The Cipher Garden

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Of course.’ He was all injured innocence. ‘You know me.’

  Well, yes. When it came to business, he was like every dealer she’d met. Books, antiques, whatever, they were all the same, they took as much pleasure from contriving a little extra profit on the negotiation than from contemplating the rarities they’d bought.

  She joined him on the rug and picked up a couple of thin books in gaudy wrappers. She liked to take an interest in his business, just as she was happy to talk when he asked about her latest case. With police work, some things had to remain confidential, but her instinct was to be open. There were too many secrets in the world. He’d kept one or two himself, not least the affair with Leigh’s sister that he’d briefly resumed years back, in the early days of their own relationship.

  ‘You’re like a pig in muck this evening.’

  He beamed. ‘I know you worry about this idea of murder for pleasure, but there’s wonderful escapism here. Red harvest, green for danger, five red herrings, nine tailors, murder in Mesopotamia and on the Orient Express. See these Inspector French books? Written by a railway engineer whose culprits concocted alibis based on the assumption that trains ran precisely to timetable.’

  ‘Jesus, what murderer in his right mind would risk that?’

  ‘Nostalgic, or what? Those were the days.’

  ‘Actually, I yearn for chance to gather suspects in the library. No worries about reading them their rights. At least in those books you can count on finding out the solution if you battle through the last page.’

  He hugged her close. She often forgot how sinewy his arms were. Each time they held her, she was happy to remember.

  ‘Tough day at work?’

  ‘We have a new cold case. A landscape gardener, murdered with his own scythe. Grisly.’

  ‘As it happens, I was talking about gardens in the shop today with your friend Daniel Kind.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Mention of Daniel quickened her pulse, but she mustn’t seem too interested. The last thing she wanted was for Marc to get the wrong idea, as he had done about her relationship with Ben. ‘More of an acquaintance, really. I’ve not been in touch with him since the Brackdale file was closed.’

  ‘You’ve been watching his TV shows. I noticed the DVD in the rack.’ For a moment she thought he was going to make an issue of it, but thankfully tonight his good humour was unshakeable. ‘His latest passion is the history of his own cottage garden. Maybe you should call him in as a consultant on your murder case. Make the most of having an expert in detecting the past on your doorstep.’

  Hannah laughed and flicked through an aged copy of Busman’s Honeymoon, wrinkling her nose at the title page description, ‘A love story with detective interruptions.’ One of the chapters was headed ‘When You Know How, You Know Who.’ A wildly optimistic assertion, not one you’d find in the ACPO manual. Yet so often the key to solving a murder lay in victimology, finding out how a person behaved to find out why they died.

  Put it another way. When you know Howe, you’ll know who.

  Kirsty Howe’s bottom lip trembled as she studied the torn scraps of paper. She’d fished them out of the bin-liner and, forgetting that she’d been about to put out the rubbish, she was hunched over the breakfast bar, piecing together the bits like completing a jigsaw.

  The roar of the washing machine made it hard to think. She switched it off and focused on her task. The envelope was addressed to Sam. She’d recognised the writing at once – the same horrid stencilled style of the note which had destroyed her day.

  He’d screwed up the pieces, making tight little balls, but she smoothed them out with care. Soon the message was staring up at her.

  Why did you hate your father? Jealousy?

  She’d hardly seen Sam all day. He always left early for work and she mostly came back after he’d gone to bed. This evening was an exception, for he was staying out later than usual. Their mother reckoned he had a girl over in Broughton, but he’d not mentioned anything to Kirsty. His life revolved around football and beer and motorbikes and women. Throughout her teens, she’d entertained the romantic hope that tragedy would bring them closer together. For all his laziness at school, he was brighter than he liked to make out and she hoped that, once out of his father’s shadow, he would reveal a sensitive side. After all these years, she was still waiting. Worse, he was smart enough to have picked up on her liking for Oliver and he never lost a chance to sneer.

