She looked at him, frowning. ‘Well, yes, isn’t that obvious?’
‘But that would have been a risk quite aside from the issue of Christian’s death,’ he pointed out quietly.
‘OK. But clearly any publicity could open up the whole thing again. Journalists digging for any juicy morsels and so on. Charles’s name being in the papers.’
He allowed a silence to develop, allowing her mind to fully confront the most desperate fear which was torturing her.
‘Had your husband any motive for killing Christian?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she breathed, hardly disturbing the air as she spoke.
‘Do you know where he was at the time Christian was killed?’
She shook her head, on the point of tears. ‘No. I’m assuming he was going up and down some mountain for most of the day.’
Another death, another lack of alibi for Charles Brunswick, thought Swift. Which, of course, in no way compromised him in the absence of any supporting evidence or motive.
‘My son, Jake, is the most precious thing in my life,’ she said, with feeling. ‘Charles is my life.’ There was another pleading look.
‘Where is Charles now?’ Swift asked.
‘He’s a few miles away from here, in some pub up on the moors outside Pateley Bridge. He’s on leave from work and doing some walking on the fells. By himself, with his phone switched off. It’s something he likes to do occasionally, and I go along with it. He has a very responsible, stressful job; he deserves to have complete peace from time to time.’ She stood up, tears now running down her face.
‘When did he arrive in Yorkshire?’ Swift asked.
‘On Monday. He rang me in the afternoon to say he’d got there.’ She snatched up her coat and began to move towards the door. ‘I can’t talk any more,’ she said. ‘Thinking of what I’ve already said is killing me.’ She brushed past Swift. He followed.
‘Are you going back to your mother’s house?’ he asked.
‘Most probably,’ she said, wiping fiercely at the wetness beneath her eyes. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m tougher than you might think. And I’ve got a son to think about. I won’t do anything stupid.’ She rummaged in her bag and gave him her card. ‘Just call if you want to speak to me again.’ She had the front door open now and he watched her hurry up the path to her car.
He looked at her card. Harriet Brunswick, B.A. LPC. Senior Consultant – personal injury claims. Stirrup and Samson Solicitors.
And then he walked back into the cottage and picked up the phone.
Ruth found herself waiting in some anxiety for Harriet to return from her meeting with Swift. She tried to read, she tried to involve herself in a TV programme about a Victorian artist, but found she couldn’t concentrate.
When the doorbell tinkled it was with massive relief that she walked to the front door. Harriet must have forgotten to take her key to the house with her.
Ruth swung open the door. And was then stabbed with surprise and disappointment to see a young man standing there. He was tall and broad-shouldered, a big slab of a lad with windblown hair and a hunted look in his eyes. Ruth felt no fear. She had a wealth of experience in dealing with strangers who simply turned up on the doorstep: she and her late husband had prided themselves on keeping an open house and always thinking the best of people unless they proved otherwise. Which sadly, had often happened. Behind her, Tamsin was standing quiet and watchful and the small dog’s presence contributed further to Ruth’s quiet trust that no harm would come to her from this young stranger.
‘Hello,’ Ruth said.
Craig felt himself trembling inside. He stood very still, willing her to delve back into her mind and retrieve some memory of him which would ease his total lack of confidence in proceeding any further. Having made it to her front door and dredged up the courage to ring the bell, he found himself now helpless and exhausted. ‘It’s Craig,’ he said.
‘Craig?’ she murmured, staring hard at him. Her eyes sharpened with recognition. ‘Craig Titmus!’
‘Yeah.’ He tried not to wince at the sound of his surname. The name of a murderer. ‘I thought I would come to see you, Mrs Hartwell,’ he said, to let her know that he knew her and he meant no harm.
‘Craig.’ she said, beginning to place him. ‘I used to visit you when you were inside.’
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘And you helped me learn to read.’
She smiled, remembering their sessions together. ‘It was a long time ago,’ she said. ‘Come in.’
