The Arsenic Labyrinth

by Martin Edwards

  A white van’s horn sounded angrily as he skipped across Yewdale Road from behind a lorry. He sucked in air, told himself to watch out. How ironic if he was crushed to a pulp when on the brink of getting hold of the cash that would transform his life for the better.

  This time he wouldn’t squander the money. He’d learn from mistakes of the past. He’d fixed on the sum he would ask for. Realistic, yet sufficiently meaningful to change his life. You didn’t need much to make a success of your life. Micawber was spot on.

  The phone box was empty. He took out of his pocket the scrap of paper on which he’d written the number, then counted to ten before he dialled. If the wrong person answered, he’d hang up and try again later.

  ‘Hello?’

  It was the right person. A voice he’d never forget. Soon his troubles would be over. He wanted to roar with delight.

  Instead he said pleasantly, ‘This is Guy. Remember me?’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  At half six the next morning, Hannah padded barefoot into the kitchen, to be greeted by the sight of a dozen roses, the colour of blood. Beside the vase stood an enormous card emblazoned with a pink heart and a box wrapped in gold paper. A dozen balloons, purple, orange, green, were tied to the cupboard doors with sparkly string.

  She’d been working in the study until after one o’clock, tapping details of the day’s work into her laptop. Falling asleep the instant her head touched the pillow, she’d dreamed of Emma Bestwick, her mouth wide open in a soundless scream, tumbling down, down, down the spiral staircase that led from the tower of Inchmore Hall.

  She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and wondered if her imagination was playing tricks. But when she focused on the message on the card, a torrent of guilt engulfed her.

  Shit, shit, shit. How could I forget?

  The door swung open behind her. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day!’

  Two sinewy arms seized her and she felt Marc’s warm breath on her neck. She could smell toothpaste and jasmine shower gel. He opened her cotton gown and started nuzzling her neck while his hands explored her. His fingers were warm, probing, adventurous. Nails dug gently into her skin. She succumbed to a fit of the giggles even as she wriggled out of his grasp.

  ‘Behave!’

  ‘It’s a fair cop,’ he murmured. ‘A very fair cop.’

  ‘Can’t remember when you last gave me roses.’

  ‘You had a narrow escape. I nearly bought you a de luxe edition of The Kama Sutra.’

  She laughed and told him what he could do with The Kama Sutra before confessing. ‘I haven’t got you a card.’

  Never before had her memory betrayed her so badly. How typical that he’d colonised the moral high ground, even though for him Valentine’s Day meant little more than an excuse for a meal out in a swish restaurant followed by special occasion sex.

  ‘Know what? You spend too much time worrying about decomposed bodies.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, it’s true, I need to get a life.’

  ‘You said it.’ He took a pace towards her and slipped the gown off her shoulders. ‘You’ll have to find some way to make up to me for your appalling lack of care and attention.’

  She skipped out of his reach. ‘Tonight, OK? I need to get some clothes on. We have a lot to do.’

  ‘Don’t be late. I’ve booked a table at Gregorio’s for seven-thirty.’

  He looked like a pleased little boy and she found herself kissing him hard. When they separated again, she read the card and unwrapped the box. Belgian chocolates, her favourites. How come she’d ever doubted him?

  ‘You know, I’m glad you bought me chocolates. I was afraid you might have booked me into a clinic for a boob job to match Vicky’s.’

  He couldn’t quite drag his eyes away from her uncovered breasts. Thank God they weren’t droopy; not yet, anyway. On the other hand, they were scarcely pneumatic. She was what she was, she didn’t want to change. The thought of being cut up for the sake of appearance made her flesh creep. But Marc had this in common with every man she’d ever met: he was dedicated to getting his own way, no matter how long it took.

  ‘I know you don’t fancy it,’ he said.

  His tone was light and bantering. But something in his expression made her pick up the gown and sling it back on.

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘It’s still early. Come back upstairs for half an hour.’ When she shook her head, his tone sharpened. ‘OK, Hannah. Just remember this. Dead bodies are all very well. But it’s living bodies that matter.’

