The Dungeon House (Lake District Mysteries)

by Martin Edwards

  She ran upstairs for a quick shower, and changed into a halter top and jeans. After she and her ex, Marc Amos, had sold their house in Ambleside, Daniel had invited her to stay at Tarn Cottage while she hunted for a flat. They’d never spoken about living together long-term. Thank God he was perceptive enough to realise it wasn’t what she wanted. Too soon, too risky. She needed somewhere of her own. So she’d gone ahead, and exchanged contracts on a flat in Kendal. It was handy for Divisional HQ, and work was her anchor. Completion wasn’t far away, and the prospect of moving in excited her. It reminded her of being eighteen, eagerly anticipating the liberation of student life.

  ‘I’ll leave some clothes and a toothbrush here, if that’s okay,’ she’d said. ‘After that, let’s see how things go.’

  He’d nodded, and said fine, and they’d left it at that.

  Finishing with Marc had bruised her. They’d been together for a long time, and she’d always have a soft spot for the guy, but he’d had his chance, and now she meant to look ahead. So – what did her crystal ball reveal? She and Daniel had become lovers not long after the death of an old friend, coupled with the break-up with Marc, had left her numb with loss. Daniel had also suffered bereavement; his fiancée’s suicide had been a catalyst for his move from Oxford to the Lakes. Her inner pessimist warned it was too good to last. Secretly, she expected they’d finish up as they’d begun, as friends, not lovers. Their lives were so very different. He was a well-known historian, a minor celebrity, and one of these days, the lure of the life he’d abandoned would surely prove too strong.

  A lager and lime awaited her outside. That crazy cipher garden, with its eccentric planting and paths leading nowhere, seemed to symbolise her unlikely relationship with the son of the man whose patience and encouragement had made her a half-decent detective. This morning, Daniel had proposed cooking dinner, which probably meant raiding the freezer and shoving whatever he found in the oven. He really wasn’t perfect. Then again, neither was she.

  ‘Your Dad’s name cropped up today.’

  He lifted his dark glasses. ‘Really?’

  ‘If you’ve caught the news bulletins, you’ll know a teenage girl has gone missing.’

  ‘I saw something at lunchtime, though I didn’t pay attention until I heard Ravenglass mentioned. That’s where I’m giving the first of these talks.’ Now he was back in Britain, his next task was to promote The Hell Within locally, talking to audiences in venues around Cumbria over the next fortnight. ‘When you hear something like this, you always hope she’s simply run off with a boyfriend. Whatever the truth, it must be agony for the parents, not knowing where she is.’

  In idle moments, Hannah had wondered what sort of a father Daniel might make. They’d never talked about having a child together. It was almost a taboo, as it would involve a commitment that neither was ready to make. The closest they’d come to discussing it had been when Daniel once said his parents had married too young. Ben’s desertion had hit his kids like a hammer blow, and Daniel was determined not to make the same mistakes. Ben only realised how much he’d missed, how badly he’d messed up, when it was too late to make amends.

  ‘Nigel Whiteley is a single parent. His wife died a year ago. Your father knew him. Nigel’s aunt was Cheryl’s best friend.’

  ‘Is that right?’ The sunglasses masked his eyes, but his tone was as cool as a November breeze. He’d never had much time for the woman he blamed for breaking up their family. Though Hannah had to admit, it took two to tango. Ben had been a fool.

  ‘The aunt was shot by her husband twenty years ago. His teenage daughter also died, and Malcolm Whiteley shot himself.’

  Daniel swore. ‘Dad knew these people?’

  ‘Whiteley held a barbecue at his home on the day of the shootings. A big event, he fancied himself as a country squire. Ben and Cheryl were both invited.’

  ‘This wasn’t the Dungeon House case?’

  ‘You remember it?’

  ‘Very well. Not that Dad and I ever discussed it, of course. I read it up in the papers. After he moved to Cumbria, I devoured anything I could find that concerned crime in the county. I was desperate to know what he was up to. He was a big hero of mine, even after he left home. The crime-buster, the great detective. I kept reminding myself of that when Mum and Louise complained about him being a lousy husband and father. The killings were a big story, and I remember my disappointment when Dad’s name wasn’t mentioned. At that tender age, I wanted him to come up with the vital clue, the one piece of evidence that everyone else overlooked … Hey, what’s amusing you?’

