Was it significant, Wanda Saffell’s name cropping up in the Bethany Friend inquiry? In conversation with Maggie, Hannah played it down. The young DC’s enthusiasm was one of her virtues, but no sense in jumping to conclusions. Cumbria was a small world, albeit so diverse that anyone could be forgiven for forgetting. The local population was tiny, once you stripped out seasonal workers and tourists who came from all four corners of the globe. For the wife of a suspected murder victim to be interviewed in relation to the unexplained death, six years ago, of a work colleague barely registered on the Richter scale of coincidence.
But you never knew. Wanda intrigued Hannah. The sight of Arlo Denstone, drenched with red wine at the New Year party, remained as vivid in her memory as the stain on his white jacket. Wanda had a temper, and she lacked restraint. She’d had too much to drink that night, and seemed at the end of her tether. But it didn’t mean she had anything to do with Bethany’s death. The brutal shock of having a husband roasted alive was enough to drive anyone to distraction.
‘I’ll pay her a visit.’
‘She has this little business in Ambleside, can’t be more than a mile away from your new house.’ Maggie thrust a scribbled note into her hand. ‘Here’s the address.’
‘Thanks. I’m having breakfast with Fern Larter tomorrow. She can brief me on Wanda.’
‘I don’t like the sound of her.’ Maggie folded her arms as she pronounced judgement. She was a sturdy young woman, from a family who had farmed in the Lakes for five generations, and were the sort of people who believed that there was no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing. She didn’t have much time for shades of grey. Or for posh women who printed obscure volumes of poetry. For all her diligence, she’d need a more flexible mindset if she wanted to shin up the greasy pole. ‘Her witness statement is only a page long, but she comes over as heartless. And she must be in the frame for her husband’s murder.’
‘Assuming he was murdered. Let’s not run ahead of ourselves before the coroner has had his say. Let alone the CPS. Wanda is a grieving widow, we’d better not forget that.’
Maggie’s jaw was set firm. Like most of the foot soldiers in the force, she suspected the Crown Prosecution Service of devoting its time and energy to thinking up reasons not to prosecute.
‘A black widow, maybe.’
‘We’ll see.’ Hannah slapped Maggie on the shoulder, a gesture of encouragement to counterbalance her caution. ‘In the meantime, well done.’
* * *
Hannah asked the admin assistant to set up a meeting with Wanda while she attended a New Year sermon from Lauren. The ACC’s theme was that the CID had to change with the times and she went on and on like an automated phone system. Press one for inclusive policing. Press two for a critique of gender stereotyping. Her latest big idea was a weekend conference for senior detectives at ‘a top secret location’ which would turn out to be some dreary hotel in the Yorkshire Dales. The ACC droned on ad nauseam about the force’s ever-increasing number of ‘partnerships’ with assorted authorities, units, agencies and projects before introducing a shiny young woman called India Sturridge, the latest recruit to Cumbria Constabulary’s team of spin doctors. India looked barely old enough to be out of university, but she was bound to be paid more than the likes of Maggie Eyre, although she’d never be asked to put her life on the line. Having taken the precaution of wearing a very low-cut blouse, she was assured of the attention of a predominantly male audience. Hannah sensed Greg Wharf shifting in his chair as he composed his next chat-up line.
‘We wanted to make a statement,’ Lauren announced, though India’s tanned flesh was the only statement Greg and most of the others were interested in. ‘This appointment is a tangible sign of our commitment to effective and targeted communication with local communities.’
‘My aim is simple,’ India trilled. ‘To support the fantastic job my new colleagues do in making the Lake District an area that is not only safer, but feels safer. Our business is not just to cut crime, but to manage the public’s perception of crime.’
‘CID?’ Les Bryant demanded when they repaired to the bar at the end of the shift for a quick drink and communal moan. ‘Criminal Investigation in Decline, if you ask me. In my day, you’d fill a page of a notebook writing up a sudden death. Now you have to produce War and bloody Peace. That’s why the likes of Nick Lowther are fucking off to places like Canada and Australia. I can remember the time when detectives dreaded the thought of demotion. Now they punish you by keeping you in the CID. Loading up your unpaid overtime, taking away your plain clothes allowance.’
