‘What do you reckon to him?’
‘Looks a bit like the young Frank Sinatra.’
‘Christ. Is that good?’
‘Not really. I never was that keen on “My Way”.’
‘Not what I heard,’ he muttered. ‘Any road, journalists are like pit bull terriers. Good idea to throw ’em a bone now and then.’
‘Thanks, Les, but there’s nothing you or I can do to satisfy Di Venuto. We don’t have the resources to look into every case the force never managed to close. He’s come up with nothing new. Emma was a mixed-up lady. In the end we had to go along with the SIO’s gut instinct.’
‘Which was?’
‘He reckoned she didn’t want to be found.’
* * *
‘Recharged the batteries, Mr Stevenson?’
The landlady gave a shy glance of greeting and Guy wagged a finger in playful reprimand.
‘Rob, please.’
‘Rob.’ She tittered. ‘Sorry.’
‘Wonderful what a nap can do.’ He stretched his arms. ‘I feel at home already.’
‘That’s marvellous.’ Regret made the corners of her mouth turn down. ‘The Lakes are full of hotels with spas, Jacuzzis and gourmet cuisine. Foreign chefs, glowing write-ups in the Michelin Guide. How can a woman on her own compete?’
‘Don’t beat yourself up over it, Sarah. Give me traditional home comforts any day.’ In time he’d accustom himself to the sinister rumble of the central heating. ‘Here I feel like a house guest, not an entry on some computer system. As for food, I’m very much a full English breakfast man.’
She brightened. ‘Fried egg, two sausages, baked beans, grilled tomato?’
‘Perfect! I draw the line at black pudding, though.’
‘Oh, me too.’ A comical shiver. ‘Blood frightens me.’
He drew breath. ‘I’m looking forward to tomorrow morning already.’
‘You move on in a week’s time, then?’
‘That was the plan.’ So as to negotiate a discount on the daily rate. Always handy, even though Coniston Prospect must be the cheapest B&B south of Carlisle. ‘But you never know. Seems like I’ve been on the road for years. Perhaps it’s time to put down one or two roots.’
‘Really? What do you do for a living?’
I live dangerously. The phrase trembled on his lips. It excited him, the glamour of adventuring into the unknown. But over the years he’d learned not to show too many cards too soon.
‘Financial services. Internet-based stuff, mainly. Have laptop, will travel. That’s me.’
‘Goodness. Sounds very high-powered.’
A modest shake of the head. ‘Not as glamorous as you might think. Money’s all very well, but if it’s all tied up off-shore, it isn’t much use in the short term, don’t you agree?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘And then there’s the hours. This 24/7 economy is terrific but we all need to sleep. Good people burn out too often. I tell myself, the simple pleasures are best.’
‘Oh, you’re absolutely right.’
‘And where better to enjoy them than here, in God’s own country – and in good company?’
Their eyes met. Blushing, she jumped out of her chair.
‘I’d best be off to the supermarket. Stock up on eggs and bacon!’ At the door she wavered. ‘If you wanted an evening meal, it’s no bother.’
‘I don’t want to put you to any inconvenience.’
‘Not a bit of it. I’d be glad of someone to talk to apart from the cat. The German couple who have the room on the first floor, they don’t say much. Only have eyes for each other.’
‘Young love, eh?’ He sighed in amiable reminiscence.
‘Well, I’ll see you later.’
When she opened the door, a Siamese cat stalked in. Svelte and snooty, with almond-shaped eyes, its demeanour suggested a commandant in Bridge over the River Kwai, sneering at a sweaty prisoner of war.
‘Rob, meet Clooney,’ the landlady said.
The cat gave a dismissive flick of its tail. Guy contrived a weak grin and kept his mouth shut. The animal looked as though it wouldn’t believe a word he said. The landlady said how intelligent Clooney was and left Guy in peace.
After the door had closed behind Sarah Welsby and her pet, he settled into an armchair and flicked the TV remote. Half a dozen soldiers had been blown up by a suicide bomber in the Middle East and a minister was insisting that their sacrifice hadn’t been in vain. Five turgid minutes of regional news focused on wind farms and planning permission for affordable housing. The weather forecaster promised squally showers. Nothing about Emma Bestwick. No surprise; there simply wasn’t a story.
