‘Selectively, was what I had in mind. Come on.’
‘I’ve heard of the Dungeon House,’ Maggie said, as they walked down the corridor. ‘Some nutter gunned down his family? And now his nephew’s daughter is missing.’
‘I’m hazy about the details. Believe it or not, I was barely into my teens when the murders took place. But a colleague told me about the case, years ago.’
‘Is that right?’
Hannah coughed. Why on earth did she still feel a pinch of embarrassment about mentioning his name? ‘Yes, my old boss, Ben Kind.’
Maggie nodded. Ben had retired not long before his premature death, and she’d never worked with him. But she was familiar with his name, and the fact that Hannah was seeing his son, Daniel. A small world, yes, that was the Lake District. So often around here, one person was connected to another. One of the lessons Les drummed into any colleague willing to listen was that a good detective needed to understand the significance of the connections. Especially those that people didn’t want you to discover.
‘Dare we risk a coffee?’ Maggie asked.
Even the quality of the hot drinks had fallen victim to austerity measures, but Hannah said, ‘Yeah, I need a caffeine boost. Let’s risk it.’
They stopped at the machine, and carried three alleged cappuccinos into Hannah’s room. At one point, her office had been due to be sacrificed on the altar of cost efficiency, but in the end she’d shifted to a smaller room, commanding a view of the car park. Beggars couldn’t be choosers and she was glad to keep her own space. Open plan working was supposed to help communication, and undoubtedly saved money, but she often yearned to shut the door on the hubbub outside, and work out in her head what to do next. Blue sky thinking, this was called, when practised by divisional commanders. For a humble DCI, it looked dangerously like self-indulgence, but Ben had taught her that it was easy for police inspectors to feel the need to run around like headless chickens, and plenty did just that. She dared not think what he’d have made of the cult of budgets and bureaucracy, with its sacred rituals of process, form-filling, and spreadsheets, where worshippers prospered, and heretics who queried the crime statistics were cast into the outer darkness. Slavish devotion to protocols, systems, and key performance indicators were as comforting as blind faith, but proper detective work demanded the courage to use your initiative, and a little imagination.
A small circular table and three chairs were squashed into the space, but she’d done little to personalise the room. Her only concession to interior decor was to line the window sill with potted plants that she kept forgetting to water. She’d chosen them for their supposedly indestructible qualities, but even the spiky green and white leaves of the sanseveria seemed to be praying for a transfer to the typing pool. Throughout her career, she’d striven to keep her work and her private life in separate compartments, though she hadn’t always succeeded. So, not a single photograph, not even of Daniel Kind. Their relationship was still in its early days, and Hannah was undecided about its future. In theory, only a handful of people had a clue that she and Daniel were a couple, but the office grapevine ensured almost everyone in the building was up to speed. If only police intelligence were equally efficient. No crime in the county would go unsolved.
She tasted the coffee. ‘You were about to give me a heads-up on progress with Lily Elstone.’
‘We’ve had a number of responses to the appeal, which Linz and I are following up, but nothing jumps out as a likely breakthrough. I’m disappointed.’
‘Les is right. Looking for leads in a cold case is like looking for love. Got to kiss a lot of frogs before you find a prince. Hey, speak of the …’
Les bustled in, arms full of papers and lever-arch files. He plonked himself down on the vacant chair, and spread everything out over the table. To watch him at work, you’d think the technological revolution had never happened. Probably he thought a tablet was what you swallowed to cure a hangover, and an android was a creature out of a sci-fi movie.
Turning to Hannah, he said, ‘How much did Ben tell you about the Dungeon House?’
He took it for granted that they’d discussed the case. Les knew Ben had taken a shine to Hannah, and he’d heard the gossip that their relationship went beyond the strictly professional. Rumours of an affair were exaggerated, but her involvement with his son meant Hannah still tended to turn pink and defensive whenever Ben’s name cropped up.
‘Years back. I forget the details.’
‘All right, I’ll begin at the beginning. Are you sitting comfortably?’
He grinned at the two women, and Hannah realised he enjoyed being centre stage again. A reminder of the old days, when he was the SIO mapping out how his team should conduct an enquiry.