  As she taped the fragments of the message together, she heard the thundering of a motorbike for a few moments before the engine died. The smell of alcohol wafted as he strode through the back door, helmet in hand. His eyes might be tired but his skin was glowing. She’d seen that look on the face of a couple of boys from Hawkshead whom she’d slept with. A look of bleary triumph. Her lovers reminded her of Lakeland twitchers excited by the sighting of a rare bird, or trainspotters at Oxenholme who’d ticked a rare number off their list. All they wanted was to bask in their conquest until they targeted a new trophy.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘I found this.’

  She waved the anonymous message at him. He made as if to snatch the note from her, but she was too quick for him and, evading his lunge, skipped off her stool and stood in the doorway, daring him to hit her. He’d never gone so far as to strike her, at least not since he was a boy and he used to poke her in the ribs or twist her arm behind her back.

  He moved forward, the soles of his trainers scraping on the tiled kitchen floor. His mouth was inches from hers. It wasn’t only the stale beer that stank, but the Pot Noodle on his breath. No wonder he hardly ever ate at The Heights, even though he and Peter had been doing some work for Bel in the garden lately. His idea of gourmet dining was curry and chips.

  ‘Hand it over.’

  ‘Why? You didn’t want it, obviously. I found it in with the rubbish.’

  ‘Who do you think you are, some kind of detective, sticking all the bits together again so you can have a good laugh?’

  ‘Sam!’ Even through the haze of drink, she hoped he might realise he was being unfair. ‘I was upset for you. The fact that someone has written something so nasty to you.’

  ‘Who cares about shit like that?’

  ‘I care! Nobody ought to say that about my brother! Do you think we ought to tell the police?’

  ‘What?’ He blinked. ‘You must be joking, didn’t we see enough of them to last a lifetime when…?’

  ‘When Dad was murdered.’

  ‘Well, yeah.’

  ‘I know, but it isn’t acceptable, Sam. Who can possibly be doing this?’

  ‘Some interfering scumbag with nothing better to do.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had any enemies.’

  He scowled. ‘You never know what some people might do after a couple of pints.’

  ‘So you think a man sent this?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘I thought it might be a woman.’

  ‘Someone I’ve screwed, you mean? Some bitch trying to get her own back?’

  She winced. ‘Surely it’s someone who knows something about Dad. It’s so strange, after all this time.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ve got better things to do than lose sleep over it.’

  ‘You mean you’re going to let them get away with this?’

  She thought she’d landed a shrewd blow. Turning the other cheek wasn’t Sam’s style. Again, she watched his fuddled expression while his brain cranked into gear. In the end, he took the easy option. Typical.

  ‘I’ll think about it tomorrow. It’s been a long day, and I’ve put my back out. You know what, I’ve been digging all afternoon, it’s a terrible slog.’

  Whatever form of exercise had put out his back, Kirsty doubted that it was gardening, but she bit back a waspish retort. They needed to be on the same side over this. Someone wanted to hurt both of them.

  ‘We can’t brush this under the carpet. Who could bear such a grudge against us?’

  Her
brother spread his arms. He didn’t have an answer, so much was clear.

  ‘It’s me they’re getting at, not you.’ She didn’t speak and he frowned. It was almost possible to watch the jumble of thoughts clattering around inside his brain. ‘Hey, did you get one?’

  ‘One what?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ He waved vaguely at the note. ‘A creepy thing like this. Poisoned pen letter or whatever you call it.’

  ‘All right.’ She put her hands on her hips, wanting to face him down. ‘What if one was sent to me?’

  A coarse smile. ‘How could anyone write anything unkind about sweet little Kirsty? What did it say?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, it was nonsense. A pack of lies.’

  ‘Come on. You shouldn’t…’ – he was groping for the simplest words – ‘you don’t want to blush if you’re trying to hide something from me.’

  He reached out and clamped his hand on her shoulder. She screamed in disgust at his foetid breath, she couldn’t stop herself shoving him away with all her might. He lost his balance and finished up on the floor. When he looked into her eyes, he didn’t seem to like what he saw. Perhaps it was revulsion; she couldn’t disguise how she felt.

  ‘You fucking bitch,’ he said thickly.

