Cradling her chin in her hand, she smiled and said, ‘I told you, news travels fast in these parts. So you’re already plugged into the Brackdale grapevine?’
‘Not exactly. In fact, I suspect I’m in danger of becoming persona non grata the length and breadth of the valley. Leigh came round to the cottage specially to rebuke me for making a song and dance over my Barrie-Gilpin-is-innocent campaign.’
‘Did she now? I suppose you wouldn’t like to tell me more?’
He made a show of weighing up her request, but could see no good reason to refuse. ‘Why not? It’s not as if we spoke under the seal of the confessional.’
‘Fire away, then.’
As he recounted the conversation with Leigh, her face remained a mask. When he’d finished, she just said, ‘Interesting.’
‘Why do you think she’s so worked up?’ he asked.
‘Oh, women are strange creatures,’ she said with a faint smile.
‘Thanks, but I already knew that.’ He finished his drink. ‘I presume you’re not going to take me into your confidence?’
‘Nothing to tell.’
‘That I doubt, somehow.’
‘Can I buy you another drink?’
He glanced at his watch. ‘You said you don’t have long.’
She gave a lazy shrug and picked up their glasses. ‘Half of bitter, was it?’
‘I’ll settle for an orange juice this time. I’ll need all my wits about me if you’re going to interrogate me any further.’
She laughed. ‘I hope you don’t feel I’ve lured you out here on false pretences.’
Settling back in his chair, he said, ‘Am I complaining?’
Unexpectedly, she blushed. ‘I will talk to you more about your father. If not tonight, then soon. Promise.’
He watched her thread her way through a crowd of burly young men in hiking gear. If she was aware of their admiring glances, she gave no sign of it. The bearded Methuselah at the bar leered at her shamelessly but she took no notice. She moved with a purpose; he guessed that everything she did, everything she said, had a particular direction in mind. Many bosses might feel threatened by a subordinate with drive, especially a woman subordinate with drive, but he was sure his father would have encouraged her. He’d have been a good mentor. Might even have been a good father, given the chance.
When Hannah returned with the drinks, she asked how he was acclimatising to life in the Lakes. ‘Missing the dreaming spires yet?’
‘Not me. These days they dream too much about tuition fees and graduate debt. This place suits me fine, even if I have ruffled a few feathers.’
‘How about your partner? Miranda, did you say?’
‘Yes, Miranda.’ He took a taste of his drink. Fresh orange, not the carbonated crap he’d become accustomed to at his local in Oxford. ‘Funny thing is, if it weren’t for her, we wouldn’t have moved here. She was passionate about it. But it’s not been easy for her, living in a lonely cottage surrounded by nothing but trees and water and building materials. Very different from Islington. Less happening, fewer people to talk to. She’s not as anti-social as me.’
‘I can’t believe you’re anti-social.’
‘Seldom happier than when I’m on my own, lost in a book. Miranda loves company. Apart from a not totally successful dinner at Brack Hall, we haven’t mixed much.’
‘But you’ve become friendly with the Dumelows?’
‘I bumped into Tash in the village and she invited us over to the Hall. I blotted my copybook by arguing Barrie’s case. Miranda wasn’t best pleased. I guess she’s hankering after the social whirl.’
‘The other man’s grass?’
‘Something like that.’ A bawdy joke caused the hikers to erupt in an ear-splitting guffaw; perhaps a jukebox would have been preferable, after all. ‘We always want what we haven’t got.’
‘You’re right.’ A faraway look had come in her eyes and he wondered what was passing through her mind.
‘No one’s immune, I suppose. I was talking to a woman yesterday, a farmer’s wife. She’s spent all her life in the Lake District, the place must be part of her body and soul, and yet she was telling me how she yearned to get away. She has this romantic notion about the old pioneers, travelling across the prairie.’
Suddenly he had Hannah’s full attention. She leaned across the table and said, ‘Can I ask who that was?’
