The Frozen Shroud

by Martin Edwards

  ‘And why would I want to go somewhere like that?’

  ‘Hey, I thought you liked peace and quiet. There’ll be no Hallowe’en crap, trick-or-treating is sure to be banned. No danger of running into any of our chums at the Cricketers, let alone the ACC. She wouldn’t be seen dead in such a dive.’

  ‘You’re really not selling it to me.’

  ‘The ale is brilliant. Have a glass of their Lakeland Lager, it’s nothing like the weasel pee that supermarkets sell. Leave your car at home, that stuff packs a punch. Half six suit you?’

  ‘I’ll let you know this afternoon.’

  ‘I’m off to Whitehaven in ten minutes, to interview that witness, remember? So it would help to fix up now, if you can bear it.’

  How neatly he’d trapped her. If she said no, she’d come over as sad and self-pitying.

  So she said yes.

  It was half one before she grabbed a sandwich, and took the opportunity to ring Terri and ask how she was.

  ‘I’m good, honestly,’ she shouted. A drummer was practising in the background; she was at a concert venue in Keswick, making sure everything was ready for a Hallowe’en gig. ‘Thanks again, kid, for everything.’

  ‘Thought any more about making a formal complaint?’

  ‘Yep. The answer’s the same as before. Enough about me, what’s this I heard on the local news about your team? I thought the cutbacks were still under wraps at present.’

  ‘Best laid plans, and all that. Lauren’s on the warpath. She thinks I alerted the media. I almost wish I had. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.’

  ‘My philosophy exactly! It’s only taken you twenty years to catch up.’

  ‘Some people never learn.’

  ‘Speaking of which, have you called Daniel Kind?’

  ‘No.’

  Terri tutted. ‘What about your DS Wharf?’

  ‘He’s not my DS Wharf. We’re colleagues, I like him, that’s as far as it goes.’ Hannah took a breath. ‘I’m having a drink with him tonight. Only one, mind, before you start getting ideas.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  She didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Have a good time tonight.’

  ‘And you.’

  The Cricketers lived up to its advance billing as a misanthrope’s dream. The landlord spoke in surly monosyllables, and the men gathered around the bar looked like extras from Deliverance. The only other women apart from Hannah were two elderly women drinking stout in a dusty corner. This was the antithesis of those fancy gourmet places springing up all over the Lakes; if hunger struck, you had to make do with peanuts or pork scratchings. The only concession to Hallowe’en jollity was a carved pumpkin face on a jack-o’-lantern perched on the bar counter which looked less sinister than most of the customers. At least the saloon was quiet, and a bit of peace was all Hannah craved after a second successive day from hell.

  She’d spent the afternoon closeted with the Deputy Director of HR, poring over staff costs and career records, trying to figure out whom to redeploy, whom to retain. Like any manager, Hannah knew in her own mind the outcome that would work best, but wasn’t so naive as to try a pre-emptive strike. This was one of the lessons Ben Kind had taught her. When dealing with back office staff, far better to reach a consensus, than to try to force something through and then face long and debilitating guerrilla warfare. But the consensus had to be viable.

  Greg lifted his glass. ‘Here’s to the Cold Case Review Team. Bloodied but unbowed.’

  ‘Yes, I keep telling myself, it could be worse. I was afraid Lauren might scrap the whole project and transfer our caseload to Major Investigations.’

  ‘Nah.’ He closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the bite of the ale. ‘It was never a risk.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  He ticked the points off on his fingers. ‘One, the media love cold cases, and she has too much credibility tied up in our work. Two, cold cases are a safe haven for misfits like me, who aren’t easy to sack and might cause her grief elsewhere. Three, she shunted you into a siding to make sure you wouldn’t get in the way of her relentless march to the top of the greasy pole.’

  ‘The great Lauren Self isn’t afraid of me.’

  ‘You don’t think so? She’s not stupid, she knows better than anyone that she’s been over-promoted. So she’s determined to shore up her position, and that includes pushing potential rivals overboard.’

  Hannah savoured her lager. He was right, the taste was dangerously addictive. ‘And I gave her the perfect excuse by messing up on the Rao trial?’