  The next thing she knew, his hands were around her throat.

  Chapter Six

  A clammy night, too hot to sleep. Daniel sweated under the duvet, battling insomnia for hour after endless hour, Miranda’s smooth warm body nestling by his side. She was restless and every now and then, she murmured in her dreams, but he couldn’t make out the words. In the end, he eased himself noiselessly out of bed and tiptoed downstairs to find the histories of the Lake District that he’d bought from Marc Amos.

  He poured himself a glass of water and settled on the living room sofa. He loved the smell and feel of old books. To hold them was to touch the past. Skimming the pages, he came across a handful of references to Brackdale amongst reams of stuff about better-known valleys like Borrowdale and Langdale. Skeldings had lived at Brack Hall for much of Victoria’s reign, it seemed, but there was nothing about the Quiller family. After an hour’s browsing, he found a mention of Tarn Fold in a small book with a splitting spine, published locally in 1935.

  Tucked away beneath the fell is Tarn Fold, with its old corn mill and, surrounding the tarn itself, an old and melancholic private garden, mysterious and overgrown. For the visitor, the Fold is noteworthy for its proximity to the old coffin trail that wends from Brack Church up towards Priest Edge.

  Not much to go on, but at least there was nothing new about the strangeness of the garden. He parted the curtains and was gazing out into the blackness when he heard a sound behind him. Louise was in the doorway, wearing a short red gown.

  ‘Too hot, isn’t it?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘What are you looking for out there?’

  ‘Wish I knew.’

  She came into the room. ‘I’m sorry about this evening. I shouldn’t harp on about Dad.’

  ‘You still regard him as some sort of monster.’

  ‘You know how hurt Mum was after…’

  ‘Yes,’ he interrupted, not wanting to dredge up old quarrels.

  She picked up the book. ‘What are you reading?’

  Glad of the chance to change the subject, he joined her back on the sofa and started talking about the garden. ‘There’s a story to it, must be, and if the secret was old in the Thirties, I’d guess the explanation dates back to the Quillers. The odds are that the garden was scarcely touched after they died. How come Jacob and Alice died on the same day, supposedly of broken hearts? This paragraph hints that the secret was kept by later owners of the cottage. Like Mrs Gilpin, who lived here till she died? No-one attempted to give the garden a makeover. But why?’

  ‘Respect for the dead?’

  ‘Could be.’ He couldn’t help laughing at himself. ‘Here I go again. Digging into the past, searching for a puzzle to solve.’

  ‘I’m glad, Daniel. When you left Oxford so suddenly, I wondered if you’d had some sort of breakdown. After Aimee and…well, you know.’

  ‘And what do you think now?’

  A sheepish grin. ‘Could be that we’re both finally coming to our senses.’

  Kirsty huddled under the duvet after waking from a shallow sleep. Her neck was aching. She slid out of bed and inspected herself in the mirror. The mark was red and vivid. It was bound to bruise; she would have to wear a scarf or something to hide it. And hide her shame that her brother, of all people, should have done this to her.

  She got back into bed and listened to Sam blundering around downstairs, banging cupboard doors in search of breakfast things. Sunlight filtered in through gaps in her bedroom curtains, but she buried her face in the pillow and waited for him to go. This house had been home to the family all her life, yet she’d never felt more alone.

  How long had he kept squeezing her throat? Only for a few seconds, must have been, and yet it had seemed an eternity. Did he mean to kill her, simply in a flash of temper? Closing her eyes, she had waited for death. Strangely, she felt no fear. She was ready to embrace nothingness. To end life would at least end her despair.

  Suddenly he’d released his grip. Perhaps he was more afraid than her. Perhaps he realised this, perhaps it made him hate her all the more.

  ‘You’re mad.’ To her horror, he’d made an effort to get the words out straight. Speaking from the heart. ‘Off your head, that’s you. Of course whoever wrote this shit got it right.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She was croaking, it was impossible to recognise her own voice.

  ‘I hated his guts. I can’t tell you how glad I am that he’s dead.’

