. He’d regard it as a challenge. My theory is, he made a play for her, she told him to fuck off, and he decided to take revenge.’
‘He didn’t kill her there and then, did he? Bruised self-esteem might explain a heat of the moment murder, but – twenty-four hours later?’
Di Venuto shrugged. ‘I told you I don’t have any evidence. There may be more to it. But when I interviewed him, he was evasive. All he wanted was for everyone to forget about Emma. Thank God his wish has been denied.’
‘One thing I’ve been meaning to ask. What put you on to the case in the first place? I mean, most people have forgotten all about Emma.’
He folded his arms. ‘It was the upcoming anniversary, that’s all. We keep an eye on these things in the Press. Pegs to hang stories on, they matter to us.’
‘It was quite a story. Not just a rehash of old stuff. Jeremy wasn’t happy with the way you tackled it.’
‘The Post has a complaints procedure and Erskine didn’t use it.’ The smug smile was back. ‘And for good reason, Chief Inspector. All I was doing was trying to get at the truth. Erskine’s problem is, the truth hurts.’
Hannah remembered Karen’s rare outburst. This isn’t about discovering the truth. So what was it about?
She stood up. ‘When we have more from the pathologist, I’ll call another press conference.’
‘I’d appreciate a nod and a wink in advance, Chief Inspector. Given all the help I’ve provided.’
Don’t push your lucky, smarty pants. ‘I’ve already told you more than your colleagues who were at the briefing.’
‘Trust me, Chief Inspector.’ His wheedling smile suggested the dodgiest used car salesman in Cumbria. ‘Take a closer look at Erskine. He may seem like Mr Respectable, but it’s a charade. The man is one huge ego. He dumped his first wife the moment he started snuggling up to Karen. Who’s to say he wouldn’t betray her too?’
Hannah wasn’t convinced. Not least because she suspected that the journalist recognised characteristics in Jeremy that he possessed himself. Above all, she yearned to puncture his self-assurance.
‘Better be careful, then.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Only this. If Jeremy Erskine was willing to kill his sister-in-law because she turned him down, he’s a dangerous enemy. Better not let him get wind of your thinking. We don’t want to have to spirit you away into a witness protection programme, do we? It’s not a glamorous life. Cumbria Constabulary doesn’t run to swish gaffs in beach resorts. A bed-sit in a back street in Maryport is as good as it gets.’
Vanessa Goddard was crestfallen. ‘I only wish we could help, Mr Kind. But as you can see, our archive is primarily a gathering of Ruskin’s writings in different editions, together with background materials, for everyday consultation by members of the public. I feel rather guilty that we don’t have much that is unique.’
‘Don’t worry, you’ve been very helpful.’
She shut the door behind her and he followed into the office. It occupied the rear of the converted Wesleyan chapel housing the county’s Ruskin Archive, and it was full of clutter. Lever arch files were piled high on every available surface and she had to shove a couple of them on to the floor so that he could sit down on the other side of a desk. Behind her head hung a large rectangular cork board covered in staff notices and a trade union calendar. The walls were festooned with book covers and posters advertising library events. On the desk stood family photographs, all depicting a young boy: toddling across the living room carpet, struggling into a school blazer, wielding a cricket bat, dangling a fishing rod into a peaceful tarn. Daniel wondered if his father had kept any pictures of himself and Louise as kids. Or had Ben preferred to draw a line under the past once the divorce was through, and start again in his new job, in his new home, with his new girlfriend?
Vanessa cleared her throat. ‘Even if we owned rare manuscripts, we’d probably be told to sell them off to pay for a few more computers in the branches.’
‘So you can’t tell me anything about Ruskin’s relations with the owners of the arsenic works at Coniston?’
‘I’m sorry, no. Why do you ask, I wonder?’
‘I heard on the news about those bodies up by the Arsenic Labyrinth. Driving here, there seems to be a police vehicle on every street corner.’
‘It’s very sad.’
She fingered the birthmark on her face. There were dark lines under her eyes and he guessed she hadn’t slept. According to Hannah, she had been close to Emma, and part of him shied away from adding to her misery. But curiosity held him captive.
‘I read about that woman who went missing ten years ago.’ He’d combed through the old cuttings as well as recent stuff by Tony Di Venuto. ‘Perhaps she’s one of the victims.’
‘I expect we’ll know soon enough.’
‘Poor woman,’ he persisted. ‘How dreadful, to die like that.’
Her face tightened, as if tempted to scold him for gossiping out of turn. But he was Daniel Kind, the historian, he’d been on TV, for God’s sake. For once it was a blessing to be nearly famous. She had to be polite.
‘As it happens, Emma Bestwick was a good friend of mine.’ Vanessa coughed. ‘She was a lovely woman. If – if one of the bodies is hers, then it’s an utter tragedy.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ He felt a pang of genuine remorse. Had his father felt like this, intruding into private grief? Did Hannah?
She took a breath, straightened her shoulders. ‘The only consolation is that she lives on, with us. Those of us who knew her, that is. Now, can I help with anything else?’
He couldn’t let go just yet. ‘Are you familiar with the Arsenic Labyrinth?’
‘I’ve never walked up that far beyond Coppermines Valley. People say there’s not much to see. Just a few lumps of stone dotted around a cold and windswept nook in the fells.’
‘I can’t believe Ruskin approved of a poison factory in his beloved Lakeland.’
