The Cipher Garden (4 page)

One Lake District village was, in Hannah’s opinion, very much not like another. Each had its own unique identity. How could you compare Troutbeck, Cartmel, Watendlath? Even the tiniest settlements were distinctive. She’d once gone on the statutory day trip to Near Sawrey, to take a timed ticket courtesy of the National Trust and traipse round Beatrix Potter’s old home, accompanied by a coachload of Peter Rabbit fans who’d made a special journey from Osaka. Across the hay fields, Far Sawrey boasted its own church, shop and part-time post office. Old Sawrey must be the poor relation, skulking among the oak trees up a lane that petered out into a path winding up Claife Heights.

The sun blazed as she threaded through the narrow byways to the west of Windermere. On days like these, she loved driving. She had the roof open, breathing the hot air, letting Bill Withers’ ‘Lovely Day’ wash over her. A month earlier, she’d taken delivery of a gleaming two-litre Lexus and she was still relishing her new toy. She qualified for an essential-user car loan and on impulse had dug into her
own pocket as well and gone for something livelier than a boring old Mondeo or Vectra. Motorway driving was tedious, too many roadworks, but the gentle pace of the lanes was fine, at least until she encountered a minibus full of tourists coming in the opposite direction and had to reverse all the way back to the nearest passing place.

After a couple of wrong turnings, she found the ‘no through road’ sign she’d been seeking and squeezed her car between steep grassy banks. To her right she caught glimpses of a strip of water through a cluster of rowan trees. Beyond a farm gate, the lane became a rutted track, climbing through woodland. On a post beside a wooden gate, she saw a green slate nameplate marked Keepsake Cottage. The Gleave house, scene of the crime.

She pulled up at the end of the lane. Neat and whitewashed, the cottage was elevated so that even ground-floor rooms commanded a view of Esthwaite Water over the tops of the trees. Scarcely 10 Rillington Place or 24 Cromwell Street, yet this was where Warren Howe had been butchered.

His body had been discovered in the back garden. So close to civilisation and yet a murderer had been able to scythe down Warren Howe in the open air with little fear of being observed. Nobody walking the path up the incline would have had a clear sight of the grounds of Keepsake Cottage; the woodland was too dense.

On impulse, she walked up the driveway, the urge to explore overpowering caution. If someone came out of the cottage and demanded to know what she was up to, she would produce her ID. It almost always did the trick; most people wanted to keep on the right side of the law.

Suddenly a bark broke the stillness and a sleepy-eyed mongrel, a canine Robert Mitchum, moseyed down the
path. It looked in the mood to bite the hand that fed it identification. She swore and beat a retreat to the Ford. The dog followed her to the bottom of the drive and gave an uncompromising yelp as it watched her leave. As she executed a three-point turn, she took a hand off the wheel and pretended to shoot the pooch, but it gave her a sidelong glance packed with Mitchumesque scorn.

Soon she was on the lower slopes of Claife Heights, driving past a large green board with yellow lettering outside the entrance to an old farmhouse set back from the road. FLINT HOWE GARDEN DESIGN. So even after all these years, Peter Flint had kept the memory of his partner alive in the name of the business. She wasn’t naïve enough to write off suspects on the basis of knee-jerk amateur psychology, but it didn’t seem like the act of a man with murder on his conscience.

The lane forked and she followed the sign marked OLD SAWREY ONLY. As she climbed the hill, she passed a scattering of houses before seeing a building perched on the brow, overlooking the lake and forest and fells beyond. The Heights looked like a small and ancient village pub with a conservatory extension tacked on at the front to enable diners to make the most of the view. Tubs overflowing with yellow and purple pansies bordered a pathway connecting the restaurant to a large detached house, set further along the slope. The grounds of house and restaurant were divided by willow screening. The car park was almost deserted and Hannah reversed into a space between a purple Citroën and a board outside the canopied entrance displaying times of opening. The restaurant was shut to customers for another couple of hours. Above the door a notice confirmed that Isobel Marie Jenner and Oliver Cox were licensed to sell intoxicating beverages. So
the widow and the chef were still together after all these years.

As Hannah switched off the ignition, the restaurant door opened and a solidly built young woman in a white
T-shirt
and denim jeans hurried out. She reached the Citroën and fumbled in a battered bag for the key. Her face was blotchy and her eyes full of tears. With a start, Hannah recognised her. The red hair was shorter than in the photograph she’d studied earlier in the day, but the blue eyes and jutting jaw were unmistakable.

