The Cipher Garden (19 page)

‘You stayed up, then?’

Marc kicked off his shoes as he walked into the living room. He smelled faintly of old books. Hannah glanced at the clock. Ten to midnight. He was later than expected and she’d had all evening to rehearse, but she hadn’t prepared a word of the little speech she meant to make. Her bones were weary, but she was on edge and there’d never been any danger she would fall asleep.

‘I said on the phone, I wanted to tell you something.’

‘Can’t it wait? I’m dog tired, there was a hold-up on the road. Overturned lorry. Ambulance, fire engines, the works.’

‘Sit down.’

He stared, then slowly moved to the armchair facing her. ‘What?’

‘This is important, Marc.’

‘The build-up is daunting enough. You’ve got me shaking in my socks.’

‘I’m not in the mood, Marc.’

He screwed up his face, as if trying to read mirror writing. ‘You’re upset.’

‘Not exactly. No, I’m just – wound up, that’s all.’

‘Go on, then. Tell me.’

Her throat was dry. She couldn’t think of an alternative to blurting out her secret.

‘I’m pregnant, Marc. We’re going to have a baby.’

Sam belched and said, ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing,’ Kirsty said.

‘Come on.’ He pushed aside a coffee mug emblazoned with a picture of a pair of bare buttocks. The odour of last night’s curry masked the smell of burned bacon. ‘You’ve not said a word since you came down.’

‘I’m having my breakfast.’

‘Doesn’t normally stop you gabbing on. And you’ve got a face on you like…’

‘Like what?’ She expected the usual insult, but it could no longer wound her.

‘I dunno. Like you’re a stranger here, like you don’t belong any more.’

She tasted the last of her pineapple juice. Funny he should say that. Was it possible that he was more than an insensitive plank? Too late to find out now. But he was right, she was seeing their home with new eyes. She felt like a traveller wandering through a foreign land without a guidebook. Or even a passport.

‘I don’t believe it. You’re not actually concerned about me?’

‘Suit yourself.’ The jeering tone reminded her of their father. ‘Wetting yourself about jumping out of that plane, are you?’

‘No, I’m looking forward to it.’

The phone rang. Waiting for her to pick up the receiver, he leaned back on his stool; he had a circus artist’s knack of making it wobble madly, while somehow managing not to fall over. When she didn’t move, the phone kept on – they hadn’t switched on the voicemail – and in the end he gave a long-suffering sigh and answered the call himself.

‘Yeah?’ He made a face. ‘Roz? Yeah, she’s here. Just finished her breakfast.’

Kirsty shook her head vigorously but he stuck his tongue out at her and said, ‘Fine, yeah, I’ll hand you over.’

She didn’t want a conversation, least of all with Roz, but he’d left the handset on the breakfast bar and she couldn’t leave the woman hanging on. Even now, even after their conversation yesterday and everything that had passed through her mind since then, her instinct was to show good manners. She’d spent so much of her life waiting on people.

‘Hello?’

‘Kirsty, thank God! I tried your mobile, but you’ve switched it off. I was so worried about you.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Well yes, of course I was. Look, I know it’s dreadful, I know you’re angry and hurting…’

‘Sorry, Roz, I have to go now.’

She’d never heard panic in Roz’s voice, but it was unmistakable. ‘You’re not going to tell anyone, are you? Please say you won’t. Promise?’

That’s what she cares about, Kirsty thought. More than whether I’m hurting.

‘No, I won’t tell anyone,’ she said and slammed down the phone.

Saturday was Marc’s busiest day. If he wasn’t in the shop, he’d be exhibiting at a book fair. Today he’d risen before six to load his car and set off for a fair at the Pavilion Gardens in Buxton. Hannah had still been in bed when he bent over her huddled body and she felt his moist lips touch her brow.

‘Let’s talk again tonight.’ His voice was hoarse.

‘Ummmm.’

What’s to talk about? she wondered as she picked at a piece of dry toast. Does he think I’ve hoodwinked him, that the pregnancy was no accident? On the rare occasions they’d talked about having children, they’d both agreed they weren’t that bothered. She had her career, he had the bookshop; a screaming baby or two would get in the way. Not that she lacked maternal instincts; when she spent time in the company of friends with young kids, she began to understand the appeal of the small, warm, grubby creatures. She wasn’t like Terri, who made it clear to each husband that she wasn’t a bloody breeding machine. But she always pushed the idea of starting a family to the back of her mind. Plenty of time yet, she used to tell herself. As for Marc, he was like so many men. Wary about fatherhood in the abstract, but once he held his own child in his arms…

A sick feeling flooded her stomach. Not a symptom of pregnancy, but down to Marc’s reaction. The colour had drained from his face as she broke the news. He’d stammered
that’s…that’s wonderful
, wearing the look of a
man about to walk to the scaffold.

