He itched to dash out and buttonhole Hannah, but good manners held him back. Sandra produced a ballpoint pen, and the chance of escape was gone. By the time he made it to the pavement outside, Hannah had disappeared into the mist.
‘There’s something special about foggy days.’ Even on the mobile, Cassie’s voice sounded warm and tempting. ‘I love it that everything is so blurry and mysterious.’
‘Like life, really,’ Marc said.
He’d been back at his mother’s house for the past hour, chewing his nails up in his room, while downstairs, her vacuum cleaner roared. Yearning for the phone to ring, hating himself for acting like a heartsick adolescent. Cassie had cut their first conversation short, saying she needed time to think. Despite the weather, she was setting off for a walk to clear her head. She’d promised to call later, but he hadn’t been sure she’d keep her word.
‘Mmmmm.’
He waited.
‘So.’ She was breathing hard. ‘Would you like to come over?’
Wanda Saffell made Hannah wait in a cubbyhole while she chatted on the phone with someone who was mixing pigments for her next book of woodcuts. From the fragments Hannah overhead, Wanda was spinning out the conversation. The buggeration factor, Les Bryant called it. For all her forty-something elegance, Wanda was a stroppy teenager at heart. Was that common streak of adolescence the bond between her and Nathan Clare? She’d go berserk if Hannah arrested her. It might be worth it, just to wipe the sneer from her face.
‘How long will this take?’ Wanda demanded when at last she hung up. ‘You see how busy I am.’
The table in the little room was piled high with vast printed sheets, ready to be folded. ‘Don’t you have anyone to help you?’ Hannah asked. ‘Nathan Clare, for instance, does he lend a hand?’
‘Why would I want help?’ Wanda asked. ‘I adore the physical act of making books. Not for one second would I go back to public relations, and all the false smiles and back-stabbing. As for Nathan, he’s a creative writer. A very different craft.’
‘But the two of you are very close.’
Wanda put her hands on her hips. Even in a thick Aran sweater and grubby chinos, her figure curved in provocation. Easy to understand why Nathan was smitten. Let alone old, priapic George.
‘Is there a law against it?’
‘Do you or he drive a small purple Micra?’
‘Nathan never learnt to drive. He hates following rules, the Highway Code would bore him rigid. My car is a BMW, you must remember when I carved you up on the way to Stuart’s party?’
‘And now Stuart is dead.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re poking your nose into that case now. Given up on Bethany Friend?’
‘Did Bethany and Stuart have a relationship?’
Wanda moved closer. Even her breath seemed to smell of ink. ‘What are you driving at?’
‘Can you answer the question, please?’
‘Who knows? I doubt it, they swam in different pools.’
‘She temped for his firm the year before her death.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘Did you know Nathan Clare was a client of his, then?’
‘So, what? Any minute now, you’ll hint that Bethany rented a flat through George.’
‘Did she?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea. This all sounds like wild guesswork. To my knowledge, only one person links the three of them.’
‘Namely?’
Wanda smiled. ‘Marc Amos, of course. George and Stuart were his customers, Bethany…’
She let the sentence trail away, but Hannah was ready for her this time.
‘Aren’t you forgetting? You are another link.’
‘I wished George no harm. But even if I did, why should I want to kill Bethany or Stuart?’
‘And you’re suggesting Marc has a motive?’
‘That’s your department, Chief Inspector. I’m not accusing anybody of anything. Though if I were you, I’d pay attention to what your man gets up to with the hired help.’ A mischievous smile. ‘Don’t look puzzled, it might shake my faith that our police are wonderful. Haven’t you met that foxy assistant of his?’
‘Assistant?’
‘Cassie Weston. I spotted her when I called in with copies of Nathan’s book. She tried to keep out of sight, but I’d recognise that slinky figure a mile off. Tell you what, Chief Inspector, instead of hassling me, you’d be better keeping an eye on her.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning that when she worked for George, the two of them had an affair.’
