The pianist was humming as he played that song about people who need people. The luckiest people in the world. Daniel fixed the man with a stare, willing him to stop.
‘Thanks for telling me.’
She tapped her saucer with a teaspoon, a little clink of irritation. ‘You’re taking this in a very English way. No ranting, no raving. If we don’t watch out, we’ll finish up acting like characters in a 1940s film.’
‘You’d rather I scream blue murder?’
She ventured a smile. ‘If I were a suspicious soul, I might wonder if I’ve played into your hands. Is that what’s going through your mind? I’ve got rid of the needy cow, I’ve won back my freedom?’
He shook his head. ‘At this precise moment, my mind is a vast empty void.’
‘Louise will be thrilled. She really can’t stand me.’
‘Feeling’s mutual, isn’t it?’
‘Louise is so protective of you, I’ll never measure up. I can understand why, after what happened to Aimee. You were a wreck, you kept blaming yourself, even though it wasn’t your fault she jumped from the tower. All I wanted was to make things better for you.’
God, she was so gorgeous. That flawless skin. Those eyes.
‘And you did.’
The familiar dreamy look spread across her face. She’d battled through the worst of the conversation, she was ready to rework it, as any good journalist might revise a piece of hasty writing to smooth out the flaws. Create a better impression.
‘Whatever you may think, I fell head over heels in love with the Lakes, same as with you. And I don’t regret it, please don’t imagine I do. But it’s a mistake to become infatuated with a place. When I was a kid, I used to love our holidays in Great Yarmouth. When my parents took me there one winter week-end, with the amusements shut up and a gale howling in from the sea, it wasn’t the same. The spell was broken forever and I’ve never gone back since.’
He intercepted the glance of the Scouse waiter, who was running his eye over Miranda’s curves, and asked for the bill. ‘So it’s back to London for good tomorrow?’
She nodded. ‘I’ll take as many of my things as I can carry. The rest I can leave till I’ve moved in with Ethan. I suppose you’re still determined to stick it out here?’
Why did she have to make it sound like a feat of endurance? ‘Me, I’m still infatuated.’
‘But with the Lakes, not with me.’ She sighed. ‘That’s the difference, Daniel. The countryside just doesn’t do it for me, I need the excitement of city life. Sheepdog trials and ivy-clad coaching inns are fine, but they aren’t enough. For me, something always needs to be happening.’
Pictures flickered in his mind. Strap-hanging commuters on the London Underground, glancing nervously at their fellow passengers’ rucksacks. Drunken youths smashing bottles outside the doors of a nightclub and pissing in shop doorways. Oxford dons bickering at High Table.
‘Depends on what you want to happen, I guess.’
At five to eight, Les put his head round the door and said, ‘Time to go home.’
Hannah pulled her eyes away from the columns of figures on the spreadsheet on her screen. She’d spent the last hour juggling overtime and equipment budgets. Even in cold case work, making the numbers add up was more of a challenge for a DCI than detecting crime.
‘See you tomorrow.’
‘I meant time for you to go home,’ he said, stepping into her room. ‘For me, it doesn’t matter. Long hours are good, it’s like the old days, takes me out of myself. It’s different for you. Don’t make the mistake I made.’
‘What was that?’
‘Forgetting that there’s someone waiting for you at home.’
She felt her cheeks burning. ‘Marc is out visiting a customer in Carlisle this evening. Besides, he knows what the job involves.’
‘And he’s happy about it?’
‘He spends all his time with his books, anyway.’
Les raised bushy eyebrows. ‘I used to say my old lady liked not having me under her feet. She was able to suit herself. Watch trash on telly, natter on the phone to her mates. In the end, it wasn’t enough.’
‘Yeah, well, thanks for the advice.’
‘Don’t be huffy. I know it’s none of my business.’
‘True.’
‘All the same, take heed.’ He turned to go. ‘Goodnight, Hannah.’
She exhaled. ‘Sorry, Les, I don’t mean to …’
‘Listen, you can tell me to piss off, that’s fine. Like I said, it’s nowt to do with me.’
