‘You mentioned that she worked in a bookshop.’
‘Correct.’
‘Waterstone’s?’
‘No, they sold second-hand books.’
Bethany Friend’s death haunted Ben Kind. Yet he couldn’t even prove it was murder, let alone get close to making an arrest. Nathan Clare was the obvious suspect. Ben disliked him, and now Hannah understood why. There was no trace of the supposed lover who dumped Bethany before she took up with Nathan. None of Bethany’s friends or work colleagues knew of anyone. Ben had wondered if the lover really existed, or was an invention of Clare’s.
Next stop was a care home near Watersedge. Time for a word with Bethany’s mother. Hannah wanted her to know she’d had the go-ahead to reopen the case. And now she needed to find out whether Bethany had ever worked for Marc.
As she stomped through the rain to her car, she thought back to those conversations with Ben. He shared with others of his generation an innate distrust of the Bramshill Flyers, those younger graduate officers who came fresh to policing with degrees in Archaeology or Classics and were fast-tracked for promotion. But he wasn’t a bigot, and he’d done everything in his power to aid her progress. Despite the age gap, there was an attraction between them. Never acknowledged in words, but palpable. Neither of them ever did anything about it. He stuck with Cheryl, for whom he’d abandoned his wife and children, and she found herself living with Marc.
One wet night, over a drink after work, Ben told her why Bethany Friend’s death meant so much to him. He’d interviewed Bethany’s mother, and been struck by the depth of her despair. She was only in her sixties, but the combination of a weak heart and a series of personal calamities had aged her. He said she might have passed for fifteen years older, and no wonder. Her husband had died long ago, followed by her son, and finally she’d lost her remaining child.
‘Sounds stupid,’ he said as they sat in the corner of a dingy pub, ‘but she made me think of my mother. When I left home, my wife wouldn’t have anything to do with me or my family, ever again. My mum never saw her grandchildren after that, even though Daniel used to write to her in secret. It made me realise…’
His voice trailed away. Hannah had wanted to take his hand and offer comfort, but she’d been afraid of where it might lead.
‘What?’
‘It made me realise what a selfish bastard I was. Mum died within a couple of years, and whatever they put on the death certificate, the truth is that her heart was broken and she lost the will to carry on.’
‘So, you want to make it up to Daphne Friend?’
‘Yes.’ He stared into his cloudy pint, embarrassed to meet her eyes. ‘Yes, yes.’
Now Ben was gone, and a cold case investigation was the last chance to discover the truth before Daphne died. This was why she’d been so determined to persuade Lauren Self to back the investment of time and resource in a seemingly hopeless cause. She owed it to Ben and Daphne to do her best.
And yet.
What if Marc had employed Bethany?
Or, even worse, if he knew what had happened to her and had kept his mouth shut because he had something to hide?
The care assistant’s name was Kasia. Like most of the staff in the home, she was Polish. Young, cheerful, and obviously overworked. The home was a double-fronted nineteenth-century house which had been much extended. A conservatory had been tacked on, affording residents a view of the fells. But nobody paid attention to the slopes beyond the rain-streaked glazing. Half a dozen elderly women and a couple of men sat around in a semicircle, but most were fast asleep. One couple were glued to a quiz programme on the television screen facing the windows. Some of the wizened faces had changed since Hannah’s last visit before Christmas, but the gentle snoring that greeted her as they walked in sounded exactly the same.
‘She is awake,’ Kasia whispered, as if they had entered a church. ‘She was unwell over the holiday, but she seems brighter today.’
Daphne Friend sat in a wheelchair, hands folded in her lap. A copy of Take a Break had slipped from her grasp and lay on the carpet in front of her, but she paid it no heed. She was barely seventy, no age at all these days, but illness and unhappiness had worn her down. Her skin was papery and she smelt of talcum powder. Her gaze rested on a framed watercolour of Buttermere on the opposite wall, but Hannah was sure she wasn’t studying the picture of the lake. Her mind was wandering back down the years, in search of those memories she managed to retain.
