The Dungeon House (Lake District Mysteries)

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Joanna? My God, what’s she up to nowadays?’

  ‘She’s back in the Lakes on holiday, I’m told.’

  ‘She never had much luck, what with her health problems and her appearance. To say nothing about the car crash.’

  ‘Tell me more about the car crash.’

  ‘It was Robbie Dean’s fault, or so Lysette told me. I was living in Manchester at the time. Robbie and Nigel Whiteley were bosom buddies, and one night they’d taken their girlfriends out to a club in Whitehaven. Robbie was showing off, and as they were driving back past Sellafield, the car veered off the road and into a tree. Robbie was badly injured, and the girl in the passenger seat was killed. Joanna and Nigel had been smooching in the back, and they weren’t hurt, but the shock was devastating. And no sooner had she recovered and found herself a decent job with Gray Elstone, than her best friend was murdered. No wonder she lost the plot.’

  As Hannah put down the phone, the new admin assistant looked in. She was an Estonian girl who had moved to Cumbria after meeting a lad from Cleator Moor whilst he was over in Tallinn for a stag party. She was bright, spoke good English, and had interviewed well, but Hannah was yet to be convinced about her diligence.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am. Joanna Footit isn’t at the guest house. I tried to leave a message, but the owner isn’t sure when she’ll be coming back. He wonders if she has moved elsewhere.’

  ‘You’re not telling me she’s done a bunk?’ The girl looked mystified. ‘Left in a hurry to avoid paying her bills?’

  ‘She paid in advance with her credit card, so she is not trying to dodge payment.’

  ‘Then why leave suddenly?’

  ‘The owner says he does not have an idea.’

  ‘What makes him think she might have left permanently?’

  ‘He was not clear. She has left some of her things in her room.’

  ‘Then she must be coming back.’

  ‘Her bed was not slept in last night. And her car is missing.’

  ‘She was in Ravenglass yesterday evening. Someone … saw her.’ The girl shrugged helplessly, and Hannah gave up. ‘Thanks, Edita, it’s all right. I’ll take over from here.’

  If you want a job doing, do it yourself. Delegation had never been Hannah’s strong point. Inside two minutes, she was talking to the proprietor of the Saltcoats View Guest House. Alvaro Quiggin sounded wary, and no wonder. It isn’t every day you receive a phone call from a detective chief inspector.

  ‘I told the other young lady.’ He paused, as if anxious to phrase his reply with care. ‘Joanna left no message. I suppose she will come back, I simply don’t know.’

  ‘How many of her belongings are left in the room?’

  ‘How would I know? I haven’t rifled through them, it wouldn’t be … appropriate.’ Hannah visualised him puffing his chest out with self-righteous outrage. Why did people so often try to take the moral high ground when talking to the police? It was totally counter-productive. ‘She might walk back through the door at any moment.’

  ‘In the meantime, you’ve no idea where she may be?’

  He hesitated, as if tempted to retort I’m not her keeper.

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  Yet he’d referred to her as Joanna, not Ms Footit. Was Quiggin a naturally informal guy, on first name terms with any guest who booked in for a day or two? Or had he got to know this particular woman well, and if so, what was his interest in her?

  ‘Has she done this before?’

  ‘No, this is the first time her bed has been undisturbed, and she hasn’t eaten breakfast. Come to that, I didn’t see her car when I locked up last night.’

  ‘Were you surprised?’

  ‘Not exactly. She used to live in Holmrook, she knows people round here. She may be staying with friends. If she had a few drinks, she probably decided it wasn’t safe to drive home.’

  ‘Without letting you know?’

  ‘She’s perfectly entitled to come and go as she pleases.’

  ‘I believe she attended a lecture in the Eskdale Arms last night.’

  ‘You are very well informed, Detective Chief Inspector.’ He sounded disconcerted. ‘She mentioned the talk to me yesterday evening, it was given by a historian. I had some information about it, and we had a brief chat. I’d thought about dropping in myself’

  ‘You didn’t see her there?’

  ‘In the end, I didn’t bother with the talk. In this job, there’s always plenty to be done. I mended a broken wardrobe instead.’ A nervous laugh. ‘Never a dull moment, eh?’

  Hannah said, ‘This talk – the subject was murder wasn’t it?’