Against expectation, this irked him. A ten-year anniversary ought to mean something to someone. At least Tony Di Venuto remembered. It was plain from the article that he’d done his homework. He’d mentioned stuff that was new to Guy.
Emma’s sister and her husband, Karen and Jeremy Erskine, have lived with the torment of not knowing Emma’s fate for a decade. Mr Erskine, who teaches history at exclusive Grizedale College, was one of the last people to see Emma before she disappeared. Yesterday, however, he stated that his wife did not wish to make any public comment. ‘This is a private family matter,’ he commented, before adding, ‘My wife has lost hope of seeing her sister again. Ten years is a long time, we don’t believe she will ever come back. Karen needs to move on.’
Jeremy Erskine. Interesting that Di Venuto had made the point that he was one of the last to see Emma – alive was the implication. How could Karen get on with her life if she had no idea whether Emma might turn up? Always there was the tantalising chance that one day the doorbell would ring and she’d open up to stare into a familiar, much-loved face. Guy’s heart went out to her.
He made a note of the phone number of the editorial office and slipped on his wet weather jacket, tying the knot of his hood tight beneath his chin. Outside, the sky was the same colour as the slate buildings and passing cars had their headlights on. Opposite the Glimpse stood a chip shop, its lights dazzling in the murk, and a shuttered fudge emporium that specialised in clotted cream and rum ’n raisin flavours. No wonder Sarah Welsby was running to fat.
Rain spat into his eyes, but he blinked hard and kept moving, scanning the streets for somewhere to phone from. He didn’t have a mobile – who would he ring, who would want to get in touch? Besides, this wasn’t a call he could allow to be traced.
When he saw the phone box, he remembered the last time he’d used it. To ring up Emma Bestwick.
The kiosk was empty and he was in a hurry. No point in ignoring it out of some kind of superstition. He stepped inside and dialled. The switchboard girl at the newspaper office put him straight through.
‘Tony Di Venuto?’
Of course, he disguised his voice. A whisper does not have a recognisable pitch, hadn’t Nicole Kidman said so in The Interpreter?
‘Speaking.’
The Scottish accent didn’t match the name. Guy pictured a hawk-eyed newshound, bristling with ambition. Dreaming of the scoop that would carry him into Fleet Street, or Wapping or wherever the modern Press congregated.
‘You wrote the piece about Emma Bestwick.’
‘Who is this?’
Guy’s heart was beating faster. Why was he doing this? A question he often had cause to ask himself. Not all his instincts were sound. He was apt to act on a whim, he made too many mistakes.
‘Are you still there?’ Tony Di Venuto asked.
Grinding his teeth so hard they might crack, Guy forced himself to focus on the here and now. This clammy kiosk with steamed-up windows, heavy with the reek of chips and battered fish, disfigured by graffiti extolling the sexual tastes of Bazzer and Kylie. He dared not let his mind roam.
‘Don’t hang up.’
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Guy counted silently, fighting for calm.
‘Who – who are you?’
Guy breathed out. Di Venuto deserved a crumb
. Something to pass on to the sister. It was the least he could do. Where was the harm, where the risk?
‘Jeremy Erskine is right,’ he hissed, ‘Emma Bestwick won’t be coming back.’
‘How do you know?’
Guy slammed down the phone. He knew better than to give away too many secrets.
CHAPTER TWO
Daniel Kind pushed the oak door of Tarn Cottage and it swung open in silence on newly oiled hinges. In the hall stood his partner Miranda, dressed for a journey in new Barbour coat and Timberland boots. She was smiling at her reflection in the mirror. Another dab of lipstick? No, it’s just right. At the sound of his footsteps, she spun to face him. Holding up her hand like a traffic cop, so that he stopped in his tracks. The smile vanished, her mouth compressed into a thin red line.
‘Before you say a word, I don’t have time now. I need to catch my train.’
‘Relax, it doesn’t leave Oxenholme for another hour. Even if it’s on time.’
