The Dungeon House (Lake District Mysteries)

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Joanna Footit?’ Hannah interrupted.

  ‘That’s right. She went out for a while with Nigel.’

  ‘You’re still in touch with her?’

  ‘Not still in touch, but in touch again,’ he said fussily. ‘I hadn’t clapped eyes on her for twenty years.’

  ‘Really?’ Hannah couldn’t hide her astonishment. ‘You met her yesterday, after all that time?’

  ‘Absolutely. Jolly good to see her. Nice girl, Joanna.’ He turned pink with embarrassment, and lowered his voice. ‘She had … mental health issues, you know. Desperately sad. Good to see she seems to be making a fresh start.’

  It didn’t take long to draw the story out of him, and learn that Joanna’s sudden reappearance was no coincidence. News of Shona’s disappearance had brought her hurrying back to the Lakes. By the sound of it, she was busily renewing old acquaintances. Especially those who had been around at the time of the Dungeon House killings.

  ‘You don’t think … she hoped to rekindle her romance with Nigel Whiteley?’

  Gray spread his arms. ‘Who knows? I’ll be honest with you, Chief Inspector. I’ve never really understood what goes on inside women’s heads.’

  ‘You’re not alone, Mr Elstone, trust me. Now, about Joanna’s health. She lost her hair, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, poor girl. It was caused by stress, after she was involved in a fatal car accident. I didn’t know her in those days, but apparently, she’d had lovely red hair, very thick and down to her shoulders. She’d started wearing a wig before she joined me, but it wasn’t terribly satisfactory. Her constant complaint was that it was too heavy. I suppose because she’d tried to replicate her old hair style. Once, when she was running down the office stairs, she tripped, and it came adrift. Dreadfully embarrassing for her. I suppose they are much better made these days.’

  Another link in the chain. Hannah supposed the wig had fallen off as she was running away from the Dungeon House. Though why hadn’t it been found?

  ‘She’s staying in the area at the moment, you say. Any idea where, and for how long?’

  ‘In Ravenglass, at a guest house called Saltcoats View. She said she’d be staying for at least a fortnight.’

  Brilliant. Joanna Footit could answer some of the questions about exactly what had happened on the night of the killings at the Dungeon House. Who better than the Cold Case Review Team to tidy up the loose ends? Not that this would solve the mystery of Lily’s fate. Hannah made cautiously reassuring noises, but as she said goodbye to Gray Elstone, she was all too aware that the closure he yearned for seemed as far away as ever.

  Hannah was tempted to head straight to Ravenglass after leaving Seascale. Even if it did end up as a late night, she could try and track down Joanna Footit, before an evening of indulgence at the Eskdale Arms, listening to Daniel talk about murder. The snag was that she’d committed to showing her face at a leaving do for a retiring member of the back office staff at Divisional HQ in Kendal, and for Hannah it was a matter of honour to keep such promises. Too often, senior officers skived out of such events, making flimsy last minute excuses. The troops deserved better. In any case, it might take time to find Joanna, and then set up an appointment. Best leave it until tomorrow.

  The long journey home gave her a chance to mull over the day’s events, and work out questions to put to Joanna Footit. The woman should have come forward at the time, and explained what she was doing at the Dungeon House that night. Why hadn’t she uttered a peep? Perhaps the trauma of what she’d witnessed had tipped her over the edge. Had she seen Malcolm Whiteley kill his daughter and then himself, or tried to intervene? Perhaps she’d arrived in the quarry garden only to find two corpses.

  What if Malcolm Whiteley had tried to kill Joanna as well? That might explain a good deal. If the terrified young woman had run off in a panic to escape a man who was armed and very dangerous, it was easy to understand how she’d lost her wig. It might have fallen off, or caught on a branch, or met a dozen other fates. She wouldn’t have dared to stop and retrieve it if Whiteley was chasing her. Hearing a car might have stopped the gunman in his tracks. Conceivably, Joanna owed her life to the lucky chance of Anton Friend passing by at precisely the right moment.

  At last she reached Kendal. As she reversed into the last vacant bay in the pub car park off Stramongate, another idea struck her with such startling force that she had to slam on her brakes to avoid ramming a brick wall.

