He put on a sad spaniel face. ‘It is Valentine’s Day.’
‘Well …’
‘And we will be apart for a couple of weeks.’
‘How will I bear it?’ she breathed, shuddering with pleasure as his hands explored. ‘You promise to phone me?’
‘As soon as I can. But don’t be surprised by a few days of radio silence. I’ll be living out of a suitcase, working every hour that God sends. Deals don’t come much bigger than this one.’
‘I’m praying that it works out for us.’
‘Have I ever let you down?’
‘Never.’
His hands paused in their adventure. Come to think of it, what she said was extraordinary but true. He hadn’t let her down once since arriving back in Coniston. Pity, but there was a first time for everything.
‘You don’t have to go for another hour yet,’ she whispered.
He smiled into her pasty, trusting face and seized her wrist. Might as well give her something to remember him by.
* * *
‘Sorry I can’t give you any more information, Mr Kind.’
‘Daniel, please. And I’m very grateful for your help.’
Vanessa Goddard gave him a weary half-smile. Her shoulders were bowed and he guessed she was still struggling to come to terms with the discovery of her friend’s body.
‘Think nothing of it,’ she said with a sigh.
The two of them were standing by the door of the library in the converted chapel and Daniel noticed Vanessa looking over his shoulder, through the glass panes. A green Saab was pulling up outside.
‘My husband, Francis,’ she explained. ‘He arranged to go on early shift at the hospital, so we have plenty of time to enjoy a Valentine’s Day meal together this evening. We need to take our minds off what happened to poor Emma, though it isn’t easy. Hang on for a moment and say hello to him.’
Francis Goddard turned up his jacket collar against the chill as he flicked the remote to lock his car. When his wife introduced them, he mustered a tense smile, but his mind seemed elsewhere. Hannah had mentioned wondering if there had been something between Francis and Emma Bestwick. Even then, would he have murdered her to stop his wife from finding out?
‘Darling, you remember I told you last night, Daniel was asking about the Arsenic Labyrinth? Now he’s trying to find out the origins of the curse.’
Francis frowned. ‘Why are you interested?’
Daniel said shamelessly, ‘I’m researching for a book about Ruskin and I wondered whether he might have had something to say about it. But I’ve been wading through Bickerstaff’s book of Lakeland lore and I can’t trace where the story comes from.’
Vanessa said, ‘Daniel met Jeremy today and asked him about it. Even Mr Know-all had to confess he didn’t know the answer.’
‘Wonders never cease.’ Francis shrugged bony shoulders. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, Mr Kind. Although I’ve lived here all my life, I don’t claim any expertise in local history. You may only have arrived here five minutes ago, but I’ll bet your knowledge is greater than mine.’
He glanced at his watch. Taking the hint, Daniel thanked Vanessa again and took his leave. As he reversed his car, he caught sight of the Goddards through the glass. Francis was bending to plant a kiss on his wife’s disfigured cheek. Daniel eased on to the main road. His father’s theory of murder investigation had a snag. Suspecting everybody made you forget that most people caught up in crime deserved to be pitied, not pestered.
Driving along the edge of the lake, he saw reflections of bare trees in the water. Across the road, the ground was covered with reddish-brown bracken. It wasn’t dark yet, but the wayside cottages had lights in their windows and smoke drifting from their chimneys. Rounding a corner, he needed to brake sharply to avoid crashing into two horned sheep in the road. They had dark, sad faces and splashes of scarlet dye on their fleeces which made them look as though they’d sustained a gunshot wound.
He parked on a patch of ground fringed by purple crocuses and got out of the car. From the distance came the mechanical hum of someone cutting logs, but there was something reassuring and eternal about the sombre stillness of the lake. Leafless birch trees, stark and bare, made strange, twisted shapes against the backdrop of grey sky and water. His shoes cracked on twigs as he rested his backside on an old dry-stone wall
He took his mobile out of his pocket and punched in Hannah’s number. She answered at once. Simply to hear her cool voice again gave him a lift.