Hannah dug her nails into her palm. Just as well that she’d steeled herself for this interview.
‘Cassie Weston worked for your husband?’
‘And slept with him. Not that I minded much, our relationship was fucked by the time she was. She’s trouble, always has been.’
‘When was this?’
‘Not long before he died. He made quite a fool of himself over the girl. Every Thursday lunchtime, they’d nip off for a bit of hanky-panky in a hotel. He did his best to keep it quiet; nobody knew. I only found out when he fessed up after she finished with him. He was an old goat with all the pretty girls in his office, but Cassie made a deeper impression than the rest. He was badly cut up when she said it was over. She’d teamed up again with the love of her life, and she told George what he could do with his job. To say nothing of his Thursday lunchtimes.’
‘Am I leading you astray?’ Cassie asked.
Despite the cold, and the fact that she obviously didn’t spend much on heating, she was only wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Bare arms, bare feet. And there was no mistaking that she hadn’t put on a bra. They were in her living room, a couple of half-empty flute glasses on the table between them. On the way over, Marc had stopped at an off-licence, and splashed out on a bottle of Bolly. The opened bottle was in an ice bucket in her kitchen. He wasn’t rushing it. They had all the time in the world. This wasn’t about sex. He’d been at pains not to touch her since she’d greeted him at the door with a peck on the cheek. All he wanted was to get to know her better.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Well, I have an excuse, it’s my day off. You’re a businessman, you ought to be minding the shop. Or out bidding at auction, or exhibiting at a fair.’
He settled back in his chair. ‘All work and no play, et cetera.’
‘So, I’m therapy for a stressed entrepreneur, is that it?’
‘We can all do with a bit of therapy, now and then.’
She stretched out her legs. Toenails painted pink to match her fingernails. ‘What can I do for you, then?’
‘Tell me your life story. We’ve worked alongside each other for months, but I don’t know enough about you.’
‘You wouldn’t be interested.’
‘Wrong.’ He took another sip of champagne. ‘I’m fascinated.’
‘OK, you asked for it.’
As Hannah departed the whitewashed home of Stock Ghyll Press, she checked her messages and saw that Maggie Eyre wanted her to ring as soon as she was free.
‘Any news?’ she asked.
‘We’ve found a fresh name.’ Maggie sounded as though she’d run a four-minute mile. ‘Someone whose path crossed with all three victims.’
‘Go on.’
‘She was on the list of students at the university at the time Bethany died. It was her first year, though she dropped out at the end of her second term, a few weeks after the body was found. And she had a spell with George Saffell’s firm last year. Go back eighteen months, and she temped on maternity cover for Stuart Wagg.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Hannah said. ‘Cassie Weston, right?’
‘Hannah!’
She was striding past the Salutation Hotel when Daniel hailed her. He and Louise had just left the bistro where they’d had lunch and were heading back to the car. This time he was determined not to let her disappear without a word.
‘I’ll be in the handbag shop,�
� Louise said quickly, as Hannah waved and began to cross the road towards them.
He gave her a crooked grin. Surely she wasn’t becoming tactful in her old age? ‘See you in ten minutes?’
As Louise vanished into a misty side street, Hannah arrived at his side.
‘How is she?’
‘It hasn’t hit her yet. Infatuation, break-up, discovery of the body. A lot to cope with. In the long run, she’ll be fine, but…’
‘You’ll take good care of her.’ She scrutinised him. ‘Anything wrong?’
‘Not wrong.’ She saw him, he guessed, as pretty much an open book, whereas he could never read her mind. ‘But…odd.’
‘Want to get it off your chest?’
‘You’re too busy.’
She dug gloved hands into her pockets, pulled the scarf tighter around her neck to keep out the cold. ‘You never waste my time.’
‘I’ll try not to.’ He recounted his conversation with Sandra. ‘So, Denstone is a volunteer, not a hired hand.’