  ‘Precisely. Putting you in charge of Cold Cases must have seemed like a masterstroke. And then you go and ruin it by making such a success of the job that her only option left is to cut you, and your team, down to size.’

  ‘You flatter me.’

  ‘I don’t do flattery, Hannah.’ He wiped his fleshy lips. ‘Trust me.’

  One quick drink turned into three slow ones, and when they were ready to leave, Greg suggested they call at Fryer Tuck’s chippy on the way back. Hannah had planned to dig a ready meal out of the fridge, but he suggested they share a cab to Ambleside before he made his way to Kendal, where he had a flat. It was only good manners to suggest in turn that they eat the chips at Undercrag.

  After lighting the fire, she left him in the living room while she made coffee. It wouldn’t be a good plan to offer the option of alcohol. Or share the sofa with him. No way did she intend to send out any wrong signals.

  Over the simple supper, she discovered a new side to Greg Wharf. The revelation that he liked cats wasn’t the last shock disclosure. He played and watched tennis, and during his annual pilgrimage to Wimbledon, he made a point of taking in a West End musical. Not just Les Mis or the latest Lloyd Webber, but edgier stuff like Spring Awakening.

  ‘You kept that quiet.’

  ‘Do you blame me? I’d never hear the end of it if the lads got to know.’

  The horrible thought struck her that she’d written him off as a brawny hunk whose brains were in his pants. A Flash Harry who wasn’t that much different from the villains he’d hunted when he worked in Vice.

  ‘I still can’t get over the musicals.’

  ‘Hey, I love music. As a kid, I sang in the school choir, and got as far as Grade 7 with the piano.’

  Greg Wharf, a choir boy? What next, Les Bryant as a teenage Romeo, Lauren Self a tireless worker for the underprivileged?

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘My dad died, and I needed to earn a living. Also, I discovered girls and beer.’ He grinned. ‘Downhill all the way from there.’

  ‘Don’t worry, your secrets are safe with me.’

  ‘What about you, Hannah, what are your secrets?’

  ‘Me? I’m an open book.’

  ‘Yeah, written in Sanskrit.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Sorry. I meant to say, you’re admirably discreet.’ He watched as she threw another log on the fire. ‘And you have a lovely house to be discreet in.’

  ‘Only half of it is mine. Much less once you factor in the mortgage. And soon none of it will be mine. We’re selling up.’

  He nodded. The break-up with Marc was common knowledge; the disastrous betrayal leading up to it was the stuff of legend back at HQ.

  ‘When Zanny and I split up, I didn’t know what had hit me. In the space of a weekend, I lost a wife, the woman I’d been seeing behind her back, and the roof over my head. And my job went west, quite literally. Within a week, I was kicked over to the other side of the Pennines.’ Greg’s matrimonial catastrophe was equally celebrated; he’d been married to a high flyer in Northumbria Police before getting far too close to a girl from Community Support. ‘Everyone said I reaped what I sowed. Fair enough, but when you shoot yourself in the foot, it still hurts like hell.’

  Hannah watched the fire. The flames writhed like exotic dancers. ‘I’ll get over it.’

  ‘Of course you will. You’re strong. Where are you looking to move
to? Closer to HQ?’

  ‘Not sure. I did wonder …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If the time was right to make a fresh start. All this shit at work is hard to take, day in, day out. Perhaps I ought to try something else.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, I dunno.’ She tasted the coffee. Too bitter. ‘I’d just … like to feel I’m getting somewhere, instead of just running faster and faster to stay in the same place.’

  ‘You’ve achieved a lot.’

  She put down her mug. ‘Sorry, I’m rambling. I shouldn’t have had that last glass of lager.’

  ‘Even DCIs are allowed to unwind sometimes.’ He stretched in his chair. The fire was blazing, the room felt warm at last. ‘Now you know the worst about me, when you’re ready to look at staffing cuts.’

  ‘You reckon that’s the worst?’

  ‘Well, your face was a picture.’

  ‘It’s not the image you’ve cultivated.’

  ‘Fair comment. I’ve always liked being one of the lads.’ He dunked his one remaining chip in a puddle of brown sauce. ‘Blokes who like musicals are usually as camp as a row of tents, aren’t they?’

