‘Can you reach the scene by car?’
‘An off-road vehicle could get close, but it’s not as if she was killed somewhere else and then brought to the water to be dumped. Bethany’s VW was parked at the end of a lane which peters out three-quarters of a mile away from the pool. She’d driven there herself, either with suicide in mind or to meet someone else. The forensic evidence was conclusive about cause of death. Drowning.’
‘Did she have suicidal tendencies? Any family precedents?’
‘None. Her father was long dead, and an elder brother was run over by a lorry a year before Bethany was born. She was studious, didn’t have many relationships. A long-term crush on a woman who taught her English in the sixth form ended when the teacher died of meningitis during Bethany’s first year at Lancaster Uni.’
‘Unlucky lady. A lot of people she was close to kicked the bucket.’
‘Not her mother, she’s alive to this day. She was forty when Bethany was born. I don’t think she ever understood her daughter, but she idolised her.’
‘Was there a history of depression?’
‘Nothing known. Bethany had few friends, but the people she knew found it hard to believe she’d want to end it all.’
‘Friends and family are often the last to know.’
‘According to the mother, Bethany couldn’t swim. She hated putting her face under water, so why would she choose to drown herself?’
‘Another way of tormenting herself?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
He shrugged. ‘So, why are we bothered?’
Good question. Hannah was ready with an answer. Though, as when she’d talked with Marc up at the Serpent Pool, it wasn’t a complete answer.
‘The SIO who led the inquiry wasn’t satisfied. He mentioned the case to me before he retired. He always believed she was murdered.’
‘Yeah?’
She remembered Ben Kind telling her about the investigation into Bethany’s death, after he was told to run it down. She’d been embroiled on another inquiry at the time. Even now, she could hear Ben’s voice.
I can’t get her last moments out of my mind. A woman who hated water, drowning herself like that? She must have been terrified. Why would anyone do that to themselves?
‘Bethany had a lover called Nathan Clare. The SIO wondered if Clare knew more about Bethany’s death than he was prepared to admit. But there was no proof, and plenty more pressing cases where there was no doubt a crime had been committed. He had to give up. But letting go rankled with him. Unfinished business.’
‘This SIO.’ His white teeth gleamed. ‘Not Ben Kind, by any chance?’
Shit. If this was chess, he’d placed her in check. She gave a quick nod, praying that she wasn’t blushing.
‘I used to work with him.’
‘Yeah, I heard.’
His knowing smile grew broader. The bastard. What had people said about her and Ben?
‘What he told me about the case convinced me that Bethany’s death was worth looking into, once we had the capacity.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, your arrival is the lucky break I’ve been waiting for.’
Take that, you cheeky bugger.
Greg Wharf frowned.
‘What do we know about her, then?’
So he was interested, after all? Better not let point-scoring wreck things between them from the start. For an ambitious guy with a high opinion of himself, Cold Cases must seem like a dead end. In the absence of material yielding fresh evidence thanks to the advances of DNA technology – the sort of stuff that had the Press Office salivating at the prospect of sexy headlines – only a minority of investigations made progress.
Leaning against the whiteboard, she closed her eyes. No need to consult her notes. After hours poring over witness statements and a transcript of the inquest, she knew the key points off by heart.
‘Bethany was twenty-five. She had countless short-term jobs after she graduated. Writing was her passion, but she needed to earn enough to pay the rent while she spent every spare moment scribbling. She often worked as a temp, and she spent a whole term as a secretary in the offices at the University of South Lakeland. Until shortly before her death, she was seeing a man who gave lectures in English from time to time.’
‘This Nathan Clare, her shag buddy?’
She ignored his leer. ‘Clare’s phrase was “lovers without commitment”.’
‘Don’t tell me, he was married?’ She shook her head. ‘Commitment wasn’t his cup of tea.
He never tied the knot.’
‘Unless it was around Bethany’s neck?’
‘The sort of man who enjoys his freedom, by the sound of it.’
‘My sort of bloke, then.’