He hesitated. The little dog looked at him and wagged its tail. He stepped through the door and stared around him. A huge house, dark wood walls, a light that looked like an old-fashioned lantern sticking up from the end of the banister.
Words hammered inside him. I want someone to love. I want someone to love me. I want to have a home and a family. I want to work in a kitchen and cook things. His heart hammered in time with the words. He prayed that he could stop himself from shouting them out loud and frightening her.
She walked ahead of him and they ended up in a kitchen so big you could almost play a game of five-a-side football in it. The warmth of the room wrapped itself around him and he closed his eyes with the sudden pleasure of the heat. In the air there was a lovely smell of meat and potatoes.
‘Sit down,’ she told him. ‘There, look, beside the stove.’ Obediently he sat. He rubbed his hands on his knees. His hands looked too big and too red. He pulled them up to his chest and tucked them inside each other.
‘Would you like something to eat?’ Mrs Hartwell asked him. ‘I’ve got some stew with beef in it, and some savoury potatoes.’ She rested her hand briefly on his shoulder as she went towards the oven. He wanted her to leave it there; it was years since anyone had touched him. Touched him as a proper person.
‘When were you released?’ she asked, putting on some thick gloves and lifting a blue dish from the oven. She had her back to him, so he could look at her without feeling bad about it. He’d thought maybe she wouldn’t be too put out to see him, but he’d never dared think she’d be like this – asking him in, giving him food, treating him like he was someone she could respect.
‘A couple of days back.’
‘Where have you been staying?’ She was ladling out the stew now, on to a plate with a pattern of flowers around the edge. It was good that she was busy, made him feel OK about talking.
‘In a bedsit. Probation gave me the money.’ He didn’t mention the previous night when he’d slept in the bus station, wrapping his arms around his chest to keep warm. Watching her, he saw that she had got old-looking, more like a granny than a mum. When she’d come to the jail to teach reading, her hair had been dark brown, almost black, and she’d not had so many wrinkles on her face. He liked the idea of a granny – less scary than a mum.
She moved to a drawer, and started pulling out knives and forks. He jumped up. ‘I’ll do it.’
She turned to him, startled a little, then smiling.
‘Am I shouting?’ he asked, staring down at her, the cutlery in his fingers.
‘No.’ She let him set out the knife and fork, then placed the plate of food in front of him. He stared at it, before closing his eyes briefly and allowing the lovely smell to filter into his nostrils. He picked up his fork.
‘You can stay here for the night, if you like, Craig,’ she said, once he was filled with stew and potatoes and some tinned treacle pudding she’d found in the cupboard and smothered in cream.
He shot her a look, wondering if she was just winding him up. But no, her eyes were still kind.
‘Would you like to do that?’ she prompted.
‘Yeah.’ He couldn’t believe it. He kept thinking she’d turn on him. Maybe turn into a female version of Blackwell. ‘Thanks,’ he said. He swallowed, not knowing what to say next.
‘Craig is a nice name,’ Ruth said. ‘I remember you telling me how it came about that you got that name. It was your grandad who suggested it, because he was Scottish.’
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br /> He was astonished. ‘How can you remember that?’
‘Oh, I’ve always squirreled all kind of things into my memory.’ She smiled at him.
‘Aye,’ said Craig, not believing his luck in having made this long journey and found Mrs Hartwell. But most of all that she still seemed to like him, even though he was a murderer. She knew that, he’d told her all those years ago when she taught him to read. Who else would have a murderer in their house?
The doorbell tinkled.
Ruth raised her head like a startled animal. She got up, giving Craig a reassuring smile. ‘Oh, dear,’ she murmured, as she walked towards the front door, seeing the shadowy figure of Harriet waiting behind it.
Craig started up as Harriet entered the kitchen.
‘Hi,’ she said to him, placing a paper bag with a bottle in it on the table and then shrugging off her coat.
‘Who are you?’
‘Craig,’ he muttered.
