‘The strange boulder, perched on the summit of the fell.’
‘Yes, Barrie was in awe of the Stone. The story was that every year in pagan times, the community used to sacrifice a virgin. To make sure the gods were appeased and the lakes didn’t run dry. I’d forgotten all about it until I read that report in the Guardian. Then I started to wonder if it had rung a bell in my father’s memory.’
‘Did your father arrest Barrie?’
Daniel shook his head. ‘He never got the chance. Barrie’s body was found not far from the victim’s. He’d fallen into a ravine and died. Case closed, as far as the police were concerned. I couldn’t help thinking about his mother. Poor Mrs Gilpin, he must have caused her plenty of grief, but she still worshipped him.’
‘And she’s the lady whose cousin is selling the cottage?’
Ahead of them, traffic was edging forward. Daniel touched the accelerator and switched the tape back on. Carole King, singing “It’s Too Late”.
‘So there you have it. Tarn Cottage was once home to a murderer, if the police were to be believed. Barrie spent his whole life there. He would never have moved away. Sorry, I should have told you before. But…’
He hadn’t known how she would react, but she surprised him with her calm. ‘It’s not a problem. You didn’t want to upset me, to put me off after I’d set my heart on the cottage. That was sweet of you. Just like your trust in your old friend.’
‘Barrie may have seemed odd, but he was a gentle soul.’
‘You and he were only kids. Time passes. People change.’
‘Not that much. There wasn’t a violent bone in his body. My father knew Barrie, he entertained him one wet afternoon with the card tricks he used to amuse Louise and me with. Barrie lapped it up, the two of them got along famously. That should have counted for something with the old man.’
‘You discussed it with him?’
‘Not for a long time. I was too furious. It seemed to me that they’d found a convenient scapegoat. But eventually I made the call. He’d retired by then and he nearly had a seizure when he realised it was me on the line. He wasn’t good at articulating his feelings, but that was what I suppose I wanted. When it didn’t happen, I felt frustrated. I’d had a couple of beers, I said a few harsh things. When I rang again to apologise, he said he’d done a lot of thinking. He wanted to call my mother and apologise for the hurt he’d caused her. Louise too.’
‘And did he?’
Daniel kept his eyes fixed on the line of cars ahead. ‘No, but it wasn’t his fault. I – I didn’t encourage him. I said they were both still bitter, even after so many years. Knowing them as I did, I couldn’t imagine them letting bygones be bygones. They were too proud.’
‘Did you discuss Barrie Gilpin?’
‘It was a one-sided conversation. He clammed up on me. I had the feeling that there was plenty he wanted to say, but he didn’t know how to say it. Not long after that, while I was speaking at a conference in Philadelphia, he died. Killed one night in a hit and run accident. They never found the driver, I suppose it was some idiot who was way over the limit. I didn’t even find out he was dead until after the funeral. My mother had a stroke a month later and never regained consciousness.’
‘What did you think he’d wanted to tell you?’
He hesitated. ‘It’s probably wishful thinking.’
‘Go on.’
‘Something in his manner made me believe that he agreed with me. He didn’t believe Barrie Gilpin was a murderer.’
Chapter Three
‘Think of it as an opportunity, a new start.’ The Assistant Chief Constable had spent six months on a management training programme in the United States and she’d come back with the tooth-whitened smile and relentless self-confidence of a seasoned television evangelist. ‘A fresh challenge.’
Hannah Scarlett said through gritted teeth, ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘You’re not happy, Hannah,’ the ACC said gently.
Not a question, but a statement with a sub-text: the difficulty lay with Hannah and not with the job she’d been offered. Lauren Self liked to think of herself as adept at psychology. Her rapid rise to high office was proof, so far as the dinosaurs in the Cumbria Constabulary were concerned, that in the modern police force, people management skills mattered more than mere detective work – what mattered was whether you could talk a good game.
‘Not really, ma’am.’
The ACC topped up their tumblers of sparkling water. ‘Shall we chat about it?’