‘Why do you think they didn’t send me back to uniform?’ Greg Wharf asked, wiping the froth from his pint from his mouth. ‘That’s where you get a decent work/life balance.’
‘You’d never have dreamt—’ Les began, before breaking into a violent sneeze.
‘No wonder the CID is advertising so many vacancies.’
The pair had already formed a double act, Hannah thought, as she sipped her lemonade. The Disgruntled Detectives. But she guessed Ben Kind would have agreed. Fewer cops aspired to be a chief inspector these days, simply because of the long hours. Rest days routinely cancelled, duty rotas and shifts changed at short notice. Performance targets were poisoning police work. The government had created three thousand new offences in the past decade, to prove they were dealing with crime. So stupid kids had to be ‘sanctioned’ for offences such as being in possession of an egg with intent to throw it. Detective work was skewed towards statistics, and away from time-consuming stuff like burglary and rape. Officers were nailed to their desks, filling out forms to satisfy the demands of an army of lawyers and social workers.
‘You don’t calm down a domestic nowadays.’ Greg leant back in his chair, lamenting the Good Old Days. ‘You provoke someone to lash out, then arrest them. Crime, detection, clear-up, all in a couple of minutes. Easy-peasy.’
‘We do need to reach out more—’ Hannah decided it was time to give the ACC a bit of support, but was at once drowned out by a chorus of protests.
‘You wait. There are forces out there wearing sponsored baseball caps instead of helmets. They’ve privatised forensics, and the computer geeks will be next. How long before we’re—?’
The moanfest was interrupted by the chirruping of her mobile. She glanced at the number on the screen, and recognised it at once.
Daniel Kind.
The jolt of excitement travelled through her like an electric shock. Was this how addicts felt, when after months of cold turkey, the drug entered their veins? She muttered an excuse, vague and inarticulate, and hurried away from their table. Must make sure she was out of earshot.
‘Hello?’
‘Hannah? This is Daniel, Daniel Kind.’
He didn’t need to introduce himself. There was only one Daniel.
‘Sorry.’ He sounded unaccountably nervous, as though he’d taken her silence as frostiness. ‘Is it inconvenient, am I interrupting something?’
‘Only a rant from my sidekicks about the downsides of modern policing.’
‘I’ll keep it brief.’
‘No need to apologise.’ She hesitated. ‘Fact is, I could do with being distracted. Preferably until they both drink up and bugger off home.’
‘You sound fed up.’
‘Shouldn’t be, should I? Not long back after the holiday and already I feel as though I’m on an endless treadmill, as per usual. How are things? I saw Louise—’
‘I know.’ Still that note of anxiety. What was wrong? ‘It’s because of Louise that I’m ringing. I’d like a word with you, off the record.’
‘Your sister isn’t in trouble?’
‘Well…’
He was floundering.
‘Then, what?’
‘She’s split up with Stuart Wagg, and now he’s…’
The superarticulate Daniel Kind, lost for words? Amazing. But – admit it, Hannah – it was impossible not to feel a frisson of excitement. Quite a turn-on that: when he needed help, he’d called her.
Striving for her best chief inspector tone, she said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Don’t worry. She’s well rid of him…sorry, he’s a friend of yours, he invited you over for New Year’s Eve.’
‘Police officers don’t make friends with lawyers. No, he’s a customer of Marc’s, a rare-book collector. You were saying, about him?’
‘Look, it’s difficult to talk about over the phone. I wondered if you could spare me half an hour?’
She almost succumbed to the impulse to clench her fist and shout, ‘Yes!’ Sod the New Year’s resolution and all that crap about clean breaks and fresh starts. It would be fantastic to see him again.
‘When were you thinking of?’
‘As soon as?’
Keen, or what? This wasn’t like Daniel.
‘You mean this evening?’
‘If it’s too much to ask…’
‘How about we meet in an hour’s time?’
‘Terrific! It’s really good of…’
Her skin prickled, and she spotted Greg Wharf watching her with undisguised curiosity. She imagined him speculating about the call that she didn’t want overheard.
‘How about The Tickled Trout?’
