The Dungeon House (Lake District Mysteries) (15 page)

‘It’s not an evening I’ll ever forget, every little detail is engraved on my memory. The last time I saw my oldest friend.’ Her voice trembled, and Hannah waited. ‘Joanna had on a lacy top and a very short red skirt. Her legs were very long, they were far and away her best feature, and she made the most of them that night.’

‘Your memory’s brilliant. Thanks very much, Cheryl. I suppose you don’t know where Joanna lives nowadays?’

‘No idea. After she left the Lakes, I never heard any more about her. Her parents lived at Holmrook, you could try them, if they’re still alive.’ A sigh. ‘I spent long enough
living with Ben to know I’d be wasting my time asking you what this is all about?’

‘Probably nothing. But I’m grateful for your help.’

‘Just don’t get it into your head that Joanna was mixed up in anything dodgy. She was one of life’s victims, that girl, you only had to look at her to see that for yourself.’

Hannah ended the call, and made for the tearoom, where she succumbed to the temptation of Hartley’s ice cream. A treat she deserved, she assured herself, after Desmond Loney’s sniping at Ben, and her brainwave about Joanna Footit. But a fresh question nagged at her. If Joanna was the person Anton Friend had seen outside the Dungeon House on the night of the shootings, what on earth was she doing there?

As she drove past the menacing bulk of Sellafield, a possible answer struck her. Joanna and Amber Whiteley were friends. When Malcolm Whiteley went berserk, the girl might have rung Joanna for help. Her friend came from Holmrook, which was close by. Dialling 999 would have been a more sensible plan, but nobody from the Dungeon House had contacted the emergency services that night. Had Joanna stumbled on the bloodshed, and fled in panic? If so, why hadn’t she told anyone? Was it because she’d had a second nervous breakdown?

Santon Bridge straddled the River Irt, and its main claim to fame was that, each November, the local inn hosted the World’s Biggest Liar competition, in honour of a former landlord renowned for tall tales. Politicians were presumably barred from entering because they’d have an unfair advantage. Anton Friend’s cottage was across the road from yet another Lakeland tearoom, and
luckily he was at home, mowing his postage stamp lawn. An affable, burly man with a plump, grey-haired wife who insisted on supplying tea and scones, he told Joanna that he’d been in a sorry state at the time of the Dungeon House killings. His first wife had recently left him for an Australian, and taken their three young children with her to the other side of the world. Having been made redundant from his job in the labs at Sellafield, he’d spent a large chunk of his pay-off drowning his sorrows in the pubs of Wasdale.

‘In a funny kind of way, you could say that Whiteley’s rampage saved my life,’ he said. ‘What he did was so shocking that somehow it brought me to my senses. You don’t expect crimes like that in such a lovely part of the world. It seems … wrong. A chap I knew at the cricket club persuaded me to get some help, and I’ve not drunk a drop of booze from that day to this. I found myself a job in Whitehaven, where I met Moira, and I’ve never looked back.’

So it was true, Hannah thought grimly. Every cloud really did have a silver lining. Yet there was something quietly impressive about this man in his early sixties who had managed to turn his life around as a result of a brief encounter with a human tragedy.

‘That chap wasn’t Ben Kind, by any chance?’

‘That’s the fellow! Decent bloke, and not a bad cricketer. Bowled a mean off-cutter, did Ben. I was sorry we lost touch after he and his girlfriend moved from Gosforth. She didn’t fancy being a cricket widow, so that was that. He was a policeman, probably retired by now. Name of Kind. Did you know him?’

‘I’m afraid he died a few years ago.’ Hannah cut short his expressions of regret. This wasn’t the moment to be sidetracked by sentiment. ‘Can you tell me again about the person you saw that night?’

‘It’s a very long time ago, obviously. But I can still picture him. As I drove past the entrance to the Dungeon House, he came racing out from the drive. Panic-stricken, I’d say. I had the shock of my life. You don’t get many transvestites in this neck of the woods. I had to swerve to avoid hitting him as he ran into the lane. Thank Heavens I missed him, there were only inches in it.’

‘Can you describe the person you saw?’

‘Tall and skinny, and as bald as a billiard ball.’

‘You said in your statement that he was wearing a jacket, but it wasn’t buttoned up, and you could see he was wearing a skirt underneath.’

‘Yes, it was bizarre. It was a short skirt, and his legs were bare. I think he had some kind of sandals on his feet.’

‘Can you recall the colour of the skirt? It doesn’t seem to be mentioned in your statement.

‘It was red.’

‘Are you sure? There were no streetlights, and it must have been pitch dark.’

‘But my headlights were on, of course,’ he said with a touch of impatience. ‘I admit that I only glimpsed the fellow for a split second, but it’s not the sort of thing you forget in a hurry.’

‘And it was a short skirt, you say?’

‘Very. He had long skinny legs. I’m pretty sure they were bare.’

‘Did you catch sight of what else he had on under the jacket? A shirt, perhaps?’

He frowned. ‘I think it was a woman’s top, rather skimpy. Not a man’s shirt.’

‘Colour?’