She reached back into her memory. ‘I seem to recall the publicity in the local press when he took up the post. I didn’t get the impression he was working for free.’
‘When he got in touch, he told me he was a cancer survivor. Perhaps he wants to do good by stealth, without a thought of kudos for himself.’
‘Does he strike you as selfless?’
‘Not really.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised at being messed about, after years of working with television people. They love to impose crucifying deadlines, and when you kill yourself to do the work in time, it turns out they put the pressure on you to cover up their own incompetence.’
‘Ouch, that came from the heart. But I agree, Arlo’s behaviour is strange.’
‘Louise reckons he’s been spending too much time with the likes of Wanda Saffell instead of making the Festival happen.’
‘Nothing happened between him and Wanda.’
‘Allegedly.’
‘They both tell the same story. Why else would she throw wine over him, if she didn’t feel humiliated by rejection?’
‘Unless that’s what everyone at the party was intended to think?’
Behind them, a car hooted at a van that had stopped on double yellow lines while the driver carried a delivery into a shop. Tempers were as harsh as the weather.
‘Ingenious.’
‘Over-ingenious, I guess,’ he admitted.
‘Perhaps.’
She took her right hand out of her coat pocket and offered it to him. An oddly formal gesture. He wondered if she wanted to put their relationship on a different footing, after that kiss outside The Tickled Trout.
‘Keep in touch, Daniel.’
‘You bet,’ he said.
Hannah needed to talk to Marc about Cassie, but first, she’d better get her head straight. Watersedge wasn’t far away; she’d call at the care home and see if Daphne Friend could shed any more light. Cassie Weston’s name might ring a bell. The longest of long shots – but you never knew.
On arriving at reception, she was greeted by the familiar aromas of old age and disinfectant. When she gave her name to the spotty teenager at the desk, the Polish girl she’d met on her last visit was summoned.
Kasia’s manner was subdued, verging on grumpy. Without looking directly at Hannah, she said, ‘You have heard about Mrs Friend?’
Hannah felt her throat constrict. Easy to guess what was coming.
‘What about her?’
‘She died last night.’ Kasia was pale, and Hannah suspected she minded suffering too much to work in a place like this, where death often came to visit. But she hoped the young woman would not change. ‘Very peaceful, she…slipped away.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘This weather.’ Kasia’s voice hardened, as if she’d found something to blame for her melancholy. ‘It is not good for the residents. Not merely cold, but damp as well. Unhealthy.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’
‘I liked her,’ Kasia said. ‘You should not have favourites, it is not good. But I cannot help it.’
‘Don’t be hard on yourself, it’s human nature.’ Hannah considered. ‘What happens to her things?’
‘There is a niece in Shropshire. She saw Daphne once or twice. It was a duty, I think. She said she was too busy with her family, and her job.’
‘Did Daphne keep any papers, anything about her daughter?’
‘The girl who died?’ Kasia was sombre. ‘Nothing much. Only a few books.’
Books, there was no escaping them.
‘May I have a quick look?’
A tired flap of the hand. ‘You are the police, you can do whatever you wish.’
‘If only.’ Hannah smiled. ‘I’m grateful for your help, I won’t keep you long.’
Kasia led her to a storeroom. Daphne’s worldly goods had been bundled into a handful of brown-paper parcels loosely tied with red string, and a large, battle-scarred suitcase. Not much to show for seventy-one years, but it would make no difference if the old lady had left a house as full of rare treasures as Crag Gill. Stuart Wagg was no less dead than Daphne Friend.
‘Her clothes are in the suitcase.’ Kasia started to open the parcels. ‘The books and her reading glasses are in here.’
There were a couple of dozen books. Three Catherine Cooksons, and a handful of well-read Liverpool sagas. Most of the remaining novels were different, not least because their spines weren’t cracking with wear. The Shipping News, Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, Midnight’s Children, The Ghost Road, and among the shiny paperbacks, a pristine, dust-jacketed copy of Possession.
