The Dungeon House (Lake District Mysteries)

by Martin Edwards

  ‘What’s in the other room?’ Joanna asked.

  The five minutes since Robbie’s departure felt like five hours. She’d spent the time trying to calm Lily down. For years, the girl had dreamt of the day when she killed her captor, and made her escape. The chance had come and gone, and now they were incarcerated with only a corpse for company.

  ‘It’s the bedroom. There’s no way out.’ Lily managed a wan smile. ‘Trust me, I’ve checked.’

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘An old air raid shelter. His grandad built it, and he tarted it up, so he could be here with this Carrie, the girl who died.’

  ‘He’ll come back.’

  ‘No way, you heard what he said.’ She pointed at Nigel’s body. ‘This bastard ruined it all for him.’

  ‘What do you think he will do, then?’

  Lily shivered. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of times he’s said that he couldn’t bear to lose me. Lose Carrie, I mean. Life wouldn’t be worth living, those were his words.’

  This time, Robbie Dean wasn’t answering the door. Nigel Whiteley’s BMW was parked on the verge in front of the cottage, but there were no lights in the windows, no sign that anyone was inside. With Azeem and Beefy stationed in the lane, Hannah and Les walked round the house, but found nothing. The outbuildings were locked, and when they peered through the single cobwebbed window, there was no obvious means of access to the air raid shelter.

  Les indicated a rusty garden roller. ‘I’d like to move that, see if it’s covering something. Or maybe there’s a way down underneath the van.’

  ‘Yeah, there was a lot of clutter in that pantry, if you remember. He lives like a slob, but the rubbish might also hide any trapdoor leading to a staircase.’

  ‘Time to invoke the Ways and Means Act?’

  Code for finding an excuse – any excuse – to make an entry. They might even rely on the law that allowed the emergency service to force their way into a private house if there was a reasonable belief it was necessary to save life or avert serious harm. Whatever. All Hannah cared about was getting inside the cottage. She’d convinced herself that Joanna was there. What she couldn’t guess was whether the woman was dead or alive.

  ‘His other van is parked here, so he can’t have gone far.’

  ‘He and Whiteley are hiding inside,’ Les said. ‘Pound to a penny.’

  ‘He should answer the door, then.’ Hannah kicked at it. ‘Tell you what, I’m not sure even Beefy could shift something this heavy.’

  ‘The kitchen window at the back,’ Les suggested. ‘Not double-glazed, but not too big, either.’

  ‘I can squeeze through it, no problem.’

  ‘Not sure that’s conduct befitting a DCI,’ he said.

  ‘Story of my life.’

  ‘Chances are, it’s alarmed.’

  ‘Who cares?’ Hannah said. ‘Not me. Let’s do it.’

  Inside two minutes, the window was open, and she’d managed to wriggle through without straining her ligaments or putting her back out. All the time she kept listening. Was Dean lurking in a dark corner, ready to attack an intruder?

  If he really had kidnapped Joanna Footit, he was dangerous, and probably deranged. As she got her bearings, it crossed her mind that this wasn’t the cleverest move she’d ever made. Even with Azeem and Beefy in support, so much could go so wrong. And yet.

  To wait would be disastrous. For reasons she didn’t yet understand, today had seen events racing towards a crisis. Joanna hadn’t drowned herself. The note was a crude attempt to throw the police off the track. Something dark and terrible had taken place, and Robbie and Nigel Whiteley were at the centre of it.

  ‘Mr Dean!’ she called. ‘DCI Scarlett. We need to talk to you. Is that all right?’

  No answer. She inched forward.

  ‘Ma’am, wait!’

  Azeeem was trying to squeeze through the window. Taller and bulkier than Hannah, he had no chance. She waved him back.

  ‘Let me open the front door for you.’

  ‘Our man might be lying in wait outside the kitchen.’

  ‘Mr Dean!’ she called again. ‘Are you there?’

  Nothing. The quiet in the cottage made her flesh creep. She listened intently, but couldn’t hear breathing. He wasn’t hiding from them, she’d stake her life on it. Nobody could be so still, so silent.

  She advanced towards the kitchen door. Was some horror film ogre lurking behind it? She pulled the handle with a flourish. The hallway beyond was unlit. With infinite caution, she peered around the door.