  Hannah couldn’t help laughing. ‘You know, it’s funny. There’s just a chance – an outside, outside chance – that he might have done precisely that.’

  Joanna decided on an early night. She’d done so little for so long, she must take care not to overdo things. Tomorrow was bound to be taxing. As soon as she came back from the manicurist, she’d set off for Cumbria. Not by train, the journey was dreadful – two or three changes, depending on when you travelled, and sometimes it took more than four hours. Utterly ridiculous, given that Ravenglass was no more than one hundred miles away. She’d resolved to drive, even though she was out of practice, and would need to take extra care on the busy roads. Her confidence had collapsed after she’d scraped a bollard in a car park while trying to reverse into a tight space, and other than a few sorties to the nearest parade of shops during a bus strike, she hadn’t sat behind the wheel since her last day at work. During her illness, she’d made up her mind to sell her Polo and rely on public transport. Thank goodness she’d lacked the energy to carry out her plan. In the Western Lakes, you didn’t want to be at the mercy of the buses.

  Before having her tea, she closed the curtains, and stripped to her underwear. Two Christmases ago, someone had given her a DVD of yoga exercises, but a new year’s resolution to give them a go had lasted less than a week. She tried a few gentle stretches, nothing too ambitious, and found she enjoyed it. Amazing how a sense of purpose changed your mood. For the past year, she’d felt like a punchbag, battered into submission at home and in the office. Deceived and eventually deserted by a boyfriend she’d adored. Detested by the new Head of Claims, a slip of a girl who had slept her way to the top, and loved to find fault with loyal, long-serving workers. She’d lost Eoin and she’d lost her job, no wonder she’d lost confidence all over again.

  People said you should never go back, that it was a mistake to try to recapture the happiness of youth, but Joanna thought they were wrong. If the present was bloody awful, why not chance it? What was the worst that could happen?

  The Lake District was where she belonged. Her mother came from St Bees, and her father from Barrow, and they’d settled down halfway between, on the edge of Holmrook. They’d died within a year of each other, and her inheritance had paid off her mortgage. With hindsight, she understood that her bank account had appealed to Eoin more than she did. Thousands of pounds she’d loaned him, and she’d never see a penny back. Thank goodness she’d caught him out in a string of careless lies about what he was spending the money on before he bled her dry. No wonder she’d succumbed to depression.

  Before getting ready for bed, she watched the national news, in the hope of an update about Nigel’s daughter. Nothing doing, but the regional bulletin covered the story. To Joanna’s disappointment, the snippet merely recapped the item she’d seen in the morning. At least it gave her one more opportunity to admire Nigel as he addressed the camera.

  He was being interviewed outside his front door. How well she remembered the Dungeon House, and how shocked she’d been, when she learnt he’d made it his home. You’d think that after what had happened … well, nobody could say it was a lucky house. Still, Nigel and his daughter seemed to have been happy enough there, despite the death of that woman he’d married. Happy, at least, until Shona had disappeared.

  What must it feel like, to lose a child? Or to give birth to one, come to that? Joanna had never been the mater
nal type. If ever anyone hinted she must be disappointed not to have had kids, she insisted in all honesty that a family had never been high on her agenda. If the right man had come along, things might have been very different, but the men she’d slept with over the past twenty years had proved unreliable lovers, and would have made hopelessly unreliable fathers. Poor Nigel had been the best of them, by far. If only …

  Who was that? Heart pumping, she froze the picture, and rewound for half a minute. Yes, she wasn’t mistaken. There he was, walking away in the corner of the picture, a brawny man in a black sweatshirt and denim jeans, opening the door of a van, and oblivious to the fact that he was in shot as the camera panned along the imposing façade of the Dungeon House. The van bore his name, but in any case, that walk of his, a sort of limp with a swagger, was unmistakable.

  A ghost from the past.

  Robbie Dean, oh my God.

  Nigel’s oldest friend. The man who had killed Carrie North, and nearly all four of them. The man who had once put his bare hands around her throat when she’d discovered his shameful secret.