  It was ridiculous, surely. But a detective had to look at all the options. Had Joanna Footit not simply witnessed the killings at the Dungeon House, but taken part in them?

  ‘Lovely day, Joanna!’ Alvaro Quiggin beamed as she walked through the door of the Saltcoats View. A pair of sunglasses lay on the counter in front of him. ‘I actually managed to fit in half an hour soaking up the sun on the patio. You’ve brought good weather with you, a real bonus.’

  She nodded absently. ‘You said the other day that you keep information about local events.’

  ‘Always keen to be of service to our guests. What would you like to know, timetable for La’al Ratty, opening hours at Muncaster Castle?’

  ‘No, but I see there’s a talk on next door this evening. A historian who used to be on television. Do you know any more about it?’

  ‘Oh yes, I was thinking of popping round myself. He was a bit of a celebrity at one time, wasn’t he? Daniel something or other. Not seen him on the box for ages, though. It’s all about fashion, isn’t it, the telly?’

  Joanna – in common, she was sure, with you-can-call-me-Al – hadn’t the faintest idea of what went on in the mysterious world of television, but she murmured agreement out of politeness. He said he’d kept some details about the talk in his office, and he lifted the flap of the counter so that she could follow him inside.

  ‘I cut something out of the newspaper,’ he said, rummaging though a sheaf of documents from a file marked Local Events. ‘Here you go. Yes, the bloke’s called Daniel Kind, and he’s talking about a book he’s written. The history of murder. Sounds quite interesting. I’m rather partial to a good murder myself. How about you, Joanna?’

  ‘What?’ She was distracted. ‘Oh, yes, yes.’

  He peered at her. ‘Everything all right.’

  ‘It’s just … that photograph.’ She pointed to a sun-faded colour photo pinned to a board at the back of the tiny office, next to a window overlooking the patio above the foreshore. A picture of a pretty girl with long blonde hair. ‘Her face looks … I mean, she sort of resembles someone I once knew.’

  He seemed taken aback, and hesitated before replying. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes. I could be mistaken, of course. It was a long time ago.’ He nodded. ‘It’s an old photo.’

  For once in his life, Quiggin didn’t seem to be inclined to say too much, and, perverse as ever, Intrigued by this new-found reticence, Joanna decided to press him.

  ‘It was very sad about this friend of mine. She was killed in a car crash, an absolute tragedy. Her name was Carina. Carina North.’

  After a long pause, he said quietly, ‘So you knew my daughter?’

  Joanna opened her eyes wide. ‘Carrie was your daughter?’

  ‘Don’t look so surprised,’ he said softly. ‘I’m nothing much to look at, but her mother was beautiful. Too beautiful, that was the trouble. She dumped me when Carrie was only eighteen months old.’

  ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’

  He shrugged. ‘What really hurt was that I only saw my girl half a dozen times after that.’

  ‘Her mum remarried?’

  ‘Yes, to this bloke she ran off with. Name of North, a used car dealer. That marriage didn’t last, either. She was immature – let’s face it, she was only seventeen when I got her pregnant. But I was too staid for her, and North soon ran out of money. She had a drug habit, you see, and it cost her a fortune to keep herself stoned.’

  Joanna nodded. ‘I remember Carrie saying about her mum, and drugs.’

 
‘You’d think the court would insist that a hard-working father would be allowed to see his child, wouldn’t you?’ He made no attempt to hide his bitterness. ‘What good are rights, if you can’t enforce them, eh? Suzy played ducks and drakes with me for years. I never got any sort of justice. In the end, I gave up.’

  Joanna couldn’t think of anything suitable to say, so she touched him lightly on the hand.

  ‘Of course, I always thought that one day, Carrie and I would see more of each other. I wasn’t to know I’d be denied the chance. Her mother was more interested in sex and drugs than bringing up our daughter. She had no control over Carrie, and let her run wild. Before long, she’d got mixed up with the wrong crowd … I … oh, sorry.’ Confusion spread over his face like a crimson birthmark. ‘You said the two of you were friends.’

  ‘To be honest, she was the friend of a friend. I can’t say I knew her well. We met two or three times, that’s all.’