‘Yeah, he’s keen on Samuel Taylor Coleridge and all that. You could chat about Xanadu over a pint of real ale.’
He pushed a lock of hair off his forehead and looked round, as if in search of a mirror to preen before. ‘Xanadu? That’s a nightclub in Whitehaven, isn’t it?’
Hannah followed his gaze. It lingered on a second photograph of the victim, this time a head and shoulders snap taken by her mother twelve months before her death. Bethany was quietly pretty, with shoulder-length brown hair. Her skin was clear, her teeth strong and even. A Mona Lisa smile suggested she was enjoying a private joke at the photographer’s expense. No question, Hannah thought, something about her compelled interest. There was more to Bethany Friend than met the eye.
But she wasn’t Greg Wharf’s type. ‘One thing’s for sure,’ he said. ‘Nathan Clare must like a challenge.’
Back in the sanctuary of her own office, Hannah closed her eyes and imagined herself on the brink of the Serpent Pool. Pictured a woman in despair, unable to escape her troubles. A woman who saw only one way out.
So on a wet winter’s day, had Bethany driven from Grasmere to Ambleside and walked up the fell on her own? Tightened her scarf around her neck before having second thoughts and stuffing it into her mouth? Brought the rope and jump leads from the boot of her car and tied them around her ankles and wrists? Conquered her fear and thrown herself into the water? Thrashed around for a few moments, or remained still, content to wait for the end?
Imagine the coldness of the water. Swilling over her face, filling her nose and mouth, choking her lungs.
No, no, no.
Something was wrong with the picture. Why the Serpent Pool? It wasn’t as if the Lake District was short of places to drown yourself. Ben Kind thought it had been chosen because of its secluded setting. He’d never believed she’d killed herself and his failure to prove she was a victim of murder, let alone find the culprit, troubled him to the end of his days. He had a detective’s nose for the truth, sensed it in the way a seasoned experienced walker knew the right way down a mountainside, even when the mist descended.
Hannah opened her eyes again. Bethany Friend wasn’t a quitter. She’d kept writing, despite years of nothing but rejection slips. Suicide made no sense at all.
Ben was right. Someone had murdered her.
‘Sorted the new lad out?’ Les Bryant asked.
Hannah stood next to him in the cafeteria queue as he asked the girl at the counter for an all-day breakfast, only to be told it was no longer on the menu (‘ACC’s orders, Les. All part of the new healthy-eating culture.’). She pointed to a glossy wall poster which showed a smiling group of models posing as police officers, as glamorous as they were ethnically diverse, beside a caption that proclaimed EAT YOUR WAY TO FITNESS and extolled the virtues of parsnips and pomegranates. The message was likely to induce a coronary in Les, if his crimson cheeks were any guide. With a muttered curse, he settled for a double helping of Shredded Wheat and a filter coffee into which he deposited two heaped spoonfuls of sugar.
‘He isn’t a happy bunny. Neither am I, come to that.’ Hannah bought a bowl of muesli, a slice of melon and an organic cranberry juice, more to provoke Les than because she was addicted to fruit. ‘B
loody Lauren sent him to Cold Cases as though it’s the naughty corner.’
They didn’t have any trouble finding a table. A virus was sweeping the county and a lot of people had called in sick. Les slurped some coffee and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘It will be all right as long as you show him who’s boss. If you don’t, he’ll trample all over you.’
‘Thanks for those words of encouragement.’
‘Listen, I had a bellyful of management before I retired. I know it’s a pile of shit. But you’re in charge, not me. Better get on with it.’
Les was a veteran of countless major inquiries in his native Yorkshire. He’d been persuaded out of retirement to lend his experience to the newly formed Cold Case Review Team. After his wife left him, he had no incentive to go back home. Six months ago, he’d bought a bungalow in Staveley, and even though a thirty-year pension meant he didn’t need the money, he’d signed an extended contract. Given Nick Lowther’s emigration, Bob Swindell’s move to Lancashire, and Gul Khan’s decision to leave and join the family retail business, Les’s presence in the team gave Hannah much-needed continuity. Cold cases were never solved overnight, and staff turnover coupled with budget cutbacks made the task even tougher.