‘Daphne,’ the care assistant said. ‘You have a visitor.’
Hannah held out her hand. ‘Hello, Daphne. My name’s Hannah Scarlett. Do you remember me?’
Daphne Friend lifted a withered hand and brushed it against Hannah’s fingers. The smile on her lips was tentative. Was that a faint spark of recognition in the watery blue eyes? When Hannah was last here, a nurse had told her that Bethany’s mother showed signs of memory loss and problems with concentration. The symptoms had worsened since a minor stroke in November. Yet Hannah had caught her on a good day, and Daphne had spoken wistfully about her lost daughter. After talking to her, Hannah was all the more determined to discover the truth about Bethany’s death.
‘You were in Bethany’s class at school.’
It could have been worse: she might have forgotten their conversation altogether. Or was she simply guessing, like a deaf person trying to keep up when they haven’t heard properly what was said? The care assistant wheeled Daphne back to her room, a tiny box with barely enough space for a bed, two chairs, a wardrobe, chest of drawers and a small bookcase in which battered Catherine Cooksons stood side by side with novels by Pat Barker and AS Byatt.
‘I will leave you together,’ Kasia said. ‘Many things to do. Ring if you need me, OK?’
Hannah sat on a chair next to the old lady.
‘I’m a police officer, and we’re trying to find out what happened to Bethany. When I came before, I promised I’d do my best to help, and now my boss has agreed, we can get down to work.’
Daphne’s eyes began to fill with tears. ‘She was such a lovely girl.’
Hannah touched the age-spotted hand. The wedding ring was loose, her fingers were skin and bone. Ben Kind had been struck by a resemblance between this woman and his own mother. Another old lady whose life was ruined by loss and loneliness.
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘She deserved better, she never had much luck.’
‘I wanted to ask you about her friends.’
‘She worked hard at school. There was a girl called Phyllida in her class. She went to America and married a doctor. Or was it an architect?’
‘What about later on? The people she was close to in those last few years.’
A tear trickled down Daphne Friend’s cheek. ‘Oh, I’m not sure. It’s so long ago. Sometimes, I get muddled.’
‘About Bethany’s boyfriends, did you meet many of them?’
Daphne frowned. ‘She was secretive. You know what young people are like. It wasn’t that I wanted to pry.’
‘You were just interested,’ Hannah suggested.
‘Yes, it’s only natural. When she was a little girl, she used to tell me everything.’ Daphne strayed into reminiscence until Hannah gently brought her back to Bethany’s later years. ‘She didn’t settle with anyone. Such a shame. I always thought it would be so nice to be a grandma.’
‘Was there anyone special at all?’
Daphne shook her head. Her white hair was sparse, the pink scalp showing through.
‘She never said.’
It wasn’t surprising that Bethany kept her private life away from her mother. Daphne Friend was a conventional woman, no doubt disapproving of sex before marriage. Bethany probably told her as much as she needed to know, and nothing more.
‘Tell me about her jobs, Daphne. She loved writing, didn’t she?’
Daphne’s eyes widened suddenly as she smiled. Even though she hadn’t put her false teeth in, Hannah had a momentary glimpse of what had attracted
the late Mr Friend half a century ago.
‘She did that. The teachers always gave her top marks for English, you know. She studied it at university. Even as a tot, she always said she wanted to be a writer when she grew up. Though I told her she needed to have a proper job as well.’
Good advice, Hannah supposed, if Nathan Clare was anything to go by.
‘What sort of proper job?’
‘I wanted her to teach.’ Daphne drifted into a reverie about the attractions of working in a school. ‘A respectable job, with long holidays, and a decent pension at the end of it all. But she said she wasn’t patient enough.’
‘So, what did she do?’
Daphne frowned. ‘Something-and-nothing jobs. At least it was better than the dole, but she could have made more of herself. Working behind bars, or shop counters, that’s no life for a girl with an English degree.’
‘She had a job in a bookshop, didn’t she?’
‘She worked in several shops,’ Daphne said. ‘When she was at Lakeland, she bought a lot of lovely jerseys at a discount.’