  ‘I need to talk to Cheryl,’ Hannah said.

  ‘Good luck with that.’ Daniel eased his hand under her top.

  ‘Hey, shouldn’t you be getting on with writing up your talk?’ They were on the sofa in the living room, with Ellie Goulding crooning in the background.

  ‘A job for tomorrow,’ he said, as his fingers began to explore. ‘Let’s take it easy this evening. If my brief encounters with Cheryl are anything to go by, you’ll find tomorrow hard work.’

  ‘You’re not kidding. She never liked me.’

  ‘Did she see you as a threat?’

  ‘Because I liked your Dad?’ she asked lazily. A delicate subject, this. Until now, they’d only ever skirted around it. ‘She had nothing to worry about. We were never more than friends. I didn’t believe in mixing business with pleasure, and neither did he.’

  ‘He did meet Cheryl through work.’

  ‘Even so.’ She smiled as his hand slid up to her breast. ‘He certainly never did what you’re doing now. Cheryl struck me as insecure. Not her fault, necessarily. Before she met your Dad, she had bad luck with men. She was terrified of losing him, and he felt sorry for her. She’d lost her parents young, and later she lost her best friend, in horrific circumstances.’

  Daniel withdrew his hand. ‘Your best friend died too.’

  ‘Uh-huh. I suppose it gives me a better insight into Cheryl’s experience. Losing your parents is desperately hard to cope with, but it’s part of the expected order of things. When someone you’ve grown up with dies suddenly, it’s a reversal of nature. It shouldn’t happen. You’ve lost someone close to you, and received a sharp reminder of your own mortality, at one and the same time.’ She took a breath. ‘I’d never really thought about dying until …’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ He wrapped his arm around her. ‘Do you really need to talk to Cheryl?’

  ‘It’s not my idea of a fun day out, but she can tell me more about the Whiteleys, Gray Elstone, and their circle. It’s appalling, how much they’ve suffered. The killings at the Dungeon House, the Elstone girl vanishing, now Shona Whiteley.’

  ‘You don’t seriously believe the cases are connected?’

  ‘Not directly, no. Malcolm Whiteley killed himself and Lysette, and presumably was responsible for Amber’s death. But we can’t rule out a link between what happened to Lily, and Shona’s disappearance. Cheryl knew Gray Elstone, and Malcolm Whiteley, and whatever her faults, she’s sharp. Ben said Cheryl was a good sounding board, especially in their early years together, before they got on each other’s nerves. They must have discussed his suspicion that the whole truth never came out about Amber’s death.’

  ‘This mysterious missing witness Dad told you about?’

  ‘His greatest strength as a detective was his instinct. If he thought there was more to that drunken driver’s story than met the eye, I’d back his judgement over Desmond Loney’s, any day.’

  ‘And you want to talk to Cheryl rather than send Maggie?’

  ‘If Maggie talks to Cheryl, she’ll get the brush off.’

  ‘Cheryl won’t be overjoyed to see you.’

  ‘Trust me, the feeling will be mutual, but the two of us go back a long way, and I’ve the best chance of finding out anything worth knowing.’ She sighed. ‘I’ll wear my body armour.’

  He laughed, and his hand resumed its journey underneath her shirt. ‘Okay, but you’re not putting it on just yet.’

  Joanna found sleep elusive. Tired as she was, her mind wouldn’t stop buzzing. It wasn’t merely excitement about tomorrow’s trip to Ravenglass that kept her awake, there was also the shock of seeing Robbie Dean again. She’d scarcely thought about him for years, and it had certainly never occurred to her that he’d be working for Nigel. The legend on the van said Deano Garden Services. He and Nigel had been friends since they were kids playing football together. Robbie never said much, and Joanna had always felt rather afraid of him, but Nigel admired and envied his sporting prowess. Everyone predicted stardom for Robbie. Nigel never made it as a footballer, but neither did Robbie, in the end. The injuries he’d sustained in the crash that killed poor Carrie saw to that. His pelvis was fractured, and one kneecap broken, leaving him with a permanent limp, and his dreams of football fame shattered. Nigel had talked his uncle into giving Robbie a job as a handyman and gardener at the Dungeon House. Quite a comedown for a boy who’d once had the world at his feet. Twenty years on, he was still working at the same place.

