The Hanging Wood

by Martin Edwards

  Bryan coughed. ‘When we started renovating the place, Daniel, it was hardly in a better state than it was back in 1837.’

  Daniel made admiring small talk as the waitress served him with venison accompanied by a generous helping of cranberry Cumberland sauce, wild mushrooms, and a head of sweet caramelised roast garlic. The catering was handled by a firm run by a celebrity chef; nothing but the best for the Madsens. An honoured guest, Daniel sat in pride of place, between Bryan and his wife. Before the meal, his host had taken him and Louise on a tour of the Hall, a chance to show off the lovingly restored silk hangings in the drawing room, the intricate carvings and fine plasterwork in the pastiche Elizabethan gallery.

  This huge dining room had been reimagined as one more facet of the Madsen money-making machine, available for hire by elite dining clubs, business magnates, and politicians in search of an awayday with a touch of class. Bryan had hinted that a committee of cabinet ministers was booked in for late August for a private meeting over dinner to discuss the next round of spending cuts. The focal point of the room was a magnificent fireplace bordered by twisted columns carved from wych elms cut down, Bryan said, from the Hanging Wood. There was a Japanese lacquered chest, a small table on which huntsmen once breakfasted, and a long case clock with a moon dial and an engraved motto, Time flies, pursue it, Man, for why the days are but a span. A couple of dozen Victorian portraits depicted three generations of the Hopes family: stern fathers, demure wives and assorted children, cats and horses. The Hopes undeniably thought of themselves as animal lovers, even if hunting foxes to death was their favourite sport.

  Daniel tasted the meat. Tender and lean, with a tangy aroma. He tried not to think of the deer from which it came.

  ‘What happened to the pooches, Aunt Fleur?’ Sham asked, waving her knife at a pair of landscapes, each of misty heather-clad fells, which were interspersed between pictures of Fleur’s forbears and their domestic menagerie.

  Before his sister-in-law could answer, Gareth said, ‘We’re trying out different ideas for exhibiting some of the contents of the Hall, darling. The insurers might kick up a fuss if we keep all Millais’ work in areas accessible to the public. Or at least increase their already extortionate premiums. Thank God so much stuff survived – we’re spoilt for choice as to what to display. The Hopes may have fallen on hard times, but at least they didn’t flog every last piece of the family silver.’

  Sham was about to ask another question, but was interrupted by Fleur exclaiming in admiration about her niece’s bracelet. Talk of the family silver had Daniel glancing at the cutlery. Old, heavy, and no doubt absurdly valuable, it bore the same Hopes monogram as the napkin rings and the tiles of the fireplace, an elaborately curling letter H. Fleur might have become a Madsen, but the Hopes hadn’t quite been airbrushed out of Mockbeggar Hall. Their monogram spoke of power and possession, a reminder to visitors of how the other half once lived. Mind you, the other half continued to live very well, to judge by this meal served with such swift and silent efficiency, albeit no longer by flunkeys born into service, but by freelancers on agency contracts. Impossible not to be impressed. And yet, like the sumptuous furniture and fittings, the food was too rich for Daniel’s taste.

  Hannah stayed at The Forge Brow longer than she’d intended. When Mario left for home, Greg suggested another drink and she found herself saying OK. By the time the Friday crowd thinned and the evening grew chilly, she was ready to leave, but she’d enjoyed his company far more than she’d expected. As a drinking companion, he was funny without being crude – at least, not very – and knowledgeable without being tedious. He’d arrived in the Cold Case Review Team with a very dodgy reputation, but she was glad she’d given him the benefit of the doubt. He even claimed to share her enthusiasm for the music of Diana Krall.

  ‘Back to Ambleside, then?’ he asked as they reached the car park.

  ‘With any luck I’ll be home before it gets dark.’ She was seized by a sudden dread that he might invite her back to his place. Not what she wanted at all. ‘Anyway, I’ll see you on Monday.’

  ‘Take care, Hannah.’

  He hesitated, as if for once in his life he was unable to make up his mind about something, but then he gave a brisk nod of farewell, and strode off to where he’d left his car.

  She shook her car key out of her bag. Her heart was beating faster, but her overriding emotion was relief, rather than excitement. In a strange way, it was as if Greg had passed a test by not trying it on. He’d treated her as a trusted colleague, not another potential notch on his belt.

