The Arsenic Labyrinth
MARTIN EDWARDS
Dedicated to Carolyn, George, Gary and Karen
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
JOURNAL EXTRACT
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
JOURNAL EXTRACT
PART TWO
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JOURNAL EXTRACT
PART THREE
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
JOURNAL EXTRACT
PART FOUR
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
About the Author
By Martin Edwards
Copyright
JOURNAL EXTRACT
You’d never believe it to look at me now, but once upon a time I killed a man.
My calves ache with the effort of scrambling up the slippery fell. It is not too late, I need not carry out my plan. Murder is a choice, an act of free will. How easy to turn around and go back home. Nobody need ever know the wicked imaginings that twist my soul. It is within my power to let him live.
It is not merely his fate that lies in my hands this afternoon. It is my own.
My knees tremble. In the bag slung over my shoulder, I feel the sharp blade of the knife.
I didn’t turn back, but passed beneath the large stone they called the Sword of Damocles. Long gone, destroyed like so much else that once seemed permanent and immune to change. I am ill at ease in the modern world. I shall not be sorry to bid it farewell. But before I leave, I shall share my secrets. I have this foolish superstition that, if they were buried with me, I should never find peace.
His back is turned, but when he hears my footsteps he spins round, leering with anticipation. He expected someone else. At the sight of me, his smile dissolves. The curl of his lip is familiar. I am accustomed to disappointing him.
‘You contrived this.’
A nod of assent.
‘How long have you known?’
What did it matter? When I did not reply, he let fly with a volley of abuse. I was jealous and selfish and sick in my head. The words glanced off me like arrows striking a shield.
When he reaches out and touches my arm, I recoil. A hungry gleam returns to his eyes. I can read his mind. We are alone and I am at his mercy. He looks about him, his attention caught by a rattle of stones.
I am dying now, withered and weary, but that afternoon I was so alive. More alive than ever before. Or since.
Slowly, he takes off his belt. Followed by his shirt.
I stand in front of him, motionless. He commands me to undress, just as I expected. My hands shake as I pull off my stockings and struggle out of my corselette. I take too long. Grunting with impatience, he strips quickly. When I start to fold my petticoat, he roars in disbelief.
‘For God’s sake, woman!’
I bend down and reach into the bag. I have obeyed him for the last time. He stands in front of me, naked and defenceless. I am almost naked too.
But I have the knife.
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Who shall I be today?
Guy smiled at the landlady as she proffered a ballpoint pen with a bitten top. Her hands were chapped, her pink nail varnish flaking. He reached inside his suede jacket.
‘Thanks, but I always write with my own fountain pen.’
He liked to think of the black lacquer Waterman Expert as an heirloom, though he’d picked it up less than eighteen months previously in a grubby little shop in Camden Town. The landlady opened the register with as much reverence as if it were The Book of Kells. Guy paused; hadn’t Megan described him as a regular Jekyll and Hyde?
Today, no question – Dr Jekyll.
At Haverigg, he’d studied calligraphy, an agreeable means of passing the long days. No need for artistic skill, just patience and attention to detail. Before running out of both, he’d mastered the basics of an elegant script. Bending over the page, he wrote with a flourish.
RL Stevenson.
Perfectly safe, this flight of fancy. He’d once made the mistake of introducing himself as Guy Mannering to a woman who proved to be a closet Sir Walter Scott fan, but Mrs Welsby didn’t strike him as bookish. Bed and breakfast places further up Campbell Road rejoiced in names like Brideshead and Xanadu, but this house, squashed at the end of a three-storey Victorian terrace, was called Coniston Prospect. Not that the name lacked imagination. A tall man looking out of the attic window would need to stand on his toes to see beyond the trees and satellite dishes and catch a glimpse of Coniston Water.
Fanned out on the table were the Daily Express, opened at the gossip page, and a local tabloid. On a scuffed sideboard squatted a Pye transistor radio, so ancient it was probably fashionable retro chic. Through the interference, he discerned Lionel Richie’s breathy enquiry, ‘Is it me you’re looking for?’
‘Welcome to Coniston Prospect, Mr Stevenson.’
The smell of fried bread and burned bacon lingered in the air. Guy gave a contented sniff. He preferred four-star luxury, a boutique hotel by Grasmere or Ullswater would have been more his style, but he didn’t mind roughing it until he sorted himself out. No bad thing to keep your feet on the ground. He found it so easy to get carried away. After leaving Llandudno in a hurry, he was short of cash. Lucky he was adaptable – Megan’s word was chameleon.
‘Please, Mrs Welsby, the name’s Robert.’
Her smile revealed teeth as crooked as the Hardknott Pass. Guy winced. Dentistry counted for a lot, in his opinion. In more affluent days, he’d spent a fortune on caps and straightening.
‘My friends call me Rob.’
‘I’m Sarah,’ she said quickly. ‘I do hope you’ll be happy here.’