He blinked. ‘She’s called Jean Allardyce. I met her at Brack Hall. She and her husband…’
‘I’m acquainted with her husband. He and I talked this afternoon.’ She hesitated. ‘His wife wasn’t at the farm and he didn’t seem to know when she’d be back. What exactly did she tell you?’
Taking his time, he repeated as much of what Jean had said as he could remember and told her of Tash Dumelow’s concern about her apparent disappearance. As he talked, he was acutely aware of Hannah’s intense concentration upon him. In other circumstances, he might be flattered that an attractive woman was hanging on his words. But he didn’t fool himself: what interested her was the information he had to impart.
‘You’d make a good witness,’ she said when he’d finished.
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘You should. So how would you describe Jean Allardyce? Thirties, timid, quietly spoken? Local accent?’
‘Yes, she has fair hair and blue…’
‘It was her voice I was especially interested in.’
‘May I ask why?’
She swilled the water around in her glass. ‘Let’s just say that a woman has made a phone call to us and we’d like to talk to her again. Snag is, we don’t know her name, but Jean Allardyce is a candidate. She’s not available for us to interview, though Tom Allardyce reckons he expects her back any time. But ask him where she’s gone or when she’s likely to return and he doesn’t have an answer.’
‘Shit.’ He bowed his head.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘What if something’s happened to her?’ He swallowed hard. ‘What if…someone has decided she knows more than she should?’
‘From what you say, she was toying with the idea of getting out of Brackdale. Tash Dumelow’s story backs that up. She’d packed a suitcase.’
‘She wanted to unburden herself to me. Sounds like she was seeking for help. If I’d spent more time talking to her…’
‘You’re not reproaching yourself?’
‘Why not? If only…’
‘Stop it.’ She reached across the table and laid her hand on his. Her palm was warm. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, it’s ridiculous. For all we know, she’s checking in at Heathrow at this very moment. Destination: the Little House on the Prairie.’
‘You really think so?’
‘Well…’
‘The truth is, I could have done more.’ His voice had become hoarse. ‘Should have done more.’
She withdrew her hand and looked him in the eye. ‘You take things seriously, don’t you? So did Ben. Too seriously, most people used to say. I’m not criticising, the same people would say I suffer from the same fault. But it is a fault, make no mistake. You can’t take everything to heart. If you’re not careful, it becomes unbearable. You’re not responsible for Jean Allardyce. Okay?’
When he nodded, she stood up and said, ‘Good. That’s settled, then. Look, I really have to go. I’m sorry, but I never intended to stay this long. You’ve been incredibly helpful and I do appreciate it.’
‘One of these days,’ he said wryly, ‘you must tell me more about what it was like, working with my father.’
‘It’s a deal,’ she said. ‘I’ll be in touch. Goodnight.’
She turned and strode towards the door. They’d shaken hands when she’d arrived, but not on parting. Somehow it didn’t seem necessary. He could still feel the warmth of her palm.
‘You mustn’t blame yourself.’
The words echoed in his brain as he drove home. How many times had he heard them before? After his father’s desertion, Daniel had confided
in a teacher that in a way it was down to him that the family had split asunder. During their holiday in the Lakes, he’d spent too much time with his new friend Barrie; if he’d paid more attention to his dad, the old man could never have brought himself to leave. The teacher had gone to inordinate lengths to make sure the family had support and to reassure her star pupil that he had nothing to feel guilty about. It all became too much for Daniel, who finished up wishing he hadn’t said a word. With Aimee, it was far worse. Once again, everyone was kind, but this time there wasn’t much doubt that he had something to blame himself for. He could have saved her.
As he peered through the windscreen, trying to make out the bends in the road, pictures from the past kept flipping through his head like the leaves of a photograph album. When he reached Tarn Fold, he parked in the spot that had been occupied by Tash Dumelow’s Alfa earlier in the day. He wasn’t ready to return to the cottage and see Miranda. Since moving to the Lakes, he’d pretty much managed to stop tormenting himself about Aimee, but tonight there was no escaping her memory.
Outside he could see nothing but darkness. With the windows wound up, he couldn’t hear the sounds of the unseen creatures in the trees and undergrowth. Here in the heart of the country, he was remembering Aimee’s death in the city.