  And tomorrow, she’d see Daniel again. Things were looking up.

  Orla’s name wasn’t mentioned until halfway through the dessert course, yet Daniel had become conscious of her presence the moment he and Louise walked through the imposing front doors of Mockbeggar Hall. She was the ghost at the feast.

  It was Sally Madsen who brought Orla into the conversation – no surprise there. You only had to be in the company of Gareth’s wife for ten minutes to hear her saying the first thing that sprang into her head, relying on her good looks and charm to compensate for any offence caused. Tall, tanned and tactless, she wore a short magenta evening dress meant for a woman half her age; yet somehow she got away with it. After they were introduced over pre-dinner drinks, Louise had whispered something disobliging about hair extensions and silicone implants, but whatever Sally’s style secrets, they worked. For a man, anyway.

  Daniel was intrigued by the contrast between the Madsen brothers, and between their wives. What did their different choices say about them? Gareth had married a woman who might otherwise have decorated the arm of a football player. Bryan had gone for the local squire’s daughter. Sally’s voice grew louder each time she gulped down a mouthful of wine. Fleur watched her with an indulgent smile that gave nothing away. She’d covered her wine glass with her hand the last time the waitress came round, and was now confining herself to Bowland Spring Water.

  ‘So when is poor Orla’s inquest, Kit?’ Sally asked.

  She’d seized a moment when Glenys Payne paused in a lengthy account of young Nathan’s trip to Africa to swallow a truffle. Kit cast an anxious glance at his wife’s reddened face. She must hate to be reminded that her husband had a life before she arrived in it. A life including an alcoholic wife with a suicidal daughter, and a son who was missing, presumed murdered. You could hardly blame her for wanting Nathan to be the main topic of conversation.

  ‘I’m told it will be opened when the coroner returns from holiday next week, but she will adjourn it for twelve weeks to allow time for post-mortem reports. In a case like this, there have to be toxicology tests, and God knows what else.’

  ‘They don’t think she was under the influence of drugs when she jumped, do they?’ Sally was agog; in another age, she’d have been a tricoteuse. ‘It would explain things, I suppose. Such a terrible way to go.’

  ‘Alcohol was her drug of choice,’ Kit said. ‘The sad thing is, people can say anything about her now, and she can’t defend herself. What happened is traumatic enough, frankly, and it doesn’t help to have the cold case people noseying around.’

  ‘Pity they can’t let Callum rest in his grave,’ Sally said.

  ‘That’s rather the point, sweetheart,’ Gareth told his wife, with exaggerated patience. ‘The kid never got a proper grave, did he?’

  ‘You’d think the police would have better things to do, with the crime figures sky-high,’ Glenys complained. ‘Two senior officers, Kit told me, going for a ramble around the Hanging Wood! Hard to beat that for a ridiculous waste of time. And they make such a fuss about being short of resources; any excuse for not putting enough bobbies back on the beat!’

  ‘I suppose they need to justify their existence,’ Kit said.

  ‘That’s the public sector for you.’ Bryan fixed his gaze on the waitress as she topped up his glass yet again. ‘Thank you very much, my dear. Yes, the police force is far too politically correct these days. Scared st
iff of litigation, so they waste time and effort on trivia, for fear of someone complaining. That’s the trouble with this country, if you ask me.’

  ‘What did you make of DCI Scarlett?’ Gareth asked.

  Kit’s brow furrowed. ‘She didn’t give much away.’

  ‘She does realise she’s on a wild goose chase?’

  ‘Never going to admit it, is she?’ Bryan demanded.

  Daniel saw Fleur exchange looks with her brother-in-law. Presumably Fleur had spent her married life listening to Bryan pontificating, when he wasn’t leering at attractive young women. Over an aperitif, Bryan had recounted his plucky attempt to stand for Parliament in an unwinnable seat; no doubt Fleur was relieved not to have spent the past twenty years small-talking with the constituency hoi polloi.

  ‘Nobody can seriously believe that Philip didn’t murder Callum,’ she murmured. ‘It’s an absurd notion.’