  Hanging in the hallway, at the bottom of the stairs, was the body of a man, cold and dead. Robbie Dean had put his neck inside a noose suspended from the high ceiling. On the floor was the rickety chair he’d stood on, before kicking it away to allow his neck to snap. On his head was his beloved football cap.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ‘You can still change your mind,’ Daniel said.

  Hannah leant over, and dropped a kiss on his cheek. They were out in the cipher garden, making the most of a bottle of Chablis and a shimmering sunset. All through a long day at Divisional HQ, she’d been dreading this conversation. So many lines she’d rehearsed in her head. Now, when the moment came to deliver them, every single one seemed clunky and false.

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve almost finished packing. All the arrangements are made. I pick up the keys from the solicitor tomorrow morning, and hey presto! I’m a householder again.’

  ‘Arrangements can be undone.’ He put his hand on her leg. ‘Stay here with me. Let the flat out, there will be plenty of takers.’

  She moved his hand away. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I’ll let you into a secret,’ he said. ‘I’ve hoped you’d think again about the flat, right from day one.’

  A heron landed on a branch above the pool. Serene and elegant, it contemplated the view with the air of a feudal lord surveying his fiefdom.

  ‘As soon as I’ve settled in, you can come over. I’ll cook a meal. And I hope you’ll invite me back here soon. This place is utterly magical.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ The heron had seen enough, and flapped its wings. Daniel’s eyes followed its flight as it rose above the trees, before disappearing towards the fell. ‘So your mind’s made up?’

  Oh God, now was the time to make her little speech. ‘After all those years with Marc, I need to spend some time living in my own space. It wasn’t until he moved out that I began to realise life with him had been suffocating me. Not his fault, at least not entirely. Living together simply didn’t suit us as much as I used to pretend to myself.’ She ran a finger around the rim of her glass. ‘I like my own company, I discovered. Don’t get me wrong. I like yours, too, but right now, I need time by myself.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a “yes”, then.’

  ‘Nothing’s changed between us, Daniel. My staying here was always meant to be temporary. We agreed that on day one.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’

  She stretched her arms luxuriantly. ‘As usual, didn’t you mean to add?’

  ‘Don’t push it.’ A reluctant smile. ‘Seriously, I understand what you’re saying.’

  ‘Yes, I think you do.’

  ‘I’ve enjoyed these last few weeks.’

  ‘Me too.’

  She sipped her wine, and counted the lilies on the pool.

  ‘Blissful, isn’t it? Such a pity real life keeps getting in the way.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to.’

  ‘It does, you know. We can’t spend all our lives in an idyll, that never works. We’d get itchy feet, even in somewhere as close to Paradise as Tarn Fold. It’s battling through all the crap the outside world flings at us that makes this such a perfect place for escape. Even if only for hours at a time.’

  ‘Talking about the crappy outside world, how much sleep did you get last night?’

  Ever since that extraordinary day at Lower Drigg, she’d been plagued by insomnia. In the space of a few hours, she’d survi
ved a car crash, discovered a suicide, and – eventually – helped the rescue team to set Joanna Footit and Lily Elstone free from that vile subterranean tomb, and to recover the body of Nigel Whiteley. She’d seen things beneath the cottage that she’d never forget, but she knew they must be put to the back of her mind. Dean had been as dangerous as he was inadequate, and he mustn’t be allowed to mess up her life from beyond the grave. Or mess up the lives of his two captives.

  She’d refused to look at any of the dozens of films he’d made of poor, defenceless Lily Elstone, and her top priority was to make sure they were destroyed. They weren’t a fit subject for study by academics or psychiatrists in Hannah’s opinion, and for as long as they existed, there was a risk they’d be copied, circulated and salivated over. Lily deserved better, after all she had endured. She must be left in peace while she rebuilt her life, back in the open air after three years underground.

  The story had caused a sensation, and the last few days had become a dizzying whirl. Colleagues and journalists alike lavished praise on her leadership of the Cold Case team, and there was much glib talk about happy endings. But when night came, and she lay in bed next to Daniel, her mind crowded with hateful images. A man in a noose, his tongue poking out. A wild-eyed girl who’d not seen daylight for years. A corpse with a crushed face.

  ‘Enough. Four or five hours, maybe.’ This was a lie, but the truth would only make him plead with her to stay here. New flat, fresh start – that was the way to conquer the demons of darkness.