Les muttered, ‘Watch out, there’s an ACPO about.’
Hannah glanced across the cafeteria and spotted Lauren Self. The ACC was working the room like a politician, moving from table to table, and wishing everyone a happy New Year. She didn’t need to seek votes, so she must be ticking off her list of resolutions. Their eyes met, and Lauren sashayed over to join them.
‘Hannah! And Les!’ Lauren made a show of shaking their hands. Her grip was cool and firm, her skin lightly tanned. ‘All the very best for the next twelve months. Did you both have a good break? Hope you avoided this wretched bug that’s going round. We were in the Caribbean, and we only flew back into Manchester yesterday morning. I’m still adjusting to the thirty-degree drop in temperature.’
You’d never have guessed it from the brightness of her eyes and the spring in her step. Hannah couldn’t help wondering if Lauren wasn’t quite human. If she were a visitor from a distant galaxy, it might explain her lack of empathy with traditional police work. She sought to cover it up with a ceaseless flow of jargon culled from the Ministry of Justice’s guide to doublespeak, but the robotic zeal defied any disguise. Hannah fantasised about shooting at her and watching her evaporate, or turn back into an alien life form. But Lauren was so thick-skinned that a bullet was sure to bounce off her impenetrable hide.
‘You’ll remember this is Greg Wharf’s first day with us, ma’am.’ Hannah noticed the rictus of disdain. Further proof that she saw Cold Cases as a dumping ground for people she wasn’t allowed to sack. Maybe they should be rechristened Hopeless Cases. ‘I’ve briefed him about Bethany Friend.’
A frown disrupted Lauren’s efficiently organised features.
‘You still think there is mileage in looking into her death?’
‘There’s more to be found out, I’m sure of it.’
‘Even though we don’t have DNA?’
Lauren worshipped DNA evidence. To hear her talk, you’d never believe any crime could have been solved before the discovery of that magical double helix.
‘Time has passed,’ Hannah said. ‘People who were reluctant to talk at the time of the original inquiry may have changed allegiances and be more willing to open up. I’ve briefed Maggie Eyre to trace people who gave statements to the original inquiry team. Some of them are still around, but others have moved on. Les here has his hands full with our existing caseload, but Greg and I will talk to some of the key witnesses.’
Lauren tutted. ‘You’ll recall our chat before Christmas? We need a few more outcomes if I’m to persuade the Police Authority to maintain your team’s funding at its present level. No guarantees, Hannah.’
Les Bryant feigned to choke on his Shredded Wheat. The ACC gave him a pitying glance before turning her attention back to Hannah.
‘Pressure on resources is growing all the time. Money is tight and next year’s allocations will come up for review soon. I need positive news to report. Otherwise…’
She shook her head, as if mourning a lost cause. So much for the cheery optimism of the start-of-year rallying call that her spin doctors had put out on the staff intranet.
‘Bethany’s mother is dying, she never understood what happened to her daughter and she deserves closure.’
‘We’re not a charity.’ Uh-oh. The public-funds card. ‘This is taxpayers’ money we are spending. At a time when government revenues have fallen off a cliff.’
Time for Hannah to play her ace. ‘I had a word with a freelance journalist who writes occasional features for the Sunday broadsheets. If we could get a result in the case, he’d run it as a major story.’
Lauren leant forward. Had she been a bitch, Hannah thought, she would have wagged her tail. Come to think of it…
‘Seriously?’
Not really. Hannah had bumped into the man at Stuart Wagg’s party. He was drunk and talkative and was keen to show off. Their conversation had lasted less than three minutes and she doubted he’d remember it if and when he sobered up.
‘Of course,’ Hannah murmured, ‘I appreciate that favourable publicity isn’t the be-all and end-all.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Lauren said. ‘However, I’ll be absolutely honest with you…’
Les shot Hannah a glance which said there’s a first time for everything…
‘Ma’am?’