  * * *

  ‘The property agent texted me last night,’ Miranda said.

  Daniel snaked his arm around her. He was only half awake. Ten a.m. and they were still in bed, the duvet long since flung on to the floor. There was no danger of their getting cold after two indulgent hours spent celebrating Valentine’s. This was the glory of escaping the rat race. You had all the time in the world.

  ‘Uh-huh?’

  ‘Someone’s made an offer for my flat.’

  He tightened his grip on her, too blissed-out to speak. At last she’d decided to give up on London living and commit. To the Lakes, to Tarn Cottage, to him.

  Miranda disentangled herself and knelt beside him, brushing the silky hair out of her eyes and folding her arms across her chest in a belated gesture of modesty. All of a sudden, her slender body was as taut as a violin string. Her smile was too fixed, too bright. He knew his Miranda. She had more news for him, and it wasn’t going to be good.

  ‘The agent talked about something else. There’s a flat in Greenwich, not far from the Cutty Sark, I meant to mention it to you, but I kept forgetting. He showed me round while I was down there. It’s absolutely lovely and it’s just across the river from Canary Wharf, five minutes on the train. The owner’s been offered a job in Abu Dhabi and is desperate for a quick sale. The agent’s bartered him down so that the asking price is a snip. Would you like to go halves?’

  He stared into her eyes, unable to do more than repeat her words like the dullest boy in the class. ‘Go halves?’

  ‘Yes, why not? Face it, we just can’t afford to jump off the London property ladder. The way prices keep shooting up, we’ll never be able to climb back on.’

  ‘Why would we want to? If you need a place to stay while you’re working down there, you can rent.’

  The blonde mane shook. ‘No way. Rent is dead money. I need a place of my own. We both do.’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘Come on, Daniel. Don’t be so – so dogmatic. It’s not reasonable. When the time comes, you’ll have work to do in London. You can’t be a full-time historian up here, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Why not? It’s not as if we’re living north of Vladivostok. We can have the best of both worlds. Live here and sample the delights of London when the mood takes us.’

  Somewhere outside, wild geese were crying. He was sure Miranda couldn’t hear them, she excelled at shutting her mind to whatever didn’t suit.

  ‘No need to be sarcastic.’

  ‘Hey, London’s wonderful. I just don’t want to live there.’

  ‘Well, I do!’ When she saw the look on his face, she said hurriedly, ‘I mean, I love the Lakes, of course, but Tarn Fold is a cul-de-sac in more senses than one. This cottage is fine as a hideaway, but we can’t bury ourselves in the countryside permanently. There’s a world outside Brackdale. It would be crazy to cut ourselves off.’

  Daniel lay back and stared at the whitewashed ceiling. It was uneven, like everything in this cottage. Months of building work had transformed the place; that was where houses scored over relationships. Easier to paint over the cracks. The room smelled of sex, but the passion of early morning seemed to belong to another life.

  ‘It’s not for me.’

  She brushed her fingers against the hairs on his chest. Her touch was so light, so delicate. There were moments when he thought she could ask for anything, and he would give it. But it was an illusion, life didn’t work like that.

>   ‘I want us to spend more time together, darling.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Then why do you insist on going your own sweet way?’

  He clasped her hand and sat up. ‘Living in the Lakes is what we agreed. And this is perfect, isn’t it? Who could ask for anything more?’

  Even with tousled hair and not a trace of make-up, she was very beautiful. But as she shook her head and looked into his eyes, he saw nothing but sadness.

  ‘Sorry, darling. It isn’t enough.’

  Guy and Sarah had exchanged cards bearing protestations of undying devotion, but he’d readily agreed to her suggestion that they shouldn’t spend a fortune on presents until their finances were sorted. Sarah was keen to prove that she was capable of behaving responsibly with cash and from his point of view it didn’t make sense to waste another penny on her. She’d misled him, and he planned to escape as soon as he’d replenished his coffers.