  ‘Will you see that counsellor?’ he asked. ‘Give it a go, you’ve nothing to lose.’

  ‘I’d rather sort things out for myself. Then I’ll feel I’ve achieved something. I know I’m stubborn …’

  ‘Bloody intransigent, more like. I blame my Dad. He was pig-headed, too. He was a bad influence on you.’

  ‘Think you don’t take after him?’ she teased. ‘If not for Ben, things would have turned out very differently for Joanna Footit and Lily Elstone. He didn’t go along with the consensus about the Dungeon House, and he was proved right.’

  ‘Thanks to you, trusting his instinct.’

  ‘Don’t be modest. If you hadn’t come up with that titbit from Edwin about the air raid shelter, Les and I would never have dashed back to the cottage.’ She lifted her glass. ‘To the Kinds, father and son. Good detectives.’

  ‘What’s the latest on Lily?’

  ‘Early days, but the signs are hopeful. I’m not sure you ever get over an ordeal like that, but she’s strong-willed. Had to be, to keep her sanity in that hellhole, held captive by a nutcase who saw her as the reincarnation of the only person he ever loved.’

  ‘She must be strong, if she’s refused to go back to live with her mother. Has she moved in with Gray Elstone yet?’

  ‘Uh-huh. It’s all too much for the woman he was planning to marry. Yindee didn’t fancy playing second fiddle to Lily, and she’s found herself another sucker. Turns out she’d got very friendly with a financier Elstone acts for. He was supposed to be helping her to set up in business, modelling with clay. Her idea of client relations involved sleeping with him, and now she’s moved in with him. Narrow escape for Elstone, if you ask me. As for Anya Jovetic, she and Lily had a tense and unhappy reunion. The upshot is that Anya’s washed her hands of the kid, and is heading off to France with her new bloke. Oh, and guess what I heard today?’

  ‘Surprise me,’ he said lazily.

  ‘Gray asked Joanna to help look after Lily. She and the girl formed a strong bond in the short time they were together.’

  ‘Strong enough to conspire to kill a man.’

  ‘They were desperate. It was an act of courage, not a crime. With Yindee out of the picture, Joanna and her old boss seem to be hitting it off. She spent all those years fantasising about a cold, selfish murderer. Elstone may not be handsome, or even be the best of accountants, but he’s got to be a massive improvement on Nigel Whiteley.’

  ‘Has Joanna told you any more about that night at the Dungeon House?’

  Hannah sighed. ‘I’m not sure she even knows for certain what she did see. It was pandemonium that night. It didn’t help that she’d been drinking at the barbecue, and then during dinner. If she’d sworn in court that she’d seen Nigel push Amber to her death, counsel for the defence would have had a field day with her. You’d never establish intention to kill on such flimsy eyewitness evidence. Yes, she should have come forward, just as she should have told someone that Nigel was largely to blame for the car crash that killed Carrie, but it’s not fair to judge her for keeping quiet. She was severely damaged by everything she went through. Thank God there’s no need for a trial.’

  ‘You’re convinced Nigel was a psychopathic murderer?’

  ‘Absolutely. He killed Amber on impulse, but I’m sure he meant to do it. That’s why he lost his nerve so badly when Joanna came back to haunt him. He was a risk-taker, bold and decisive, but he didn’t always think through the implications of what he was doing. Joanna was too good for him. I don’t believe for a minute that he cared for her, he was too cold and callous.’

  ‘He cared for Lysette Whiteley.’

  ‘Really? I’d say the real attraction was that she was married to his uncle, and Malcolm treated his dying brother despicably. Sure, he had a thing for older women, but screwing Lysette was about revenge as much as lust.’

  ‘How is Shona?’

  ‘Still adamant that Josh Durham is the love of her life, and she’ll stick by him, however long they bang him up for.’

  ‘Who knows? She might just mean it.’

  ‘She’s a child, Daniel. Savvy and spoilt, but above all, a child. Josh Durham took full advantage of her vulnerability. His father’s telling any reporter who cares to listen that it was true love, but it makes no difference. Josh will go to jail. At present she’s holed up on the other side of the Pennines, in Robin Hood’s Bay. A distant cousin of Nigel’s has offered to take care of her. She’ll need almost as much professional support as Lily. At least Lily has a home to go to. As if it wasn’t enough to be abducted by a school teacher, Shona has to come to terms with her father’s death.’