  ‘But you liked her?’ His eagerness was pathetic.

  As a matter of fact, Joanna hadn’t really cared for Carrie North. In the circumstances, however, a white lie was forgivable. ‘Oh yes, she was sweet. Bubbly, you know. Fun-loving.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Definitely. And so very pretty.’ She indicated the photo. ‘I was jealous of her, to tell you the truth.’

  He smiled. ‘No need. You’re a nice-looking lady yourself, Joanna. You’ve got character, anyone can see that.’

  The office was small and overheated. Until a few minutes ago, you-can-call-me-Al had seemed rather ridiculous to her. She’d never wondered what might be going on inside his head. As they’d come in to the office, he’d closed the door behind them. Quickly, she pulled it open again.

  ‘I’m so sorry about Carrie,’ she said hurriedly, groping for words that might mean something to a bereaved father. ‘She was so young, with so much to live for. The way she lost her life was absolutely criminal.’

  As Joanna edged into the hallway, he turned to look at her. ‘You know what I think?’

  ‘What’s that … Al?’

  He gestured to the cutting about Daniel Kind’s talk. ‘What happened to Carrie that night was nothing short of murder.’

  As the party grew rowdier, Hannah and Billie Frederick took their Diet Cokes into the small garden at the back of the pub, and Billie asked if there was any chance of a vacancy in the Cold Case Review Team.

  ‘Would you be interested?’ Hannah asked. ‘If we get the green light to make up for some of the cutbacks?’

  ‘I’d jump at the chance,’ Billie said. ‘It would be brilliant to work with you, Hannah. No disrespect to Ryan, he’s a nice guy, but I’d love to be part of a team run by another woman.’

  ‘Let’s not worry about the gender politics, huh? It’s a very young team since Greg moved on, and we can’t expect Les to keep going forever. Maggie and Linz have fantastic potential, but I’d like someone else with …’

  ‘A few grey hairs?’ Billie shook her black curls. ‘Look somewhere else for those, Hannah. I’m staying with this colour till I’m seventy. Maybe eighty.’

  Hannah laughed. ‘But you’ve been climbing the ladder in the Federation.’

  ‘I’m ready to jump off before I’m pushed.’ She sighed. ‘The Federation is still important for me, ordinary men and women on the job need the best representation they can get. They get beaten and hospitalised, and then they see their numbers slashed, not to mention their pay and pensions. Someone needs to give a damn.’

  ‘Someone like you.’

  ‘Thanks, but my idealism’s taken a battering. Too many dodgy things have gone on, up and down the country. The Fed became part of the problem, more interested in fighting cabinet ministers than criminals. Sure, the world is full of people in power who look out for themselves, and not the people they’re supposed to serve, but maybe we’ve become as bad. The stable needs a bloody good cleansing. You could say I’m Fed up.’

  ‘People are trying to change things. You can be part of the solution.’

  ‘Talking to you about the Dungeon House and Lily Elstone has cleared my mind. I want to get back to what I joined the force to do. I was proud to be a Fed rep, but now I just want to focus on being a half-decent detective. I’ve heard all the jokes about cold case work being a dead end for dead heads, but I think it’s exciting and worthwhile.’

  ‘Keep an eye on the intranet. I might be on an interview panel, so I can’t make any promises, but you’d be a strong candidate.’ They clinked glasses. ‘That was a barnstorming speech, you’d make a good Home Secretary.’

  Billie hooted. ‘You should hear me when I’ve drunk something stronger.’

  ‘Okay, let’s keep in close touch about Shona Whiteley.’

  ‘Sure. Before I forget, we’ve talked to her teachers, looking for clues to her plans for the Easter holidays. A long shot, but there’s a chink of light. One of them has proved impossible to contact. He said he was going to spend his break hitch-hiking around Scotland, which may explain it. For all we know, he’s holed up in some remote glen, with only the deer and the midges for company, but we’ve made enquiries about him. Turns out, at his last school, he was warned for getting too friendly with a fifteen-year-old female pupil.’