  ‘The history of murder,’ he corrected. ‘The speaker used to present a series on television.’

  ‘Did Ms Footit say why she was interested?’

  ‘I assumed she merely wanted to pass the time.’

  ‘She didn’t mention doing anything else afterwards – like visiting friends?’

  ‘No, and I didn’t ask.’ He cleared his throat. ‘She’s not … done anything, has she?’

  ‘I simply want a quick word with her.’

  ‘You’ll have the opportunity shortly, I presume. I still expect her back, even if she’s found somewhere else to stay, if only to collect her things. I’m sure she isn’t in hiding. She doesn’t strike me as that sort of person.’

  ‘What sort of person is she?’

  ‘Pleasant. And … enthusiastic, I suppose. Yes, pleased to be back in the area where she grew up, and keen to make the most of her time here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, someone has been waiting patiently to ask about vacancies …’

  Hannah asked him to confirm Joanna’s phone number and car registration from her booking details, and left it there. She tried the mobile, but it went straight to voicemail.

  Les Bryant poked his head around her door. ‘Going to this meeting about the new Communications Strategy?’

  ‘Nobody told me about it.’

  He sniggered. ‘Nothing would surprise me in this place.’

  ‘I’m scheduled for a briefing on the Transparency Agenda, plus catch-ups with Finance and HR either side of lunch. Not to mention ten minutes ruled out for that photo shoot for the new ID cards to get us in and out of the building, and an hour’s online course about …’

  ‘A fun life you lead. Makes me sad that I’m a self-employed consultant, missing out on so many treats.’

  ‘Aren’t I the lucky one? Whatever happened to what Desmond loves to call good old-fashioned bobbying?’

  ‘Who cares as long as the crime stats are moving in the right direction? Not the powers-that-be, for sure.’ He stepped out into the corridor. ‘See you later.’

  Hannah asked herself, not for the first time, whether she simply was not cut out for management. In her twenties, she’d been regarded as a high flyer, and she’d risen fast. Perhaps too fast. Before long her career nose-dived, and before she could catch her breath, she found herself relegated to reviewing cold cases. A career cul-de-sac, yes, but she loved delving into the past. It wasn’t just that it helped her to understand why historical research bewitched Daniel. She had so much more autonomy than colleagues investigating crimes in the here and now, and management responsibilities were a price worth paying. With a small, over-stretched team, she had the luxury of getting her hands dirty with proper detective work. How exhilarating to deliver justice to people who had waited years to learn the truth about a crime that once seemed insoluble. Was Joanna Footit one of those people, or did she know more than anyone alive about what had actually happened twenty years ago at the Dungeon House? Hannah needed to know.

  So … what to do next?

  Good Hannah was duty bound to attend the various activities scheduled for her, even if the online course was one more wearisome example of ‘sheep-dip training’. Bad Hannah would suffer a severe memory lapse – why not blame deficiencies in the IT system? They were a reliable scapegoat. She could race off to Ravenglass before anyone trapped her in a corner, and started
blathering away about key performance indicators.

  Good Hannah never stood a chance. Her evil twin opened the door, and chased after Les.

  ‘So what’s our plan of action?’ Les asked, as they caught a glimpse of the Irish Sea through the drizzle.

  He’d spent the journey regaling her with anecdotes of his life as a young policeman in Yorkshire. Hannah let his reminiscences drift over her, like a kid luxuriating in a surfeit of bedtime stories.

  ‘Here’s my carefully considered strategy. Play it by ear, and see what happens.’

  He laughed. ‘You’re a woman after my own heart. We need a slice of luck. Think of how they finally caught the Yorkshire Ripper, the Black Panther, and the rest. A good detective happens to be in the right place at the right time. Sat behind a desk is never the right place, not for the likes of you and me.’

  As they parked at Ravenglass station. Les said, ‘Five past twelve. Don’t know about you, but my stomach’s already rumbling.’

  ‘Quick bite before we talk to the chap at the guest house? Want to try the Eskdale Arms?’

  ‘You read my mind.’

  ‘Let’s make a dash for it.’ The rain was now teeming down. ‘Last one to the bar pays for lunch.’

