The Cipher Garden (8 page)

‘Just you and me, then?’

‘If you don’t mind.’

‘No,’ Hannah said. ‘That’s fine.’

‘Lovely morning!’

A pair of cheery grey-haired walkers greeted Kirsty and she forced a smile in reply. In one sense they were right: the sun was already so fierce that she was wearing her dark glasses and a skimpy T-shirt emblazoned with a picture of an opened parachute and the legend
If at first you don’t succeed…maybe skydiving isn’t for you
. It turned her on to think of Oliver stealing a glance at her boobs or bare midriff. But the hate mail hung over her like a big black cloud.

She’d borrowed her mother’s chiffon scarf to hide the mark on her neck and left her Citroën at home. Walking to The Heights would clear her head. Sam would never have attacked her but for their row about letters. What had she and her family done to cause someone to be so cruel? They were harmless, ordinary people.

Leaves from an overhanging oak grazed her cheek as she rounded the last bend in the lane. Pushing the branch away, she reminded herself that one extraordinary thing had happened in their lives. Her father’s killing. Why would anyone rake the tragedy up after so long? It didn’t make sense.

It was as if the Howes were cursed. The Lakes were full of folklore about spells and jinxes: who could say it was all nonsense? Roz had once given her a book she’d published, packed with strange tales. Hidden above these sunlit lanes
was the dark domain of the Crier of Claife. Ferrymen of old never took passengers across Windermere at night, for dread of the wailing spectre that prowled the Heights. One to remain ‘until a man could walk across Windermere dryshod’. Kirsty remembered a couple of customers swearing they’d heard weird howlings as they walked home in the dark, but Oliver reckoned that had more to do with the whisky they’d been drinking than the Crier of Claife.

Outside the restaurant, Bel was watering the tubs, bending over the pansies, green can in hand. Kirsty stopped in her tracks. For a wild instant she imagined sidling up behind the woman. It would be so easy to slip off the scarf, loop it around her neck – and squeeze.

Oh Jesus, what was happening to her? She would never do it, could never do it. But even to let the idea creep into her brain…

Bel straightened and glanced over her shoulder. When she saw Kirsty, she gave a smile that showed off her flawless teeth. Trust the bloody woman never to have needed a filling in her life.

‘I’ve just taken a booking for noon. Table for eight, a gathering of grandmas. We’d better have them sitting in the window.’

‘Fine,’ Kirsty murmured. ‘I’ll put two tables together.’

‘Lovely.’

All their conversations were like this. Pleasant, superficial, the same as the movie tunes Bel liked to hum. Sometimes she repeated herself word for word, as when complaining about walkers who didn’t take off their muddy boots before entering the restaurant. Her pleasant, softly spoken manner disguised the fact that, in Kirsty’s humble opinion, she really was rather stupid. Thank God she didn’t have an inkling of how Kirsty felt about Oliver.
Kirsty knew that was how it had to stay; she couldn’t risk the sack. Not because it would be difficult to find work elsewhere, but because this job gave her an excuse to spend hours in Oliver’s company. Was that pathetic? Sam would say so, but he would be wrong, there was nothing feeble or pathetic about wanting to be close to someone you cared about. Oliver was almost – but not quite – a married man and she’d tried to distract herself with flings, but it was no good. Oliver hadn’t encouraged her, but she couldn’t help herself. The harder she tried to forget him, the more she yearned to be with him. All the time.

‘Has your brother mentioned when he might get round to that work at the back of here?’ Bel smiled again. ‘I asked Peter Flint, and he said Sam’s the one with green fingers.’

Kirsty remembered Sam’s warm, chunky fingers, closing around her throat. ‘He hasn’t said. I expect he’ll get round to it soon.’

A car’s horn pipped and Bel said, ‘Here’s Roz. Reliable as always. I phoned and said we were running low on her recipe book and sightseeing guides. She promised to let me have a few more copies.’

Both of them waved as Roz Gleave jumped out of her little green sports car. Kirsty liked Roz almost as much as she resented Bel and Gail. For a start, Roz never bothered about trying to look glamorous. Bel was uncannily pretty, even Kirsty had to admit that, and Gail disguised mutton as lamb with the help of an army of cosmetic surgeons, while both of them spent a fortune on clothes. In contrast, Roz didn’t give a toss about defying the advance of years. Her once-dark hair had turned as grey as Blencathra in the wet; but she never dyed it, and she didn’t always bother with a comb. If she fretted about the thread veins on her cheeks or the pouches under her eyes, you’d never guess.
This morning, she was wearing dungarees and scuffed trainers. To look at her, you wouldn’t dream she ran a business at least as successful as Gail’s or Bel’s.