  He’d spun her a yarn about a massive deal that he hoped would save his job and leave him quids in, sprinkling it with jargon he’d gleaned from the Financial Times so as to add verisimilitude. The negotiations were bound to be complex and would take him away from Coniston for a couple of weeks, but she shouldn’t fret, absence always made the heart grow fonder. She must take in more lodgers to earn a few pounds until he returned to the Glimpse. They could share the future free of debt’s shackles.

  Sarah was excited, she chattered incessantly about what they might do in the months ahead, places they might visit, holidays they might take. He found it wearisome to pay attention to her fantasies. Of course, she’d be upset when she realised he wasn’t coming back, but she only had herself to blame. If she hadn’t been so extravagant, she wouldn’t have been a bad catch for a bloke of her own age. But he’d given her a lot, more than she deserved. To persuade herself that she had something to offer to a handsome young man with the world at his feet, that really was cloud-cuckoo land.

  He was leafing through the Post. One story filled the pages, the story that owed its existence to him. He was mystified by the discovery of the second body, but the puzzle didn’t faze him. Nothing connected him with Emma Bestwick, no witnesses had spotted him on Mispickel Scar and nobody was going to come forward ten years later to point the finger at him. Di Venuto alluded to Guy’s telephone calls as ‘a tip-off’, implying that it had been teased out as the result of shrewd and resourceful investigative journalism. He’d been lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time, but Guy didn’t begrudge him his scoop.

  ‘Penny for them,’ Sarah trilled.

  She was flicking a feather duster over the surface of the old radio on the sideboard. She had a fondness for Muzak that he found rather common. Abba were singing ‘Money, Money, Money’. Of course they were right, it was a rich man’s world. Not that he was greedy. He didn’t want a fortune, just enough to get by in comfort.

  ‘Mmmm. I was just thinking. It’s funny how things turn out. Sometimes two people come together and they do each other a huge favour, maybe something that changes both their lives.’

  Sarah smiled with delight and said some gooey things, even though he’d had in mind not his relationship with her but the way that he and Di Venuto had scratched each other’s backs. By this time tomorrow, he would have money and freedom. Despite the newspaper coverage and the frenetic police activity around the village, he hadn’t expected it to be quite so easy. Yet after the initial shock of his call, his old friend had been quick to see the sense in agreeing to his request. And it had been a request, not a demand, no way. He wouldn’t stoop so low.

  This wasn’t blackmail, for Heaven’s sake. Nothing more than two decent people doing each other a bit of good.

  * * *

  Marc Amos was sitting behind the cash till when Daniel reached the front of the queue to pay. As he smiled in greeting, he glanced at the title of the fat book in Daniel’s hand. Its spine was split and it smelled of damp.

  ‘Lore of Old Lakeland? I read it years ago. The author, Herbert Bickerstaff, was a collector of Lake District curiosities. Mind you, as a writer his style was closer to Jeffrey Archer than John Ruskin. And I’m not sure about the reliability of his scholarship. Leisure reading rather than research?’

  ‘I was talking to someone about the curse on Mispickel Scar and I wanted to read up.’

  ‘You’ll find it in Bickerstaff, I’m sure. He was no academic, but he loved telling stories. First edition, too. Pity it’s such a lousy copy.’

  Daniel handed over a ten pound note. ‘That’s why it’s such a bargain.’

  ‘I don’t know whether you saw the regional bulletin on the TV last night? You might have caught a long shot of Hannah, looking windswept up on Mispickel Scar.’

  ‘Sorry I missed it. She was talking about the bodies they have found?’

  ‘Yes, there was another press conference this morning, but the Assistant Chief Constable was in the chair. She loves the limelight. Hannah would rather get on with her work.’ Marc grinned at a burly hiker who had a dog-eared Wainwright in his shovel-like mitt. ‘Speaking of which …’

  ‘Good to see you,’ Daniel said, stepping to one side. ‘Give Hannah my best.’

  ‘Will do.’ Marc waited for the hiker to key his PIN into the machine. ‘In the unlikely event she gets home tonight before I’m fast asleep.’

  ‘She works too hard?’