  Given the state of Les’ knees, it was an unfair contest, and she was ordering at the counter by the time he lumbered up, puffing and grunting as though he’d run a marathon.

  ‘So this is where Lysette and Amber Whiteley ate their last meal,’ she whispered, as Les’ eyes feasted on the voluptuous Polish barmaid.

  Les sniffed. ‘Not really a selling point. Decent place, mind.’

  She wasn’t quite sure if he was approving the location, the menu, or the barmaid. Ravenglass was gorgeous, even on a murky day. Hannah had the police officer’s habit of checking out her surroundings, but she forced herself to concentrate on fellow customers, rather than the view. Two men at a table by the window caught her eye. They were sipping pints, and talking quietly. Both were in their fifties. One was no oil painting, but his companion was good-looking in a haggard, bleary-eyed way. A fair-haired, blue-eyed bloke who’d seen better days. So had his fisherman’s jersey. She’d googled Scott Durham, and taken a look at his website. His photo suggested someone younger and sexier, but this was him, no question. He only lived round the corner, and his pasty complexion suggested more time spent at his local than catching up on his beauty sleep. Imagining him twenty years younger, however, Hannah saw why Lysette Whiteley had been smitten. Allegedly.

  Durham’s companion was speaking. Hannah tried to shut out every sound except his voice, and her concentration was rewarded when she caught her own name.

  ‘… called herself DCI Scarlett. But why would she want …?’

  His voice was so low that it wasn’t easy to recognise, but it could only be the man she’d spoken to on the phone. Alvaro Quiggin – what a brilliant name. Les was still mesmerised by the barmaid’s cleavage, so she elbowed him in the ribs, and nodded toward the two men. All of a sudden, she was no longer hungry. The pangs she felt were curiosity, pure and simple. Durham and Quiggin were worried, and she had an aching desire to understand why.

  Only one way to find out.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘Mr Quiggin?’

  The guest house owner looked up sharply. Hannah suspected that he wasn’t often approached by strange women in bars. That comb-over …

  ‘I’m DCI Hannah Scarlett. We spoke earlier.’

  His small eyes opened very wide, but what struck Hannah was his companion’s reaction. The colour drained from Scott Durham’s face as she introduced herself. She rarely had such an effect on even the most incompetent of criminals. The artist was panic-stricken. She couldn’t resist a cheap flourish.

  ‘And this is Mr Durham, I presume?’

  He seemed incapable of speech. Quiggin rose, and extended his hand.

  ‘Hello, Chief Inspector. Yes, I’m Alvaro Quiggin. This is a surprise, I must say.’ He cleared his throat. ‘When we talked on the phone, you never mentioned you’d be visiting Ravenglass in person.’

  ‘No,’ Hannah agreed. ‘I didn’t.’

  Les had torn himself away from the barmaid, and as Hannah introduced him. Quiggin shifted in his chair.

  ‘Didn’t you say you were calling from Kendal? Surely the two of you haven’t come all this way simply because one of my lady guests didn’t sleep in her own bedroom last night?’ He gave an uneasy laugh. ‘I mean, if that’s enough to get the police out, Main Street would forever be choked with panda cars.’

  ‘Ms Footit still hasn’t turned up?’

  ‘No, but I can’t tell you any more than I did when we spoke.’

  Scott Durham found his voice. ‘Why do you want to talk to Joanna?’

  ‘Mind if we join you?’ Les pulled up a couple of chairs without waiting for a reply.

  ‘You’ll appreciate,’ Hannah said, ‘that we can’t divulge confidential information. As I said, I’m in charge of a team reviewing certain old files.’

  ‘Old files?’ Durham seemed to relax fractionally. ‘I don’t understand. Joanna’s been living in Lancashire for the past twenty years.’

  ‘Have you seen her since she came back?’

  ‘Well …’ He seemed afraid of a booby trap. ‘Well – yes, I suppose I have.’

  ‘You suppose?’ She waited as the Polish girl served their baguettes. ‘Don’t you know for certain?’

  ‘Sorry … I mean, yes, we’ve bumped into each other once or twice. Passed the time of day, so to speak. That’s all I can—’

  Quiggin interrupted. ‘If you ask me, she’s catching up with old friends at this very moment.’