‘Perfect. And Hannah…’
‘Yes?’
‘Thanks.’
Walking through the front door of The Tickled Trout, Hannah glanced to right and left, to see if she recognised anyone. Or, more to the point, if anyone was likely to recognise her. It was second nature for a police officer to check out any room he or she entered. But no one at the tables or gathered at the slate-topped bar took a blind bit of notice of her. If anybody felt a pinprick of conscience, it was her. This wasn’t a secret get-together with a CHIS (no informants in modern policing, only covert human intelligence sources). More like a tryst, though she was still in her work clothes – there’d been no question of nipping back home to change. Fobbing Marc off with the news that he’d have to make his own meal was the easy bit; she’d given him the same message a hundred times before.
A text popped up on her mobile.
Running late. Traffic. Daniel.
So she needn’t have arrived twenty minutes early, but never mind. Turning up early for meetings away from home ground was a habit learnt from Daniel’s father. Ben said it gave you a chance to scope out the meeting place, and to keep an eye on the door. You never knew when you might need to get out in a hurry.
Painted on a beam above the counter was a quote from Twelfth Night. ‘Here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.’ Hannah had a hazy recollection that this was something to do with Malvolio but she hadn’t paid much attention to Shakespeare since she was sixteen. On a pillar facing the bar a notice explained that, by rubbing a trout’s underbelly with your fingertips, you could send it into a trance, so it’s ready to be thrown onto the nearest scrap of dry ground. It dated back to the days of the ancient Greeks, apparently, but although Hannah thought it might be rather nice to be stroked into a trance, in twenty-first century England, tickling trout was illegal. Not that Hannah had ever collared anyone for it. Before long, the Home Office was sure to embark on a media blitz, celebrating the low incidence of offences as evidence of their success in being tough on crime.
The Tickled Trout was one of the most renowned gourmet pubs in the county and had escaped the malaise affecting other rural hostelries. Two hundred years back, the place had been a coaching inn. Now run by two generations – father, mother, two daughters and their husbands – it had evolved over the years in response to the changing demands of Lakeland visitors, combining the pub with a micro-brewery and gourmet restaurant. Marc had once brought her here for a meal as a birthday treat, but the prices were pitched at American and Japanese tourists, or wealthy professionals with weekend cottages in the posher parts of the Lakes, not at second-hand book dealers.
She resisted the temptation to warm her hands in front of the open fire, or linger near the restaurant door and savour the aroma of roast venison and guinea fowl. There were a couple of secluded booths at the corner of the room, suitable for guests who didn’t want to be disturbed. Debussy piano music tinkled in the background as she positioned herself in a seat behind a pillar. From here she could spot people walking in, without easily being seen herself. In the Lakes, rumours spread faster than ripples on a tarn. She’d traded on hearsay often enough to know its potency. For all that Lauren waxed so lyrical about modern, technological, intelligence-led policing, what detectives really relied on was good, old-fashioned, gossipled policing.
Daniel arrived barely five minutes late. As his gaze swivelled round the bar, she raised a hand. He moved towards her with brisk, athletic strides. Her stomach knotted as he approached. She’d thought she was anaesthetised to this. Thought that she’d rid herself of that ludicrous desire for him, the desire she’d refused to acknowledge, even to herself. But the anaesthetic had worn off. She simply couldn’t help it.
‘Hannah.’ He was breathing hard, as though he’d run from his car. ‘Sorry, there was an accident, a tree blown down on the road.’
‘No problem. You’re pretty much on time.’
‘I’m not saying I didn’t break one or two speed limits once I got past the hold-up. Sorry, I shouldn’t be confessing that to a police officer, should I?’
‘I just went off duty.’
‘I feel guilty, asking you to see me at the drop of a hat.’
‘All part of the service.’ Too glib a response, she chided herself even as she spoke. He had this knack of making her say the first thing that came into her head.
‘What would you like to drink?’
She asked for a lemonade, and watched him at the bar. Saw the barmaid study him curiously. They exchanged a few words before Daniel returned with two soft drinks.
‘The girl recognised you from your TV series,’ Hannah said. ‘Am I right?’