The woman in distress was Kirsty Howe.

The giant hog bared its teeth at Kirsty Howe. She halted on the pathway between the trees, then took a pace towards the beast. For all her distress, she could not help smiling as she reached out and patted its head.

She loved Ridding Wood. Since childhood, she’d felt safe here, surrounded by the weird creatures carved from wood and iron. For all their fangs and contorted faces, they never hurt you as people did. In her early teens she’d confessed to Sam that she thought of the sculptures as friends, each with a pet name, but he’d taunted her without mercy. Now she knew better than to share secrets with her brother, but to this day, she remembered what she used to call the hog.

‘Hello, Boris. How are you today?’

Babyish, Sam would say, but she didn’t care. This leafy haven was her second home, a refuge she escaped to when things went wrong. After her father’s death, she’d wandered around the by-ways of Grizedale Forest for hours, struggling to reconcile herself with what had happened, and there was scarcely a route that she did not know by heart. She liked to come here for the setting of
the sun, when families had returned home and hikers had tramped on. Even on a summer afternoon, with whooping kids on the hunt for wild animals along the sculpture trail, the exercise soothed her as words of comfort never could. She drank in the soft air and the mossy smells, she swayed to the music echoing through the woodland, as unseen wanderers struck the huge wooden xylophones standing beside the route to the stream. Even today, with the words of the cruel letter burning in her brain, Ridding Wood did not fail to work its magic.

She ran her hands over the hog’s back, careless of splinters. She envied artists, people who began with a blank canvas or page or a block of marble and had the talent to create something fresh. Imagine the sense of freedom it must give. Whereas she stayed in Old Sawrey, waiting at table and yearning for something that always seemed tantalisingly out of reach. Wanting it so badly that someone who must hate her had noticed, and was tormenting her because of it.

After blundering out of the restaurant, she’d needed to get away. Driving on autopilot, she’d wound up at Grizedale Forest, and parked near the old Hall. Would they miss her if she never showed up again? Oliver, how would he react? Would he suffer a pang of regret?

She crossed the high bridge. On the other side of the water, a circle of steel glinted from the branches of a spreading copper beech. Each familiar landmark she passed calmed her, made her feel more secure. Further on, lights powered by the sun flickered in an elaborate beehive hanging high in the trees. From the river, she heard the shouts of paddling children and the conversation of their parents. Somehow she couldn’t imagine having kids of her own. Plenty of time, her mother said, but that wasn’t the point.

The track emerged from a leafy tunnel into open grassland and she subsided on to a large carved seat, allowing the sight of fields and fells to wash over her.

She glanced at her watch. Oh God, better get going.

Jumping to her feet, she felt her muscles straining. She’d need to get into shape before her next parachute jump. As for Oliver, she would not give in. She would see this through.

‘You never said if you fancied anyone as Warren’s killer,’ Hannah said.

‘That’s right, I didn’t.’

Nick was sitting at his desk in the corner of the CCR team’s room. He was entitled to an office of his own and there’d been talk of him sharing with Les Bryant, who had come out of retirement to give the team the benefit of his wisdom on the fine art of murder investigation. Whether Nick’s preference for remaining in the thick of things was down to an egalitarian impulse or a wish to escape being holed up with the dourest of Yorkshiremen, Hannah wasn’t sure. Right now her sergeant’s gaze was fixed on the computer screen. With all the ringing phones and competing conversations, his voice was so quiet that she had to bend over his shoulder to hear his reply. His aftershave had a subtle tang.

‘Any particular reason?’

‘Nobody believed it was a stranger homicide. Finding evidence to justify an arrest was a different story.’

‘You must have had your suspicions.’

He’d been scrolling through his emails, scrapping routine messages. The sight of his still-overcrowded inbox made him sigh. ‘Why do people send out so much garbage? Half the stuff I’m copied in on isn’t worth a glance. Talk about information overload.’

They often cried on each other’s shoulder about the time-wasting bureaucracy of the modern police service. But she could spot a diversionary tactic a mile off.

‘Did you have a hunch?’

‘Remember the Gospel according to Ben Kind? Theories are for losers.’