Familiar images jostled in his brain. At breakfast on the last day of her life, Aimee had been monosyllabic as she nibbled at a few cornflakes, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. She’d been back home from the Warneford for a fortnight, following treatment for severe depression. He’d never found rhyme or reason for the sense of hopelessness that she confessed to in her bleakest moods. She was a senior research fellow with a growing international reputation in the field of comparative labour law, and although her parents’ divorce had left her sceptical about marriage, she and Daniel had been lovers for a couple of years. They hadn’t moved in together – she said she wasn’t ready for that sort of permanence – but neither of them ever looked at anyone else. She had everything to live for, people would say. But what did people know? Depression never respected logic; the illness ran in her family and her mother had taken a fatal overdose when Aimee was only sixteen.
Before going into the Warneford, she’d made a botched attempt to slit her wrists. After a morning’s research in the Bodleian, Daniel had called in at her flat close to the Parks. When there was no answer, he let himself in and found her in the bathroom, lying face down on the floor with nothing on. Her flesh was the colour of chalk, a contrast to the curly chestnut hair spilling on to her shoulders. A lilac smell from pot pourri in a basket on the windowsill masked the sourness in the air. The razor blade was lying where it had fallen, near her toes. A dark stain was spreading over the green vinyl floor.
At first, the belief that she was dead robbed him of movement, but when belatedly he checked for a pulse, he realised she was still breathing. She’d simply fainted from the loss of blood. As he phoned for an ambulance, relief of an intensity he’d never experienced before swept over him like a tide. She was safe.
When she returned home from hospital, he was reluctant to leave her alone. But she insisted that she couldn’t forever use him as a crutch and although he protested, deep down he knew she was right. He took to working in the college library, a ten minute walk from her flat. His favourite corner was beside a window overlooking the small quadrangle. Out of term time, the quiet was disturbed only by the rustle of the leaves on the horse chestnut trees outside. He could sketch out synopses for a new book to his heart’s content. One September afternoon he emerged from the library staircase into the blinding sunlight and bumped into Theo Bellairs. When Theo invited him up for tea, he checked his watch before accepting.
‘I really should be getting back to Aimee.’
‘Nonsense, my boy.’ Theo laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘In the modern jargon, you must let her have a bit of space. Didn’t you say last week that she was on the mend?’
‘I said she has good days and bad days.’
‘There you are, then. My dear fellow, do take that worried look off your face. Tell me about your latest plans over a cup of Darjeeling and you can inspect a Macaulay first edition that I’ve picked up at Sotheby’s. Candidly, it’s a better investment than the college pension. Come on, I promise not to detain you for long.’
Of course he’d said yes and after half an hour of civilised conversation, he’d made his excuses and left. Having switched off his mobile on entering the library, he found he’d forgotten to switch it back on.
Aimee had left a voicemail message. She spoke almost in a whisper and he had to strain to catch the words.
Daniel, I’m so sorry. I’ve tried hard but it isn’t any good. I’m going to the tower. Please don’t think badly of me. I do love you. I do.
He felt dizzy, unfocused, as though in a moment his legs would buckle and he’d crumple on to the gravelled path. She meant to kill herself, he was sure of it. He had to find her, to rescue her for a second time.
The tower. Oxford had plenty, but he was sure she meant St Michael’s, in Cornmarket. It was part of the Northgate Church and its Saxon origin made it the oldest building in the city. Aimee loved the church and sometimes slipped in to pray, though Daniel was never clear what exactly she was praying for.
He found himself running through the college gate, ignoring a porter’s cheerful greeting, brushing past a baffled SCR colleague in the lodge. Cornmarket wasn’t far away. How long would it take her to reach the top of the tower? A student on a bicycle nearly collided with him as he raced across the road without looking and a woman with a double buggy containing two red-faced infants clipped his ankles as he plunged through the mass of shoppers.