  ‘There’s no proof about what happened,’ Purdey said. ‘We can’t be certain.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, don’t you start.’ Gareth usually left the tetchiness to his elder brother. ‘Bad enough that Orla made her own life a misery, imagining Callum might still be alive and kicking. None of this rumour and innuendo is good for the business. If the bloody media get hold of it, my job will become ten times more difficult.’

  ‘Just saying.’ His daughter’s voice was plaintive, though a gleam in her eye suggested she was more than capable of standing up to her father.

  ‘Sorry, love, didn’t mean to snap.’ He gave Purdey’s bare shoulder an affectionate squeeze. The gift of a daddy’s girl, Daniel thought, that knack of twisting him around her little finger.

  ‘Orla was a dreamer,’ Sham pronounced in a voice loud enough to indicate that she’d overindulged in the wine. Whenever Purdey said something, Daniel had noticed, her sister butted in a few moments later. Purdey’s cool contrasted with Sham’s stridency, just as her little black dress only showed off her long legs, whilst Sham’s lacked any subtlety. ‘No wonder she was crazy about fairy tales. Let’s face it, she lived in a fantasy world.’

  ‘She wasn’t off her head,’ Purdey said.

  Damning with faint praise, Daniel thought.

  ‘Orla was bloody hard work, you must admit,’ Sham said. ‘You’re not telling me you were a member of her fan club?’

  ‘She could be a pain, but I did feel sorry for her,’ Purdey said.

  If Kit Payne was troubled at the talk about his dead stepdaughter, he contrived not to show it. One advantage of possessing such unlovely features was that they masked his emotions. A useful asset for a man who depended on the Madsen family for his living. When he’d talked about grievance and employment tribunals, was that a reminder not to push him too far?

  ‘At least she is at peace now,’ Kit said.

  If he intended this as a conversational full stop, Sham didn’t take the hint. ‘What I don’t get is – why? I didn’t have a clue what was going on in her head. She must have been disappointed that Aslan didn’t take her seriously, but even so …’

  ‘Who didn’t take her seriously?’ Gareth asked.

  ‘Aslan Sheikh, you know, from St Herbert’s. Orla had the hots for him. But he wasn’t interested.’

  ‘She wasn’t the only one who fancied him, was she?’ Purdey smirked.

  Sham, determined not to rise to the bait, turned towards Daniel. ‘So, did you manage to track him down in the end?’

  ‘Yes, we spoke on the phone before Louise and I left home.’

  ‘You were looking for Aslan?’ Fleur asked.

  ‘He left me a message, wanting a word about something, but when I caught up with him on the phone, he said not to worry, it wasn’t important.’

  ‘He’s an oddball.’ Fleur frowned. ‘I don’t expect Micah Bridge will keep him on when his contract comes up for renewal.’

  ‘But he’s not costing St Herbert’s a penny!’ Sham protested.

  ‘Just because he’s a volunteer, that doesn’t give him the right to come and go as he pleases.’ The corners of Sham’s mouth turned down, but she didn’t argue. ‘The bottom line is, he’s not pulling his weight, and that’s bad for morale in any organisation. Wouldn’t you agree, Daniel?’

  ‘Yes, Fleur tells me she’d asked you to become a trustee of St Herbert’s,’ Gareth interrupted. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘I haven’t actually accepted yet,’ Daniel said. ‘But I’m flattered by the invitation.’

  ‘Very diplomatic,’ Bryan said. ‘But my advice to you, old man, is to face up to the inevitable. What my wife wants, she makes sure she gets, you can take it from me.’

  He leant back in his chair, and guffawed with laughter at the precise moment that the pretty waitress began to pour his coffee, with the result that she spilt some over his crisp white dinner jacket. A malevolent gleam lit her eyes even as she apologised, and mopped ineffectually at the spreading brown stain. Payback for incessant ogling. Gareth couldn’t hide his amusement, but Fleur Madsen’s face was as unreadable as a rune stone.

  So Fleur always got what she wanted, did she? Daniel could scarcely contain his curiosity. He would love to find out what she really did want.

