The Dungeon House (Lake District Mysteries)

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Frequently.’

  ‘They were wrong. Just make sure your ideas don’t run too far ahead of the evidence.’

  Moments after they reached Ravenglass, Maggie called back. ‘I’ve just spoken to Billie. Shona and Durham have been picked up. No aggravation from him, bucketfuls of tears from her. Perfect outcome, eh?’ Not for Josh Durham and his father, Hannah thought. ‘Any joy with Quiggin?’

  ‘Depends what you wanted to hear. He doesn’t have a record.’

  Hannah wasn’t too surprised. If Quiggin had abducted Lily, she didn’t suppose it was because he was a sexual predator. Unless, that is, the reason for the breakdown of his marriage was that he’d taken an unhealthy interest in Carrie. It might be worth tracking down the ex-wife, and seeing what she had to say.

  When he opened the door to them, Quiggin swayed slightly, as if the sight of them knocked him off balance. Judging by the smell of his breath, he’d had a drink or two since their last conversation. Alcohol might loosen his tongue.

  ‘Chief Inspector! I wasn’t expecting to see you again.’

  ‘Just called for a quick update.’ This was so vague as to be meaningless, but Quiggin nodded, as if reassured. ‘May we …?’

  ‘All right.’ He sounded exhausted, and his shoulders slumped as he accompanied them down the passageway. Squeezing into his tiny office, Hannah found it hard to tear her eyes away from the photograph of the dead daughter. She’d have been over forty now. The same age as Joanna Footit.

  ‘If you’re wondering,’ he said, ‘I’ve not heard from Joanna. I presume there’s still no sign of her?’

  ‘We simply wanted to let you know,’ Hannah said disingenuously, ‘there has been a development.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ He seemed agitated. The bottle of Johnnie Walker and empty tumbler on his desk might explain his twitchiness. Or perhaps there was another reason.

  ‘Her car has been found by the dunes at Drigg. Seems like she left it there overnight.’

  ‘You don’t think … she’s done anything silly, do you?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well … harming herself.’ He coughed, as if embarrassed. ‘Committing suicide.’

  ‘It’s too early to rule anything in or out. Did she seem depressed to you?’

  ‘On the contrary.’ His brow furrowed. ‘She did say something about putting things right.’

  ‘Putting things right? How, exactly?’

  Quiggin scrunched his unlovely features into a parody of a man racking his brains. ‘Oh, I can’t remember. Something about being glad to be back in the Lake District, a chance to put things right. She said it in passing, and I didn’t cross-examine her.’

  ‘Is she an attractive woman, would you say?’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  Hannah said quietly, ‘It’s a straightforward question, Mr Quiggin.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that I harassed the poor woman? Propositioned her, or something?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything. But you found her attractive?’

  ‘Just because I’m single, I’m fair game, am I?’ His face was bright red. ‘I don’t mess about with my guests. It wouldn’t be … seemly. Or sensible, given that people can rant and rave about the slightest thing on the Internet. I suppose you’ve read that review of this place when that Scottish woman made a fuss, and said I was creepy?’

  The drink was talking. They might be getting somewhere.

  ‘I’m not aware of that.’

  ‘I’ve had enough of women, let me tell you.’ His voice was shaking. ‘Most of those I’ve met have been bad news. I’m happier on my own.’

  ‘All I asked was whether she was attractive.’

  ‘The answer is no, not really.’ His voice was shaking. ‘If you want the truth, she looked rather odd. Very tall and thin, with lots of vivid red hair. Perhaps she dyes it, I don’t know about these things. All I can tell you is this. She seemed like a nice woman, and I tried to make her welcome. Satisfied?’

  ‘Have you any idea what she did after she left here for that talk in the pub about the history of murder?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’ His jaw jutted forward. ‘That’s … that’s my last word on the subject. Now if that’s all …’

  Les picked up the photograph of Carrie North. ‘Does this remind you of anyone, Mr Quiggin?’

  ‘Put that down!’ Quiggin reached out, and snatched the picture from Les’ hand, tearing it slightly. Tears formed in the man’s eyes. ‘Now see what you’ve done! I think you’d better leave.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Quiggin, we don’t want to upset you,’ Hannah said. ‘It’s just that there is a strong resemblance between your daughter in this photo and …’

  ‘She has my wife’s features, not mine. You’re not suggesting some other man was her father?’ He was crying now. ‘It’s an absolute lie!’