‘Once upon a time there was a big bad businessman whose name was Malcolm Whiteley. He made his money in waste management, which I thought was just a posh term for running a scrap yard. In fact, play your cards right, and it’s a licence to print money. There’s a lot of waste that needs managing, apparently. Whiteley built up his operation over the years, and bought out rival concerns. Along the way, he earned a reputation for operating on the windy side of the law.’
‘Worked a treat, didn’t it?’ Hannah pointed to a yellowing photograph of an Arts and Crafts house among the papers Les had laid out on the table. ‘He bought a mansion on the proceeds.’
‘Yes, he developed a taste for the high life. Conspicuous consumption, don’t they call it? The Dungeon House stood on a rise, looking out toward Ravenglass. In the grounds were the remains of an old sandstone quarry. The building was in a rotten state of repair when Whiteley moved in, and he spent money hand over fist, creating his dream home. He was one of those work-hard-play-hard types, and toward the end he was drinking like there was no tomorrow. Usually, that sort goes in for chasing expensive women, but there’s no evidence that Whiteley had eyes for anyone but his wife. Things might have turned out better if he had. He’d married his childhood sweetheart, a girl called Lysette, and everyone agreed she was a stunner. Tiny woman, below five foot, but stylish and charming. Whiteley idolised her. They’d been together since their school days. Their only child Amber was sixteen at the time of the killings.’
‘Was the marriage happy?’
Hannah winked at Les. Maggie had taken to heart the advice which Hannah, in her turn, had once been given by Ben Kind. Finding out about the people in the story helps you to find out who committed the crime.
‘To outward appearances, yes.’
‘But?’
‘The story goes that Lysette was playing away from home.’ Les took a mouthful of coffee, and looked as though he wanted to spit it out. ‘Call this cappuccino? Breach of the Trade Descriptions Act. I bet the Whiteleys owned a decent coffee maker. They were the couple who had everything. Only snag was the usual one. Everything wasn’t enough.’
Snippets of the story were coming back to Hannah. ‘Didn’t Whiteley run into financial trouble?’
‘Yes, he sold his company and made a packet, but the buyers started stamping their feet. Questions arose about the accounts, and there was a strong suspicion Whiteley had taken too many shortcuts to save time and money. Breaches of hazardous substances regulations and whatnot. They put him under pressure to refund a large chunk of the money he’d been paid. His problem was that he’d blown most of it.’
‘So he couldn’t afford to repay?’ Maggie asked.
Les turned to her. ‘Gray Elstone – the money man, Lily’s dad – was very close to Whiteley. You could say that Elstone knew where the bodies were buried, if that wasn’t tasteless, in view of what happened. Elstone insisted there was no risk that Whiteley would be bankrupted, even if he was forced to cough up some money to settle litigation.’
‘He would say that, wouldn’t he?’
‘Correct. Elstone was in it up to his neck, and it suited him to play down any suggestion that the people who purchased the business were misled. But he admitted Whiteley had frittered awa
y a small fortune. He’d have needed to draw in his horns.’
Hannah nodded. ‘According to Ben, Whiteley’s self-image depended on being seen as a man with a Midas touch. Grand house, gorgeous wife, glamorous teenage daughter.’
‘On the day of the killings, he hosted a barbecue in the grounds of the Dungeon House. An annual event, loads of people invited. He was losing the plot big style, and had a skinful before anyone arrived. He insisted on making a speech of welcome, but only succeeded in coming across as a drunken loser. Some guests were amused, most of them cringed. Nobody imagined he was about to go on a killing spree.’
‘Did anyone have any idea he owned a rifle?’ Hannah asked.
‘Ted Whiteley, his brother, knew. The rifle was a Winchester that belonged to their father, and he taught his lads how to use it. Ted wasn’t fussed about guns, but Malcolm enjoyed shooting. When the father died, he left the Winchester to Malcolm. The brothers didn’t get on, and there was a big row some time before the killings. After that, Malcolm never spoke to Ted again, even when Ted was diagnosed with terminal cancer. He’d given Ted’s son, Nigel, a job in his business, but after the takeover, Nigel left, and became an ambulance chaser. He and his uncle remained on speaking terms, and he helped man the bar at the barbecue. Ted, the dying brother, wasn’t invited.’
