The journey to Glenridding, through Pooley Bridge and then along the northern shore of Ullswater, was uneventful. DS Dan Houghton and DC Emma Hide arrived in the small pretty village mid-morning. They had much to do and decided to split their tasks to save time. They agreed to meet up for lunch at one of the many eateries along the shore. Ullswater snaked away from the land at its south-western tip, before disappearing round the corner to the south, where water sports were available in the summer. In wintertime, the boats, launches, canoes and paddleboards were packed away in large huts, and the yards were silent. But Glenridding itself remained busy due to the demand for winter walking. The sun shone brightly and Dan had to put the screen visor down as he negotiated a place to park. He’d take the Gate Inn, and Emma would head to Lucinda Dockie’s house. Both were in walking distance of the car park. They’d chatted about the cases in the car and Dan had got to know his colleague fairly well. He thought her steadfast and reliable, from what he’d seen in such a short space of time. He’d managed to meet DC Rob Shawcross before they left the office this morning too. At first, Dan had suspected that he might be treading on toes, when he came face to face with a man whose stature matched his own and whose steely eyes reminded him of himself, patrolling the Gorbals in Glasgow, being assaulted with missiles by kids no older than ten or eleven. Rob had that look already. He joked that it was because he had a newborn, but Dan was never mistaken: Rob had seen a lot of shit.
But, after a few minutes, Dan’s fears were allayed. Rob was a good sort and trustworthy; he could see it in his eyes when Kelly Porter was mentioned. She’d created a team around her who’d never let her down and, he realised, the rumours were true: Kelly Porter was a legend. He held up his head as he walked in the direction of the establishment owned by Sunshine Holidays. His brief was straightforward: find out where Lorna Burns was, question anyone working there and ask to look around. Dan preferred being out and about rather than in the office, so he was happy with the assignment. He’d already worked out that DS Umshaw liked to fact-crunch, and Rob Shawcross was often trusted with vital computer algorithms, as he had been today. Paperwork was vital, he knew – as did every decent copper – but it could be soul-destroying. It was another reason he’d asked to join Kelly Porter’s team: the geography and population of Cumbria meant that small teams had to be willing to do the legwork themselves. Vast armies of police in the cities, like Glasgow, could afford to send uniforms on fact-finding missions, collating the work digitally from the comfort of a central office. Here, they didn’t have the manpower, so you were more likely to see detectives chasing their own leads. It was exhilarating and he was buoyed by his conversation with Emma.
The Gate Inn was a smart establishment. The building was set apart from the road that ran through the centre of the small village, popular with walkers tackling Helvellyn then seeking some refreshment. The swarms of tourists generally parked in the National Trust car park across the road, Emma said, near the information centre, and paid ten pounds a day for the privilege. But it was worth it: there was nowhere else to park. The locals decried the intervention of the National Trust and bemoaned the days when one could park at the side of any road, to take a quick hike up any route they pleased. Nowadays, the only option was parking in NT-designated areas, skewing the eighteen million tourists through a few routes up the same mountains. It had made the hiking life very dull indeed. The only way around it was to bus or cycle to a chosen spot and go an alternative route, avoiding the crowds and thus enjoying the Lakes as they used to be: unspoiled and quiet. To be fair, the NT had little choice. They had to manage the constant pounding on the popular routes to avoid catastrophic erosion, and hundreds of stone paths had been built on the most common routes to that end in recent years. A path had even been laid up Scafell Pike by volunteers spreading boulders, bit by bit, every time they scaled England’s highest peak. The bags of tonnes of broken stone were dropped by helicopter and distributed by mindful citizens, stone by stone, until a complete path took shape, which would protect the route for years to come.
