‘Marc, I’ve been thinking. Suppose I accept this job…’
‘You should,’ he said sleepily. ‘It’ll be fine.’
She took a breath and summoned up her courage. ‘Okay, when I say yes, I’ll be asking the ACC if I can have Nick Lowther on the team.’
Marc lifted himself up and pushed the hair out of his eyes. He leaned on his elbows, staring at her. When he spoke, his voice was tight. ‘Why do you need him?’
‘He knows me, I know him. We can trust each other. That’s important, in a unit like this. God knows what the retired guru will be like. I don’t just want any old sergeant. I need someone who’s on my side.’
Marc grunted. ‘Just as long as…’
‘What?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
He turned away. She put her hand on his bony shoulder. His whole body was taut with suppressed anger.
‘Marc, listen, you’ve got the wrong idea about Nick Lowther. We’re friends, that’s all. It’s never been any more than that.’
No answer.
She felt as though a rope had been pulled tight around her midriff, squeezing the breath out of her. She didn’t want to be trussed up, she had to break free.
‘Marc,’ she said, ‘Talk to me. I know you’re awake.’
‘Friends?’ he muttered. ‘He’d like to be more than that.’
‘He’s a married man.’
‘Ah, but is he a happily married man?’
‘Oh God, Marc. I can’t imagine why you’re so…so…’
He turned over again. ‘Jealous?’
The rope slackened a bit, now that the word was out in the open. Usually it lingered unspoken, somewhere in the air between them.
‘Protective.’ She was willing to compromise, but it took two.
‘He’d love to get into your knickers.’
‘You’re imagining it.’
Marc put his arm around her, started to caress her rump. ‘I’m sorry, darling. It’s not that I don’t trust you…’
Even as she closed her eyes, her thoughts were racing.
But that’s not true, you’ve never trusted me. Not altogether, not with Nick, not with any other man I admit a liking for. After all these years, why can’t you?
‘You’ve made the right decision, Hannah.’ The ACC beamed, magnanimous in triumph. Another tricky people problem resolved, another box about to be ticked. ‘I’m absolutely sure you won’t regret it.’
On a wet and windy morning, the breakfast TV weathergirl had warned of ridges of low pressure sweeping in from the west. The ACC’s room offered a temperate, climate-controlled refuge. Through the colour-coordinated blinds Hannah could see the rain slanting down on to the overflowing bins in the yard at the back of the headquarters building. This room was an oasis of calm, far removed from the incoherence of the world outside. A world where – yes, even in Cumbria, so proud of its modest rate of criminal activity – old people were mugged for the price of a shot of heroin, where men in anoraks hid in bushes beside lonely paths, waiting for young women to walk by in the twilight.
‘So where do we go from here, ma’am?’
Her tone was all brisk efficiency. When giving in, no point in doing so with a bad grace.
The ACC straightened the papers in her folder. She hated anything to be out of place. ‘We’ve already agreed a start date and that you can have Lowther as your sergeant.’
Hannah had briefly contemplated making a sacrifice for Marc’s sake. Why not forget about recruiting Nick for the Cold Case Review Team? But that would be absurd. Nick was perfect for the job; she couldn’t overlook him simply to please her partner. Marc would have to grow up. She wouldn’t cave in.
‘I’ve already sounded him out, ma’am, and I’m sure he’d be interested.’ Hannah paused, groping for suitable Lauren-speak. ‘Motivated by the opportunity.’
‘Marvellous. You’ll have four constables, working in a couple of teams so that you make best use of resources. Obviously you won’t want a group of idle uniform-carriers.’
‘So can I choose who I want?’
‘Provided they are available and happy to sign up. And then there’s your consultant. We’ve trawled through NROD.’
The National Retired Officers Database listed men (they usually were men) who had opted to leave the police and pick up their pension, only to weary of the prospect of watching daytime television until they dropped dead of boredom. Hannah supposed that they hankered after the camaraderie of the job, to say nothing of the chance of a bit more cash.
‘And?’