Face it, she told herself. You want this to strengthen the relationship, make it secure and work long-term. Forget the daydreams about Daniel Kind, Marc is the man you’re with. You’ve never been hung up about having a ring on your finger, but a child is different. You’re committed forever.

But she wasn’t naïve. This wasn’t guaranteed to finish up happy-ever-after. There could be a dread alternative ending, like those you see as special features on DVD movies, rejected by the producer because they were too dark for the cinema audience’s peace of mind. What if having a baby tore them apart?

The ringtone of her mobile pierced the silence.

‘Hannah Scarlett.’

‘Nick.’

‘Oh, hi.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes, sure.’

‘I mean, you sounded…never mind.’

‘You wanted to talk?’

‘How about this afternoon?’

‘I’m off duty but Marc’s driving down to Derbyshire. I’d thought of going to a skydiving event. You might like to come along.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘There’s an ulterior motive.’

A laugh. ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’

‘Kirsty Howe is one of the parachutists and I’d like to talk to her again. We didn’t get off on the right foot. She may be more relaxed if we meet on her home ground.’

‘If she’s a skydiver, maybe she doesn’t do relaxation. But I’m happy to meet you there.’

‘We can have a heart to heart.’

Suddenly, she wanted very much to be with a man who cared for her. Not a lover, but someone she could rely on. Would she tell Nick about the baby? Not yet, it was too early. She needed to see her GP to confirm the result from the testing kit, but her guess was that she was a month gone. She wasn’t intending to broadcast the news until she’d made it through the first twelve weeks. So much could yet go wrong. She was frightened of tempting fate.

‘I couldn’t do it,’ Louise said. ‘I just couldn’t do it.’

‘I can see the appeal, in a funny kind of way,’ Miranda said. ‘Skydiving is all about living dangerously, isn’t it?’

Behind the wheel, Daniel uttered a silent prayer that she wouldn’t develop a new passion for extreme sports. Dodging bikers on the narrow lanes was dangerous enough.

‘I’m keen to continue living, I suppose,’ Louise said. ‘Danger, I can do without.’

Miranda gave a sigh of dissent. Louise was going home the day after tomorrow, Daniel thought, Miranda had won. She didn’t need to bite her tongue any more, didn’t need to avoid petty disagreements for the sake of diplomatic relations.

‘We all need a little danger in our lives, if you ask me. I can see the appeal of jumping out of a plane with nothing to rely on but your parachute, no one to trust but yourself. Women are supposed to be well suited to it, Kirsty said so last night when we were leaving. They have the physical flexibility as well as stamina.’

‘She didn’t look well to me. Pale and drawn. I hope she’s going to be all right.’

‘Lovesick,’ Miranda diagnosed. ‘She fancies Oliver.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I saw the way she looked at him when she thought nobody was watching. Not even him. Poor thing, my bet is, she’s doomed to be disappointed. If you ask me, he only has eyes for Bel.’

The airfield stretched across low, flat terrain on the southern tip of the county. It had been an RAF base during the Second World War, but since then it had seen little action more exciting than the occasional car boot sale. In the Nineties, skydiving enthusiasts from universities and colleges had begun to utilise it and today there was a huge banner above the entrance proclaiming the Lakeland Parachutists’ Club Annual Charity Freeflying Day.

The lane skirting the perimeter had been colonised by traders selling ice creams, floppy hats and sun block and a field had been turned into a car park. The Lexus was
air-conditioned
, but the moment Hannah climbed out, the heat smothered her. The afternoon was so humid that she could scarcely breathe. It was an effort to drag one leg after the other as she crossed the lane. How much of her exhaustion was down to the weather, and how much to pregnancy, she wasn’t sure, but she was praying for a thunderstorm to cleanse the atmosphere.

She made a donation to the students rattling tin boxes at the entrance and looked around for Nick. Each of the students wore a sweatshirt bearing the question
Fancy a Jump?
Upwards of two hundred people were milling around on this side of a fence and a signboard labelled –
Danger – Keep Out – Dropzone
. The first face she recognised belonged to Tina Howe. She was wearing a sleeveless top and a short white skirt that displayed long tanned legs. When their eyes met, the older woman stared
in surprise, but after a brief pause, she pushed past a group of lager-swilling girls and made her way to Hannah’s side.

‘I didn’t expect to see you, Chief Inspector. What brings you here?’

‘Curiosity, I guess, Mrs Howe. I’ve seen skydiving on TV, but never in real life. I thought it was time to fill the gap in my education.’

‘You know Kirsty’s freeflying today?’

Hannah nodded. ‘Sounds terrifying to me. I did a little research. Freefly involves falling through the air with your head facing down?’