A month ago Kirsty had eavesdropped on a conversation in the restaurant between the three friends when Gail asked Roz if she’d thought about investing in implants. To Kirsty’s delight, Roz burst out laughing.

‘Chris loves me as I am, thanks very much! He’s put up with my meagre boobs all these years and I’m a bit too long in the tooth to change them now.’

Another thing Kirsty liked about Roz. She was happily married to a man who might be good-looking, but wasn’t remotely as exciting as Oliver Cox. In Chris Gleave’s company, Kirsty never had the same sense of fierce passions, barely suppressed.

‘Half a dozen copies of each title, wasn’t it?’ Roz lifted a box from the car boot and displayed the contents for Bel to see. ‘Hi, Kirsty, how is life?’

Actually, Roz, I’m receiving vindictive anonymous letters and last night my brother tried to strangle me.

Without meaning to, Kirsty rubbed her throat. It was still sore.

‘Um, fine, thanks. Absolutely fine.’

‘That’s good. Love the scarf, by the way. Though aren’t you a bit warm on a scorching day like today?’

‘No, no, it’s OK. I like the feel of it, next to my skin.’

Would Roz understand how she felt about Oliver, would it help to confide in her? Kirsty had known Roz and Bel all her life, even though while her father was alive the two women kept a distance from the Howes. Presumably because of their past affairs with him. Roz was funny and kind and things hadn’t always been easy for her. Chris’s breakdown, for instance, there must be a story behind that,
though Kirsty didn’t know what it was. Surely she could trust Roz to keep a secret. The snag was, Roz was bound to take Bel’s side. They were bosom buddies. In fact, everyone liked Bel. They didn’t seem to care that she was too bland, too perfect, the same as her home-made apple pie.

While Bel chatted to Roz, Kirsty trudged into the building. She kept her uniform in a locker and soon she’d changed into the short black skirt and white top cut low enough to keep the old blokes from nodding off during the pensioners’ discount lunch hour. The scarf stayed on. Through the thin wall of the kitchen, she could hear Oliver talking to the Croatian girls who were here for the summer. Veselka and Danica were lively enough, but scarcely soulmates. All they were interested in was picking up a few quid to take home to their families and seeing how often they could get laid.

Moments after she started lugging the tables into position, Oliver wandered out from the kitchen. He hadn’t shaved yet, hadn’t even combed his hair. In his sweatshirt and patched-up jeans, he looked nineteen. Too young for Bel, for sure. She’d insist he smartened himself up before any customers arrived. Pointless, Kirsty thought. People liked chefs to be unconventional, they expected it. If this was her place, she’d change a few things. Liven it up.

‘How are you?’ He fiddled with a hangnail. ‘Got over that hiccup from yesterday?’

‘The letter, you mean?’

‘That anonymous drivel, yes.’

‘My brother received something yesterday; the
handwriting’s
identical. And this morning an envelope has arrived for Mum. She wasn’t around to open it, thank goodness.’

His face was ashen. Even in her distress, she felt excitement surging inside her. He was genuinely concerned for her.

‘Oh, Jesus, Kirsty. This is dreadful. What – what does the letter to Sam say?’

‘It accuses him of hating our father.’ Her voice was rising, but she couldn’t help it. ‘Not that Sam can complain, he admits it’s true.’

‘Everything all right?’

Bel’s voice made Kirsty shudder. She’d breezed back in without either of them noticing. When Kirsty mumbled a reply, Bel said, ‘You look a bit off colour.’

‘Oh, it’s nothing. A touch of hay fever, that’s all.’

‘You poor girl. Have you been sneezing? I heard on the radio the pollen count is at an all-time high. I don’t know what’s best for hay fever. Would a paracetamol help?’

Typical, Kirsty thought, as she murmured thanks. Of course Bel didn’t know about hay fever, she’d probably never had a day’s illness in her life. But she believed any problem could be magicked away, that there was a quick and easy solution to everything. For all her little acts of kindness, she had no idea of how other people struggled to cope. Even when the woman had lost her husband, she’d fallen straight into Oliver’s arms. Her whole bloody life was charmed.