They were both sitting on the same low, semi-circular leather sofa. The faintest tang of citrus hung in the air. Abstract oil paintings, splashes of blue and gold, decorated the walls. It was so cosy not even the most sceptical diehard in the Police Federation could complain about a confrontational management style. The ACC simply didn’t do confrontation, it wasn’t in her vocabulary. She was a passionate believer in talking through problems, in seeking consensus. Faced with a complaint, she preferred to kill it with kindness. If the worst came to the worst, she might resort to mediation.
Hannah took a breath. ‘It just doesn’t seem right.’
‘Hannah, I do understand.’
The ACC spoke as though soothing a juvenile martyr to period pains. She had three children and their bright-eyed pictures stood on top of a bookcase crammed with tomes covering every aspect of staff relations and the measurement of key performance indicators in the modern police service. Raising children was, Hannah thought, ideal training for a woman who had to deal with rebellious or intransigent police officers. Hannah didn’t have any kids herself, although occasionally she wondered if she’d spent the last seven years sleeping with one.
She took a sip of water. ‘This is all about the collapse of the Patel trial, isn’t it?’
‘I wouldn’t say that, Hannah.’
You might not say it, Hannah thought. But it’s true. When a murder prosecution falls apart in such spectacular fashion, someone has to take the blame. Where there’s a PR disaster, there must be a scapegoat. This time, it’s me.
‘I know you had reservations, ma’am.’ Somehow she managed to resist the urge to say: you sat on the fence, waiting to see if we’d drop lucky. ‘But the case was sound enough to take to court.’
‘Mmmmm.’ The ACC could pack a wealth of meaning into the simplest sound. A mere clearing of the throat could express a gamut of emotions and a reproving cough sufficed where others would rant and swear.
‘Sudhakar Rao was murdered ten years ago. It’s a long time. Sometimes it just isn’t possible to find corroboration.’
‘Well…’ The ACC looked disappointed that Hannah couldn’t come up with a better excuse.
‘Of course there was risk.’ Hannah hated herself for sounding defensive, but the ACC had that effect upon people; it was another of the qualities that had secured her high office. ‘There’s always risk when you rely on a criminal’s word. But Golac was adamant that Patel hired him. The cuckolded husband, wanting his wife’s lover dead. Golac’s story fitted the facts. We couldn’t find a single hole in his statement.’
‘Or a single piece of evidence to support it.’
‘Ivan Golac is an old man, his heart’s weak. He faces spending the rest of his life in prison. He’d kept his mouth shut for long enough. Like he said to me, now he has nothing to lose by telling the truth. And nothing to gain by lying.’
‘Fifteen minutes of fame,’ the ACC suggested. ‘He liked being the centre of attention, it gave him something to fill his days. Being seen as hard. He’s spent all his life as a second-rate villain. He’d be walking the streets now if the security guard he clubbed had a thicker skull. But – a hitman? That’s very different. Dangerous, someone that nobody in their right mind messes with. A Premier League killer.’
The ACC liked to throw the occasional soccer metaphor into her conversations, just to show that she was really one of the lads. It made no difference if she were speaking to a female subordinate like Hannah who didn’t have
a clue what she meant.
Hannah said, ‘You think it was just a robbery gone wrong? That Golac simply panicked and Sudhakar Rao was in the wrong corner shop at the wrong time?’
The ACC frowned. ‘I really can’t say, Hannah. The judge may have been caustic, but I rather go along with his old-fashioned idea that before a man’s convicted of murder, it helps for the court to see his guilt proved beyond reasonable doubt.’
She had to be taking the piss – surely? Hannah counted to ten, then to fifteen just to be on the safe side, before saying, ‘You’ve seen Golac’s witness statement. It had the ring of truth.’
‘You heard the judge,’ the ACC said. ‘Once Golac refused to testify, the statement couldn’t be read in place of sworn evidence. Sandeep Patel walked away without a stain on his character. The way he’s talking to the Press, he’s another victim.’
Hannah leaned forward. ‘I still think he’s a murderer.’