  ‘No, no. We’re not suggesting anything like that.’ Hannah kept her voice calm, although her thoughts were racing. ‘Please don’t upset yourself, Mr Quiggin. I wasn’t referring to your wife, but to Lily Elstone.’

  He wiped his face with his shirt sleeve. ‘Gray’s girl? She was much younger.’

  ‘Lily’s looks were mature for her years.’

  He looked at her as if she were insane. ‘I’m not with you. Lily was short. Carrie was blonde, Lily wasn’t.’

  ‘Lily dyed her hair blonde shortly before she went missing,’ Les said.

  ‘Give me a second.’ The scrunched-up expression of concentration reappeared. ‘Lily was much younger. Carrie was a woman, not a schoolgirl. You surely can’t believe it’s important.’

  Hannah felt an urge to bang her head against the wall. Surely Quiggin wasn’t a good enough actor to lie so plausibly? It seemed they were no further forward as regards either Lily Elstone’s fate or Joanna’s.

  She said quietly, ‘When we deal with old, difficult cases, we need to look at every possible angle. That’s all we are doing. I’m sorry about your photograph.’

  Quiggin shut his eyes. ‘It’s all right, Chief Inspector. I’m overwrought … that’s all. I’ve had a few drinks today, but still I can’t forget. You see, today is the anniversary.’

  ‘Anniversary?’

  ‘Of the day Carrie died.’

  ‘Coincidences?’ Hannah asked once they were outside. ‘Or something else?’

  It was drizzling again, and Les hitched up his coat collar. ‘Hate to say it, but I reckon he’s telling the truth about Lily.’

  ‘We’ll soon find out. Let’s see if Gray Elstone is still in the office.’

  Her call went straight through to the accountant. Yindee had probably gone home in a huff by now. Hannah told him about the discovery of Joanna’s abandoned car.

  ‘Good God, that’s dreadful! The poor thing. I never imagined she would … it must all have become too much.’

  ‘One possibility is that she’s left the area voluntarily.’

  ‘Why would she do that? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘We don’t have any answers at the moment, I’m afraid, but our colleagues are doing all they can to find out where she is.’

  He made a gulping noise. ‘I told you, she has a history of attempting suicide. For all I know, there have been other incidents during the past twenty years. I wonder …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wonder if she came back here to say goodbye.’

  ‘We’re keeping an open mind, Mr Elstone.’ He mumbled something inarticulate in reply. ‘By the way, there was something else. This resemblance between your daughter and Carrie, the girl who died in the crash.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ve been thinking about that. I did wonder if you were implying that Alvaro Quiggin was in some way responsible for snatching Lily. I have to say I find it impossible to believe. He’s not like that.’

  He’s not like that. Hannah had often heard it said about people who proved eventually to be very much like that. ‘When Lily met him, was her hair blonde, the same colour as when she disappea
red?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ When Hannah didn’t answer, he fell silent for a few moments. ‘No, I’m certain that it wasn’t. She wanted to change things in her life. She was fed up of Anya, and her dearest wish was to get away from her, and come and live with me.’

  ‘And she dyed her hair shortly before her disappearance?’

  ‘Oh yes. Then she insisted on having her picture taken. She loved posing for the camera. The new me, that’s how she described the look.’

  ‘I see. Thanks, you’ve been helpful.’

  ‘I’m reluctant to say this, Chief Inspector, but all this talk about photographs doesn’t seem likely to get you anywhere.’

  ‘I understand the point you’re making, Mr Elstone.’ She went through the usual rigmarole about needing to consider the case from every angle. It was the truth, so why did it sound so false when she tried to explain? As she ended the call, she felt her stomach churn. They were no closer to finding Lily Elstone, and now someone else was missing.

  ‘Cheer up,’ Les said, as they walked into the pub. ‘Your feller will be here in a minute. What are you having?’