Call herself a detective? After all these years of sleeping with a bookseller, she had glanced at the titles in Daphne’s bookcase, and still failed to appreciate the wild variation in tastes. Of course, the same reader could love both Catherine Cookson and Pat Barker. It wasn’t breaking any rules. But really, was Daphne Friend a likely fan of Salman Rushdie? Hannah picked up Possession. It was the only book by AS Byatt she’d ever read, mainly because she’d watched the film on TV with Marc, a sort of detective story that wasn’t about professional detectives.
She began to flick through it, but didn’t get past the title page. Under Byatt’s name a gift inscription was scrawled in a round, extravagant hand that she recognised from the Christmas card the same woman had sent to Marc.
To my darling Bethany, who knows that Possession is nine points of the law.
With all my love, Cassie.
Cassie was a born teller of tales. She had it all: soft, husky voice, and a gift for keeping him on tenterhooks for the next chapter of her story. And God, she was good to look at, as she talked with her long lids half-closing her eyes. The T-shirt had ridden up, showing a flat stomach. Her skin was smooth and without a blemish, the rise and fall of her breasts hypnotic. Forget the booze, a man could get drunk on the sight of her.
‘More champagne?’ she asked.
‘Don’t stop talking. Please.’
She’d never known her father; she’d been conceived after an alcohol-fuelled kids’ party. Her mum was a week past her fifteenth birthday when she was born; and her grandparents threw her out the moment they learnt she was pregnant. Mum did her best to look after her; she drank and did drugs, and was a lousy judge of men, but she was intelligent, and she loved to read to her little girl at bedtime – Cassie owed her passion for stories to those precious times together. But at school, the other kids taunted her because of the rumours that her mum screwed old blokes for money.
‘I never believed the gossip, until the day the police came to school and told me that Mum was dead. One of the dirty old men had buried a kitchen knife in her throat.’
‘Jesus,’ Marc breathed.
‘I refused to believe what had happened, screamed myself sick until they let me see her body. They’d done their best to hide the wounds, but…’
‘It must have…’
‘Every night after that,’ she interrupte
d, ‘my dreams were haunted by the sight of her. Visions of blood gushing from her jugular vein.’
‘It’s…’
‘The man who murdered her was a neighbour, and a client, too. He stank of cigarettes and sweat. Mum wanted me to call him Uncle Bob, but I never did. He pleaded guilty to manslaughter, reckoned that Mum waved the knife at him when she was high on heroin, after he told her he was going back to his wife. He said he’d grabbed the knife from her, but somehow it finished up in her neck. He wept in the dock and said he’d loved the woman he’d killed. Lying bastard. They gave him nine years, but he died of a coronary within six months. He really didn’t suffer enough for what he did.’
‘I understand how you must feel,’ Marc said.
‘Do you? Do you really, Marc?’ She shook her head. ‘Love and pain, where does one end, and the other begin? I was so mixed up that every relationship I ever had, I destroyed. I wanted to give my love, and ended up hurting people.’
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ he muttered.
A demure smile. ‘Marc, you’re not drinking.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Give me your glass.’ She reached out towards the table. Her gentle persistence reminded him of a nurse administering medicine to a recalcitrant patient. ‘Let me go to the kitchen and fix you a refill.’
Hannah’s phone sang as she climbed into the Lexus. On the screen, Daniel’s number flashed.
‘Sorry, I don’t want you to think I’m stalking you.’
I wish.
Hey, police officers were supposed to be unshockable, though sometimes she shocked herself with the stuff swirling around in her subconscious. A shrink would have a field day.
‘No problem, Daniel.’
‘Are you all right? You sound far away.’
‘We are in the endgame.’
‘You know about the car, then?’
‘What car?’
‘I heard the radio news soon after Louise and I arrived home. The reporter said the police are looking for a small purple car in connection with Stuart Wagg’s death.’
The Serpent Pool Page 24