  Hannah raised her eyebrows. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He offered the kid one-to-one tuition after hours, supposedly to help her improve her guitar playing. The parents became worried she was developing a crush on him, and he wasn’t keeping her at arm’s length. When they spoke to the head teacher, the guy protested his innocence, and nothing came of it. He was highly regarded, and there was no evidence that he’d misbehaved. The school was actually disappointed when he handed in his notice. They gave him a glowing reference, and there was no mention of the issue with the pupil. It had all blown over, but still – makes you think.’

  ‘No smoke without fire?’ Hannah asked. ‘Four of the most dangerous words in the English language, but yes, it’s worth looking at him. So who is this teacher?’

  ‘This is what’s so intriguing, there’s a link with the past. His name is Josh Durham. Wasn’t it his father’s affair that provoked the Dungeon House killings?’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Joanna’s head was buzzing as she mounted the stairs up to the meeting room on the first floor of the Eskdale Arms, trying not to spill her Pinot Grigio. She felt shivery with elation, deserving of a little treat. So much had happened so quickly, no wonder her brain was whirling. Nigel needed her. Later tonight, she meant to be with him again.

  The upstairs room was crammed with people. She’d bought the very last ticket, and took the last free plastic chair. The man next to her smelt of stale alcohol, and she realised it was Scott Durham. Their eyes met, and she thought – or was this silly over-sensitivity? – that he was dismayed to find her beside him. Anyone would think he’d been caught in a trap. When he said hello, his demeanour didn’t invite further conversation. But it was surely right to be sociable.

  ‘I came here on impulse,’ she said brightly. ‘Have you heard him speak before?’

  Scott shook his head. ‘He used to be on television. I caught his programmes once or twice.’

  ‘The history of murder,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t suppose he’s intending to talk about Malcolm Whiteley, by any chance?’

  ‘If he does,’ Scott said in a low growl, ‘I’m leaving.’

  He turned his head, to indicate that the conversation was over. Joanna considered his profile. Not a bad-looking man to this day, despite the added weight, but the grubby, moth-eaten fisherman’s jersey did him no favours. Did a guilty conscience plague him, was that why he’d let himself go? It had never crossed her mind before; the Dungeon House murders had turned her brain to mush. If the rumours were true, and Scott had been playing around with Mrs Whiteley, he might never have forgiven himself. Was he obsessed with the Whiteleys and the Dungeon House, was that why he pored over newspaper stories about young Shona’s disappearance?

  A
n elderly man called Broderick who was something important in what he called ‘the West Cumbrian history community’ rapped on a table to silence the chatter, and introduced Daniel Kind. The speaker looked pleasant enough, but Joanna was suspicious of academics, especially Oxbridge types who led such a cosseted existence. They’d surely condescend to a woman who hadn’t made it to university, however good her reason. At least this chap came from Manchester, and didn’t speak in the plummy tones of wealth and privilege.

  Murder had scarred her life, but for all its horrors, she couldn’t help but be fascinated by it. What made one person make up his or her mind to do something so … so final as to kill another? Over the past twenty years, whenever she’d asked herself the question, she’d always found the answers unbearable.

  As Daniel Kind talked about Thomas de Quincey, and something called the Ratcliffe Highway murder case, her thoughts drifted like lazy clouds. He was a good speaker, and his occasional wry jokes brought ripples of approval from his audience. History was all very well, but what really mattered was tonight and tomorrow, not yesterday. Malcolm Whiteley’s name wasn’t mentioned, thank goodness, and she luxuriated in her reverie until the lecture came to an end, and it was time for questions.

  ‘You said there are supposed to be six motives for murder,’ a man in the audience said. ‘What are they?’

  ‘A famous criminologist called Tennyson Jesse suggested half a dozen,’ Daniel said. ‘Gain, revenge, elimination, jealousy, conviction, and lust for killing.’

  The man raised his hand again. ‘That doesn’t cater for assassinations.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Daniel said. ‘It’s a rough and ready analysis, but I’m talking about individual murder cases, not political killings or acts of terror like 9/11. The typical murder fits into one or other of Tennyson Jesse’s categories, wouldn’t you agree?’

  Without stopping to think, Joanna blurted out. ‘Sometimes there’s more than one reason to commit murder, isn’t there?’