‘I’ve offered a contract to Les Bryant. Until a couple of years ago he was a Detective Superintendent with North Yorkshire Police. He’s headed several high profile murder inquiries over the years. The Whitby caravan shootings, yes? I’m sure we’ll benefit greatly from his experience.’
So he’s to keep an eye on me, Hannah thought, to make sure I don’t mess up like I did with Sandeep Patel.
‘I’m sure he will, ma’am.’
‘Very good.’ The ACC took a sheaf of correspondence from her in-tray to indicate that the meeting was at an end. ‘One more point, Hannah. With this kind of project, public profile is all-important.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Hannah wondered what was coming. A warning not to screw up again, on pain of being transferred to traffic control and enduring career gridlock?
‘The press office will be issuing a news release and we’re planning a media conference.’ The ACC put on a smile, as if rehearsing for the cameras. ‘I’m hoping for extensive press, radio and regional TV coverage. It may stir a few memories about cases of the past, and, just as important, we could do with all the positive publicity we can get after…recent events. So please, whatever you do, don’t walk out on the assembled media the way you did when the questioning over Patel got rather sharp. Everyone’s allowed one mistake, but two PR disasters in quick succession are simply unaffordable. Do we understand each other? Lovely. That will be all, Hannah. And please accept my congratulations on your appointment.’
‘Dream Policing,’ Nick Lowther murmured the next morning, over coffee in Hannah’s office. ‘Isn’t that what the ACPOs call it when they blend a team of serving officers with someone from NROD? Taking advantage of expertise that would otherwise be lost forever. Tapping into the investigative skills of senior officers who retired while still at their peak. Combining the talents of…’
Hannah grinned. ‘Or, to put it another way…’
Nick Lowther accepted the feed-line gleefully. ‘Alternatively, we’re being lumbered with some wrinkly has-been whose old lady is sick of him getting under her feet and who thinks that fingerprinting and grainy photo-fits are the last word in forensic detection.’
‘I don’t know much about Bryant. Except that he’s a Yorkshireman.’
‘So we can look forward to an open-minded, forward-thinking colleague who’s always first to buy a round at the bar and the last to venture a controversial statement, for fear of giving offence to those who might disagree. And is that a pig I see flying past the window?’
Hannah laughed. ‘And you reckon Yorkshiremen are bigoted! Be fair. We ought to give him a chance before we write him off.’
‘When did being fair ever have anything to do with police work? Did they teach you nothing at police college?’
Nick gave her a mischievous grin. He had untidy black hair and easy charm. Whenever people described him, the adjective of choice was laid-back. Only the absent-minded way he gnawed at his fingernails made Hannah wonder if he was really as relaxed as everyone thought.
‘On second thoughts, you’re right.’ She leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms out wide. ‘Anyway, you’ve taken the ACC’s shilling now. You’re spoken for. There’s no going back.’
‘Fine by me.’ He yawned and said, ‘Better this than a transfer to Millom. And to tell you the truth, I was ready for a change.’
‘Me too.’ She’d never thought so until that moment, but as soon as Nick said it
, she knew he was right. ‘Patel was such a sickener. But the first time I spoke to you about reviewing cold cases, you gave me the impression it was taking a step down.’
‘That was before I heard that the ACC had arranged for us to tell the world how good we are before we actually do a lick of work.’
She giggled. ‘Kelsen’s sure I’ve been shown a yellow card. One more mistake and I’ll be out of his life forever.’
Nick made a gesture that gave a graphic indication of his opinion of Detective Inspector Albie Kelsen. ‘Yeah, he’s as happy as a dog with two dicks. It’s what he wants to believe, that your career’s gone off the rails. None of it’s about you, it would be the same with any younger woman who climbed the ladder faster than him. Don’t take any notice.’