The ACC pursed her lips, adopting the more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger expression that she’d perfected. ‘Well, anyway. No one’s ever going to prove it now. We need to look forward. And that’s why I wanted to share this new project with you.’
‘It’s a backwater. We both know that.’
‘Not at all.’ The ACC winced at such blasphemy. ‘The Cumbria Constabulary Cold Case Review Team will be a flagship unit, a sign of our commitment to making sure that no serious crime in the county goes unsolved.’
‘And the murder of Sudhakar Rao?’
‘Already detected,’ the ACC said, folding her arms to preclude argument. ‘Golac had a fair trial and was properly convicted. He’s served nine years and he’ll be dead before the year’s out. Most people would say that justice has been served.’
‘Not if they’d listened to Golac describing how Patel hired him, the conversations that they had, all the…’
‘I really think you should leave it, Hannah. The team will have enough on its plate to keep it occupied from the word go, I’m quite sure.’
Digging her teeth into her tongue, Hannah muttered, ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Now, let me give you an outline of what we have in mind. Tonight you can see what your husband says. I’ve absolutely no doubt that once you’ve thought it over and had a chat with Marc, you’ll be excited by the whole idea. This is a once in a lifetime chance for any ambitious police officer, Hannah. Trust me.’
‘She might just be telling you the truth,’ Marc said as they lounged on their living room sofa, after washing down a microwaved Bird’s Eye dinner with a bottle of supermarket Chardonnay whose high alcohol content compensated for any lack of subtlety. ‘It could be a great opportunity.’
Lauren Self had remembered Marc’s name correctly, that was one of her skills, but she had made one small mistake. Marc wasn’t Hannah’s husband. Marriage was, she’d understood from day one, a commitment too deep for him. He maintained that if a relationship was strong enough, who needed a piece of paper to document it? If the bond wasn’t strong enough without the official seal of approval, then there wasn’t much hope for it anyway.
‘The ACC’s a politician, and who trusts politicians?’
‘You always swore you wouldn’t let the job turn you into a cynic.’
‘Right now I feel more like I’m in a maze, and I’ve turned into a dead end. Word’s got out already. Albie Kelsen couldn’t wipe that smug smile off his face when he asked if the rumours were true, that I was stepping back from front-line detective work. God, I could have slapped him.’
Marc cast a glance at the television screen. An elderly contestant on a quiz show was agonising over the answer to a question that might win him a villa in the South of France. In the studio audience, his wife covered her face with a knobbly, age-spotted hand.
‘You worry too much.’
He spoke absently and she didn’t know whether he was offering a considered analysis of her reaction to the new job, or merely chanting a mantra that had become over-familiar. He reckoned that she cared too much about the job. She’d worked so hard to earn her stripes. It had paid off; she’d reached the rank of Chief Inspector at an absurdly young age, thanks to the accelerated promotion scheme. Not so long ago, gossips reckoned she was marked down for stardom. But then Ivan Golac had failed to show up in court to give the testimony that would have convicted Sandeep Patel.
‘Reviewing cold cases is a job for old men. Lauren is even going to dig some superannuated detective superintendent out of retirement to contribute his wisdom. And harp on about how much better police work was in the good old days.’
‘So you’ll be reporting to him?’
She shifted on the sofa. They’d bought it a couple of years ago from a Scandinavian store that offered designer living on a budget. It was blue and elegant and looked wonderful in the catalogue. It was also astonishingly uncomfortable. ‘No, retired officers don’t have full police powers. Nominally, I’ll be in charge.’
‘What’s the problem, then?’ he murmured. ‘Sounds fascinating to me. Go for it. It could be just the change you need.’
Could it? Hannah had feared that she’d been lucky in her career. What if her luck had run out? Was the collapse of the Patel trial her fault? Of course, witnesses fail to turn up every day of the week. Talk to any officer who has worked in Merseyside or the Met, they’ll say it’s an occupational hazard. In any city, intimidation of people due to give evidence is a way of life.
