The Crooked Shore

by Martin Edwards

  Hannah nodded. The Sharrow Bay on Ullswater was one of the most renowned hotels in the Lakes. As if its location and splendour were not enough of a draw, it was said to be the birthplace of sticky toffee pudding.

  ‘They spent the night up there and didn’t get back till late the next morning. Ravi was able to account for all his movements for the following twenty-four hours. So was Poppy, for that matter.’ Bunny shook her head. ‘I was relieved to hear it. I’d hate to think I once snogged a killer.’

  ‘So they were both in the clear?’

  ‘Yes, and when Ben Kind took charge of the investigation, he didn’t take long to figure out that Gerry Lace was responsible for Ramona’s disappearance. His instincts didn’t often let him down.’

  ‘If we review the case, we have to do so with an open mind. No assumptions.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve got a point.’ Bunny yawned. The vodkas were taking their toll. ‘You know, Hannah, I reckon you’ve got the best job in the force. Putting right old wrongs. Miscarriages of justice, wrongful …’

  ‘Trust me, cold case work isn’t a bed of roses. Leads peter out. Witnesses and suspects turn out to have died years back. We run on a shoestring and sometimes we simply can’t justify throwing any more resource at a case.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I get it. All the same, I can’t help envying you. Not to mention Linz and Maggie Eyre.’

  ‘Even though we have to work with Les Bryant?’

  Bunny laughed and they both looked across the room at Les. He’d buttonholed Linz and was no doubt regaling her with one of his innumerable anecdotes about policing in the good old days.

  ‘Into every life a little rain must fall, eh? Les is a dinosaur, but he doesn’t bother me. I suppose Linz won’t mind leaving all this behind. At least until the baby starts screeching all night. Anyway, if you’re looking for a maternity cover, let me know.’

  ‘You’d be interested?’

  Hannah was taken aback. Bunny had spent her career on the front line and most detectives still regarded cold case work as a dismal backwater. Not proper policing. Even worse, some saw it as an easy option.

  ‘Absolutely. I’ve got my years in. Last week I had a meeting with HR about taking my pension. This job gets no easier; you know the stress we’re under. I’m no spring chicken.’

  ‘You look fine to me.’

  This was no exaggeration. Bunny’s dark hair was trimmed in an immaculate bob and she didn’t carry a surplus ounce. Thirty years ago, Hannah thought, she must have been stunning. Pity she’d not had better luck with men. A couple of years back, her latest marriage had broken down. That was what the recruitment advertising never mentioned. Police work wrecked relationships.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ready for the knacker’s yard just yet. HR asked if I’d consider joining the historic sex abuse unit. They are so short-staffed they are bringing in civilians by the busload. But it’s not for me. Your cold case team wasn’t mentioned. I suppose it’s all about funding priorities.’

  ‘You never know.’ Raucous laughter from a gaggle of young PCs was making the din unbearable. Hannah could hardly hear herself think. ‘Let’s talk when we’re back in the office.’

  Bunny’s dark eyes widened. ‘You mean there’s a chance that … ?’

  She broke off as the PCC joined them, a glass of orange juice in his hand. Hannah performed introductions and said, ‘Bunny worked on the Ramona Smith enquiry.’

  Kit Gleadall raised his eyebrows. ‘You don’t waste much time, do you, Hannah?’

  Bunny gave them a searching glance. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be making tracks. I need to say goodbye to Linz and Jenny. Cheers, Hannah. Good to meet you, sir.’

  Gleadall watched her wriggle through the crowd. Admiring her neat backside, Hannah suspected.

  ‘Bunny?’

  ‘Short for Bryony, she once told me. Not that I’ve ever met anyone brave enough to call her that.’

  ‘Good officer?’

  ‘Excellent. Wide range of experience. Feisty, but a good team player.’ She had to bellow to make herself heard. ‘I think she’s tempted by the idea of cold case work.’

  ‘Stepping stone to retirement?’

  ‘She’s still got plenty of petrol in the tank.’