‘Am I interrupting you?’
‘Of course,’ She sounded amused, not angry. ‘But don’t worry about it.’
‘You must be up to your eyes. I’ll call another time.’
‘No, please. Even a DCI on a murder case deserves a break.’
‘So you found Emma Bestwick?’
‘The forensics aren’t completed, but yes. The real mystery concerns the second body. Not exactly the bonus we expected.’
‘Any clue about ID?’
‘Beyond that he died somewhere between fifty and seventy-five years ago, we don’t have much to go on at present. There are two disused mineshafts, not far apart. It looks like the first body was shoved down one and Emma down the other.’
‘Perfect places to dispose of a corpse.’
‘Especially since the shafts are surrounded by unstable rock. Over the years, falls of rock covered the holes in the ground. The bodies would never have been discovered if we hadn’t gone in search.’
‘Were they both murdered?’
‘It’s early days, and the pathologist is bound to hedge his bets. Off the record, he’s certain. We found a bloodstained bread knife near to the older corpse and that’s a bit of a giveaway.’
‘So no connection between the two deaths?’
‘We’re keeping an open mind. Police speak for saying we haven’t got a clue … hang on, someone wants me, I’ll have to go.’
‘Sorry to interrupt.’
‘Thanks for calling.’ The briefest pause. ‘Let’s talk again when I have more time. In a day or two, maybe?’
Guy had arranged for a taxi to pick him up from outside the Black Bull at nine o’clock. By then he’d have collected his things from the Glimpse and said goodbye to Sarah. With any luck, he’d get the chance to give her cat a surreptitious kick while its owner wasn’t looking. As he closed the front door of her house, he could hear Sarah crying upstairs. Stupid woman. He’d concoct a story to make sure that she didn’t start to fret about absence of contact until he was well and truly out of reach. Not too much of a challenge to a mind so fertile. She never doubted a single word he said.
The taxi was booked under the name of Pirrip, to symbolise his hopes for the future. He’d take a one-way ride to a discreet hotel overlooking Ullswater. Four-poster luxury and monogrammed bath towels, somewhere he could get a wonderful night’s sleep at long, long last. While he watched a movie in the comfort of his own private suite, he would chew over options about where to go next.
He’d decided not to linger in the Lake District. Becoming sentimental about a place was unwise; he realised now how much better it would be to break with the past. Bad things had happened here, and not just the accident to Emma. He couldn’t even pretend his childhood had been anything other than horrible. Besides, he didn’t only want to get away from the Glimpse. Tony Di Venuto’s articles in the Post were becoming repetitive; surely other things were going on in Cumbria, apart from the police investigation? He deplored the way Emma’s passing was cheapened by being described as murder.
This was the quid pro quo he would offer, a special bonus. It wasn’t merely a matter of promising to keep his mouth shut. He was leaving the Lakes and he wouldn’t be coming back. Yes, he’d said that before, but this time he meant it. Ten years is a long time, he’d learned his lesson.
Since the fall of darkness, the cold had become bitter and the forecasters promised an overnight dusting of snow. Thank God his outdoor gear was weatherproof. He lengthened his st
ride.
* * *
‘Mrs Blacon?’
‘If you’re selling something, young man …’
‘My name is Daniel Kind!’ He was almost shouting.
‘It’s no good, you’ll have to speak up, I’m slightly deaf.’
Daniel grinned at the telephone. He liked slightly. He liked old people, too, almost without exception. In even the most cantankerous of them, he found something to admire and enjoy. Whatever trials they’d endured, they’d had the spirit to survive. Few crimes, other than those against defenceless children, angered him as much as the murders of Harold Shipman, the doctor who played God with the lives of ageing patients. People whose unnatural deaths went unremarked simply because they’d had a good innings, and so their passing was just one of those things. Even though it wasn’t.