‘Right.’ Harriet sat down at the table and drew a bottle of whisky from the paper bag. ‘Who’s for a nightcap?’ she said, smiling at her two observers. Without waiting for a response she jumped up and rooted in one of the kitchen cupboards, producing three dusty-looking cut-glass tumblers.
Ruth had seen, as soon as she opened the door, that all was suddenly right with the world for Harriet. Which meant, first and foremost, that she’d had some positive phone contact with Charles, and that, presumably, all had gone well during her talk with Chief Inspector Swift. Maternal relief rolled through her. She took a swallow of whisky and water, enjoying the cold sensation as it rolled down her throat and tickled the lining of her stomach.
‘Do you take water with it, Craig?’ Harriet said with faint provocation, pushing a tumbler towards the young visitor.
He looked up at her. ‘Don’t know,’ he said, his voice brittle, the lights in his eyes dancing with panic.
‘If in doubt, I’d advise it,’ she said, reaching forward and drowning the golden liquid in cold water drawn from the tap.
Ruth caught his eye. ‘There’s no need to drink it if you don’t want, Craig. Just try a sip and see.’
Harriet swivelled a look of devilment at her parent. She raised her eyebrows. Another of your lame ducks! Don’t worry, I’m not going to make a fuss.
Craig stood up, making the chair legs scrape against the flagged floor. ‘I think I’d better be going.’ His glance darted about, as though he were a cornered fox.
‘It’s too late to find a place for the night now,’ Ruth said, drawing deep on her reserves of calm. She loved her daughter, she was happy for her new-found well-being, but she wasn’t going to let this poor terrified young man be turned out of her house by Harriet’s covert baiting. ‘And, anyway, I want you to stay.’
Craig stood stock still. Then sat down and took a tentative sip of whisky.
Harriet turned her back on him and spoke to Ruth. ‘I told the chief inspector the whole story. He didn’t think the desert incident was relevant to Christian’s death. Not at all.’
‘Good.’
‘And then on the way back here, Charles phoned, just to let me know how things were going at his end.’ She took a large gulp of whisky and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes and letting the fiery spirit soothe her.
Ruth recognized the signs. She knew that Harriet had undergone severe stress, had possibly reached a point where the strain had become unbearable, but that in some way the incidents of the evening had put things right. She understood too that Charles and Harriet’s marriage was lived out on a knife-edge of passion, deep love and dangerous conflict. A dangerous mix of ingredients. But so far a heady brew which had worked for both of them.
All’s well that ends well, Ruth thought. So far.
DAY 6
Swift set out at 8 a.m. next morning bound for the Black Sheep Inn, the only pub in a small hamlet accessed from the Dales village of Pateley Bridge.
If he had been travelling as the crow flies he could have made if from his cottage near Cracoe village to the Black Sheep Inn in probably less than twenty minutes. However, the lower slopes of Great Whernside were something of an obstacle, so he drove south to the small town of Pateley Bridge and then north again along a road which took him through the village of Ramsgill, after which the road became narrow and steep, ending just past the Black Sheep Inn. If you wanted to go further north at that point you had to get out of your car and walk.
The route was another tourists’ gift of velvety hills, hedgerows crammed with wild flowers and in the distance glimpses of the river Nid curling through the valley with the sheen of a grey pearl. It was a clear morning with the expectant feel of a glorious sunny day just beginning. Now, in the middle of July, the foliage on the trees was beginning to darken, and in places looking a little tired, well past the dazzling acid green of May, and seeming to be just hanging on, waiting for the fiery beauty of autumn.
The pub’s door was open when he arrived at 9.30 and one or two guests were taking advantage of the sunshine to breakfast outside on the wrought-iron tables set along the outside wall of the inn. He managed to squeeze his car into the one vacant space in the pub’s tiny car park, fitting it in beside a gleaming red Audi RSS which, ten or so years before would have stabbed him with a tiny pang of envy. After a little searching inside the inn he eventually found a young waitress clearing a table in the oak-beamed dining room. ‘I’m looking for Mr Charles Brunswick,’ he told her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I only work here on Sundays. I don’t know all the customers’ names.’ She thought for a moment, and then shot him a worried glance.