‘I’m not sure I’m doing much good here. I’d feel better trained for this job if I’d trained as an accountant instead of at police college. I’ll pack it in and start fresh tomorrow. We’ll drive over to Coniston together.’
He nodded and lumbered off down the corridor. She checked her on-screen diary before switching off her computer. After Di Venuto’s departure, they’d agreed that even if someone had hired Guy Koenig to kill Emma, Jeremy wasn’t the only candidate. It was a long shot, but there might be some connection between the two bodies buried in the same spot decades apart. The plan was to call on Alban Clough and see what he had to say for himself.
She locked her desk and the door to her office and set off for home. On the CD player, Jimmy Webb crooned about the Wichita lineman. Her mind roamed over the events of the day, but she knew she was too weary to have a hope of making sense of them. Fifteen minutes into the journey, her hands-free phone trilled.
‘It’s Maggie, ma’am.’
Her DC worked out at the gym every other day, but for once she sounded out of breath. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes, fine, I’ve just run back to the car. Dave and I were on our way out to a pub in Skelwith Bridge, and as we were approaching Coniston, a fire engine passed us, siren blaring. A couple of miles down the road, we saw why.’
Hannah’s pulse quickened. ‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s Inchmore Hall, ma’am. The building is on fire.’
Brack village was dozing as Daniel drove through on the way back to Tarn Fold. The church clock was chiming, a few lights shone behind curtained windows. Tarn Fell was a dark shapeless mass in the distance and it was impossible to make out where the fells ended and the sky began. Daniel glanced to his left. Miranda was slumped low in the passenger seat, her eyes half-closed; the Chablis had taken hold. He recalled waking some nights and watching her sleep by his side, telling himself how lucky he was to share her life.
‘Hey, you still awake?’
‘Mmmm.’
‘I’ll sleep in the spare room tonight.’
‘No need.’
‘It’s better that way. You have a journey tomorrow and you look knackered.’
Her brow creased, but if tempted to argue, she thought better of it. ‘Suit yourself,’ she murmured.
When they reached the cottage, she said goodnight and dragged her weary body up the stairs. He turned on the gas fire and made himself a mug of hot chocolate. For ten minutes he channel-hopped on the TV, but late-night snooker and a re-run of Friends did not appeal, so he pulled out the bulging carrier bags that he’d borrowed from Sylvia Blacon and started picking through the auction lots. Might as well make a start, see if he could find something to fire his imagination about an aspect of Lakes history that Hattie Costello had not yet done to death.
There were scrapbooks, diaries and household records of Coniston residents that covered much of the twentieth century. Many of the notebooks were written in the same cramped but legible hand. They had been kept somewhere damp and the paper was brittle to the touch. It wasn’t late, but he had to force himself to keep his eyes open as he turned the pages. His arms and legs felt heavy and his throat was dry. He ought to go to bed, but he knew that when he did, he would spend hours tossing and turning. So often it had been like this in Oxford, during the weeks after Aimee committed suicide. Better to keep working, until he was so exhausted that sleep could no longer be denied.
A single sentenc
e snagged his attention. He read them a second time and the words jerked him wide awake.
You’d never believe it to look at me now, but once upon a time I killed a man.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Orange-yellow flames writhed like dancers in the night sky as Hannah approached Inchmore Hall. Heart pounding, she’d broken speed limits travelling twenty miles on dark, twisting roads. When she pulled up on the grass verge fifty yards short of the drive, an inferno was raging.
Fire frightened her, she hated its savagery, wanted to shut her ears to its hoarse, greedy roar. She’d never forgotten attending her first arson as a DC. An attack on a supermarket left a security man with cruel burns and a face ruined forever. The arsonist, a bored shelf-stacker, told her later that fire was exciting and passionate, it turned him on like nothing else. He’d licked his lips as he spoke of hot and fast flames, ripping through the building, out of control. Nondescript, spotty, and eighteen years old, he was the most dangerous young man Hannah had ever met.