But this was a high-profile murder and she’d been sure that Golac would see it through. Of course, she should have sat on the fence with the ACC. If the investigation had been allowed to die quietly once further enquiries drew a blank, no one would have complained. No one mourned Sudhakar Rao. His widow had remarried and his two daughters had been so young at the time of his death that they could barely remember him. Would it really have mattered if Sandeep Patel had been allowed to escape prosecution? Hannah thought it would. Even after ten years in the police, she still wasn’t cynical enough to abandon all belief in doing the right thing simply because it was the right thing. But, clearly naïve. Her efforts had come to nothing and Patel had been allowed to put two fingers up to justice.
‘Even if this new team isn’t just a rest home for detectives who have screwed up,’ she said, ‘it isn’t…’
‘Oh, don’t you know anything, for God’s sake? It’s Gerard Manley Hopkins! Any fool should know that.’
Hannah blinked and then realised that Marc was shouting at the hapless quiz show contestant. The man on the small screen had developed a nervous tic. The questionmaster’s trademark sarcasm wasn’t helping.
‘Tennyson?’ the man enquired, with a mixture of hope and panic.
‘Doh!’ Marc flicked the remote so that the crushed features of the ignoramus vanished. ‘Imagine Tennyson writing The Windhover. I mean…’
‘Sorry, was I distracting you?’
‘All right. Don’t start.’ Marc put his hands up in mock surrender. ‘You’ve had a bad day, a miserable experience, and it’s a shame. Just don’t take it out on me, okay?’
‘I wasn’t…’
‘Look,’ he said, stretching a bony arm around her, ‘I was listening to you, honest. Just remember, you’re not the only one who has bad days. The bank manager was telling me this afternoon to carry less stock. The accounts aren’t looking too clever at the moment. All the same, I try not to bring these things home, right? Trouble is, you let that woman get to you. Has it crossed your mind she could be right?’
‘There’s a first time for everything,’ Hannah said bitchily. ‘I just have this sneaking feeling that I’m being set up to fail. Or not to succeed, which is just as bad.’
‘Listen, cold cases are sexy at the moment.’ His hand strayed to her breast. ‘Journalists love them. Maybe she thinks she’s doing you a kindness.’
‘Moving me out of the firing line? Perhaps. But she’s also taking away my best chance of redeeming myself after Sandeep Patel. Outcomes, that’s the name of the game. The police authority loves to
see them. Budgets are fixed, reputations won and lost, all because of outcomes. Any progress I’ve made so far has been because I’ve delivered the right outcomes. And then came the Patel trial, and a shedload of negative publicity.’
He began to nibble at her ear. ‘You’ll get over it.’
‘Sure,’ she said, wriggling away, ‘but if I’m shuffled into reviewing cold cases, it won’t only be Kelsen who sees it as a sort of demotion. And far worse, I won’t be able to do much to claw back my credibility. Let’s face it, there’s often a very good reason why cases go cold. It’s because they’re bloody difficult to solve.’
‘But running a small team, you can be hands-on, conduct key interviews yourself if you want to.’
‘I suppose.’
With infinite care and patience, he undid a couple of buttons on her blouse. ‘So what are you going to do at make-your-mind-up time? Resist – or submit?’
He put on such a comically lascivious expression as he unbuckled his jeans that she couldn’t help laughing. ‘Submit, of course.’ She leaned back against the sofa. The TV remote was digging into her thigh and she threw it on to the floor. As he eased himself on top of her, she whispered, ‘You never know, miracles happen. I may find I enjoy it.’
In bed that night, she rolled over and turned to face him. They had switched off the light, but the moon was shining in through a gap in the curtains. The fair hair was flopping over his face, the way she’d always loved, and she couldn’t resist giving his cheek a kiss. His skin was smooth and warm and smelled of lemon soap. He was a fastidiously clean man; that was something she’d liked about him early on, though now it counted for less. His eyelids were drooping and she almost let him slip out of consciousness, but there was something she wanted to get out in the open before it created a barrier between them.
The Coffin Trail Page 4