A shrewd blow, if below the belt. She hadn’t just been the late Ben Kind’s sergeant, she’d been his disciple. Ben had taught her more about police work than all the trainers in Hendon put together and, though it had taken her years to admit it, even to herself, her affection for him had teetered on the brink of something more serious. More dangerous. Not long after retiring he’d been killed in an accident, with so many things unspoken between them. She still mourned him, still thought about him now and then. She could still hear the scorn in his voice at team briefings when eager subordinates indulged in fanciful speculation. Like Nick said, theories were for losers.

‘OK, you win.’

He stabbed
delete
with his forefinger one last time, then turned to face her. ‘It’s not about winning. The simple truth is that we never came near to making an arrest. If you ask me, this so-called tip-off won’t take us any closer.’

‘I’m not long back from Old Sawrey.’

‘So that’s why you disappeared. Off to catch up on the village gossip?’

She shook her head. ‘I just wanted to get a feel of the place before I summoned up the energy to plough through the rest of the files. I see that Bel Jenner and her chef hold the licence of The Heights jointly.’

‘Oliver Cox fell on his feet. The previous chef left soon after old man Jenner died and soon Oliver was giving the
widow something to smile about. The restaurant may not be full to bursting every evening, but Bel won’t lose sleep. Her husband left her with a few quid. The business was more like a hobby. Probably still is.’

‘I saw Warren Howe’s daughter.’

‘Last I heard, she was working there as a waitress.’

‘Kept yourself informed about what goes on in the village, then?’

He shrugged. ‘Chris Gleave and I were at school together. He was a couple of years older than me, but we got on all right. We haven’t spoken for ages but we never lost touch completely.’

‘So you knew the man who owned Keepsake Cottage?’

‘He and his wife still live there.’

‘They own a foul-tempered mongrel.’

‘Name of de Quincey.’

‘Yes, it gave the impression it was as high as a kite. What’s wrong with a nice harmless pet called Tabitha or Tom Kitten?’

Nick laughed. ‘Did de Quincey take a piece out of you, by any chance?’

‘No, but it looked as though it would love to. Tell me about Chris Gleave.’

Nick’s eyes flicked back to his screen. More messages had popped up while they had been speaking. ‘Better catch up on the backlog first. Fancy a drink later on?’

‘Sure.’

Marc was going to be late home this evening, which made things easier. He seemed jealous of her friendship with Nick. Yet they never as much as exchanged a peck on the cheek. It wasn’t that sort of relationship.

‘See you in the Shroud, then.’

Half a mile from The Heights, Kirsty stopped at a passing place when she saw a van coming towards her. As it drew near, she recognised it as belonging to Peter Flint. Oh God, there was no escaping him at present. She lowered her head, keeping her eye on the foot pedals, but predictable to a fault, he didn’t drive on past. He stopped when his car was level with hers and wound down his window.

‘Off to work?’

Silly question. She was tempted to say so, just to wipe the cheerful beam from his face. Their relationship was fraught, but she knew he was making an effort and she always found it difficult to be rude

‘That’s right.’

‘I’ve just been talking to Bel. She wants help with that little garden at the back of the restaurant. Moles have been playing havoc with the lawn and she’d like the border replanting. Oliver’s no gardener, so I said I’d ask that brother of yours to lend a hand.’

‘Best of British.’ She couldn’t think of a reply less sarcastic.

‘I know, I know.’ Peter’s sigh was theatrical. ‘Sam doesn’t like knuckling down, he doesn’t seem to understand, this is a service business. The client is king. Or queen, in Bel’s case. But I haven’t given up hope. Deep down, he has a genuine feeling for plants. Like Warren, of course.’

Kirsty gave a brusque nod and Peter seemed to realise that it wouldn’t be tactful to embark on a conversation about her father.

‘Well, must be getting on. Nice to see you. And if you speak to Sam before I catch up with him, you might mention the job for Bel.’

‘I’ll see if he can fit it in his busy schedule.’

He chuckled to show that he saw the funny side of her brother’s idleness and with a wave was gone. Turning into the car park at The Heights, Kirsty spotted Gail Flint’s sporty yellow Toyota. As usual, Gail had parked in a space reserved for the disabled; it was the type of thing the old bag did just for the hell of it.