  She hauled herself out of bed, and told Darcy about what had happened all those years ago, while she made herself a mug of Ovaltine. The cat purred contentedly, and settled himself back in his basket as she carried the mug to her bedside table, and snuggled under the blankets, waiting for her drink to cool.

  What would she do, if and when she returned to the Dungeon House, or whatever Nigel called it nowadays, and once again her path crossed with Robbie’s? It was a question for another day. No point in letting it spoil everything. Yet as she took a sip of Ovaltine, she reflected on life’s ironies. Everyone remembered Malcolm Whiteley for a shocking crime, but in his own strange way, Robbie Dean was just as frightening.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Ravenglass again, after how many years? Fifteen, Joanna calculated, as she drove down Muncaster Fell toward the sea. She’d last come to the village with her parents, during a visit home, when they went for a trip on La’al Ratty. They’d parked at the terminus for the narrow gauge railway, and never ventured as far as the waterfront. She’d not set eyes on Main Street since the night of the Last Supper. After leaving the Lakes, she’d concentrated on making a new life for herself, and even when she returned to Holmrook to see Mum and Dad, she steered clear of Ravenglass. Too many memories. Remembering was just one more form of self-harm. But time healed even the deepest wounds. She’d loved this village once, and now she felt ready to fall in love all over again.

  As she passed under a bridge carrying the railway north to Whitehaven, the sunlit estuary lay out in front of her. On impulse, she pulled up next to the Green. After the long, circuitous drive, her calves and thighs twitched with cramp as she levered herself out of the elderly Polo and into an invigorating breeze. Motorway driving forced you to take your life in your hands, and even on the quieter roads, the traffic was terrifying if you were out of practice. Thank goodness she’d made it, and now she was all goosebumps. She’d not felt so alive since her first date with Eoin. This was an adventure, and not having a clue what might happen next was part of the fun.

  Taking a seat on one of the bright blue benches, she looked out across the dunes. A raised embankment of grass protected the low-lying cottages from floods as well as providing a green open space overlooking a foreshore of shingle, sand, and mud. Three rivers met here, making a natural harbour. No wonder the Romans had chosen this as their port. To think this view was once admired by soldiers of the Twentieth Legion! Roman ships carried goods
from this northernmost edge of their territory to the rest of the Empire, but after the legionnaires marched away, Ravenglass did not die. Saxons and Vikings came and went, King John granted merchants a Charter to hold a weekly market and annual fair, and fishermen plied their trade along the coast. When the estuary silted up, ships could no longer dock at the end of Main Street, but trains brought iron ore down from Boot to the station, so it could be transported on the coastal line. Although the mines had closed down, the railway was preserved, and the Ratty became a tourists’ delight. Yes, Joanna had something in common with this place. She was a survivor, and so was Ravenglass.

  The sunshine was deceptive, and the late afternoon chill persuaded her not to linger. Hurrying back to the Polo, she threaded through the vehicles parked on either side of Main Street. The village had once been a stopping point on an old road that crept along the coast by way of shallow fords and ramshackle bridges, but these days the street narrowed into a dead end, bounded by huge floodgates.

  The Eskdale Arms stood on its own on the estuary side of the road, and the Saltcoats View guest house was separated from it by a tiny car park. She’d wondered if seeing the pub again would revive such dreadful images of the night of the Last Supper that she’d change her mind, and scurry back home. To her surprise, she felt no more than a pang of melancholy. This new Joanna lived for the moment.

  She carried her suitcase to the front of the Saltcoats View. Inhaling the fragrance of grape hyacinths crammed into hanging baskets on either side of the door, she rang the bell, and a loud voice invited her to walk right in. A middle-aged man with thinning, sandy hair and the worst comb-over she’d seen in years sat with a steaming mug of tea in his hand, and a copy of The Cumberland News spread over the counter in front of him. Nigel Whiteley stared grimly from the front page, beneath the headline: My Agony: Missing Teenager’s Father.