‘I don’t know. It looked like something thin and diaphanous. Not very warm for that time of night, even after such a sunny day. Lacy, perhaps, but I couldn’t swear to it. Sorry.’

‘No need to apologise, Mr Friend, you’ve been really helpful.’ Hannah had to fight back the urge to fling her arms around him. Her wild guess was spot on, and Ben had been right to take Friend’s statement seriously. So much for Desmond Loney’s fat, useless gut.

‘Ben Kind was the only one who didn’t regard me as a nutter. I’m sorry to hear he’s passed away. He’d left his wife and kids for this new girlfriend, but he used to beat himself up about it, after he’d had a few drinks. Thought he’d done the wrong thing. I often wondered if he’d go back to his family in the end.’

‘He never got round to it,’ Hannah said. ‘Now, please think carefully about my next question. Is it possible the person you saw was a woman?’

Anton Friend gaped at her. ‘But he was bald.’

‘Even so.’ He deserved a clue. ‘Women can suffer hair loss as a result of illness.’

‘I suppose so.’ He considered. ‘If it was a woman, I’d be very surprised. She was unusually tall. Over six feet. Not to mention flat-chested.’

‘So might the person you saw have been a tall, flat-chested woman who had lost her hair?’

Anton Friend leant back in his armchair, wrinkling his forehead as he wrestled with the conundrum. ‘Well, yes, I suppose it’s possible. But who in the wide world would fit that description?’

Five minutes into her meeting with Gray Elstone, Hannah found herself feeling sorry for him. It wasn’t her habit to sympathise with accountants or lawyers, and it wasn’t very professional of her, but she could never quite forget that the people she interviewed were not merely suspects, victims or villains, but also human beings.

If Anya Jovetic was right, and Elstone had killed Lily, then lied through his teeth and covered up the crime for the past three years, he was a monster. Hannah struggled to believe it. He might not convince as a Don Juan, but that didn’t make him a paedophile or a child killer. Instinct told her he was as devastated about Lily’s disappearance as he claimed. But a still, small voice of caution in her head muttered a reminder that he might simply be devastated that he’d lost control, and done something terrible that he now bitterly regretted.

They sat in his office, sipping rather unpleasant tea
brewed by Yindee. Another good-looking foreigner who was taking him for a ride, Hannah suspected. For ten minutes she and Elstone talked about Lily, and the cold case review, before he asked if there was any news about Shona Whiteley.

‘Our colleagues are still looking into the possibility that Shona has gone somewhere of her own free will.’ Her vagueness was deliberate. She didn’t want to say anything that risked complicating the task for Ryan Borthwick and his team.

‘I pray that Nigel is luckier than me.’ Elstone’s eyes were haunted. ‘For weeks, months, I hoped Lily had run away of her own accord, but I never really believed it. She’d never have made us suffer like that. What’s that fashionable word?
Closure
. It’s all I can hope for now, that sooner or later the truth will come to light. Only yesterday, I was saying to Joanna, my old PA, that …’

‘Joanna Footit?’ Hannah interrupted.

‘That’s right. She went out for a while with Nigel.’

‘You’re still in touch with her?’

‘Not
still
in touch, but in touch
again
,’ he said fussily. ‘I hadn’t clapped eyes on her for twenty years.’

‘Really?’ Hannah couldn’t hide her astonishment. ‘You met her yesterday, after all that time?’

‘Absolutely. Jolly good to see her. Nice girl, Joanna.’ He turned pink with embarrassment, and lowered his voice. ‘She had … mental health issues, you know. Desperately sad. Good to see she seems to be making a fresh start.’

It didn’t take long to draw the story out of him, and learn that Joanna’s sudden reappearance was no coincidence. News of Shona’s disappearance had brought her hurrying
back to the Lakes. By the sound of it, she was busily renewing old acquaintances. Especially those who had been around at the time of the Dungeon House killings.

‘You don’t think … she hoped to rekindle her romance with Nigel Whiteley?’

Gray spread his arms. ‘Who knows? I’ll be honest with you, Chief Inspector. I’ve never really understood what goes on inside women’s heads.’

‘You’re not alone, Mr Elstone, trust me. Now, about Joanna’s health. She lost her hair, didn’t she?’

‘Yes, poor girl. It was caused by stress, after she was involved in a fatal car accident. I didn’t know her in those days, but apparently, she’d had lovely red hair, very thick and down to her shoulders. She’d started wearing a wig before she joined me, but it wasn’t terribly satisfactory. Her constant complaint was that it was too heavy. I suppose because she’d tried to replicate her old hair style. Once, when she was running down the office stairs, she tripped, and it came adrift. Dreadfully embarrassing for her. I suppose they are much better made these days.’

Another link in the chain. Hannah supposed the wig had fallen off as she was running away from the Dungeon House. Though why hadn’t it been found?

‘She’s staying in the area at the moment, you say. Any idea where, and for how long?’

‘In Ravenglass, at a guest house called Saltcoats View. She said she’d be staying for at least a fortnight.’