‘Twice the speed of conventional skydiving, she tells me.’ Tina exhaled. ‘I’ve only dared to watch her once before and my heart was in my mouth when she hit the ground. According to her, the only serious risk is if you try to show off with some hair-raising stunt and miscalculate so that you hit the ground hard instead of skimming over the dropzone and landing perfectly. But when I tell her to take care, she says I’m a whuffo.’

‘A whuffo?’

‘An American term, it’s what skydivers call sane people who ask the obvious question. What for you guys jump out of them aeroplanes? Kirsty reckons skydiving is the best fun she’s ever had.’ She folded her arms across her breasts. ‘Tell you what, I never had hundreds of people watching the best fun I ever had, but it takes all sorts. Are you here with anyone?’

‘I might ask you the same question.’

‘I sent Sam for ice creams, Peter’s gone for a pee. So you’re on your own?’

‘Looking out for a friend of mine.’

‘Another police officer?’

‘Why do you ask?’

A scornful noise. ‘You’re not telling me you’ve suddenly developed an interest in skydiving. You’re here for a reason.’

Hannah held her gaze. ‘Kirsty must have stacks of courage. Any skydiver must, I’d say. Yet she seems to me to be worried sick. It’s the contradiction that fascinates me.’

‘She is a brave girl. Sensitive, too, her feelings are close to the surface. Not like me or her dad. Or her brother, come to that. But you’re wasting your time if you think you’ll be able to worm something out of her about Warren’s murder. She won’t tell you anything new. There’s nothing to tell.’

‘Daniel!’ Peter Flint was gorging on his cornet and there was a smear of vanilla ice cream on his chin. His shorts exposed bony knees and made him look like an overgrown schoolboy. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’

‘We had a meal at The Heights yesterday evening,’ Daniel said. Miranda and Louise had wandered off to look at the bric-a-brac for sale on the stalls. ‘Kirsty mentioned that she’d be here today and we decided to take a look.’

‘Just as exciting to watch as to participate, if you ask me, and a hell of a lot safer. Not that Kirsty would agree. She keeps assuring her mother that freeflying is statistically less risky than fly-fishing. Anglers are constantly slipping off wet rocks and drowning in rivers or lakes, it seems. Parachutists come through thousands of jumps without a scratch.’

Daniel laughed. ‘You know what they say about lies, damned lies…’

‘And statistics, yes. Glad to bump into you. I was meaning to get in touch.’

‘I’m still mulling over your sketches.’

‘I wasn’t meaning to hassle you for business. Sam mentioned something that I thought would interest you. He once heard his father talking about a garden at Tarn Fold.’

Daniel stared at him. ‘Warren Howe?’

‘Yes. According to Sam, he knew people in Brackdale, they told him the story.’

‘What story?’

‘Perhaps I was too hasty with my ideas for a redesign. I’d hate to be accused of vandalism.’

‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’

‘A long time ago, the garden at Tarn Cottage was well known in the valley. There was some sort of folk-tale attached to it. People called it the cipher garden.’

The Cessna 206 Turbo was small and uncomfortable. There was only room for six passengers, even with all seats except for the pilot’s removed. They were sitting on a mat with their backs to the pilot, legs splayed with a spectacular lack of dignity that provoked endless rude jokes. Kirsty’s companions were four men and one other woman, an anorexic redhead who was having an affair with the pilot. Their eyeline was below the level of the window, but through the clear plastic roller door she could see tiny farms and copses and a caravan park. Soon they would circle over the broad expanse of Morecambe Bay and its bright, treacherous sands.

The noise inside the plane was drowned by the thoughts roaring inside her head. Her first instructor had preached that three-quarters of skydiving took place on the ground. So much depended on how you prepared for the jump.

Flying to altitude would take twenty-five minutes. This was always a time she found peaceful, a time when everything else in her life meant nothing. She’d been taught to relax and visualise herself doing what she had set out to do. Yet whenever the pilot called two minutes, her nerves would fray and over and over again she played through the malfunction procedure in her head. Checking release pins, cut-away and reserve handles, and to make sure that bits of parachute were safely inside the rig. Everyone looked out for each other. If a pilot chute deployed inside the plane with the door open, it could tear off the wings and they would all be dead.

Fear. Skydiving was all about conquering fear. As a raw novice about to make her first jump, Kirsty had found her heart beating faster, she’d taken rapid shallow breaths. The irony was, her trainer said, that survival instinct made your muscles tighten when you needed to relax. Embrace the fear was his mantra, along with hips down, head up. You needed to contain the surge of adrenaline. Over time, she’d learned to focus. Leaving the plane remained the moment of deepest fear, but she would scream out, ‘Up, down, go!’, breaking the tension in her chest by forcing out the air. And then she would fall.