‘I daren’t think what will happen if I’m late arriving at Euston. Ethan called while you were out. He wants to meet over dinner this evening.’
‘Let me drive you to the station, it’s no trouble. We can talk on the way and there’ll be time to spare for a cup of tea in the buffet.’
‘Too late, I’ve ordered a taxi.’
‘Ring up and cancel.’
‘No, I hate unpicking arrangements, don’t you think it’s inconsiderate? Besides, you have work to do. That book proposal, is it ready to send to your agent?’
‘Not even close,’ he said, risking a sheepish grin.
‘Oh, for God’s sake! It’s not good, Daniel, you can’t afford to lose your edge. This is the twenty-first century. The Lake District may potter along in the slow lane, but the rest of the world won’t wait for it to catch up.’
‘Don’t you want to talk about last night?’
For reply, Miranda raced off up the stairs, those posh new boots crashing on the wooden treads like drum beats. Next to the doorway, her suitcase bulged complacently. By the look of it, she’d packed for a fortnight. He realised she hadn’t said when she was due back. A question slunk into his head.
What if she doesn’t come back?
Don’t be stupid, he told himself.
Would it matter if she didn’t?
For God’s sake. A single quarrel couldn’t destroy everything that bound them together. It was Miranda who had wanted them to escape to this closed-off valley, shoe-horned between the fells. It was Miranda who’d persuaded him to give up teaching history at Oxford and abandon a career that had taken him onto TV screens on both sides of the Atlantic. Fame meant nothing to him and he didn’t regard it as a sacrifice; it thrilled him to think they could start afresh, make everything new. When he’d brought her to the Lakes last spring, she’d fallen in love with Tarn Cottage and they’d snapped it up on the spur of the moment. He’d resigned his college fellowship and sold his old house. But Miranda wrote a column for a glossy magazine and the time never seemed quite right to give up her flat in London. Now she was setting off for an editorial conference at Canary Wharf. These dark winter days, she got away from it all by heading for the bright lights.
She came back down the stairs, clutching her Gucci bag like a favourite child. Her hips swung like a samba dancer’s and his heart lurched with desire.
‘The car will be here any minute.’
‘What you said last night …’
‘Forget it, Daniel. I should never have opened that second bottle last night. I was pissed, no way should I have ranted like that. I mean, yes, the Lakes are quiet. But of course Brackdale’s not a graveyard. I can’t believe I said that! And I don’t feel trapped, I’m not really lonely. How could I be, in such a gorgeous spot?’
‘So you still want to live here?’
‘’Course I do.’ She pecked him on the cheek. ‘And with you. In case you were wondering.’
At least she was ready to kiss and make up. One thing he loved about Miranda, her bad moods sped past like scurrying clouds. Last night they’d shouted at each other; a watershed, not soon to be forgotten, their first fierce row. No plates thrown, but she’d locked the bedroom door on him. The scrape of the turning key echoed in his brain for hours. He didn’t undress, spent all night lying on the bed in the spare room.
Through the small hours, the downpour battered the new roof tiles. Miranda hated winter, she hated the cold and above all she hated rain. She’d scoured for statistics to prove that Tarn Fold was the wettest place in England. Daniel didn’t believe it, if only because Seathwaite over in Borrowdale was deluged by 120 inches a year. Brackdale probably got no more than 119. But what did that matter? Close the door, stoke the fire, and everything was fine. Miranda said her London flat was a bolt-hole, nothing more. But wasn’t that the point of Tarn Cottage?
He’d breakfasted early. The coffee tasted bitter and he didn’t finish his toast. The bedroom was still a no-go area and she didn’t answer when he rapped on the door and called that he was leaving for Kendal. He was giving a talk at Abbot Hall: Victorian Eco-Warrior – John Ruskin and Climate Change. Ruskin’s green campaigning was the first history he’d researched since his last lecture at Oxford and the applause proved he hadn’t lost his touch. But his mind was elsewhere as people pumped his hand and he barely glanced at the praise on the feedback forms. He’d driven too fast all the way home and scraped his wing mirror against a tree as he swung into Tarn Fold.
‘I’ll call you tonight.’
‘No need,’ she said hastily. ‘I expect I’ll be out late with Ethan.’