‘What an utter shit,’ Maggie said.
‘Of course, after the killings, people said they’d always thought there was something seriously wrong with Malcolm Whiteley. Not sure if it was really true. After a crime as horrendous as that, everyone jumps on the bandwagon.’
‘Understandable,’ Maggie said. ‘Hard to have sympathy for a family annihilator.’
‘Family annihilator, eh?’ Les plucked at a hair growing in his nostril. ‘American term, is it? Something you picked up off the telly?’
‘It’s a well-established phenomenon,’ Maggie retorted. ‘A man – well, usually it’s a man – murders his wife and one or more of his children, and then kills himself. It’s becoming more common, nobody knows why.’
‘You’re assuming,’ Hannah said, ‘that Malcolm Whiteley did kill Lysette and Amber before he shot himself.’
Maggie glanced at the newspapers on the table. ‘Has anyone suggested that he didn’t?’
‘Yes, as it happens,’ Hannah said. ‘Ben Kind believed the whole truth about the Dungeon House murders never came out.’
CHAPTER SIX
Joanna switched off the television. She was feeling peckish, and didn’t have much in the fridge. Better nip out to the convenience store. She could treat herself to a cheese and mushroom toastie at that new coffee shop in the centre of Lytham. These pangs in her stomach were unfamiliar. Since finishing at work, she’d lost her appetite. Was she feeling hungry because she’d seen Nigel’s face up close again, out of the blue?
‘Told you what a good-looking chap he was,’ she murmured to Darcy.
Darcy, a glossy Siamese, curled up in his basket, feigning supreme indifference. His jealousy amused Joanna. Fresh competition for her affection wouldn’t go amiss.
Seeing Nigel again reminded her of the afternoon they’d taken the ferry across Windermere, before walking through the woods near Hawkshead. Not long ago, she’d dreamt about that day, reliving every magic moment. Heartbreaking to wake up, and find herself no longer a young woman with high hopes for the future. Doctor Chanderpaul was right, she’d got herself into a downward spiral. Yet it was all very well for outsiders to harp on about thinking positive. First, you needed something to think positive about.
Infused with an energy she hadn’t felt for ages, she showered and dressed. Almost noon, naughty, naughty, but she’d fallen into bad habits. Sometimes she spent the whole day in her pyjamas. With time on your hands, things preyed on your mind.
The deli and the shops were more than a mile from her bungalow. This would be further than she’d walked for weeks. She usually caught a bus to the doctors’ surgery, but she needed the exercise. Doctor Chanderpaul had warned against getting old before her time. The skies were cloudy, and she took an umbrella, to be on the safe side. No sense in getting completely carried away.
She locked the front door behind her, still cheered by the unexpected sighting of Nigel. At least she had happy memories, souvenirs that money couldn’t buy. One thing she’d never envied Nigel for was his wealth. She guessed it had brought little happiness, just like it never brought happiness to that hateful uncle of his. Nigel had spoken so movingly about his missing daughter. If only she could offer him comfort at a difficult time.
‘Nice to see you out and about, Joanna.’ Edna Butler, who lived three doors away, paused in the act of wheeling a bulging shopping trolley through her front gate. ‘You’re on the mend, I hope?’
‘Tons better, thanks.’
‘Grand news, though you do look a bit pale, if you don’t mind me saying so. And thin as a rake. Good to get a blow of air, bring some colour to those cheeks.’
Joanna’s tight smile was more like a grimace. She’d always hated people going on about her appearance.
‘You must pop round for a cup of tea. I’ll bake a Madeira cake in your honour, how about that? Are you doing anything tomorrow afternoon?’
Edna, a widow in her late sixties, talked incessantly, mostly about relatives Joanna had never met, and hoped never to meet. The price of a cup of tea at Dunromin was two hours of genteel boredom. Three or four hours, if you were really unlucky, and she insisted on your staying for an early supper and a game of Scrabble.