Breathless, he turned into Cornmarket. As he raced along the pavement, he could see a crowd that had gathered a little way ahead. Around the foot of St Michael’s Tower. As he found his progress blocked, he turned to a diminutive Asian man who was standing on tip-toe, trying to see what had captured everyone’s attention.
‘What is it?’
‘Someone threw themselves off the tower,’ the man said. ‘A young lady, I heard. And on such a beautiful day, as well.’
Blinking away tears, Daniel pushed through the onlookers, telling himself that the worst might not have happened. This wasn’t the first time that someone had chosen St Michael’s for a suicide attempt. It might not be Aimee.
‘Hey, mate, who d’you think you’re shoving?’
‘Yeah, this isn’t a peep-show, you know.’
He took no notice of the angry exclamations and didn’t mutter an apology as he elbowed in the ribs a couple of young shop assistants. They didn’t seem to notice; they were just excited by the enlivening of their afternoon. In the distance he could hear a siren keening.
‘The ambulance will be here in a minute,’ someone said.
He pushed his way through to the front of the crowd. Stretched out on the pavement not far from the foot of the old tower was the body of a woman. A tall man was bending over her. He’d taken off his tweed jacket and slipped it over the corpse’s head. It was a corpse, Daniel was sure of that. The fall from the top of St Michael’s would kill anyone. Her skull must have been smashed on the unyielding concrete.
Daniel couldn’t see the dead woman’s face, thank God, but he didn’t need to. He recognised the Aran sweater she’d knitted for herself, the navy blue corduroy jeans, the strands of chestnut hair that had escaped the covering jacket. And he recognised the end result of a despair too deep for him to touch. No second chance this time. He’d failed to save her, after all.
You mustn’t blame yourself?
Absurd. How could he not?
Chapter Eighteen
A light was still on in the spare room when Hannah got back to the house. When she opened the front door, she heard Marc’s footsteps on the landing. As she hung up her jacket, he padded down the stairs.
‘You’re out late,’ he said as they turned to face each other in the hall. In the harsh light his
pale face was haggard. She’d bought his red silk dressing gown last Christmas, but beneath it his shoulders seemed to slope in defeat.
‘Interviewing a witness.’
‘With Nick Lowther?’ When she groaned, he repented at once. ‘Sorry, ignore that. None of my business.’
‘No, I wasn’t with Nick. I am capable of making a few enquiries on my own.’
She didn’t say that she’d been talking to Daniel Kind. In days gone by, Marc had made even more of a fuss about Ben than he did about Nick. She didn’t want to create a new object for his absurd jealousy. And it was absurd, of course.
‘Sorry, I didn’t…’
‘Oh, forget it,’ she said. ‘Look, I fancy something to eat. Can I tempt you?’
‘Hannah, we need to talk.’
‘Not tonight we don’t, Marc. It’s been a long day.’
She made as if to move past him and head for the kitchen, but he folded his arms and stood in her way. The smell of whisky on his breath was unmissable.
‘Please, Hannah. It must be tonight.’ He wasn’t quite slurring his words. Not quite. ‘This is very important, not just for me, but for – for us.’
She stared at him. ‘Living room?’
He led her to the sofa and they sat facing each other, wary as two dogs encountering each other in the park, uncertain whether they are friends or foes. For once he didn’t reach automatically for the remote control to put on classical music. God, she said to herself, this must be serious.
‘What’s on your mind, Marc?’
‘I need to tell you something. Make a clean breast.’
The central heating had been programmed to switch itself off half an hour earlier, but that wasn’t why she suddenly felt cold. The expression in his eyes, on his face, was not familiar. For a few moments she couldn’t place it, but then she realised that he was ashamed. Marc, ashamed? Well, well, talk about a first time for everything. All of a sudden, she was listening in her head to the cool voice of Ben Kind.
‘When the suspect is about to confess, it’s the most delicate moment of all. You’re walking a tightrope, you mustn’t rush. One false step – and you’re finished. Don’t give a clue what’s going on in your mind. You may be winning, but no game is over until it’s over. Never let the initiative slip.’
The Coffin Trail Page 22