‘A few columns of positive coverage in the media wouldn’t harm. The chair of the Police Authority is up for re-election in May. He’d welcome a few supportive headlines.’
‘Reviving the inquiry might be money well spent, then?’ Hannah kept her face straight.
‘I think so.’ Lauren was judicious. Weighing the pros and cons with care and objectivity before coming down on the side of self-interest. ‘We need to reach out to the wider community in a very public manner. Good media relations are integral to what we do.’
‘Of course.’
‘That’s settled, then. Keep me informed, Hannah. And bear in mind that solving a cold case doesn’t equate to admitting the force got anything wrong in the past.’
‘I printed off the attachment to my email.’ DC Maggie Eyre thrust a couple of sheets of paper into Hannah’s hand. ‘The witness details you asked for.’
‘Thanks.’ Hannah waved Maggie into a chair as her gaze travelled down the list. ‘You’ve been busy.’
‘Six years is a long time. So far I’ve traced half the people who were interviewed after Bethany’s body was discovered. Most of them still live in the area.’
‘And the people we haven’t found?’
‘Include two of her closest friends from her school days, Phyllida Lathwell and Jean Pipe. They’ve probably married and changed their names. The main evidence they contributed concerned Bethany’s crush on a teacher, the woman who died. There was a fellow student, Gillian Langeveldt, who came from South Africa, and presumably went back there. A couple of work colleagues, with the depressingly common surnames of Smith and Brown. Plus some of the people who came forward, saying they’d seen her on or around the day she died.’
Hannah considered the names. ‘Graeme Redfern?’
‘Worked for an undertaker’s in Ambleside. Reckoned he saw Bethany having sex in a shop doorway the night before Valentine’s Day. Turns out that Redfern was sacked twelve months after Bethany died, and his old boss thinks he may have gone back home to Leeds. Not a nice man, Mr Redfern. He took a ring from a corpse’s finger and tried to sell it on the Internet.’
Hannah remembered now. Ben had mentioned Redfern to her. He’d dismissed the man as a sad fantasist. People like that always cropped up on the edges of a police investigation. There were other names on Maggie’s list. A pizza delivery man, Mickey Cumbes, whose criminal record included a prison sentence for indecent assault of a teenage girl, swore
he’d seen Bethany kissing another woman outside the Salutation Hotel on the morning of Valentine’s Day. A dropped-out student who claimed to have seen Bethany being manhandled into an unmarked white transit van by a burly bloke who looked like an off-duty soldier. Once again, Ben didn’t believe a word of it. Roland Seeton was a long-haired layabout with two convictions for possession of illegal drugs, who probably nurtured some sort of grudge against the army. Any investigation attracted time-wasters, and tracking them down years after the event was a pain. But they had to give it a go. One lucky break was all they needed.
‘Good, you’ve noted Nathan Clare’s phone number. I want to talk to him as soon as I can. And to call on Bethany’s mum.’
‘I spoke to the care home.’ Maggie’s face wrinkled with dismay. ‘She had flu over Christmas and they said she’s fading fast.’
Hannah sprang to her feet. ‘Better get a move on, then. For Mrs Friend’s sake.’
CHAPTER SIX
Sleet slanted down outside the converted mill that was home to Amos Books. From his office on the first floor, Marc gazed out at the swollen beck as it rushed over the weir. The wooden decking beneath the window had disappeared under the water. On a fine day, customers of the cafeteria downstairs sat out and admired the scenery whilst they tucked into cappuccino and cake, but no book buyers had ventured out there for months. Half two in the afternoon, and the sky was the colour of Coniston slate. He switched on the radio to check the forecast, and was greeted by an avalanche warning for Helvellyn.
‘Snow and ice are unstable at all levels of the mountain.’ The Park Authority spokeswoman raised her voice to make herself heard above the storm. ‘Together with the gales, they make any ascent dangerous. High winds are moving the snow around, so it isn’t bonding. Surfaces underfoot are treacherous – all the time, edges are breaking away. With the sudden deterioration in the weather, there is added danger from a cornice of snow.
The Serpent Pool Page 6