Gritting her teeth, she slammed shut the car door. The fire was loud and wild, a monster holding the hall captive, glorying in its power to consume and destroy. The wooden gables were blackened and about to crumble, the blinds at the windows had burnt to nothing. The temperature had sunk below zero, but the night was dry, just when a downpour would have answered prayers. Beyond a cordon, firefighters were striving to tame the beast. From the other side of the road, a huddle of spectators gawped at the spectacle. When Hannah pushed through, a small man in an over-sized ski jacket gave her a dirty look, outraged by the presumptuousness of a latecomer to the evening show. Half a dozen teenagers were giggling, one was taking pictures with her mobile. This was better than Guy Fawkes Night.
Smoke was poisoning the air and as Hannah reached tall gateposts topped with stone pineapples, she had to fight for breath. She wrapped her scarf around her face to protect her mouth and sinuses from the acrid stench. As she moved forward, she felt the heat on her cheeks.
The old mansion was dying before her eyes, suffocating in the clutches of the raging creature. As she watched, a timber beam fell to the gravelled drive with a deafening crash. A nanosecond of near-silence, then the group of onlookers let out a collective gasp.
Hannah spotted Maggie Eyre, in fleece, jeans and leather boots, talking to a grey-haired fire officer and two uniformed PCs on the lawn. Their eyes met and, with a quick word to the men, Maggie hurried down the drive to meet her.
‘So much for your quiet evening down the pub?’ Hannah had to shout to make herself heard above the din.
‘We’d arranged to meet friends, but Dave’s gone off on his own.’ Maggie started coughing. ‘I had to stop and see if there was anything I could do.’
‘Anyone inside?’
‘Not sure. It’s still too dangerous for anyone to force their way in, even with breathing apparatus and cutting equipment. For all anyone knows, Mr Clough and his daughter are out tonight. I hope to God they are, because we’ve seen nobody and anyone trapped won’t have stood a chance. Their lungs will have choked with fumes inside minutes.’
Hannah’s eyes were stinging. ‘Any idea what happened?’
‘Flames were seen by a passer-by who dialled 999, but even though the station is close by, the fire was so fierce that by the time the first fire engine arrived, they could tell it was going to be a long night. No clue on cause yet, God knows whether this is accident or arson, but I’ve been talking to the fire officer in charge. He says his boss had a row with Alban Clough about the need to upgrade safety precautions in the Museum. In the end, the old man threw him out. It’s with the legal people to take action right now. Too few smoke alarms, let alone a decent sprinkler system. As for the candles …’
In her mind, Hannah heard Alban’s sonorous complaints about the pettifoggery of the bureaucrats. No need for m’learned friends to bother now. The fire had done their work for them.
‘Alban Clough’s a law unto himself.’
‘They reckon Inchmore Hall is a deathtrap. This was a disaster waiting to happen.’
‘We need to …’
‘My God! My God!’
A woman had burst through the cordon and was clattering up the driveway. Alex Clough, in a suede coat and high heels. Thank God she had not been roasted to a cinder inside her blazing home. She wasn’t dressed for sprinting and as she drew level with Hannah and Maggie, she stumbled and sank to the ground.
‘Is your father inside?’ Hannah bellowed.
‘I don’t know! He was at home this evening. Unless he managed to get out …’
She looked up and saw the look on the two women’s faces. Breathing hard, she hauled herself back on to her feet.
‘I must try to save him!’
Hannah rushed to her side and grasped her hand. In part to comfort, in part to restrain. ‘You can’t go in there.’
Alex began to sob. ‘My father, my father, my father …’
She repeated the words time after time, even as Hannah and Maggie put their arms around her so that they could lead her to a safer place. Somewhere to wait and watch while the only home she’d ever known burned to ashes.
Hannah wasn’t answering her mobile, so Daniel sent her a text asking her to contact him urgently. I know name of 2nd body. If that didn’t prompt a call, nothing would. After what he had read, he couldn’t sleep, so he stayed up all night in his favourite chair, smoothing out the tangles in his mind. When Miranda came downstairs in the blue-striped rugby shirt she wore to bed, she told him he looked knackered. He mumbled something unintelligible, his thoughts far away. They exchanged desultory small talk over toast and coffee in their gleaming new kitchen. He wasn’t in the mood to explain what he had discovered. Hannah, he wanted to save it for Hannah.