‘Honestly, I try not to. But can you remember, as a kid, trying to ignore chicken pox? You know what you shouldn’t do, but the irritation’s so great that you simply can’t resist…’
Of course Nick was right. Generous, too. Both of them knew that he was just as good a detective as she was. Yet, smart as he was, he’d never had much luck with promotion boards and exams. Perhaps he didn’t want it enough, perhaps he preferred to be one of life’s sidekicks. The two of them had worked together for a couple of years and not once had he ever given her a moment’s trouble. Marc maintained it was because he wanted to sleep with her, but she refused to believe that. Nick never flirted and she never caught him giving her a sidelong glance. She told herself that she was almost entitled to feel peeved by his lack of interest. All that grief from Marc and not a thing to show for it.
Chapter Four
‘To Tarn Cottage,’ Miranda said, raising her glass.
‘To Tarn Cottage – and us.’
Daniel took a sip of Bollinger and leaned back gingerly in his chair. His back was creaking like the cellar door after a long afternoon spent laying carpets in the hall and living room while the plumber fitted a wash basin and the builders put finishing touches to the new airing cupboard. No matter how many times it was vacuumed, the cottage never seemed free of dust, and he and Miranda were always glad of a chance to get some fresh air into their lungs. They escaped to the paved area outside the living room as soon as the last of the workmen left. The York stone flags were uneven and some were half-hidden by creeping dandelions, but until the sun sank out of sight they could escape the wood shavings and the smell of new carpets and look out at the tarn. In the chill evening air, he felt another twinge: an unexpected sense of loss. One day, would he regret abandoning the career he’d striven for, simply to fulfil a fantasy of a new life with a woman he still hardly knew?
The moment she stretched her arms and yawned elaborately, allowing him to admire the way she filled the navy blue overall, he knew the answer. How could he ever tire of Miranda?
‘Oh, I do love sloshing paint on walls.’ Her overall was covered with splashes. ‘Wonderful therapy.’
‘I never suspected you of this insatiable appetite for do-it-yourself.’
‘It’s not my only insatiable appetite,’ she said, sneaking a hand inside his shirt. ‘At least there are one or two things you’re still good for. But I’m not having you use your lack of expertise with drill and chisel as an excuse for fiddling with a new book just yet.’
‘Spoilsport.’
‘Did you hear the forecast for tomorrow? It isn’t bad. Why don’t you get out from under my feet and leave me to be lusted after by that nice young builder with the unicorn tattoo? You can go into the village and run a couple of errands. Afterwards, you could make a start on clearing the grounds.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to wait a year in a new house before making any drastic changes to a garden? So you can work out exactly what is growing, and where.’
She removed her hand and waved at the thick undergrowth spreading out from the patio all the way down to the pool. ‘Does it take an Einstein? The brambles have to go. Same with the ground elder. Weeding isn’t enough. It needs digging out, so not a trace of it is left. Otherwise we’ll never be rid of it.’
He savoured the flinty taste of the champagne. It crossed his mind that she wanted rid of more than the ground elder. She was determined to transform the cottage in a matter of weeks, to make it unrecognisable as the house that a supposed murderer and his mother had shared. A sort of exorcism. But Mrs Gilpin had left no trace of her personality here, nothing to show that she had ever existed. It was as if she had withdrawn from the world after the death and disgrace of her son, determined to wipe away all evidence of his life or hers, even in her own home.
‘You’re a ruthless woman.’
‘I know what I want.’
‘Me too,’ he said, reaching towards her.
She shivered. ‘It’s freezing. I think I’ll take my drink inside.’
He put his arm around her. ‘Good idea. I’ll help you to warm you up.’
‘Twenty minutes ago you were dog-tired and your back was killing you.’
‘A chance for you can try out that massage technique you wrote about last month.’
‘But the bedroom stinks of paint, even with the windows open.’
‘There was another reason I bought that sheepskin rug for the living room. Come on, let’s test it for comfort.’
* * *
‘Daniel?’
‘Mmmmm?’
‘You were talking in your sleep.’
His head was hurting after too much Bollinger and his back still ached. Miranda always made love with an intensity that he’d never before experienced, not even with Aimee. Exhilarating, but she’d left him drained. He forced his eyes open. The living room was in darkness.
‘What time is it?’
‘Half past four.’
‘Too early.’