‘I’m from the North West Division of Bradford Police,’ he told her, showing his warrant card.
‘Oh!’ She bit her lip.
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Swift reassured her. ‘But I would like to speak to him. Do you have a register of names here?’
Her face showed relief at being able to offer some help. ‘Yes, we do. Would you like me to look at it?’
He followed her through to the bar where she took a leather diary from a drawer in an oak dresser. She placed it on the bar and opened it up to show the current week. ‘There!’ she said with some triumph, finding the name for him. ‘They’re in Room 6.’
Swift looked over her shoulder. Brunswick had signed in on the previous Monday. Mr and Mrs Brunswick, he had written, in barely legible script, consistent with a doctor’s writing. It seemed clear what the scenario was. He felt a pang for the fiery Harriet.
He spoke again to the girl, who was waiting wide-eyed. ‘Could you ring through to the room and ask him to come down to speak to me?’
She swallowed. ‘Yes, of course.’ She fiddled about a little with the small switchboard on the bar and eventually raised an answer from Room 6. ‘He’ll be with you in just a minute,’ she told Swift.
‘Would you like to sit in the snug?’ she said gaining confidence now. ‘It’s nice and quiet in there at this time of day.’
Swift duly followed her and settled himself on a dark-red velvet sofa which was a paler dusky pink on the arms and cushions from the pressure of numerous hands and bottoms over the years. The girl offered him coffee and newspapers. ‘I’m quite happy just to wait,’ he told her, smiling.
‘Right, I’ll tell him where you are when he comes down,’ she said, heading back to the dining room.
Charles Brunswick did not keep him waiting. Within a couple of minutes he was striding into the parlour, a sharp-featured, flame-haired man who had to duck his head in order to avoid the oak beam over the entry door. He homed in on Swift, extending his hand and greeting him with cheery camaraderie. ‘Charles Brunswick. How can I help you?’
Swift shook the offered hand and showed his warrant card.
‘A DCI, no less,’ Brunswick exclaimed. He sat himself in a sofa opposite the one Swift had been sitting in and looked at him expectantly. ‘I’m assuming this is about Christian Hartwell. I spoke to Harriet on the phone last night and she told m
e the sad news.’
And plenty more besides, Swift judged. ‘What do you know so far, sir?’ Swift asked, thinking that if Brunswick was in any way worried about this turn of events he was making a very good job of hiding it.
‘Harriet said he had been found dead in some woodland area not too far away from here. Fallen off a crag, apparently. What a terrible thing to happen.’
‘Yes,’ Swift said.
‘I can’t pretend I’m devastated by the news,’ Brunswick said. ‘I hardly knew the guy. And when we did meet we’d very little in common.’
Swift thought of Harriet’s desert story and noted that Brunswick was being economical with the truth.
‘So why are you contacting me?’ Brunswick followed up.
‘We’ve reason to believe we shouldn’t rule out foul play regarding Christian’s death. We’re treating it as murder.’
‘Is that so?’ He frowned. ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that. So, you’re contacting all Christian’s friends and enemies, eliminating them from your enquiries. Is that it?’ His tone had become ironic and faintly patronizing.
‘Yes,’ said Swift, noting that he wasn’t actually wielding the shining sword of truth himself.
‘Are you on the search for alibis?’
‘That could be helpful,’ Swift said, noting the way Brunswick was trying to get the upper hand by taking it upon himself to ask the questions.
‘What was the estimated time of death?’ Brunswick asked, brisk and business-like.
‘We don’t have a very precise estimate, sir. However, it would be helpful if you could tell us where you were between 2 a.m. and 8 a.m. on Tuesday last?’
The answer came back almost immediately ‘Right I was in bed from around 11 p.m. I got up around 7 a.m. I was planning to do Great Whernside that morning. I started out from here around just after 7.15.’ He paused. ‘I suppose you’ll be wondering if anyone could confirm that?’
The Killing Club Page 8