After five minutes of bellowing, he’d bonded with Sylvia Blacon and arranged to pay her a visit. As he was about to ring off, she mentioned that he wasn’t the first researcher to show an interest in John Ruskin’s relations with the villagers of Coniston over the past year or so. Alban Clough and Jeremy Erskine had said the same and this time he had the sense to ask in whose footsteps he was following. Some American woman, Sylvia said. Taking a deep breath, he asked if the name Harriet Costello rang a bell. Sylvia sniffed and said it certainly did.
He put down the receiver and swore in silence. Hattie Costello, the new kid on the block. A svelte and media-savvy graduate of Harvard and the Sorbonne, she’d become the darling of History TV. Her writing was laced with sensationalism, but he admired her gift for engaging readers who otherwise found history a turn-off. Jealousy wasn’t one of his vices. But if she beat him to it with a fresh study of Ruskin’s life in Coniston, it would be years before a major publisher would be interested in another book treading similar ground. He’d have to start over again, find another subject that excited his interest, and that would take time. Not the end of the world, but Miranda would go up the wall.
‘Haven’t you changed yet? Didn’t you say you’d booked the restaurant for seven-thirty?’
He swung round and drank in the sight of her. In her latest little black dress, she would give even Hattie Costello a run for her money. She pirouetted for him and he put his arms around her.
‘We could stay in, if you like,’ he murmured into her ear. ‘Make it a Valentine’s night to remember? We can have a meal out any time. I’ll rustle something up …’
‘Joking, aren’t you?’ She wriggled out of his grasp and consulted her Rolex. ‘Get a move on, I’m famished and the cab will be here any moment.’
Well, it was worth a try. Admitting defeat, he started up the stairs.
‘Who was that on the phone, by the way?’
‘The secretary of a history society. I want to talk to her about Ruskin.’
‘Terrific, you’re getting stuck in at last. But you didn’t look too happy with what she told you. There isn’t a problem?’
From half-way up the stairs, he blew her a kiss. ‘No, there’s no problem at all.’
Guy was crossing Campbell Road when a small VW raced round the corner and sent him scurrying to the safety of the pavement on the other side. Rap music blared through the windows of the car and a teenager shouted an obscenity at him. Guy made a rude sign as the vehicle vanished out of sight. Drunken louts, he hoped they would crash into a brick wall, it was what they deserved. How ironic if he’d been killed, this night of all nights, when his life was about to change forever.
But the car hadn’t touched him. Catching his breath, he decided it was an omen. He’d given little thought to handling this conversation, but everything would be fine. His style was to relax, no point in over-preparing. So much in life was unpredictable, you had to go with the flow. He intended to be genial yet businesslike, but neither of them would want to mess around with small talk. So much water had flowed under the bridge since their last hastily arranged meeting by the pier at Monk Coniston. It made sense to ignore any temptation to reminisce.
Head up, shoulders back, he strode briskly on. No question of nerves – for what did he have to be nervous about? He’d chosen the same rendezvous as ten years ago. Not out of nostalgia or superstition, but because it was quiet and accessible. All he wanted was a repeat of last time. You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours – that was the way the world went round.
Passing the bright lights of the Waterhead Hotel, he followed the road around the head of the lake. Beyond the car park, the ground was soft and damp underfoot, but it didn’t slow him down. He wasn’t in bad condition, though tomorrow morning he’d promised himself an hour in the hotel gym to get himself into shape. And it was a while since he’d had a swim, he was ready to make up for lost time. Look forward, not back. For politicians, a mindless slogan, for him a core belief. Sarah was right about one thing. Tomorrow would be the start of the rest of his life.
The path through the trees was dark and eerie. Was that an owl hooting? He’d never paid much attention to birds, he didn’t see the point. Something made a sound as it scurried through the undergrowth. A fox, more than likely, on some savage excursion.
Ahead of him stretched the pier, sleek with the afternoon rain. A sliver of moon was glinting on the wet wood. Ten years ago, the evening after meeting Emma on Mispickel Scar, he’d run all the way here and arrived sweaty and breathless. Tonight he was older and wiser.