  ‘Like her on your team?’ Hannah nodded. ‘What about her existing role? Will I tread on anyone’s toes if I ask for her to be offered a transfer?’

  Emboldened by the wine, Hannah asked, ‘Would that stop you, sir?’

  He laughed. ‘My reputation goes before me, does it? The honest answer is no.’

  ‘She’s discussed retirement with HR.’

  ‘So we’re talking about an enlightened form of staff retention? Perfect.’ He clinked his glass against hers. ‘To the rejuvenation of the Cold Case Review Team!’

  Hannah finished her drink. ‘I’d better say my goodbyes.’

  ‘Yes, I need to go too. Can I offer you a lift home?’

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t live far away. The walk will burn off a few calories.’

  He considered her. ‘I really don’t think you need worry about that.’

  For a moment their eyes met.

  ‘Thanks again for your support,’ she said.

  ‘Nothing to thank me for,’ he said. ‘Mutual assistance, that’s what makes the world go round. I’ll see you tomorrow, before the media scrum. You can tell me how you plan to set about reopening the investigation.’

  Something in her expression made his eyes narrow. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to breathe over your shoulder. Or leak operational material to the press in order to get a good write-up.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’ She felt abashed. ‘I didn’t mean …’

  He put a hand on her arm. ‘No, I understand. When I was running my PR firm, I learnt the black arts of spin. To be honest, I practised them, maybe more skilfully than most. That was in another life. My job here is simply to oil the wheels. You’re in charge.’

  She detached herself and gave a brisk nod. ‘Thank you, sir. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, Hannah. See you tomorrow.’

  Kingsley had never enjoyed much luck with women. Over the years, he’d come to place the blame on his mother. Much as he worshipped her, Mamma had always cramped his style. Following his sister’s death, he’d become an only child again. He loved being the sole focus of parental attention, but it had its downsides. In his youth, he seldom brought girls home, and when he did, they invariably failed to live up to Sybil Melton’s daunting standards. If he’d made it to Aberystwyth University, everything would have been different. He’d have met a nice girl, perhaps a fellow history student, someone who shared his interest in antiques. They could have built a lasting relationship together without outside interference.

  As it was, he continued to live cheek-by-jowl with his parents, and his encounters with the opposite sex were few and far between. They were also by no means conventional. Now he felt a gnawing hunger for the experiences he’d missed out on. It was never too late. Not that he hankered after an orthodox family life. Young people had mystified him even during his own youth, and he no more wanted an offspring than a smelly dog or a supercilious cat. But he yearned to share in a partnership that was loving and passionate. How wonderful to be the apple of someone’s eye. Someone other than his mother, that was.

  Tory excited him. An air of mystery clung to her, this exotic, widely travelled woman with more money than she knew what to do with. Outspoken as she was, she gave little away about her innermost thoughts, and this he found alluring rather than an irritant. He liked to preserve his own secrets and understood anyone who felt that certain things simply weren’t meant to be talked about.

  They washed the meatballs down with a bottle of Merlot, and as they ended the meal with some coffee, Tory said, ‘You’d better not risk driving home. You’ve had so much bad luck lately, the last thing you want is to fail a breath test. Why don’t you stay the night?’

  It wouldn’t be tactful to menti
on that he was probably below the legal limit for drinking and driving; she was the one who had polished off most of the wine. He smiled and said, ‘That’s very kind, thanks, but I don’t want to put you to any trouble. If the spare bed …’

  ‘Spare bed?’ She ruffled his hair. ‘Oh, come on, Kingsley. No need for such formality. It’s not as if we’re a pair of shy virgins.’

  The last time Tory had taken him to bed, Kingsley had felt very much like a shy virgin, but he wasn’t stupid enough to dampen the mood. His spirits were soaring.