  His eyes wandered toward the bar, where an elderly customer was ogling the Polish barmaid and her equally well-endowed colleague, but Hannah’s main concern was to make sure Scott Durham wasn’t here, drowning his sorrows. After talking to one man whose daughter was dead, and another whose daughter had disappeared never to return, she could do without a close encounter with a man whose son would soon be locked up for years. There was only so much gloom and doom you could take in one afternoon. Let someone else break the bad news.

  A table next to the window was free. Leave the men to drink in the view of the barmaids; she’d rather contemplate the estuary. Even on this grey, grim day, there was something magical about the shimmer of light on the waves. She was only vaguely aware of the village’s past, but the Romans had known what they were doing when they’d chosen to build a port here.

  ‘Here he is,’ Les said, as Daniel strolled into the bar. ‘The history man. What do you fancy? I’m buying.’

  Hannah laughed. ‘I see there’s a two-for-one offer on the light bites.’

  Daniel grinned. ‘Orange juice for me, please. I can’t face water, I’ve seen enough in the past hour to last a lifetime. Thank God the drains didn’t collapse during my talk. Half the audience might have drowned.’

  He dropped a kiss on Hannah’s cold cheek. ‘You look tired. Rough day?’

  ‘I’m just hoping Joanna Footit hasn’t actually drowned.’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘Want to tell me about it?’

  While Les bought drinks and food, she recounted the events of her day. Daniel was a good listener, and his intensity when he concentrated was flattering. Would he be equally interested in her once she moved out of Tarn Cottage?

  ‘This photograph of Carina North,’ he said. ‘There’s a close likeness to Lily Elstone despite the age gap?’

  ‘At first glance, definitely. Lily inherited her mother’s good looks. She’d have passed for nineteen or twenty, no problem.’

  ‘Did Robbie Dean know Lily?’

  ‘Doubtful. Elstone doesn’t do his accounts, and I’m sure they don’t mix in the same circles. Dean doesn’t come over as a social animal. Why?’

  ‘Carrie was Dean’s girlfriend. What if he saw Lily, and was spooked by the resemblance?’

  Les banged his fist on the table. ‘Good call. We focused on Quiggin because he was Carrie’s father. But Dean …’

  ‘Was responsible for Carrie’s death,’ Hannah interrupted. ‘Nobody’s mentioned any other relationships with women. That car crash changed his life. It ruined his career in football, but he also lost his girlfriend. It’s easy to assume a man like that doesn’t care about anyone but himself, those are the vibes he gives out. But what if he was obsessed with Carrie?’

  ‘And what if years later,’ Les muttered, ‘he knocked a pretty girl off her bike, only to find she was Carrie’s lookalike?’

  ‘There’s more,’ Daniel said. ‘I asked about Dean because I’ve been talking to Edwin Broderick about Dean’s granddad.’

  Hannah sipped her drink. ‘His granddad?’

  ‘Yes, the lad’s parents died young, and he went to live with his grandparents. Old Joe Dean’s cottage at Lower Drigg was his pride and joy. He bought it before the Second World War broke out, and his attitude was that an Englishman’s home was his castle.’ Daniel leant back in his chair. He hadn’t touched his drink or meal. ‘Edwin is an expert on wartime Cumbria. He’s told me all about the Barrow Blitz, when the Luftwaffe tried to destroy the shipyards at Barrow-in-Furness in the early years of the war. Not far down the coast from here.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ Les said, ‘but can we get back to Robbie Dean?’

  ‘The gun range at Eskmeals was a target for the German bombers.’ A dreamy look drifted across Daniel’s face, a look Hannah had seen before when he was transported in his mind to a different place and time. ‘So was an explosives factory at Calder Hall, the site that became the nuclear plant. Munitions works were dotted around West Cumbria. Drigg had one, for instance. The Luftwaffe would have loved to destroy it. How do you think Granddad Dean reacted?’

  ‘Get on with it,’ Hannah said. ‘The suspense is killing us.’

  ‘The old man was scared stiff that enemy bombers would reduce his home to rubble. An Anderson shelter in the garden wasn’t good enough for him. He decided, to quote Edwin, to convert his cellars into the biggest bloody private air raid shelter for miles around. Folk said it was more like an underground palace than a place of refuge.’