‘No, Daniel, don’t drop off again. This is important.’
They were curled up together under a duvet on the massive new rug. He felt a spasm of pain in his vertebrae as he propped himself up on his elbows and looked into her anxious face.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I woke up ages ago and couldn’t get back to sleep again. Then I heard you muttering to yourself.’
‘What was I saying?’
‘Aimee. You kept repeating her name, over and over again.’
Guilt knifed him. ‘Oh Christ, Miranda, I’m so sorry.’
‘You were dreaming of her.’
‘No, no. It’s just that…’
But he was lying and they both knew it. He’d had the same dream many times before, although this was the first time he’d woken her with it. Each time he was running through the streets of Oxford, pounding the pavements, heart thumping, desperate to find Aimee before it was too late. Always the same panic, the same sick feeling in his stomach. No matter how many times he had that dream, it always ended in precisely the same way. He failed to save her, he was always too late.
* * *
Miranda dozed off, but sleep continued to elude him. In the recesses of his brain, a scratchy voice echoed. It belonged to the woman who had lived here for so long.
‘Barrie! Barrie! Now look what you’ve done!’
Daniel remembered Mrs Gilpin shouting out to her son, scolding him for coming into the cottage without bothering to wipe his muddy feet. It was the wettest morning of the holiday and the two of them had been right here in the front room, playing with a Monopoly set that Daniel had brought. Barrie was unfamiliar with the rules but found the names of the London roads and stations fascinating. Soon he could recite them by heart, even though his strategy in zooming around the board was closer to anarchy than capitalism. It was great fun and their hoots of glee attracted the attention of his mum who had been out in the barn, chopping firewood. She always needed to be occupied. He never actually heard her say that the devil finds work for idle hands, but he was sure she believed it.
‘It was my fault, Mrs Gilpin, not Barrie’s,’ he said, as she appeared in the doorway, red-faced and scowling. ‘I got caught in the cloudburst and dashed in th
e moment Barrie opened the door. Sorry, I forgot…’
‘You mustn’t cover up for him,’ she said, her cheeks dark with temper. ‘He has to take responsibility for his own actions. He’s not a little child any more.’
Daniel opened his mouth to protest but a glance at Barrie kept him quiet. His friend was shaking his head, as if to say It’s not worth it, she won’t listen to you. Everything’s always my fault.
In the end he gave up the struggle for sleep and padded into the front room. It was a mess, with hundreds of his files crammed into cardboard storage boxes piled into dangerously leaning towers. He tiptoed around them, searching out the sheaf of press cuttings he’d collected about Barrie Gilpin’s crime, before retreating into the soon-to-be-tiled kitchen to study them by the warmth of the stove.
The murdered woman was called Gabrielle Anders and she’d been in her twenties. Not much seemed to be known about her. She came from London, not Cumbria, but she’d lived in the States for years. She had been staying in Brackdale for a few days while she toured around and visited friends. One night someone had slashed her throat so viciously as almost to sever her head. After stripping off her clothes, the killer laid her ruined body on the Sacrifice Stone.
A young woman found dead on an ancient boulder mentioned in legends about pagan rituals. Journalists loved it and treated their readers to lurid descriptions of human sacrifice through the ages. A popular historian from Bristol University contributed an excitable feature claiming that the instinct to shed the blood of innocents as a means of self-preservation remains just below the surface of every supposedly civilised society. Early reports added that a local man was missing from home. The police gave his name as Barrie Gilpin and revealed that he was known to the victim. With a red pen, Daniel had highlighted the quote from Detective Chief Inspector Ben Kind of Cumbria Constabulary that had first caught his eye. His father said that the missing man might be able to help with their inquiries. A smudged photograph of Barrie scowling at the camera illustrated more vividly than any words that he was the sort who preyed on pretty and defenceless young women. Even the laziest reader would deduce his guilt. The hunt did not last long. Forty-eight hours after the killing, a walker peered into a narrow ravine and caught sight of a crumpled body at the bottom of the cleft. Barrie had not travelled far.
The Coffin Trail Page 5