  ‘Marc once made me sit all the way through South Pacific. And he might be many things, but he isn’t camp.’

  ‘What’s he up to now? Still licking his wounds after you kicked him out?’

  She pushed her plate to one side. Half the fish and most of the chips and mushy peas lay untouched, but she’d had enough. That empty feeling inside was nothing to do with hunger.

  ‘He wants another chance.’

  ‘Who could blame him?’

  ‘It isn’t going to happen.’

  She was talking to herself as much as to Greg, eyes fixed, not on him, but on the brooding screes of Wasdale in the watercolour on the opposite wall. Marc loved the picture, and she couldn’t wait for him to take it away. The dark hues reminded her of a long ago afternoon they’d spent on the slopes above Wastwater, slipping and sliding as the treacherous black rocks shifted beneath their feet. She’d seldom felt as scared in her life; they’d taken a wrong turning at Marc’s insistence – he always knew best – and came close to becoming cragfast in the wilds of Great Gully.

  ‘It isn’t going to happen,’ she said again.

  She hadn’t drunk that much, yet her head was in a whirl. So much was changing, all around. Her lover gone, her house going, her team slashed to ribbons. What next?

  ‘Hey,’ Greg said softly, ‘are you okay?’

  ‘Sorry. It’s not been the best of weeks so far.’

  He swallowed the last of his coffee, and stood up. ‘I’d better go.’

  Tears pricked her eyes. Oh shit, she’d allowed him to see how feeble she could be. This was so fucking pathetic, she was acting like an emotional teenager, not a head-screwed-on DCI. All those years, she’d worked at painting a portrait of herself in people’s minds, and now she was ripping up her own picture. And why? Because she couldn’t handle this strength-sapping sense that everything she touched fell apart.

  She cleared her throat. ‘I’ll get your jacket.’

  As she stepped past him, he reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. She kept looking straight ahead. It would be a mistake to turn to face him. Any moment now, those tears would start running down her cheeks, and she didn’t want to allow him a glimpse of her flimsiness.

  ‘You don’t have anything to prove,’ he said. ‘Not to me, not to the team, not to Lauren Only-Thinks-Of-Her-Fucking-Self.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’ve got nothing to thank me for. It’s the other way round. They dumped me on you, which must have been a total pain, but you just got on with the job. And with me.’

  She couldn’t avoid looking at him any longer. ‘Someone had to keep you in order.’

  He smiled. ‘You do it well.’

  Her mind was a useless blur, no longer in control. Her body seemed disconnected from it. She moved closer to Greg, drawn by his sheer physical presence. Afterwards, she could never quite get the sequence of events clear in her head, but within moments they were on the sofa. His arms were tight around her, as he kissed with a tenderness she’d never have imagined. She smelt beer and a musky aftershave, felt his bristles against her cheek. His hand slid over her jersey. She didn’t stop its progress, didn’t want to. It had been a long time since she’d been touched like this.

  ‘Hannah.’ His breath was hot on her face. ‘Are you okay?’

  She moved so that she was almost lying on the sofa, head propped against a leather cushion as he eased forward so that his face was above hers. He tugged her jersey over her head and let it fall onto the floor. She saw him drinking in the sight of her. When she’d come back here to change before going out to the pub, she’d put on a black bra and knickers in fine silk, bought a month before the break-up with Marc and never worn since. Not because anything was going to happen with Greg, but because she was sick of feeling like a harassed people manager and wanted to feel like a woman again.

  And now something was happening with Greg.

  He slipped the straps off her shoulders, and fumbled with the hooks. Funny that he seemed clumsy – wasn’t he supposed to be the expert seducer? A light glinted in his wide open eyes, as if he couldn’t quite believe what she was allowing him to do.

  As for Hannah, she’d given up on believing. She was so sick of careful, diligent, do-the-right-thing Hannah, the inadequate toer-of-lines who believed in going through the proper channels, yet somehow still managed to screw everything up. Life was short. She wanted, yes she wanted, to behave badly.

  Her nipples stiffened at the touch of his fingers. For once, she wasn’t worrying her breasts were too small or too freckled or the wrong shape. No time to wonder if, now he’d finally broken through her defences, he’d find her disappointing.