She called back five minutes after Miranda departed on a shopping trip to Kendal. It was not long after nine, but he heard her stifling a yawn even as she said hello. She sounded as tired as he felt
‘Sorry, long night. Inchmore Hall went up in a ball of flame.’
He swore. ‘What happened?’
‘Remember Manderley ablaze in the final reel of Rebecca?’ She’d told him once that in her teens this was a favourite film, she’d even had a brief crush on Olivier. ‘I could have sworn I saw Mrs Danvers’ crazy face at the window. But this time there wasn’t a happy ending. Alban Clough was inside. He didn’t stand a chance.’
He pictured the old man as he’d last seen him. Smiling slyly, enjoying the thrill of private knowledge, protesting ignorance of the second body buried below the Arsenic Labyrinth. Of course, he was lying, but that was nothing new. He’d lived a lie for fifty years, hugged his secret close, to the very end.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Sorry. I was thinking …’
‘This text you sent me. What have you found out?’
‘The dead man you discovered when you went in search of Emma Bestwick. His name was William Inchmore.’
‘William? How can you be sure?’
‘Because I’ve read about his murder.’
‘Read about it? You’re having a laugh, aren’t you?’
‘He was stabbed to death with a bread knife, wasn’t he?’
A sharp intake of breath, then a long pause as she absorbed his news. She hadn’t mentioned to him how the man had been killed. Even though she confided in him more than she should, there were limits. And the information hadn’t been released to the media. When she spoke again, her tone was wry.
‘Tell you what, Daniel. You must have inherited the detective gene. So what exactly is this you’ve been reading?’
‘The murderer’s account of the crime.’
‘If you tell me you bought it in Marc’s shop, I’ll scream.’
‘No need, the story is in a private journal purchased by Jeremy Erskine’s historical society. Not that Jeremy has ever read it. I’m the first.’
‘And who is the author? Not Alban Clough, surely?’
‘No, although he knew exactly wh
at had happened. His mother was the mistress of William Inchmore. William used the Arsenic Labyrinth as a trysting place, that’s where he made love to Betty Clough.’
‘Are you saying that Betty murdered him?’
‘No, that was Edith Inchmore, William’s wife. When she learned about the affair, she lured him to the Labyrinth and went up there herself with a knife. What she didn’t know was that Alban was hiding out up there. He witnessed her crime, but he didn’t move a muscle to stop her. He kept quiet as he watched Edith kill his mother’s lover.’
They arranged to meet at a new Bavarian coffee bar in the heart of Kendal. Daniel parked in the multi-storey at Westmorland Shopping Centre and fished a tote bag out of the boot. None of the passers-by in Stricklandgate gave him a second glance, nobody guessed that the bag held a confession to murder.
He’d pieced together the Inchmores’ story from Edith’s journal. After George wrecked the family business, his son set about ruining their name. What William lacked in wealth, he more than made up for in swaggering self-confidence and raffish good looks. He spent his early adult years sleeping around and squandering what was left of the family fortune at the racecourse, while drifting from job to job. With Inchmore Hall sold to the Cloughs and his parents dead, he had little to keep him in Coniston and during a spell selling silk stockings in Yorkshire, he met and married Edith Sharpe. A plain spinster whose acid tongue belied a dread of being left on the shelf, she was quick to fall under his spell. Above all, she had the inestimable advantage of a father who had made a packet from a leather business in Bradford. William didn’t see marriage as an impediment to philandering and gambling, but rather as a means of funding his favourite activities. He faked a heart condition to escape military service and spent the war years selling cosmetics and petrol on the black market. A fortnight before VE Day, he was arrested, and although he managed to talk his way out of a prison sentence, old man Sharpe cut off his daughter’s allowance and made Yorkshire County Cricket Club the main beneficiary of his estate. Edith stood by her husband and never spoke to Daddy again but, after failing to make a go of various improbable business ventures, William was forced to return to Coniston and go cap in hand to Armstrong Clough and ask for work.
The Arsenic Labyrinth Page 24