  Studying the photographs from Warren Howe’s postmortem, Hannah felt bile rising in her gullet. The murderer had slashed Warren’s body a dozen times, tearing off strips of skin. The pathologist reported that the wounds suggested fury – or desperation – rather than physical might, but through luck or judgement the jugular vein had been ripped open. Warren hadn’t stood a chance.

  Every time she had investigated a murder, she had forced herself to attend the autopsy and study the corpse with as much detachment as she could muster. The rage welling up inside her helped her to succeed; instead of surrendering to emotion, she channelled it into a fierce resolve to see the murderer brought to trial. Ben’s creed, that everyone deserved justice, had become hers. Nobody ought to die like that. It didn’t matter that, had she known Warren Howe alive, he would surely have made her flesh crawl.

  Nick came in. The photographs spread out on her desk made him grimace.

  ‘Not a pretty sight. You’re in even earlier than usual.’

  ‘I wanted to finish reading the files. This morning I’m planning how to take the review forward.’

  ‘What would you like me to do?’

  Hannah hadn’t been looking forward to this conversation. Best keep it low key. ‘You’re busy already. Isn’t your report on the Brock case due in a couple of days? And then you need to interview those people up in Cockermouth. As for Warren Howe, you’ve already given me plenty to chew on. I’ll take charge and Linz can do the legwork.’

  ‘Maggie Eyre can sort out Cockermouth. I know the Howe case. And the place. And the people.’

  ‘Yes.’ She sucked in a breath. There wasn’t an easy way to say this. ‘Too well, perhaps. You’re friends with the man whose garden the body was found in. You were a member of the original team whose work we’re looking at. We need to draw on your knowledge of the background, it’s a huge asset, but I don’t see you playing a front-line role in this review.’

  ‘I’m too close to it?’

  ‘Correct.’

  He was biting his tongue, she could tell, wanting to argue, but knowing that a rant would get him nowhere. She would only be swayed by reason.

  ‘Didn’t we agree that the beauty of cold case review is that we can make up our own rules?’

&
nbsp; ‘Spot on.’ For all her worries about being sidelined, she relished the opportunity this job gave her to be a detective again. Not just a well-paid pen-pusher.

  ‘There you are, then. Failing to detect the murderer wasn’t just a defeat for Charlie, it was a defeat for all of us. Me included.’

  ‘My bet is, you’ll soon be sick of my pestering you for information.’

  ‘No more than that?’

  ‘It’s enough.’

  He weighed up her expression, checking for any sign that she might be prepared to budge. ‘Very well, ma’am, if that’s the way you’d like to deal with it.’

  He strode out of the room without another word. He only called her ma’am in private when he was deeply pissed off. Shit. What was it about Nick and this case? Something to do with Chris and Roz Gleave; she couldn’t imagine any other explanation. Whenever a personal relationship existed between a detective and a witness, tensions arose. She just prayed that while Chris was away, Nick hadn’t allowed his sympathy for Roz to spill over into something more intimate.

  She took another look at the statements made first by Roz Gleave and later, after he turned up again, by Chris Gleave. They’d been interviewed by a pair of DCs whose names she didn’t recognise. Neither Roz nor Chris had contributed much of value, even though Roz had found the body. This time around, she’d talk to the couple herself.

  A young girl with a ponytail knocked on her door. ‘The ACC wanted you to see this, ma’am. She asked if you could action it straight away.’

  Paling as her eye caught the photographs, she handed Hannah a sheaf of paper about a clampdown on misuse of emails and the Internet. One force had been dragged through the mire in the Press after one group of officers were found sending each other racist and homophobic messages. Another lot devoted half their time to playing an Internet game that involved a yeti with a baseball bat trying to hit animated penguins out of sight. Lauren was putting new policies and procedures in place to make sure that Cumbria’s computer systems were squeaky clean. Hannah gave a long, low groan. The girl was gone before she realised that her ungracious response had come close to shooting the messenger. It wasn’t the sort of mistake she usually made with staff relations. No point in denying it, the brush with Nick had unsettled her.