  Greg bent forward, his tongue moving delicately from one breast to the other. She started to unbutton his shirt. It slid off his shoulders, revealing a chest covered with fine hair. He had a sportsman’s arms, muscular and firm. As he breathed harder, she felt the intensity of his excitement. His hands slid to her starchy new jeans, loosening the belt, yanking at the zip. She closed her eyes and waited.

  Somewhere outside the room, a door creaked. Her mind was empty of everything except the man she was with; she’d surely imagined the noise. But she felt Greg’s body become rigid with tension.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Just the wind.’ This was a fib, she had no idea really, but she couldn’t bear the moment to end. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘No, it’s something.’

  Then she heard it too. Footsteps, hesitant footsteps, but definitely footsteps, in the hall. Right outside this room.

  ‘Hannah?’ The cry was strangled. ‘Hannah?’

  ‘Oh fucking hell,’ Greg muttered. ‘Fucking, fucking, fucking hell.’

  The living room door swept open. Hannah closed her eyes.

  This is a nightmare, all I need do is open my eyes again, and everything will be all right.

  She looked up, and beyond Greg. In the doorway stood Marc, the man she’d lived with for so long. He was staring at the two of them, half-dressed on the sofa.

  For a few seconds – or was it years? – nothing happened. The three of them might have been wax dummies in a weird tableau, silent, rigid and cold. Hannah’s temples pounded; she thought she was about to scream. Her mouth opened, but not a sound came out.

  Marc was the first to move. As he turned to go, he gave her a lingering look over his shoulder, before shutting the door behind him with extraordinary care.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Louise wasn’t timetabled for work on Hallowe’en, and she and Daniel stopped in Kendal to pick up their party costumes before driving over the Kirkstone Pass. After overnight rain, the skies had cleared, and as they descended into the valley of Ullswater, the sun sidled out from behind the clouds like a bashful schoolboy. In the old mining village of Glenridding, they parked
near the public hall, and Louise pointed out the house she wanted to buy. A cottage built of green Lakeland stone, perched at the foot of Helvellyn, looking out towards the steamship pier and the serpentine lake beyond.

  ‘You’ll have the most beautiful commute imaginable,’ he said.

  ‘Only snag is, the pass will be closed in the worst of winter.’ Her laughter reminded him of the mischievous girl she’d once been, before their father left home, and she grew a spiky skin for self-protection. ‘Plenty worse places to be snowed in.’

  Three miles on, they stopped again, and entered the labyrinth of woodland paths beneath Gowbarrow Fell. The route wound past the Money Tree, a toppled beech trunk into which people had hammered thousands of coins from all over the world. Once these were private pleasure grounds, landscaped for the family of a wealthy landowner. These days everyone could stroll through the glades on a pilgrimage to Aira Force, retracing Wordsworth’s footsteps. Here the great man had found poetic inspiration in the daffodils, but on this last day of October, the flowers were long gone, and the paths were treacherous with mud and wet leaves.

  Aira Force made itself heard before they set eyes on it. The waterfall’s roar reached a crescendo as they walked onto an old stone packhorse bridge spanning the top of the cascade. Luckily, neither of them suffered from vertigo. The spectacle of the water crashing into the chasm below was dizzying. A chattering Italian couple, kitted out for the Antarctic, squeezed past. Daniel caught the name Sir Eglamore. The woman was telling the story of the valiant knight’s beloved, whom he awoke from sleepwalking, only for her to plunge to her death in Aira Force. A legend Wordsworth turned into yet another poem.

  ‘It’s an unlucky place we’re going to,’ Louise said. ‘Two women murdered. Do you think Melody’s hunch is right, and the mad Mrs Hodgkinson was really innocent?’

  He watched the swirling patterns made by the foaming water. ‘With murder, like most things, the obvious explanation is usually right. On the face of it, there’s even less mystery about who killed Gertrude Smith than who battered Shenagh Moss to death. Letty Hodgkinson’s suicide looks like a confession of guilt, Craig Meek died before he could be questioned. But what if things aren’t what they seemed?’