‘She’s a first-year history student working in her vacation, and you’re a good detective,’ he said. ‘I wrote books that sold thousands and nobody ever stopped me in the street. I never realised the reach of television until I appeared on the box.’
Another reminder that, if people saw the two of them together, Daniel’s fame meant that word would soon get around. Hannah leant back in the booth. Another reason to be paranoid.
‘I suppose you’re wondering why I wanted to see you.’
She resisted a flirtatious reply. ‘Take your time.’ His brow furrowed and he looked down, as if mesmerised by the pattern of the wood grain in the table that separated them.
‘Stuart Wagg has disappeared.’
* * *
‘Am I making a mountain out of a molehill?’ he muttered ten minutes later.
‘No,’ she murmured. ‘You did the right thing, telling me. But don’t worry about Louise. If she did lash out at Wagg in a moment of temper, I’m sure she didn’t do him much damage. You said yourself that there was no sign of blood in his kitchen and the scissors aren’t stained.’
‘That doesn’t mean he isn’t seriously injured.’
‘Your theory is that he staggered off before slumping unconscious?’
‘Or bleeding to death.’
‘You didn’t see him lying in a heap in the grounds of Crag Gill.’
‘He could be sprawled in some dark corner. I wasn’t equipped to carry out a fingertip search of an acre of land in the dark.’
‘My guess is, he set off to walk the fells the minute Louise ran off.’
‘Leaving his house unlocked?’
‘Marc forgot to lock up our new house only a fortnight before Christmas. I wasn’t impressed, given that Cumbria Constabulary is spending a fortune on a campaign against burglary and sneak theft. But we all make mistakes. Crag Gill has a sophisticated security system. He wasn’t to know there would be a power cut.’
‘He’s a lawyer. Cautious by nature.’
‘You should meet some of the lawyers I know. Did you check whether his car was still in the garage?’
He coloured slightly. Hannah supposed he was chastising himself for overlooking the obvious.
‘He drives an Aston Martin DBS. Marc says it gives him whiplash just to look at it. If he’s dead, the likeliest cause is that he took a bend too fast and wasn’t as lucky as your sister when she crashed.’
‘OK, Hannah. You win. I wasn’t thinking straight.’ She allowed herself a smile. ‘Your secret is safe with me. You’ve done Wagg a favour by shutting up after him. If the worst that happens is that he’s locked out because he forgot to take his keys when he stormed off, he’ll have nothing to complain about.’
‘I can’t help wondering—’
‘One thing lawyers obsess over is proof. Where’s the proof that your sister harmed Stuart Wagg? There isn’t a shred of evidence. If she hadn’t opened her heart while she was in a state of distress about the way Wagg treated her, nobody would be any the wiser. If anything has happened to him, you can bet it’s because he’s missed his footing on a rocky path up the Langdale Pikes.’
‘Sorry to have wasted your time.’
‘Hey, you haven’t wasted my time.’ She leant across the table. ‘I felt rotten for not keeping in touch while you were in the States. I should have answered your last email.’
‘You work all hours. I wasn’t surprised.’
‘I meant to get back to you. When Louise told me you’d arrived home, I wondered if we could meet up.’
‘And thanks to Stuart Wagg, we managed it.’
‘Can I get you another drink?’
‘Marc will wonder what’s happened to you.’
‘Trust me, the only thing he’ll wonder about is which ready meal to sling in the microwave. I rang to let him know I’d be late. Comes with the territory, when you’re with a police officer. He’s accustomed to it.’
‘You’ve been together a long time.’
It was on the tip of her tongue to say, ‘Yeah, feels like it.’
But there must be a limit to disloyalty. Prudence – and nosiness – dictated a change of topic.
‘So, Miranda is back in the big city?’
‘We spoke the other day. But she wasn’t suited to the pace of life in the Lakes. You can take the girl out of London, but you can’t take London out of the girl.’
‘Pity.’
‘I’m glad she persuaded me that Tarn Cottage was a good buy. Even without her around, it suits me. Even in the dead of winter, Tarn Fold seems like paradise. The stillness, the peace. To wake up in the morning and hear…nothing.’