Her eagerness to please was unfeigned and he found himself warming to this solid woman in turquoise tracksuit and down-at-heel trainers. Seizing her hand, he found her grip was weak, her flesh soft. Once she’d been pretty, but she’d put on too much weight and years of disappointment had faded her blue eyes. The fair hair was dyed, the roots greying. No rings on the fingers. She could use a little excitement in her life. He pitched his voice lower.
‘I’m sure I will be.’
He meant it. A threadbare carpet wasn’t the end of the world. All she needed was encouragement. There was more to life than wiping cobwebs from picture rails or scrubbing ketchup stains out of your pinafore.
‘I suppose you’d like to unpack?’
He nodded. It wouldn’t take five minutes. He travelled light, out of habit as well as need.
‘I’ll put the kettle on. A cup of tea is so refreshing after a journey. Have you travelled far?’
‘I’m not long back in England, as it happens.’
No less than the truth. He’d spent too long in rain-sodden Llandudno, gazing out at wind-whipped waves. The tan came courtesy of a solarium in Deganwy. No matter; the sparkle of delight in Sarah Welsby’s eyes told him that she was thinking south of France rather than the coast of North Wales. It would be unkind to disillusion her and Guy hated being unkind. He was about to murmur that the world was becoming smaller when his eye caught a headline in the local newspaper, above a blurry photograph
of a face he would never forget.
What happened to Emma Bestwick?
‘Detective Chief Inspector Scarlett!’
Hurrying towards the entrance of Divisional HQ, coat collar raised against the cold bite of February, Hannah heard pounding feet and someone shouting her name. She stopped in her tracks and swivelled.
A man was racing across the car park towards her. As he drew closer, his shoes skidded on the rain-greased tarmac and he lost his balance. With a stifled cry, he tumbled to the ground.
She walked over and helped him rise gingerly to his feet. He was about five feet seven, but lean and sinewy, with his clothes so slickly tailored that he did not seem small. She smelled cedarwood; he’d overdone the after-shave. He squinted at the streak of mud on his cream trousers with as much pain as if he’d broken his ankle.
‘All right?’
‘I’ll live.’ Scots accent, gritted-teeth smile. ‘You know, this is the first time I’ve ever been picked up by a senior police officer.’
Early thirties, features as sharp as his suit. Gel glistening on coal-black hair. Despite his fall, not a strand out of place.
‘Tony Di Venuto, I presume?’
‘So you know who I am without being introduced. Proof positive you’re a top detective!’
Di Venuto knew she’d recognised his voice from their phone conversation, but still treated her to a roguish smirk. Hannah groaned inwardly. A phrase of Les Bryant’s echoed in her mind. If he were a chocolate pudding, he’d eat himself.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘When we spoke last Friday, you promised to consider reopening the Emma Bestwick file. You’re in charge of cold cases. It’s a perfect project for …’
‘As I said, the moment you provide any new information, we’ll be glad to study it.’
‘Hopefully my piece in the Post will jog a few memories.’
‘Hopefully. Now if you’ll excuse me …’
‘I realise you’re very busy.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I believe she was murdered, Chief Inspector. Emma deserves justice. Her killer is still at large.’
He even talked in tabloid headlines. Hannah summoned the stonewall smile she reserved for press conferences when she had no titbits to offer.
‘We never found any evidence she was dead. People disappear from home every day of the week. Plenty of them are never seen again.’
‘Ten years have passed. Nobody has heard from Emma in all that time. It’s inconceivable that she’s still alive.’
Hannah cast around for the right words. She didn’t want a casual remark to finish up as a sensational quote in a newspaper article. The media relations people would send her off on another press training day for punishment.
‘Stranger things have happened.’
‘Won’t you let me take you through the facts?’
‘That won’t be necessary.’ Hannah stepped away. ‘One thing you ought to know. I was a member of the team that investigated Emma Bestwick’s disappearance.’
Guy’s new quarters occupied the basement at Coniston Prospect. He’d mentally rechristened it Coniston Glimpse. Mrs Welsby advertised en suite facilities, which meant he had exclusive benefit of a chilly toilet and separate bathroom on the other side of a short passageway. A yellowing spider plant drooped on the mantelpiece above the gas fire. The room reeked of damp, and as he lay on the stiff mattress Guy noticed patches of rot around the window frame. The radiator and pipes kept cackling, as though Macbeth’s witches were trapped inside.
His lips moved but no sound came as he read once again the opening paragraph from the article in the newspaper that he’d cadged from the landlady.
This week sees the tenth anniversary of one of Cumbria’s strangest unsolved mysteries. Thirty-year-old Coniston reflexologist Emma Bestwick vanished from home and was never seen again. Police were unable to establish whether she left of her own accord or was the victim of suicide, accident or murder. Perhaps the time has come for the Cumbria Constabulary’s Cold Case Review Team to take another look at whatever happened to Emma.
How bloody typical. Talk about media irresponsibility. With so much strife in the world, how could it make sense to scour through the past, looking for trouble? People disappeared all the time, what was so odd about that? Why make a front page story out of one woman who went missing long ago? Emma Bestwick was a troubled woman who might easily have given up her old life and gone in search of something new. It was perfectly plausible; he’d made a fresh start himself more than once. Why bully an over-worked police force into raking up old ashes?