  Daylight was fading as Hannah arrived back at Undercrag. She was back in Ambleside later than planned. The moment she’d switched on the engine of her Lexus, her mobile had sung. Terri, at a loose end and in the mood for a chat. When Hannah let slip that she’d spent the evening in a pub with her sergeant, her friend insisted on being told all about him. It had taken ten minutes to persuade Terri that Greg wasn’t a candidate to replace Marc in her bed. At least she didn’t make the mistake of announcing that she was due to see Daniel Kind again tomorrow morning. She’d never have heard the last of it.

  As she closed the door of the Lexus, the back of her neck prickled. She froze. She wasn’t alone here. Someone was watching her every move.

  With agonising care, she craned her neck to look at the front of the house.

  A dark figure detached itself from the shadows.

  Panic surged inside her. She swallowed hard.

  Keep calm, keep calm.

  ‘Hannah,’ a familiar voice said. ‘I wondered how long you would keep me waiting.’

  ‘Have you and Daniel always been close?’ Sally Madsen asked Louise, as Purdey and Sham squabbled over who had devoured the most truffles. ‘I wish the girls would grow out of this rivalry. I can’t understand it. I’m an only child, and I always longed for a brother or sister.’

  Bryan had sent for another dinner jacket. Naturally, the man who had everything could, in the space of five minutes, rustle up a spare that looked even more expensive than the one the girl had drenched.

  Louise took a sip of coffee. ‘Not always close, no. Our father left home when we were still at school, and the two of us made the mistake of taking sides. I backed Mum to the hilt, Daniel missed his dad. It took us years to get past that. But there was never any rivalry between us. From my point of view, it would have been crazy. Everyone always said how brilliant Daniel was. How could I possibly compete?’

  Daniel had never thought of it like that. Trying to cover his embarrassment, he said to Fleur, ‘So how did you get on with your brother?’

  Fleur’s expression gave nothing away. ‘You might be surprised how little Jolyon and I saw of each other. He was older than me, and very different in every respect. I was sent away to school in Yorkshire from the age of seven. I only came home for holidays, and even then, I often stayed with friends for weeks at a time. He broke his neck in a riding accident twenty-one years ago, it was tragic. But although we made sure he had the best care money could buy, I can’t say we were close.’

  ‘You must have grown up with Bryan and Gareth,’ Louise said. ‘They lived only a stone’s throw away.’

  ‘We knew each other, of course. But my father and theirs didn’t really see eye to eye. Old money versus new, I suppose, coupled with resentment that we’d been forced to sell a large chunk of our land to people who h
ad to work for a living. Not that there was any of the old money left by this time. The Hall was falling to bits, and I didn’t know what the future held. Lucky for me that, one summer holiday, Bryan plucked up the courage to ask me out. And the rest is history.’

  ‘Lucky lady,’ Gareth said. ‘Sally drew the short straw. The younger brother. The minority shareholder.’

  His wife blew him a kiss. ‘Never mind; you may be the poor one, but you’re still a hunk as far as I’m concerned.’

  Sham winced at the ostentatious display of mutual affection. ‘Mum, please.’

  Paying no attention to his niece, Bryan sniggered. ‘Fleur’s father almost choked on a glass of gin when I asked for his daughter’s hand.’

  ‘But like you said,’ Gareth murmured, ‘Fleur always gets what she wants.’

  Daniel was conscious of Fleur’s body brushing against his for a moment, as she reached for the cream jug. The contact was probably unintentional, but he worried that his cheeks might turn pink. Shifting in his chair, he turned to Gareth.

  ‘So you and your brother have managed to work closely together all these years. Never a cross word?’

  Gareth grinned. ‘Bryan is the public face of the company, my job is selling pitches, and persuading people who have bought a cheap caravan to keep trading up, year after year. I come up with the wacky ideas, he approves or vetoes them as he thinks fit. We avoid getting in each other’s way, and we don’t disagree that often. When we do, I remind myself that Bryan has the voting control, and that keeps me on the straight and narrow.’

  ‘It’s all about achieving consensus.’ If Bryan was trying not to sound smug, he wasn’t trying hard enough. ‘Same as in any family.’

  Sure, Daniel thought, but it helped to have the whip hand. He was conscious of Fleur’s perfume, a honeysuckle fragrance. Underneath the table, her knee touched his for an instant. Again, perhaps an accident, but he swung his leg away, just to make sure.