  ‘Nostalgic about old times, is she?’ Hannah asked. ‘That’s odd. When she lived here, she was involved in a fatal car crash, and suffered a breakdown. No sooner had she recovered from that than her closest friend was murdered. I’m not surprised she left the area. It’s harder to understand why she returned.’

  ‘She … she’d heard about her old boyfriend, Nigel Whiteley,’ Scott Durham muttered. ‘He’s in the news lately, you must know. This fuss about his daughter. I’d guess she’s dreamt of rekindling their romance. I wouldn’t put it past her. Joanna’s a sweet girl – woman – but she was always desperately naive. She’s already got more than she bargained for.’

  ‘Meaning what?’ Les demanded.

  Durham shot Quiggin a quick glance. ‘Oh, nothing.’

  If he was trying to deflect attention away from himself, he was succeeding. Les moved closer to him, and repeated,

  ‘More than she bargained for?’

  ‘Like I say, it was nothing. I suppose she had no idea Al was Carrie’s father.’

  Quiggin swallowed some beer, and put his tankard down with exaggerated care. ‘I’m not with you.’

  Durham’s eyebrows rose. ‘Al, don’t tell me you didn’t know?’ he said. ‘She has an unusual surname, I presumed you realised who she was.’

  ‘Who she was?’

  ‘Joanna was the other passenger.’

  ‘She was … Nigel Whiteley’s girlfriend.’

  ‘That’s right. As the Chief Inspector says, it took her a long time to recover.’

  The conversation had raced away down a fresh track, and Hannah needed to keep up. ‘The other passenger?’

  ‘Yes,’ Scott Durham said. ‘Four people were in the car on the night of the crash. Nigel and Joanna, and Robbie Dean and his girlfriend. She was known as Carrie North, but Al here was her Dad.’

  ‘My wife left me long before Carrie died,’ Quiggin muttered. ‘She married again, though it didn’t last. She made Carrie take the husband’s surname.’

  ‘Were you living here at the time of the accident?’

  ‘No, I only moved to Ravenglass three and a half years ago, when the guest house came on the market. Before then, I lived in the North East, where Carrie was born. She’d lived in Carlisle for years, that’s where her mother moved with her fancy man.’ He breathed out. ‘My
wife did everything in her power to destroy my relationship with Carrie. At the time she died, I was a stranger to her. My only child.’

  ‘Why move here? Plenty of guest houses in the north east.’

  ‘It sounds stupid and sentimental,’ he muttered. ‘She’s buried not far away, in Gosforth. I liked Ravenglass, and I liked the idea of being close to her. Simple as that.’

  ‘You didn’t realise Joanna was in the car when your daughter died?’

  ‘No.’ He was gazing toward the bar, but Hannah was sure he wasn’t ogling the Polish barmaid. ‘No, I’d forgotten the name, that’s all. It’s Carrie who needs remembering. If I don’t remember her, who will?’

  Hannah caught Les giving an almost imperceptible nod toward Scott Durham. Quite right; she mustn’t allow herself to be side-tracked. ‘As you say, Carrie was your only child. And Mr Durham, you have one son, don’t you?’

  Durham coloured, but didn’t reply directly. ‘You said you were reviewing old files, Chief Inspector. Surely not in connection with the car crash?’

  ‘No, a couple of other things. A girl went missing three years ago, and …’

  ‘Gray Elstone’s daughter?’ Quiggin interrupted. ‘Joanna Footit knew Gray. But I can’t see how she can possibly …’

  ‘What was the other thing?’ Scott Durham asked. ‘Surely not the Dungeon House case?’

  ‘Why do you say surely not?’ Hannah lowered her voice, as if about to impart a secret. ‘To be frank, there are one or two loose ends …’

  ‘Loose ends? After all this time? You can’t be serious. Everyone knows what happened. Malcolm Whiteley went crazy with his rifle. End of.’

  ‘You were here that night, weren’t you, Mr Durham?’ Hannah indicated their surroundings. ‘Dining with Mrs Whiteley and her daughter. Along with Joanna Footit and Gray Elstone.’

  ‘Is that a crime?’ Durham snapped. ‘You make it sound like I should feel guilty. As it happens, a police inspector and his lady friend were with us. Why not talk to him? Maybe he should have realised what Whiteley was about to do, and saved two innocent lives.’