A timid knock at the door.
‘Only me! I brought your tea down.’
He tossed the newspaper to one side, scrambled off the bed and flung open the door. Mrs Welsby’s face was pink, as though she felt like an intruder in her own home. He took the hot mug, blenching as it scalded his fingers, yet managing to preserve a grin of thanks.
‘I meant to come back upstairs, but truth to tell, I needed forty winks. Travel can be exhausting, don’t you find? It’s wonderful to have the chance to put my feet up.’
‘You do take milk?’
The mug bore a smiley face and he tried not to wince as he sipped. He loved leaf tea; his favourite was Assam, followed by Darjeeling, but this muddy mess was courtesy of two Coop tea bags.
‘Mmmmm. Lovely.’
He saw her eyes flicker in the direction of the newspaper. He’d left it on the bedside table.
‘Thanks for letting me have a glance. Good to catch up.’
‘You know the Lakes?’
‘My favourite place in the whole world!’ As soon as he said it, he realised it was the truth. Keep your Costa del Sols and your Corfus. Even the glory that was Rome was of another day. If he belonged anywhere, it must be here. The Lake District felt like home, even in the rain. Especially in the rain. ‘Mind you, this is my first time back in a decade. Too long.’
‘Well, I mustn’t interrupt.’
‘Any time!’
They swapped smiles, and as the door closed behind her, he climbed back on to the bed. The journalist was called Tony Di Venuto. What had caused him to light upon the disappearance of Emma Bestwick? News must be thin, there was no other explanation. The tenth anniversary wasn’t much of a peg to hang a story on.
Since he’d last walked the streets of Coniston village, Guy had stopped thinking about Emma. He had a gift for blocking out unpleasantness, found it as easy as closing a door on a draught. Yet memories lurked like invisible weeds beneath the surface of a tarn. After heading out of North Wales, he might have journeyed anywhere. But the Lakes pulled him back; he was a puppet on an invisible string. True, he’d given a promise never to return. But ten years was long enough. Nothing was forever.
Hannah switched off the tape recorder and yawned as Les Bryant lumbered into her room. She’d spent the past hour listening to interviews conducted by Maggie Eyre, a young DC in her team. Dip sampling of tapes was a tedious part of the job and some DCIs were quick to delegate it, but for her it was not a task to be skimped, however predictable the outcome. The idea was to check whether the interrogation techniques of junior officers was up to scratch and it was unwise to take much for granted. But it came as no surprise that Maggie’s questioning of witnesses had been diligent, firm and courteous. Another tick in another box.
‘Jobs they never tell you about at the student recruitment fairs,’ she muttered.
Les shrugged and deposited his ample backside on a chair on the other side of her desk. ‘Wouldn’t know, I was never a student.’
She couldn’t resist a grin. ‘University of life, huh?’
‘School of hard knocks, yeah.’ He considered her. ‘You look different today.’
‘Thanks for noticing.’
He went through a pantomime of guesswork. ‘Ummm … your hair’s not the same. More blonde than brown these days.’
‘We’ll make a detective out of you yet. And don’t dare to say that you l
iked it the way it was. Now, have you squared things with Lauren?’
That morning the Assistant Chief Constable had scheduled a meeting with Les to review his conditions of service. He’d shambled out of retirement to lend his expertise to the Cumbria Constabulary’s Cold Case Review Team. He was a dour Yorkshireman, a veteran of such fabled cases as the Whitby caravan shootings. The young DCs nicknamed him In my day, a tribute to Les’s favourite phrase, but Hannah liked his morose humour as well as his nose for crime. He’d forgotten more about detective work than most cops would ever know. Once Lauren Self sorted out a few niggles about expenses, they could talk about extending his contract.
‘Her ladyship was too busy. Press conference announcing that the force merger has been put on hold. I heard on the grapevine that some reporter asked if she thought the Home Secretary should be charged with wasting police time. By all accounts, she nearly jumped off the podium and slapped him.’
‘Christ, I’ll keep out of her way, then.’
The Home Office had decided that big was beautiful. Small forces must be gobbled up by larger neighbours, supposedly because terrorism and organised crime didn’t recognise local boundaries, more likely because some number-cruncher in Whitehall imagined it might save cash. Goodbye bobby on the beat, hello regional call centre. Now the politicians were wetting themselves because they’d got their sums wrong. Most of Hannah’s colleagues were praying that soon mergers wouldn’t merely be shelved, they’d be dead and buried. If forces amalgamated, people in the countryside would lose out, as per usual. If it came to a choice between throwing resources into some urban sink estate or cosy Keswick or Kendal, there would only be one winner.
‘Reason I’m here, I wondered if you wanted me to have a quiet word with this reporter who’s been stalking you.’
‘I can fight my own battles. He turned up here as I was arriving, but I sent him off with a flea in his ear.’
The Arsenic Labyrinth Page 1