Miranda had joined a yoga class in Staveley and she’d persuaded Louise to come along with her. When Miranda talked about getting in touch with her spiritual side, Daniel expected his sister to cringe. Instead, she started asking Miranda about her take on Indian mystic philosophy.

The old Louise, the Louise he’d grown up with, wouldn’t have had any truck with it. She was down to earth, focused, practical. As their lives moved in different
directions, they’d exchanged a word on the phone here, an email there. He’d never hit it off with Rodney, so contact dwindled. Maybe over the years his sister changed from the girl he’d known, without his even realising it.

Should he mention that he was going to meet Hannah Scarlett? He was tempted not to say a word. He could see Hannah while Miranda and Louise were assuming the lotus position and they would be none the wiser. But it wasn’t as if he had a guilty secret to conceal.

He broke the news while the three of them walked around the tarn, but Louise wasn’t impressed. ‘Oh, Daniel, why don’t you let it go? This constant harking back, it doesn’t do any good.’

He wondered about reminding her that she’d often spoken of his father’s betrayal, she hadn’t let that go. But he decided against it.

‘I’m a historian,’ he said, picking up a pebble and skimming it over the surface of the water. ‘Harking back is what I do.’

‘Stop being a clever clogs.’ How many times had he heard her say that during his teens? ‘You know exactly what I mean. I don’t mean to seem harsh, Daniel, but Dad is dead. Picking over the past with his old sergeant won’t change anything.’

Shielding her eyes from the sun, Miranda said, ‘I don’t think that’s his only motive for seeing Hannah Scarlett.’

He felt his throat drying, but her expression was amused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s the detective thing, isn’t it? Louise was telling me that before you took up history, you wanted to be a cop, just like your old man.’

‘I was ten years old.’

‘But you’ve never lost it, have you? That’s why you
wrote the book. You’re obsessed with doing justice to history. That’s why you’re so keen on talking to a cold case detective. You think her line of business is pretty much the same as yours.’

Louise rolled her eyes. ‘Well, Daniel, is she right?’

He thought about it. ‘Yes, I suppose she is.’

During the dead hours between lunch and dinner, Kirsty’s habit was to hang around at The Heights rather than going home. Any chance to spend time with Oliver was worth seizing and Bel didn’t mind slipping her a few extra quid for making herself useful. Today was different. The Croatian girls were embroiled in a noisy tug of war over some boyfriend, and Bel asked Oliver to nip over to Ambleside to pick up a set of new menu folders.

Kirsty watched from the corridor as Bel patted his rump and then stuck her tongue down his throat as they shared a parting embrace. Oliver didn’t even seem embarrassed, though surely he must be cringing inside. Bel wasn’t young or fresh any more, the skin of her neck was definitely loosening; so sad to see a middle-aged woman pretending she was still in her twenties. Kirsty stifled an urge to sob and set off home.

When she arrived back, her mother’s big black SUV was parked in the drive. Kirsty hesitated on the doorstep. Should she ask about the latest anonymous letter? She didn’t want to tell her mother about the message sent to her. Too embarrassing. Yet how could she sleep, not knowing what the letter-writer had said to Mum? Clenching her fist, she told herself that it would be stupid to keep her mouth shut, for fear of what she might be told.
Go for it
.

Tina Howe was sitting on a high stool next to the
breakfast bar, munching an apple while she checked her post. Her skirt showed off her bare legs, her top was even more revealing than Kirsty’s waitressing garb. The old, old story: whatever Kirsty tried to do, Mum always did it better.

‘Hello, stranger.’

Tina looked up from a gas bill. ‘Isn’t that what parents are supposed to say to children? Before long, you’ll be complaining that I treat this place like a hotel.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re denying it?’

‘Well…I have been very busy lately.’

‘Oh, yes?’

Tina tossed the apple core into the bin. ‘Sorry, sweetheart. I don’t want to be a neglectful parent.’

‘I’m old enough to look after myself.’

‘But?’

Kirsty pointed to the stack of opened mail in front of her mother. ‘Something arrived for you today. An envelope with your name and address printed in capitals. What was it?’

Tina swung her legs back and forth. ‘‘Why do you ask?’

‘It looked – odd. Not the handwriting of any of our friends or relations.’

‘As a matter of fact, it was a piece of horrid anonymous rubbish. Not worth talking about.’