  ‘No,’ he said, gazing into her eyes with what he hoped was a soulful expression, ‘we’re not.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Daylight was fading as Hannah finally escaped from Effie Grey’s. She took a short cut down a cobbled yard, one of those old, fortified alleyways branching off the main street. Kendal’s nickname, ‘the Auld Grey Town,’ derived from the limestone of its buildings. The yards dated from the eighteenth century, when the locals sought sanctuary from outlaws based in the badlands on either side of the Scottish border. These days the marauding Reivers were long gone, and the yards were roamed by tourists stopping off in Kendal on their way to the Lakes.

  Hannah lived on the other side of the river, not far from the remnants of the medieval castle, a ruin since Tudor times. Buying a flat in the town had cut down time wasted on commuting, but she’d also wanted a private space while she decided what to do with her life. Following the break up of her relationship with a second-hand bookseller, she’d become close to Daniel Kind. For a short while she’d shared Daniel’s cottage in Tarn Fold, but after the let-down of her relationship with Marc Amos, she wasn’t ready to commit herself to anyone else. The snag was that, after twelve months on her own, she was nervous and doubtful about the future of their relationship.

  She blamed the job, that perennial scapegoat. Day after day, she found herself so caught up in the challenges of running a team with limited resources and an overstretched budget that even when she had time off, she struggled to break free. Even when she did, it crossed her mind sometimes that the demands of police work were too easy an excuse. If she were honest with herself, there was more to it than that.

  Daniel’s own commitments made matters worse. She’d not seen him for six weeks. He’d spent much of the past year travelling abroad, promoting overseas editions of The Hell Within. His history of murder had become an international bestseller, and although she was glad for him, the book’s success was two-edged. He adored meeting readers around the world and they lapped up his stories about past crimes, but his popularity reminded her of why she’d always feared that their lifestyles would prove incompatible. How could she forget that this was a man who became a famous face, a household name, before walking out on his career as a TV historian? In the wake of his partner’s suicide, Daniel had battled with grief and an incoherent sense of guilt. That was why he’d fled to the Lake District. The truth was stark, and perhaps it was time for her to face it. Surely she ought to stop kidding herself? The two of them belonged to different worlds.

  Police work, for all the strains and stresses, provided her with emotional refuge. Her career had veered up and down like a rollercoaster. Encouraged by Ben Kind, who had no patience with play-it-safe time-servers, she’d become a dynamic young detective, not afraid to take an occasional risk if it helped to secure justice for victims of crime. Fast-tracked for promotion to DCI, she’d seemed destined for the heights until disaster struck. A high profile trial fell through, and it suited the superior officers for her to shoulder the blame. The blow had shattered her confidence, and although technically shunting her into cold case work wasn’t a demotion, it felt like a punishment. As if she could no longer be trusted to handle cases that really mattered in the here and now.

  Deep down she kept the faith, still believing in herself as a detective. Marc Amos reckoned she had a confidence in her own professionalism that she lacked in her private life. In her new role she’d not only rebuilt her reputation, she’d come to relish the challenge. There was something special about heading a cold case team. Even its small size was a drawback that presented opportunities. Every now and then she grabbed the chance to get stuck into hands-on investigation – the work that had attracted her to policing in the first place and far more rewarding than measuring her life in meetings about management and money.

  The evening was mild, but as she crossed the bridge over the River Kent, her mind turned to the Laces, father and son, and she shivered. How desperate must you be to take your life by walking into the sea, waiting for the waves to overwhelm you? Gerry Lace’s suicide was open to interpretation. Tantamount to an admission that he was guilty of killing Ramona Smith or a cry of despair from a man wrongly accused? It all depended on your point of view.

  What about Darren? How he must have suffered over the years, regardless of the rights or wrongs of the police investigation, regardless of whether his father was a murderer. And then to kill himself on the twentieth anniversary of Gerald Lace’s death …

  She owed it to the Laces as well as to Ramona Smith to do whatever she could to unravel the truth. Not that it would be easy. Even Ben Kind had run into a brick wall, but the passage of time was sometimes a help rather than a hindrance. Recently she’d concluded a review of an unsolved rape case in which new DNA evidence had helped to identify the culprit; he’d be tried in the autumn, with a guilty plea on the cards. Even in cases where advances in forensic science didn’t assist, all was not lost. Taking a fresh look at an old file might highlight previous mistakes or new lines of enquiry. The possibilities were endless; you never knew what might happen. Whatever the doubters said, that made the work exciting.