  ‘Do you think the Press will get hold of Joanna’s story about Nigel killing Amber? So far the coverage about Shona’s rescue has been as positive as the stories about Lily and Joanna. No suggestion that Shona’s dad was a murderer.’

  ‘I’m praying it stays that way. Nigel was loathsome, but he’s dead now, and looking after the living matters far more than denouncing the dead. Apparently, the media are offering Lily big bucks for her story, but Gray told them where to go. Good for him. The Elstones don’t need more money, just time to get to know each other again.’

  ‘And Joanna?’

  ‘Now she has a chance of happiness with Gray. Let’s hope she grabs it. People call her an oddball, but that’s unfair. She just sees the good in others. Sometimes when there isn’t any, unfortunately. Gray will make sure she doesn’t complicate matters by feeding the vultures with her story.’

  ‘All’s well that ends well, then?’

  She sighed. ‘Those were Les’s very words this afternoon. Not sure I see it that way, even if Dean and Whiteley are no loss. Josh’s reputation is in tatters, but I feel for his father. Shona’s an orphan, a poor little rich girl, and although Lily’s free at last, it’ll take a hell of a lot of love and hard work to ease her back to anything remotely close to normality. Things may work out for Gray and Joanna, but it’s early days. Two lives lost, others changed forever. Not your textbook happy-ever-after.’

  ‘Any news about Quiggin?’

  ‘He’s put his guest house on the market. The reason he moved to the western Lakes was to feel closer to Carrie, but Dean’s ruined it for him. He’s struggling to cope with the idea that Lily was kidnapped and held captive because she looked rather like Carrie. He never even knew there was a resemblance.’

  The sun had vanished, leaving a faint orange glow to remember it by. Daniel closed his eyes, but s
he didn’t try to fathom what he was thinking. However well you knew someone, there remained so much you’d never understand. A lesson Joanna Footit had learnt the hard way.

  ‘I’m going inside.’

  He opened his eyes. ‘Chilly?’

  ‘It’s not the breeze. I’m ready for an early night.’

  ‘Sure, you’ve had a long day, and there’s a lot to do tomorrow. You must be wiped out. At least you might get a decent night’s sleep.’

  ‘No chance. I’m fizzing with energy. You’d better be, too, or else.’

  She ran into the cottage and, after a moment’s wondering, he followed her.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  As with the other books in this series, I’ve made a few changes to the detailed topography of the setting in order to avoid confusion between my fictional world and real life. Ravenglass Knoll does not exist (in fact, its quarry garden was inspired by a visit to a beautiful garden in Cheshire); nor does Lower Drigg. The characters who appear are imaginary, and not intended to resemble any living (or dead) person; the same applies to the events of the story. The organisations and businesses mentioned are fictitious, with a few obvious exceptions, such as the Sellafield nuclear plant, and Muncaster Castle. My description of Cumbria Constabulary, and the people who work for it, is intended as a portrayal of an imagined equivalent of the real force, and Hannah and her colleagues do not represent real life counterparts. Similarly, the murders and kidnappings in the story are not based on abductions, family annihilations, or other events in real life. The Eskdale Arms, Saltcoats View, and Scott Durham’s cottage were all invented for the purpose of the story.

  I have, once again, been fortunate to receive a great deal of help in writing this book, and trying to strike a sensible and entertaining balance between invention and authenticity. My researches in Ravenglass and the surrounding area were assisted by several people, but I’d like to make special mention of my gratitude towards Neil Anderson of Rosegarth Guest House, and Mark A. Pearce, a gifted local artist, who gave me a great deal of invaluable information about life and work in the locality. Details about Rosegarth, and Mark’s work are available online; I can recommend both. Liz Gilbey supplied me with photos and insight relating to western Cumbria with her customary generosity. Gary and Linda Stratmann gave me welcome help in relation to Malcolm Whiteley’s weaponry, whilst Roger Forsdyke’s guidance on police procedure proved as invaluable as ever. I’d also like to thank my agent, James Wills, and my publishers here and overseas, for all their support. Most of all, my thanks go to my readers, not least those who take the trouble to get in touch with kind words about the books. Your continuing enthusiasm for the Lake District Mysteries is as rewarding as it is motivational.