Ethan, bloody Ethan.
‘OK.’
‘Don’t look like a wet Wednesday in Wasdale, huh? I’ll catch up with you as soon as I’ve got a minute, all right?’
A horn tooted outside and she’d gone before he could utter a word.
‘Now will you take this seriously?’ Tony Di Venuto demanded.
Hannah Scarlett squeezed her fingers tight around the phone. Did strangling a troublesome journalist count as justifiable homicide? ‘Trust me, we always take our work seriously.’
‘In that case, how will you respond to this amazing development?’
‘You’ve not given us much to go on. An unknown person calls you, presumably because of the article …’
‘He mentioned it specifically.’
‘… and tells you Emma Bestwick won’t be coming back. He doesn’t even say she is dead. How do we know he isn’t a time-waster? You haven’t even got his name.’
‘For God’s sake, he rang off before I could question him.’ The tightness of his voice told her that the rebuke stung. ‘Hey, this wasn’t some boozed-up teenager having a laugh at my expense. It was quite clear what he meant. She is dead.’
Hannah’s gaze flicked to her computer screen as an email from Lauren Self jumped into her inbox. The ACC was moaning because Les had skived off the diversity training workshop. The fact that he was on a fixed term contract was not an excuse. The need to implement good practice applied to everyone, no exceptions. Yawn.
‘You don’t tape incoming calls?’
‘Not routinely.’
She punched delete and Lauren’s message vanished. The tiny act of defiance cheered her. ‘So what can you tell me about him?’
‘Man of my age, or thereabouts. Local accent, but he only said a few words.’
‘Was he calm?’
‘Curt, perhaps a bit flustered.’
‘You’ve interviewed people close to Emma in connection with your story. This wasn’t a man you’ve spoken to before? Jeremy Erskine, for instance?’
His laughter had a mocking edge. ‘No way.’
‘Before she bought her own house, Emma lodged with a couple called Francis and Vanessa Goddard. They became good friends. Might your caller have been Francis Goddard?’
‘I spoke briefly with Mr Goddard on the phone when I was researching my article. It wasn’t him. Or her old boss, Alban Clough.’
‘Who, th
en?’
‘Not a former boyfriend, that’s for sure.’
‘Stranger things have happened, Mr Di Venuto.’
‘Forget it, Chief Inspector. Emma wasn’t interested in men, everyone knew that.’
A thought tiptoed into Hannah’s head. ‘Did you know her?’
After thirty seconds of silence he muttered, ‘We never met. Why do you ask?’
‘Just wondered. You’re taking such a close interest in one old case. There’s not a shred of proof Emma didn’t leave the Lakes of her own free will. But if you had some personal involvement with her …’
‘Aren’t you listening, Chief Inspector? I said I never set eyes on her. It’s not so surprising the Post should revive the investigation. We covered her disappearance in depth ten years ago. Look at our files if you don’t believe me.’
‘And Mr Erskine?’
‘What about him?’ Sharp, defensive.
‘Reading between the lines, you don’t care for the way he’s writing off Emma’s disappearance as old news.’
‘She was his sister-in-law. He ought to be concerned.’
‘Presumably his loyalty is to his wife. That’s why he wants her to move on.’
‘Very commendable.’ Sarky sod.
‘But you’ve never met him before?’
‘Not until I talked to him a week ago. Listen, Chief Inspector. I’m not the story here. This is all about Emma Bestwick, nobody else.’
‘Of course,’ Hannah said.
But she didn’t believe him.
* * *
Daniel closed down his computer and slung on a fleece before wandering outside for a breath of Lakeland air. This corner of Brackdale was as peaceful as anywhere in England, but it was never entirely silent. Stop and listen and you could hear faint rustlings in the undergrowth, the distant cough of an invisible raven. He’d fallen for the Lakes as he had for Miranda, swept away on a tide of passion. Now he couldn’t contemplate living anywhere else. The beauty entranced him, and the history too. The only thing he knew for sure about his next book was that it would be rooted in the Lakes. Historians needed to soak up the spirit of the places they studied. Sitting in a library wasn’t enough.
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