  Thank God for Kit Gleadall’s willingness to expedite recruitment. Like most police officers, Hannah had harboured grave reservations about the creation of high and mighty PCCs with sweeping powers. The theory was that replacing the old police authorities with a single elected, accountable supremo would ensure that things got done instead of simply talked about by a cosy club of councillors with their snouts in the expenses trough. How it worked out in practice depended on each individual supremo. Many were minor politicians, but Gleadall had stood for election as an independent. People saw him as a breath of fresh air.

  He’d made a good start. Just as long as he behaves himself, Hannah thought. That offer of a lift home didn’t amount to crossing a line, but Hannah’s instinct told her that he needed watching. A rich man, accustomed to getting his own way, with women as well as with his business activities? The moment when he’d looked into her eyes …

  Striding along the footpath, she told herself not to read too much into it. To her surprise, she’d enjoyed talking to him, and not only because of his willingness to put his money where his mouth was, and give her additional and desperately needed resource. On a personal level she found him engaging. Besides, he wasn’t stupid. Only a few weeks had passed since he’d narrowly won election, defeating candidates tied to the major political parties. His campaign had been ruthlessly effective. Surely he wouldn’t want to risk everything by embarrassing himself with a female DCI who was perfectly capable of looking after herself?

  She turned the last corner and fiddled in her bag for the front door keys. When she glanced up, her heart lurched. Her flat was on the first floor of a small, purpose-built block and the blinds were undrawn. The living room lights were shining.

  It took a moment for her to use her common sense. Call herself a detective? A burglar wouldn’t flaunt his presence. Daniel was the only other person with a key. The last she’d heard from him was a text saying that his flight from America had been delayed. Maybe he’d got back quicker than expected.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, she found her front door unlocked. The flat was filled with a heady fragrance. On the living room table a dozen red roses bloomed in a Portmeirion vase. Daniel was sprawled over the sofa, his eyelids drooping. She dropped a kiss on his cheek.

  ‘Hello, stranger. Lovely flowers, than
k you.’

  Daniel yawned. After a transatlantic flight from west to east, he always suffered from jet lag. She could see he was fighting to stay awake.

  ‘It was either roses or a souvenir baseball.’

  ‘You made the right choice. So what are you doing here? I assumed you’d go straight home and catch up with your sleep. Or stay with your sister if you couldn’t face fending for yourself.’

  ‘Louise has swanned off to the Theatre by the Lake with her new bosom buddy.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  Hannah was fond of Daniel’s sister, but Louise Kind never had much luck with her love life. She seemed drawn to losers. Not that Hannah had much room to talk, given the ups and downs of her years with Marc Amos.

  ‘Female, if you’re wondering, an out-of-work actor. The person who saved Louise’s life.’

  In an email, Daniel had mentioned that Louise had suffered an accident, but he’d been irritatingly vague about it. They’d planned to catch up on a video call, but her work and his promotional activities had got in the way.

  ‘Saved her life? God, you told me she’d had an accident, you didn’t say it was that serious. What happened?’

  He groaned. ‘One of Louise’s neighbours was poorly, so she helped out by taking the woman’s golden retriever for a walk. Unfortunately, she chose to do it just after you had a freak deluge here.’

  ‘Yeah, the Met Office got excited. As much rain in one day as in a typical month, that sort of stuff.’

  ‘When the storm eased, Louise took the retriever out along the banks of the Rothay, which was in full spate. The dog jumped into the river, and when she tried to save it, she slipped on the wet grass and ended up in the water herself. The dog got out, but she was struggling. Thankfully, this other woman was out walking too. She saw what had happened and fished Louise out with no harm done. Except bruised pride and sodden clothes.’