Gritting her teeth, Kirsty walked into reception. No sign yet of either Arthur the barman or the Croatian kitchen girls. Gail and Bel were chattering away on the sofa where, during opening hours, customers waited while their table was prepared. Two expensively dressed
forty-somethings
, one blonde, one brunette. Everyone always said Bel was stunning (for her age was Kirsty’s unspoken qualification) but Kirsty suspected she might be putting on a pound or two around her waist. Wishful thinking, probably, but nobody could deny that her nose was too beaky to be remotely beautiful. So was Oliver’s, but somehow it suited him, lent a kind of distinction.

As for Gail, she was fixated on defying the passage of the years. A few weeks ago, Kirsty had overheard her telling Bel that when her divorce finally came through, she’d celebrate by splashing out on more cosmetic surgery. She’d already had a discreet nip and tuck around the
jawline
and kept harping on about a boob job. Poor
flat-chested
creature, she could do with one. Now the blonde hair had lengthened overnight and Kirsty was positive she’d invested in extensions. Pity she couldn’t do anything about that letterbox of a mouth. Over the years, Gail had tried her hand at a variety of small enterprises before becoming a supplier of wine. The Heights was her best client, and she and Bel were friends. Gail was scheduled to make one delivery each week, but dropped in every other
day. They spent more time yapping about clothes and television than discussing business.

‘Hello, Kirsty, how are things?’

No mistaking the fruity smell on Gail’s breath. Her favourite tipple was gin made from damsons harvested in the Lyth valley. Sweet and strong, no wonder she was having to take care not to mix up her words. An empty glass stood in front of her. Bel, always the goody-goody, was sipping fizzy water.

‘All right, Mrs Flint, how are you?’

‘I told you before, sweetheart, my name’s Gail. None of this Mrs Flint nonsense.’ Gail’s trout-like lips (Kirsty suspected excessive Botox injections) formed a smile. ‘I’m fine, but you do look a little flushed, if you don’t mind me saying so. You’re not working her too hard, Bel?’

As Bel smiled and shook her head, they heard a car pulling up outside. Kirsty caught sight of Oliver through the window, lifting a crate of glasses from the boot of Bel’s gleaming BMW. It always gave her a kick to see him without being seen. She adored his elegance of movement, the movement of his shoulder blades under the thin cotton shirt. He didn’t bother with the gym, but he had as much feline grace as Bel. Even when peeling potatoes or carrots, he seemed incapable of clumsiness. Tall, dark and blue-eyed, in some ways he reminded her of Sam. But her brother’s muscles were running to fat. Too many chip suppers.

Sam had no time for Oliver. He was dead jealous, bound to be, but he loved to wind her up by insisting that Oliver was gay. All chefs were, in his book. Oliver had flowing locks, down almost to his shoulders, high cheekbones and manicured hands; very different from close-cropped, grubby-nailed Sam. But Oliver wasn’t gay, she was sure of that.

He came into reception and put the box down. When his eyes met Bel’s, the intensity of his gaze made Kirsty shiver with cold despair. It was as if the woman were a hypnotist, as if at a snap of her fingers, he would satisfy her every whim. Kirsty imagined Oliver as wild and passionate. Dangerous, even. Yet Bel had tamed him, made sure he did her bidding. Lucky, lucky woman to have that lithe body wrapped around her in bed every night.

‘Where shall I put these glasses?’

Bel reached out and ruffled his hair. ‘Let me show you.’

Her tone was flirtatious, her eyes sparkling with promise, like a teenage coquette. She led him by the hand to the kitchen. For a quick grope, presumably; the woman just couldn’t keep her hands off him.

Gail leaned forward and whispered, ‘Much as I love Bel, I can’t help a twinge of jealousy. How about you?’

It was as if she got a kick out of twisting the knife. Kirsty coughed, scouring her brain for an excuse to get away.

‘She tells me Oliver’s very sensitive to her needs. All he cares about is giving her pleasure. I mean, I’m bound to be jealous, aren’t I? The younger men I’ve known, it’s always wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.’’

Oh God, too much information. ‘I’d better be getting on with my work.’

Gail smirked. ‘Don’t let me keep you, sweetheart.’

Bel and Oliver were coming back already. His hair was messed up and Kirsty yearned to smooth it back into place, it was like a physical ache. But she had to choke her instincts. She dared not touch him.

Time to take refuge in the bar. Oliver didn’t even spare her a glance as she scuttled out. Her throat was dry and she poured herself a glass of water, downing it in a couple of gulps.