  ‘Too bloody right.’ As the hiker plodded away, Marc added in a low voice, ‘You know something? Last Leap Year Day, I’d arranged to take her out for a slap-up meal. It was a surprise. Between you and me, I was going to propose. We’d been together so long, it seemed like the right thing to do. But she rang to say she’d been caught up with an important suspect interview and wouldn’t be back until eleven. That was when I realised, she was married already. To the job.’

  The Post’s offices at Broughton-in-Furness occupied a tall Georgian merchant’s house overlooking the market square, with its village stocks, slate fish market slabs and obelisk commemorating King George III’s Jubilee. Sitting in reception alongside Les Bryant, Hannah skim-read the latest issue of the paper while Les sucked a sweet to ease his sore throat. He reeked of menthol and blackcurrant lozenges and every couple of minutes he blew his nose, making a noise like a honking bird

  ‘Anything?’ he mumbled, nodding at the newspaper.

  Hannah shook her head. The Mispickel Scar Mystery, as Tony Di Venuto insisted on calling it, occupied a disproportionate number of column inches, even though he had nothing new to report. The competing stories – a woman mugged for her bingo winnings, vandalism in a graveyard and a street sweeper hanging up his brush after seventeen years’ service – were scarcely strong enough to muscle it off the front page. On the walls around them hung framed features from previous issues. Campaigns against the closure of sub-post offices, the cutting of bus routes, the amalgamation of local schools due to falling pupil numbers. The Post was one of those Cumbrian newspapers that fought the good fight on behalf of rural England and its people against the countless threats of the twenty-first century. For all her wariness of journalists, Hannah admired their tenacity, though in her heart of hearts she doubted if the battle could ever be won.

  The receptionist was busy chatting to a friend on her mobile, complaining about the overweening ego of some mutual acquaintance known as the Diva. The only outside call she took while Hannah waited was from a stringer with a tip-off about the theft of a pensioner’s scooter. She was trying to end the call and get back to her gossip when the internal door opened and Tony Di Venuto breezed in, natty and assured as a Sinatra tribute singer called back for another encore.

  ‘DCI Scarlett – good to see you again! And – Mr Bryant, thanks for coming.’

  They shook hands; Tony’s grip was firm and confident. As the detectives followed him inside, Hannah glanced over her shoulder at the girl behind the desk. She was sticking her tongue out at her colleague’s retreating back. With a stab of amusement, Hannah realised who the Diva w
as. Good name.

  The open plan news room hummed with conversation and the click of fingers on half a dozen keyboards. A spiky-haired young woman in a cropped top that insisted No to Animal Testing glanced up as Tony strode past. Hannah saw the girl’s lip curl. The Diva didn’t have too many admirers in his own backyard.

  ‘My desk, Detective Chief Inspector,’ he said airily, waving at a tiny workstation festooned with cuttings from stories he had written. Hannah was sure the mention of her rank was for the benefit of his colleague. ‘We’ll talk in the meeting room. More private there.’

  He led her into a tiny room with a window in the door and another above eye level. Four old wooden chairs were grouped around a scratched table. The air was warm and stale. The Post didn’t run to air-conditioning.

  ‘Do take a seat. Can I offer you coffee?’

  Hannah and Les shook their heads in unison. Both of them had eyeballed the receptionist sipping from a paper cup a muddy liquid that resembled goo from a late night horror movie.

  ‘So this is the nerve centre?’ Hannah asked.

  The journalist smiled. ‘Not exactly CNN Tower, eh? Never mind. I don’t expect to stay here for long. Off the record, I’ve been approached by a headhunter. One of the major regionals is interested in talking. Mind you, they’d have to cross my palm with silver to prise me away from the Lakes this time. But if you’re ambitious and you get a chance to progress, you need to grab it, that’s my philosophy. Anyway, let’s cut to the chase. Am I right in thinking you’ve discovered something?’

  Hannah balanced cautiously on her chair. One of its legs seemed shorter than the others. ‘We’ve been talking to Karen Erskine.’

  The smile tightened. ‘And?’