‘He once gave a lecture about the fells in Kendal, but I never heard of him writing about the arsenic works. You ought to speak to Alban Clough, he owns the Museum of Myth and Legend down the road.’
‘Thanks, I’ll call there on my way home.’ He paused. ‘I’ve also arranged to meet up with the chairman of the Grizedale and Satterthwaite tomorrow, see if he or his colleagues can cast any light. He sounds very knowledgable, perhaps you know him? His name is Jeremy …’
‘Erskine,’ she said quickly. ‘As a matter of fact, I used to know Jeremy rather well. Though not as well as I thought I did. He was my first husband.’
Daniel felt his cheeks burning. Hannah had forgotten to mention this. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know.’
‘No problem, it was a long time ago. Jeremy went his way, I went mine. It wasn’t easy for a while, but in the end things worked out wonderfully well for me.’ She gestured towards the photographs. ‘It’s a long time since I last saw him. Time to bury the hatchet – and I don’t mean between his shoulder blades. Will you pass on my regards?’
He nodded. ‘Jeremy isn’t an expert in Ruskin by any chance?’
Vanessa fiddled with the publishers’ catalogues on her desk. ‘Not to my knowledge, but that shouldn’t stop him sharing his opinions with you. Jeremy believes he’s an expert in everything.’
* * *
‘So we have two bodies in the shafts below the labyrinth and both of them were buried there at different times – decades apart?’ Hannah said.
Grenville Jepson fiddled with his bright yellow bow-tie, a habit that irritated Hannah like a flea bite. The bow-tie was a fashion crime; she couldn’t believe that anyone would wish to draw attention to the thing.
‘No doubt about it, Detective Chief Inspector. No doubt about it whatsoever.’
He was a tiny man with a voice oddly high-pitched, verging on a squeak. This too got on her nerves. But Grenville was as capable as any forensic pathologist she’d ever met. He was never afraid to express a definite opinion, yet he didn’t shoot from the hip. Once he formed a conclusion, it took cross-examination worthy of Marshall Hall to shake it.
Les Bryant slurped loudly from a cup of water. ‘Could either of them have finished up there by accident? I mean, people are so bloody careless, aren’t they? If you’re wandering around an area riddled with mineshafts and you don’t look where you’re going, next thing you know, you’re arse over tip and …’
He made a throat-slitting gesture. Grenville turned his pointed nose up in distaste. The pathologist spent his working life in the company of the dead and decaying, but he prided himself on his refinement. He’d been known to hum Vivaldi while conducting a post-mortem.
‘With regard to the older corpse, I would say it is out of the question. As to the younger body, it seems highly improbable. The likelihood is that she was forced down the shaft, when either dead or unconscious, breaking an arm and a leg on her way to her resting place.’
‘And no doubt that the more recent deceased was Emma Bestwick?’ Hannah asked.
Grenville sat back in his chair, swinging his little legs back and forth. He took a packet of Polo mints out of his pocket and popped one in his mouth, as if to aid deliberation. It didn’t occur to him to offer them round.
‘Of course, we need to do further work on identification for the coroner’s benefit. There are no signs of surgical procedures, so we will have to fall back on dental records or DNA evidence. There is a sister, you said? Have the liaison officer take a swab from her. But off the record, this is not so much a working hypothesis, more a racing certainty. Everything fits. The clothing, the size of the bones.’
Hannah picked up a red marker pen and scribbled a couple of notes on the whiteboard. ‘How much older is the other corpse?’
‘If I were a betting man, I’d say by half a century, give or take. The contrast is stark. Virtually no clothing left, just a few skeletal remains and a tiny amount of skin around the finger ends. We have odds and ends yielding a few scraps of DNA, so identification may be possible one of these fine days. Already I can say with some confidence that the bones belong to a male rather than a female. The murder weapon is sure to be the knife found lying a couple of yards away from the corpse.’
‘Two murders fifty years apart, with both victims stuffed down neighbouring mineshafts?’ Maggie Eyre asked. ‘Beggars belief, doesn’t it?’
‘Frankly, I don’t agree. To my mind, it’s not at all surprising.’ Grenville crunched his mint noisily, disappointed by the DC’s naiveté. ‘As you know, most murderers are lamentably lacking in originality and imagination. If one killer stumbles across an ideal location for the disposal of a body, hidden away in a remote corner of the fells, it is entirely within the bounds of possibility that years later, a second murderer might come up with the same bright idea.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Forgive me, DC Eyre, but this is more than mere supposition. Sixty years ago, the fells were lonely. Not like today, when they seem as crowded as Blackpool beach. One may speculate that the knife was taken to the scene with the express intention of killing the first victim. Regrettably, one presumes that even if we can pick up any identifying material from the knife or the soil surrounding the site where the body was dumped, the culprit is now safely interred in his grave as well.’
‘We ought to be glad,’ Hannah said. ‘Two crimes to clear up rather than one is a pain in the backside, but at least we don’t have to worry that we might have a serial killer prowling the Coniston fells.’
‘Unless …’ Grenville’s hand strayed to his bow-tie again, setting Hannah’s teeth on edge. ‘There is always the distant possibility that the first crime was committed by someone in his teens. He might have kept his secret safe for a long time. But what if your Ms Bestwick stumbled across it? There would be a temptation to repeat the success of the earlier crime. But this would require a suspect with the ability and the will to commit murder in, say, his sixties. Unlikely in the extreme, one hopes.’
‘Unlikely, yes.’ Hannah considered. ‘But not impossible.’