‘Thanks, I’d love to.’ Joanna hesitated. Lies didn’t spring readily to her lips; it was the price of being well brought up. ‘Unfortunately, I won’t be here.’
‘What a pity. Not to worry, shall we say Wednesday, instead?’ A tinkly laugh. ‘Or Thursday, come to that? My social calendar isn’t exactly chock-a-block. It would be lovely to have a natter. You did say you’ve taken early retirement, didn’t you?’
Yes, she’d agreed the phrase with the insurance brokers who employed her. It sounded better than sacked or redundant, yet it carried a whiff of premature old age and mothballs. Joanna had been signed off work with stress, and her manager, wanting to reduce staff levels, but fearing a claim of unfair dismissal or disability discrimination, had offered a generous exit package if she volunteered to go quietly. Joanna didn’t really need the money, but it was an easy way out, and her habit in life was to take the easy way out.
‘I … I’m not …’
‘Say yes! It will be a tonic for you.’ Edna’s beam out-dazzled the yellow tulips lining the path to her front door. ‘We can have a right old chinwag, just the two of us. You might like to come along to the W.I.’s next meeting. We have a guest speaker talking about the history of cockle fishing in Lytham.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ Joanna said, ‘I’m going away. Get some sea breezes in my lungs.’
‘How lovely. Whereabouts are you going? Not Morecambe, by any chance? My cousin’s youngest lives there.’
‘Back to the Lakes,’ Joanna said quickly. ‘We used to live in Cumbria, on the edge of Holmrook. I called the bungalow after the village.’
‘Ah, the Lake District! Walter and I used to love Bowness.’ Edna had evidently never ventured as far west as Holmrook. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘Ravenglass.’ Joanna spoke without thinking, but of course it was the perfect destination. Ravenglass, where she’d last been happy with Nigel. ‘On the coast.’
‘I’m sure it’s marvellous,’ Edna said. ‘When will you be back?’
‘Not sure, to be honest.’ Joanna gave her neighbour a brilliant smile. ‘I’m hoping to catch up with an old friend of mine. By the by, Edna, could you do me an enormous favour? Would you mind taking care of Darcy while I’m away?’
Maggie stared at Hannah. ‘Surely there’s no doubt what happened?’
Les gestured toward the headlines screaming from old newspaper cuttings. Three Dead after Rifleman Rampage. Suicide Husband Killed Wife and Daughter. ‘Not
if you believe what you read in the Press.’
‘Which we never do,’ Hannah said.
He gave her a sly grin. ‘Over to you. Tell us about Ben’s take on the case.’
‘He and his girlfriend – Cheryl, his future wife – knew the Whiteleys.’
‘So I discovered when I looked up the files. They even had dinner with Lysette and Amber Whiteley and some others a few hours before the killings. They were interviewed, but nothing in their statements suggests Ben had a particular theory. He didn’t take part in the investigation, because of the personal link.’
‘Cheryl was Lysette Whiteley’s oldest friend. It’s coming back to me now.’ Hannah closed her eyes. In her mind, she heard Ben’s husky voice, telling the story. ‘As I recall, they’d known each other since primary school. Two pretty girls, popular with the boys. Cheryl played the field, but Lysette never got the chance. She and Malcolm started going out together, and that was that. Fate sealed.’
Maggie winced. Hannah could read her mind. The young DC’s journey through life had seemed pre-destined, but she’d had the courage to strike out on her own.
‘You can always escape, if you want to enough.’
‘I’m not saying Lysette was a coward. Whiteley was hard-working and faithful, and crazy about her. Millions of women settle for much less. He made money hand over fist, and bought a palace where they could live happily ever after. The fly in the ointment was Lysette’s boredom. Her interests were very different from his, and the cracks showed as their daughter grew up. Malcolm thought the sun shone out of Amber’s backside, but Lysette thought he spoilt her rotten. When Amber misbehaved, they quarrelled over how to discipline her. The marriage was in trouble, long before Malcolm realised it.’
The Dungeon House (Lake District Mysteries) Page 6