Questioning people with erratic memories demanded endless patience. Police work was something else that wouldn’t have suited Bethany Friend.
‘And the bookshop?’
‘Yes, I remember. A nice place.’
‘Did you ever go to see her there?’
‘Once, dear. The shop was in an old mill. They opened a cafeteria. You could sit outside on a nice day with a cup of tea and a bun, and look at the stream as it went over the whatsit.’
‘The weir,’ Hannah said automatically. Her heart was pounding.
‘That’s right, the weir.’ Daphne’s pallid cheeks coloured as something occurred to her. ‘I’m so sorry, dear, your name’s just slipped my mind.’
After leaving the care home, Hannah wandered around the village, not yet ready to return to Divisional HQ. With a certain amount of well-concealed malicious glee, she had given Greg Wharf the task of checking into current wisdom on knotting techniques, to see if more light could be cast on the manner of Bethany’s death. Maggie was phoning round, in search of the people on her list who remained untraced.
Pausing by the edge of the lake, she gazed at the grey expanse of water while swans flapped their wings as if trying to dry themselves in the drizzle. She’d quizzed Daphne without success about Bethany’s spell in the bookshop. It must have been during the early days of Hannah’s relationship with Marc. They’d both been working long hours; she was building her career, while Marc devoted himself to getting the business off the ground. They had so little time to spare for each other. Her job meant so much to her; disappointment had yet to set in. As for Marc, books were his obsession, his life. He’d dreamt of owning a bookshop the way other kids dreamt of running a sweet shop. She’d been content to let him get on with it.
Hannah remembered the photograph that had caught Greg Wharf’s attention. A young woman who was quietly intriguing. A challenge. Like Hannah herself, perhaps. There was a type of woman who appealed to Marc. Bethany fitted the profile.
As she followed a circuit around Ambleside, anorak capital of the western world, shop windows proclaimed unbeatable reductions on walking boots, and outdoor gear for sale at not-to-be-repeated prices. But she was in no mood for bargain-hunting.
When she arrived home that evening, the lights were on, and Marc emerged from the kitchen with a spring in his step. He planted a kiss on her cheek and patted her bum. He was in such a good mood, she supposed he’d sold a first edition. Or bought one on the cheap.
‘Busy day?’ she asked.
‘Flogged a signed copy of Leave it to Psmith half an hour ago over the Internet. As for the shop, barely a customer. It’s the weather, of course. Never mind, the Wodehouse sale more than makes up for it.’ He put his arm around her waist and pulled her to him. ‘I’ve put the oven on and dug a bottle of that nice red wine out of the cellar to celebrate.’
As his lips brushed hers, she told herself this wasn’t the time to interrogate him about Bethany Friend. Moments of harmony were precious. He would hate questions, would demand to be told whether she was checking up on him. In her head, she heard his outraged innocence.
‘For God’s sake, Hannah, what’s got into you? Don’t you trust me anymore? I mean – you’re not jealous of a dead woman, are you?’
So she squeezed his hand and said, ‘That’s fine.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hannah didn’t mention Bethany Friend’s name that night. Marc did the cooking, a very good boeuf bourguignon, washed down with a bottle of Merlot. Over the meal they watched a DVD, a sentimental romantic comedy she forgot as soon as the final credits rolled. When he suggested they go to bed early, she said yes at once. As she undressed, she tried to remember the last time they’d made love on a weekday night, when they both had to get up for work the next morning. How stupid it would be to ruin the moment by cross-examining him about the woman who had died in the Serpent Pool.
Marc was patient and tender. This was how it used to be between them. When they first met, she’d liked the fact that books meant so much more to him than football or rugby. As a junior police officer, she’d dated men who were keener on sport than on sex. Marc’s sensitivity turned her on, made him seem different. When he asked her to move in with him, she said yes before he had a chance to change his mind. Even now, she didn’t regret it. Sometimes you had to trust your instinct. Take a chance.