‘Not tempted to stay in America?’
He shook his head. ‘I love the States, but I’d never move there permanently. I can’t scrub the Lakes out of my system. And I don’t want to.’
‘So, we’ll be seeing more of you around here from now on?’
‘’Fraid so.’
For a few moments neither of them spoke. She finished her drink, savouring the tang of lemon.
‘I want to visit Marc’s shop. I’m working on this book about the history of murder.’
‘Murder?’ She leant forward. ‘Tell me more.’
He explained about The Hell Within and the talk he was working on for Arlo Denstone. ‘I’d like Marc to look out any obscure local materials from De Quincey’s years in the Lakes.’
‘He’ll love that, he fancies himself as a book detective.’ She put down her glass. ‘Actually, I forgot to mention that I was seeing you this evening.’
Their eyes met. She wasn’t sure if he gave a slight nod, or if her imagination was running riot.
‘I still feel guilty.’ He leant back. ‘Wrecking your evening after you’ve been slogging down the mean streets all day.’
‘The mean streets of Kendal?’ She grinned. ‘Well, it ain’t LA, that’s for sure. It’s not even as gritty as Lancaster. As for this evening, it’s been great to catch up. Tomorrow, I’ll ask someone to check up on Stuart Wagg. Once we know for certain he’s alive and kicking, we can all breathe again, eh?’
‘What if he makes a complaint to the police?’
‘It’s a domestic, his word against hers.’
‘But she told me, and I told you.’
‘This isn’t an official conversation. Didn’t we agree it was off the record? And since you asked, I wouldn’t mind another drink.’
His brow was still furrowed, but he mustered a grin.
‘Lemonade, or something stronger?’
She gave him a direct look.
‘Lemonade would be best, I think.’
Driving back to Undercrag, Hannah asked herself if Daniel’s darkest fears might be realised. No question, Louise was highly strung. Hannah recalled conversations with Ben Kind, as he fretted over the destruction of his relationship with his daughter. Louise had sided with her mother after his desertion, and he’d never seen her again. He’d gone to his grave regretting his betrayal of his little girl, but Hannah suspected there were two sides to the story. She would never have cut off all contact with her own dad, even if he’d walked out on them to share a bed with another woman.
Tomorrow, more than likely, Stuart would turn up safe and sound. Even assuming Louise had cut him with the scissors, Hannah doubted that he’d bring in the police. He was good at playing the percentages. There was more risk for him in complaining that Louise had attacked him. He wouldn’t want a police investigation looking into his personal life.
She owed Stuart. Without today’s bizarre incidents at Crag Gill, she and Daniel would have had no excuse to meet. In her head, she could hear her friend Terri demanding to know what had happened, and groaning loudly when told the answer was nothing. Terri’s live now, pay later philosophy had seen her through three marriages, three divorces and even a blind date with Les Bryant that had become the stuff of legend. But for Hannah, it was enough to enjoy Daniel’s company. She’d even told him a little about the Bethany Friend case. But she hadn’t forgotten that although Miranda was off the scene, Marc wasn’t.
Turning into Lowbarrrow Lane, she mentally donned her body armour, rehearsing answers to Marc’s complaints about her work taking over both their lives. She didn’t waste time putting the car in the garage, but when she marched into the front room, she found him with his feet up on the sofa, watching a sitcom on telly. He jumped up at once and kissed her on the cheek. He never lost the ability to nonplus her.
‘I opened a bottle of Chablis.’ There were two glasses on an occasional table, full to the brim. ‘Come on, take the weight off your feet. It’s just out of the cooler, I poured it the moment I heard you scrunching up the gravel when you reversed outside the front door.’
She had half a dozen questions for him about Bethany Friend. But with the first sip of the wine, she decided to leave them for one more day. It was all about timing.
‘When you’ve finished, if you like, we can get an early night.’
He smiled. A handsome man, still. Desirable.
‘Give me ten minutes.’
She needed that long. Not to knock back her wine, but to rid her mind of the picture of Daniel Kind, sitting on the other side of the pub table. And of the sudden urge – conquered, thank God, how could she be so pathetically adolescent? – to kiss each and every furrow in his brow.