  Daniel paused, his dark eyes glittering with barely suppressed excitement. ‘I’m guessing Robbie Dean didn’t show you round downstairs?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  On waking, Joanna fooled herself for a moment that this was merely one more nightmare. She was lying on an uncomfortable old mattress in a small, square room that smelt of urine. Dim light from a naked bulb shone on whitewashed walls and a rough stone floor. There were no windows, but one wall had a steel door. An old-fashioned cylinder radiator stood against the opposite wall, but no warmth came from it. It was like being trapped inside a freezer. The room was bare, apart from a dirty white duvet draped across her body, and a vile plastic toilet. She must be below ground, but the ceiling seemed high for a cellar. An extractor unit was set in it, adjacent to a small oblong panel of sheet metal. A trapdoor? No, it wasn’t big enough for a child to squeeze through, let alone a grown man or woman.

  The duvet was scant use or comfort in a room so dank. Numb with cold and misery, she shifted her position. There was a pressure on her right wrist from a tight leather bracelet with a lock and buckle. She felt woozy, and her face hurt, where he’d ripped off the tape gagging her. A sour taste lingered in her mouth, and her throat was sore where the man’s knife had nicked it. Something scratched her left ankle, and when she shrugged aside the duvet to take a look, her gorge rose. This was nothing like the bad dreams she’d endured a thousand times before. The man had tethered her to a rusty chain, and stripped off most of her clothes, leaving only her cotton undershirt, bra, and knickers.

  The chain was locked to an iron ring fixed into the wall behind her, and when she moved, the link bit into her flesh. She retched, but there was nothing inside her to vomit up. Her stomach felt burnt and empty. She’d been sick after the stranger seized her, she remembered now.

  After dragging her out of her car, he’d tied her wrists with cord, and forced her to drink from a flask. She was shaking so much that some of the liquid spilt down her jaw instead of going into her mouth, angering him so that he pulled her hair hard, and brought tears to her eyes. The stuff smelt foul, and tasted bitter.

  ‘Please,’ she’d gasped. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

  The man in the crash helmet gave no answer. He just took a roll of masking tape from the pocket of his anorak, and tore off a strip. Knowing that if she screamed, nobody would hear, and he�
�d make her suffer even more, she’d remained limp and unresisting as he taped her mouth shut.

  As he tugged her trousers down, she’d felt his hands on her bare thighs. At last, she realised she’d been right. This wasn’t Nigel. But it wasn’t a stranger, either.

  Joanna heard the metal panel in the ceiling slide open. Scared and exhausted, she’d dozed fitfully, but the sudden clatter reminded her that this nightmare was only just beginning. For a few seconds, she dared not open her eyes, terrified of what she might see. When she forced herself to look up, she saw a face framed in the opening. No, the metal panel wasn’t a trapdoor. More like something from a sick peep show.

  Robbie Dean was watching her.

  ‘Why?’ She sounded like an old, hoarse woman.

  ‘You should never have come back.’

  ‘I … I didn’t …’

  ‘You’ve ruined everything.’ His voice trembled with temper; he sounded like a child on the brink of a tantrum.

  Despite her weakness, she summoned up the strength to protest. ‘I haven’t … I never meant to bother you.’

  Why did he hate her? She’d never done him any harm. There was a strange wariness in his expression. She tried to persuade herself his rage wasn’t caused by hate, but by uncertainty, as if he didn’t know what to do.

  His face disappeared, and the panel slid back into place. He was furious, yes, but that wasn’t all. He sounded – nonsensical as it seemed to Joanna, chained to the wall of a mouldy cellar – on the verge of tears.

  Hungry and feeble and afraid, she closed her eyes. Jumbled images swam through her mind. Robbie laughing in the car, seconds before it swerved off the road. Robbie, spotting her at the Dungeon House, the morning after the night before. Robbie, groping her in the darkness on the beach at Seascale. The rough touch of his calloused hands when he pulled down her trousers had triggered a long-buried memory. Had he raped her? He’d left her knickers on, and she didn’t feel sore between her legs, but …

  What was that? The rattle of a key in a lock. The door was opening. Robbie limped into the little room. He was breathing hard. She craned her neck, trying to see what lay on the other side of the door, but he shut it behind him with exaggerated care.