As she allowed him to take control, she found her body responding. Forget everything else, exist for the moment. His touch was gentle, his breath warm. Time to banish the image of drowned Bethany’s swollen face. Afterwards, she settled into deep and dreamless sleep.
Marc was out of bed by the time the alarm roused Hannah. She yawned, reluctant to drag herself from under the duvet and get on with her own job. But when it came to duty or duvet day, the work ethic won every time. Sad, really.
Over cornflakes and coffee, she didn’t mention Bethany. Marc took a call from a customer in Denmark with a couple of titles to add to his wants list and then padded off to his study. He was wearing his boxer shorts and his body looked as trim as she could remember. Desire stirred again inside her. How did he manage to keep himself in shape when he seldom went to the gym and spent most of his time reading?
Hannah switched on the radio. The early show presenters, Nerys and Erik, were talking to Arlo Denstone about the De Quincey Festival.
‘…and Daniel Kind, the historian, will be talking about Thomas De Quincey—’
‘Confessions of an English Opium-Eater,’ Nerys interrupted, determined to prove she wasn’t just a pretty voice.
‘Yes, De Quincey was one of the most fascinating Englishmen of the nineteenth century. He had a brilliant mind, yet he admitted to “a chronic passion of anxiety”, and “a perpetual sense of desperation”. These were the qualities that…’
Marc reappeared. ‘Seen my black jersey?’
She turned down the volume. ‘I washed it over the weekend. Look in your wardrobe.’
‘It wasn’t in its usual place.’
‘Look again.’
‘You might have told me.’
He gave a theatrical sigh and banged the door shut as he left the room. Was this the inevitable fate of all longlasting relationships? Those early days of excitement and passion slowly transformed into squabbles about laundry and loading the dishwasher? It wasn’t only Thomas De Quincey who had a perpetual sense of desperation. Perhaps she ought to be thankful that the magic was still there at bedtime. Some nights, at any rate.
When she turned up the sound on the radio, the conversation had moved away from Daniel Kind and Thomas De Quincey. She swallowed the last of her coffee and slid off the kitchen stool. Time to face the day.
As soon as the briefing session was over, Hannah returned to her room and shut the door. Greg Wharf’s patience with knotting specialists was wearing as thin as frayed string. Like experts the world over, they were happiest when perched upon the fence. Nob
ody was prepared to go on the record and rule out the possibility that Bethany had tied herself up before lying down in the Serpent Pool and submitting to her fate. Hannah guessed that Greg’s scepticism had deterred the experts from inching outside their professional comfort zones. They’d worry about the blame game if fresh evidence came to light to prove that Bethany had killed herself.
Hannah shuffled circulars from the ACC as her thoughts roamed. Ben Kind hadn’t been afraid to take risks when circumstances demanded it. He’d once told her there were only two types of senior cop: those with tidy desks and those whose desks looked like a bomb had struck. Ben never tolerated clutter. When his paperwork began to accumulate, it finished up in the wastepaper basket. He was a bulky man, but astonishingly neat, in his physical movements as well as in the way he marshalled his office. He’d never sympathised with Hannah’s hoarding of ancient memoranda and she wasn’t sure she could explain it herself. Maybe she liked the comfort of the familiar. For her, a clear desk was like a zero crime rate. A worthy aspiration, no more. In this, she resembled Marc, even though she lacked his obsessive collector’s zeal. She understood why he hated to let things go.
Was that why they stuck together, because it wasn’t in their nature to make the break? Even after last night in bed, she could not swear to the answer.
Her personal address book lurked at one corner of the desk, hidden by a sheaf of last month’s crime statistics. On impulse, she fished it out. She’d noted the numbers of Daniel Kind’s mobile and the cottage in Brackdale. Never got round to crossing them out.
Why not give him a ring, where was the harm?
As she picked up the phone, the door swung open.
‘Ma’am. Something’s just cropped up. I thought you’d like to know.’
Maggie Eyre, breathless and sweaty after running down the corridor. She’d put on a bit of weight, Hannah noticed. She succumbed to unworthy selfishness. Hope to God she hasn’t got pregnant yet. We’re short-staffed as it is.
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