The Serpent Pool

by Martin Edwards

  ‘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 wo
uld 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.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Overnight, the temperature dived below zero. For once, no mist curtained the garden of Undercrag when Hannah opened the front door, but frost glittered on the grass and trees and there were streaks of snow on the higher ground. Not a smart move to leave the Lexus out in the open. She spent five minutes scraping the windows clear of their hard, opaque glaze so that she could see to drive into Kendal.

  Twenty to seven and, apart from a few farm vehicles, the lanes around Ambleside were deserted. Muddy tracks left by the tractors had frozen over, and the drystone walls were powdered white. Passing Waterhead, she glimpsed ice on the surface of Windermere. Since childhood, she’d adored crisp, dry winter mornings, but that didn’t account for her lightness of mood. Seeing Daniel again had given her a buzz. Until yesterday, she’d refused to admit to herself how she missed him. She found herself humming along to an old Cliff Richard number on the car radio: ‘Devil Woman’.

  Daniel fretted too much. A bluestocking law lecturer transforming into a crazed scissors killer? Unlikely. Yet she was glad he cared enough about Louise to go on that strange expedition to Crag Gill. Just as well Stuart Wagg didn’t have his premises guarded by a Rottweiler. She doubted whether any harm had befallen Wagg, though she’d promised Daniel that she’d ask someone to check things out. It was unwise to turn a blind eye to any missing persons report, even when you couldn’t care less if the misper in question never turned up again. And it provided a reason to call him again, to confirm that Wagg was back home, safe and sound. After that, she didn’t have a script for the conversation.

  At this hour, she had her pick of parking spots at Divisional HQ. She left the car there and set off for her meeting with Fern Larter. The shutters were down over the shop windows in Stricklandgate, and even at opening time, some of the stores would remain empty and lifeless. Local retailers faced a harsh winter; nobody knew when the economic chill would ease.

  The sharp air chafed her cheeks, and turned her hands blue, but she felt a stab of virtue as she strode up the one-in-seven gradient of Beast Banks. This was one of her favourite parts of the town, reeking of history, ancient and modern. Up above, footpaths led to the earthworks of Castle Howe. The Normans chose this hill to construct Kendal’s first castle, a motte and bailey burnt to the ground by Scottish raiders. An obelisk loomed up from the summit. Hannah recalled it was erected to celebrate the Glorious Revolution, and bore the inscription, Sacred to Liberty. Only a question of time before someone decided to monitor it with surveillance cameras.

  A newsagent’s was open and a billboard for the Westmorland Gazette screamed the breaking story in bold black lettering: Cold Snap Helps Police Cut Crime. Another triumph for India Sturridge’s PR machine. It was simply a story about bad weather deterring rowdy rampages by drunken revellers.

  She strode past the building that had once housed a sub-post office. It had inspired a local teacher to dream up the adventures of Postman Pat, before Royal Mail, ruthless as the marauding Scots, shut it as part of a ‘service improvement programme’. Now there was only a red commemorative plaque to show for it.

  ‘I could murder a fry-up,’ DCI Fern Larter said as they exchanged a New Year embrace outside the steamed-up windows of the Beast Banks Breakfast Bar.

  Hannah detached herself and fought to get her breath back. It was like being hugged by a pink elephant. Even allowing for a bulky winter jacket in a shade even more shocking than her latest henna hair dye, Fern seemed larger than ever.

  ‘Looks like you’ve been a serial offender over the holidays.’

  ‘Don’t be such a mean cow. My New Year’s resolution was to lose a stone in January.’

  ‘This is no time for recidivism.’

  ‘Sod off.’ Fern mopped her brow with her leather gauntlets; the climb had made her sweat as if it were the height of summer. ‘Life’s too short for guilt. I deserve a greasy-spoon breakfast after slogging up Beast Banks. See that patch of green over the road? They used to bait bulls there. Reckoned it improved the quality of the meat.’

  ‘You’re a mine of information.’

  Fern’s was the first name chalked up on the police quiz team sheet. Her magpie mind accumulated vast quantities of useless information, along with a few nuggets that made her a formidable detective. She’d once told Hannah that William Wordsworth had been Collector of Stamps for Westmorland, and cringed when Hannah said she didn’t even know he was into philately.

  ‘There’s more. The butchers’ shops of Kendal were originally congregated around the corner in Old Shambles, but the site was too flat for the blood and offal to drain away. That’s why they built New Shambles on the slope by Finkle Street. For better drainage down to the river.’

  ‘Lovely. Still in the mood for breakfast?’

  ‘Lead me to it, I’m famished. God knows why we’re faffing around out here in the freezing cold when there’s food inside.’

  Already a queue had formed at the counter. Hannah recognised half a dozen colleagues, émigrés from the police canteen ten minutes away at Busher Walk. She and Fern were served by an obese woman in a ketchup-stained overall, and carried their trays to a table at the back. Not to avoid prying eyes, but to put a bit of distance between them and a battered transistor radio on a shelf near the door. Radio One blared, the brothers Gallagher yelling like angry old men, as if trying to make themselves understood through the fuzziness of the reception. The subtle charm of The Tickled Trout might have belonged to a different continent, a different century.

  ‘How goes the Saffell case?’

  Fern pushed a hand through her thick hair. If she’d combed it that morning, it wasn’t apparent. Fern was a fashionista’s worst nightmare, one of many reasons why she wa
s Hannah’s best mate in the Cumbria Constabulary.

  ‘If you’d asked me a month ago, I’d have said Wanda Saffell murdered George. In fact, I’d have staked my pension on it.’

  Fern squeezed a sachet of HP sauce over her breakfast. Her plate was as big as a Michelin tyre and crammed to overflowing with eggs, bacon, sausage, baked beans, fried bread and black pudding. There was something pleasingly shameless about the Bar’s commitment to clogging its customers’ arteries. It was good business, at least in the short term until they were wheeled into intensive care. The smell of hot fat alone was enough to send your cholesterol count zooming into the stratosphere.

  ‘Who says you’ll live long enough to collect your pension? You realise eating that meal probably invalidates your life insurance?’

  Fern wiped her mouth with a paper napkin emblazoned with the logo of the Beast Banks Breakfast Bar, featuring a bull with a libidinous smirk. Presumably an ironic nod to the bull baiters of yesteryear.

  ‘You know my motto. A short life, but a merry one.’

  ‘Like the late lamented George?’

  ‘He wasn’t that merry. Boring old fart is the phrase that springs to mind. Really, an estate agent who threw it all up to collect smelly old books, I ask you.’ A momentary pause and an uncharacteristic blush suggested that Fern had forgotten how Marc earned his living. ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with old books, of course. But you can have too much of a good thing, and George Saffell did own a hell of a lot of them. Give me chick lit and trashy magazines any day.’

  ‘So, have you linked Wanda to his death?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ Fern stirred a couple of sugars into her mug of coffee with enough pent-up aggression to spill half of it onto the formica table top. ‘I swear George didn’t tie himself up and the boathouse didn’t set fire to itself, but…’

  ‘You’ve ruled out some bizarre form of elaborate suicide?’

  ‘Who would end it all like that? Imagine how it feels to be burnt alive. More painful than a day of being force-fed Lauren’s homilies.’