They’d driven past the Lakeside Bar and Grill, which DI Porter had already visited this morning, and admired it. Dan couldn’t help wondering why Lucinda and Dorinne would choose to work there, if they were on the game, unless it was a respectable front for tax purposes. The Gate Inn promised, on a board outside, home cooking in friendly surroundings. Dan wished he could stay for a pint and a bowl of local Cumberland sausage and mash, before remembering that he was vegan. This morning, when he’d lingered in front of the food warmer staring at the bacon and eggs, he’d been tempted to have a small feast when Kelly wasn’t looking. He grappled with the moral dilemma of letting his wife down, but at the same time, a voice in his head told him that what she didn’t see wouldn’t hurt her and that what was important was to keep her happy, rather than trying to be a purist. She was doing it for her body, believing that she might conceive, and that was commendable, and he supported her wholeheartedly, but his personal trainer back in Scotland had told him not to be so bloody stupid as to cut animal products from his diet, if he wanted to continue building and maintaining muscle. It was a predicament that only he could find a way through, on his own. As long as he told his wife what she wanted to hear, keeping her happy, they could carry on as normal. Assuming he didn’t get caught.
He’d taken a takeaway plastic container from the hotel this morning. Inside, while Kelly was paying at the front desk, he’d filled it with sausages and bits of cheese. It was in his backpack, so his wife wouldn’t find it, and he’d taken treats out of it when Emma filled up with petrol, or like now when he was alone. He stuffed a sausage in his mouth and licked his fingers and tasted the fat. He followed with a lump of cheese and held the creamy mushed-up food in his mouth for longer than was necessary, then gulped it down alongside his bottle of water, and instantly felt nourished. He’d had a panic moment at one point, wondering if his wife would be able to smell the animal fat on him, but then he’d told himself to calm down and convinced himself that it was his protein-starved brain that was skewing his outlook.
Fortified, and pleased with himself for finding the Gate Inn on his own with no dramas, he looked around. He banged on the door. A young man appeared at the window and mouthed that they were closed, until Dan showed his ID badge. The man unlocked the door to let him in. He looked in his twenties and said he worked mornings, setting up. A faint whiff of burnt fat lingered in the air, indicative of a fry-up brunch. Dan had noticed outside a sign for B&B.
‘Who deals with the rooms to let, pal?’ Dan asked. The lad nodded through to a desk. They stood in a small bar.
‘Are they taken?’
‘No idea, I don’t have anything to do with the B&B.’
‘Really? Don’t they need breakfast?’ Dan asked.
The young man shrugged and leant against a bar stool.
‘Have a look at this.’ Dan showed him the photo of Dorinne. ‘Have you seen her here?’
The young man’s cheeks burned bright red. ‘I saw her in the paper.’
‘Go on,’ Dan said.
‘She used to come in here from time to time.’
‘What about these?’ Dan showed him the photos of Lucinda and Lisa. He got another reluctant and nervous affirmation.
‘And did they come in here alone or with anyone else?’
‘No, not alone, usually other people.’
‘Remember any of them?’
‘It’s difficult to say. It gets busy in here at weekends, it’s dark and crowded. Usually with a fella, I think. This one hung around with a scruffy-looking guy. They normally ended up shouting. He wasn’t from around here.’ He pointed to Lucinda’s photo.
‘Can you describe him? Age? Dress? Accent?’
‘Twenties, thin, like I said; scruffy.’
‘Does the name Yus Ali mean anything?’
‘Not to me.’
Dan produced a photograph of Yus Ali they’d taken from the passport office.
‘Yup, that’s him.’
‘What about an older guy? Portly, well dressed, balding on top?’ Dan asked.
‘That describes 90 per cent of our customers,’ the young man joked. It was a fair point.
‘Any vans park up out front?’ Dan asked, knowing that a vehicle large enough to transport a wheelie bin was central to their enquiries.
‘Vans?’
‘Aye.’
‘A couple. Local delivery drivers wanting a pint, and the like.’
‘Any you know?’ Dan was aware that most bar staff tended to know their regulars well.
‘Most of them.’
‘I’ll wait here for your guests to wake up.’
The man looked uncomfortable but Dan made it clear that he wasn’t budging. He called DI Porter to tell her what he was doing. More positive IDs for their murder victim, and more information linking all three women, was a welcome distraction for Kelly, who’d just found out that Marvin Burns had positively ID’d Zhang Wei as the man his wife had met.