As he looked round, a figure detached itself from the trees. He stiffened when he spotted something clasped in the figure’s hand. But it wasn’t a club, just a torch. He’d kept his pen-light in his coat pocket, not wanting to attract attention. The woods might attract one or two courting couples determined to make the most of Valentine’s, whatever the weather. The last thing either of them wanted was to bump into a pair of teenagers with their tongues down each other’s throats.
‘Long time, no see.’ His voice sounded hoarser than he’d expected.
‘Yes.’
‘Ten years, eh? Amazing.’
‘It’s passed in the blink of an eye.’
‘I hope you don’t think … I mean, it’s good of you to help me out.’
‘And you want to help me, too.’
‘You can depend upon it.’ But determined cheerfulness sounded wrong on such a dark and desolate evening. ‘I mean, I never expected things to pan out like this, but after I came back here, it made sense to get in touch. As for the money, one or two investments have gone sour. I’m on my uppers, actually. That’s the only reason I asked …’
‘Have you forgotten our agreement?’
‘No! Of course not. It’s just that … well, you have no need to worry, honest. After tonight, you’ll never hear from me again.’
‘Promise?’
‘Scout’s honour.’ He was cross that his laughter sounded forced. ‘Not that I ever was a scout, but you know what I mean.’
‘I believe you.’
Guy rubbed his hands, not to keep warm but as a reminder that he was in control. ‘Shall we get down to brass tacks, then? You’ll have the money with you? I won’t insult you by counting it … no, please, I don’t think it’s wise to switch on your torch. We don’t want anyone to see …’
As the dark figure lifted the torch in the air, Guy suddenly realised that he could have held his breath. The light wasn’t about to be switched on.
The metal head of the torch crashed down on his head with sufficient force to knock him off balance and his legs gave way beneath him. He barely made a sound as he fell on to a pile of sopping wet, shrivelled leaves. Hurting too much even to scream, he prised his eyes open in time to see the torch swinging down towards his head once more.
Tomorrow wasn’t going to be the first day of the rest of his life, after all.
JOURNAL EXTRACT
From that day, high up on Mispickel Scar, my skin has crawled at the very thought of being watched. The spread of security cameras, not merely in our cities but even in the smallest towns, fills me with despair. Few creatures are more
deserving of our contempt than the voyeur.
I say this by way of explanation, not excuse. Frankly, I had reached an age of invisibility. People would pass me in the street without a second glance. Old age does that to us In the eyes of others we become at best insignificant, at worst a burden on the young and productive. Our best days are behind us, we have nothing new to say. I find this lack of interest absurd, yet not altogether displeasing. How many youths dashing by would guess I had murdered one man, and been responsible for the death of another? Anonymity suits me. It has enabled me to survive for so long. And now my only hope is that anyone who may read these words after I am gone will reflect before dismissing the old and infirm. We too were young and passionate once, remember.
And even in old age, the passions of the moment may drive us to terrible deeds.
PART THREE
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Hannah rubbed sore eyes and switched off the computer screen. She’d been working long hours since the discovery of the bodies and when she finally got to bed each night, sleep never came easily. She diverted her phone and wandered down the corridor to the drinks machine. Her caffeine levels needed to be topped up if she were to keep from nodding off while checking the latest background reports on people linked with Emma Bestwick.
Any lingering doubt as to whether Emma was dead had been settled by the DNA match with the swab taken from Karen. Now the donkey work began. Investigating a cold case meant taking infinite pains and although Gul Khan and Linz Waller were available again, there was much to be done. She’d instructed the team to burrow deep into the lives of possible suspects. The Erskines, the Goddards, father and daughter Clough. They would talk to neighbours, shopkeepers, volunteer museum guides, clients of Emma’s reflexology clinic. This must be the way archaeologists worked, sifting through endless rubbish in the hope of chancing across a clue to the past. Although Emma might have been killed by someone who had never featured in the inquiry, you had to start somewhere. Impossible to believe that Emma had come to the Arsenic Labyrinth by chance. If she’d made an appointment, it must have been with someone she knew, or someone she had a very good reason to meet.
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