Brilliant. Joanna Footit could answer some of the questions about exactly what had happened on the night of the killings at the Dungeon House. Who better than the Cold Case Review Team to tidy up the loose ends? Not
that this would solve the mystery of Lily’s fate. Hannah made cautiously reassuring noises, but as she said goodbye to Gray Elstone, she was all too aware that the closure he yearned for seemed as far away as ever.

Hannah was tempted to head straight to Ravenglass after leaving Seascale. Even if it did end up as a late night, she could try and track down Joanna Footit, before an evening of indulgence at the Eskdale Arms, listening to Daniel talk about murder. The snag was that she’d committed to showing her face at a leaving do for a retiring member of the back office staff at Divisional HQ in Kendal, and for Hannah it was a matter of honour to keep such promises. Too often, senior officers skived out of such events, making flimsy last minute excuses. The troops deserved better. In any case, it might take time to find Joanna, and then set up an appointment. Best leave it until tomorrow.

The long journey home gave her a chance to mull over the day’s events, and work out questions to put to Joanna Footit. The woman should have come forward at the time, and explained what she was doing at the Dungeon House that night. Why hadn’t she uttered a peep? Perhaps the trauma of what she’d witnessed had tipped her over the edge. Had she seen Malcolm Whiteley kill his daughter and then himself, or tried to intervene? Perhaps she’d arrived in the quarry garden only to find two corpses.

What if Malcolm Whiteley had tried to kill Joanna as well? That might explain a good deal. If the terrified young woman had run off in a panic to escape a man who was armed and very dangerous, it was easy to understand how she’d lost her wig. It might have fallen off, or caught on
a branch, or met a dozen other fates. She wouldn’t have dared to stop and retrieve it if Whiteley was chasing her. Hearing a car might have stopped the gunman in his tracks. Conceivably, Joanna owed her life to the lucky chance of Anton Friend passing by at precisely the right moment.

At last she reached Kendal. As she reversed into the last vacant bay in the pub car park off Stramongate, another idea struck her with such startling force that she had to slam on her brakes to avoid ramming a brick wall.

It was ridiculous, surely. But a detective had to look at all the options. Had Joanna Footit not simply witnessed the killings at the Dungeon House, but taken part in them?

‘Lovely day, Joanna!’ Alvaro Quiggin beamed as she walked through the door of the Saltcoats View. A pair of sunglasses lay on the counter in front of him. ‘I actually managed to fit in half an hour soaking up the sun on the patio. You’ve brought good weather with you, a real bonus.’

She nodded absently. ‘You said the other day that you keep information about local events.’

‘Always keen to be of service to our guests. What would you like to know, timetable for La’al Ratty, opening hours at Muncaster Castle?’

‘No, but I see there’s a talk on next door this evening. A historian who used to be on television. Do you know any more about it?’

‘Oh yes, I was thinking of popping round myself. He was a bit of a celebrity at one time, wasn’t he? Daniel something or other. Not seen him on the box for ages, though. It’s all about fashion, isn’t it, the telly?’

Joanna – in common, she was sure, with you-can-call-me-Al – hadn’t the faintest idea of what went on in the mysterious world of television, but she murmured agreement out of politeness. He said he’d kept some details about the talk in his office, and he lifted the flap of the counter so that she could follow him inside.

‘I cut something out of the newspaper,’ he said, rummaging though a sheaf of documents from a file marked
Local Events
. ‘Here you go. Yes, the bloke’s called Daniel Kind, and he’s talking about a book he’s written. The history of murder. Sounds quite interesting. I’m rather partial to a good murder myself. How about you, Joanna?’

‘What?’ She was distracted. ‘Oh, yes, yes.’

He peered at her. ‘Everything all right.’

‘It’s just … that photograph.’ She pointed to a sun-faded colour photo pinned to a board at the back of the tiny office, next to a window overlooking the patio above the foreshore. A picture of a pretty girl with long blonde hair. ‘Her face looks … I mean, she sort of resembles someone I once knew.’

He seemed taken aback, and hesitated before replying. ‘Is that right?’

‘Yes. I could be mistaken, of course. It was a long time ago.’ He nodded. ‘It’s an old photo.’

For once in his life, Quiggin didn’t seem to be inclined to say too much, and, perverse as ever, Intrigued by this new-found reticence, Joanna decided to press him.

‘It was very sad about this friend of mine. She was killed in a car crash, an absolute tragedy. Her name was Carina. Carina North.’

After a long pause, he said quietly, ‘So you knew my daughter?’

Joanna opened her eyes wide. ‘Carrie was your daughter?’

‘Don’t look so surprised,’ he said softly. ‘I’m nothing much to look at, but her mother was beautiful. Too beautiful, that was the trouble. She dumped me when Carrie was only eighteen months old.’

‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’

He shrugged. ‘What really hurt was that I only saw my girl half a dozen times after that.’

‘Her mum remarried?’

‘Yes, to this bloke she ran off with. Name of North, a used car dealer. That marriage didn’t last, either. She was immature – let’s face it, she was only seventeen when I got her pregnant. But I was too staid for her, and North soon ran out of money. She had a drug habit, you see, and it cost her a fortune to keep herself stoned.’

Joanna nodded. ‘I remember Carrie saying about her mum, and drugs.’

‘You’d think the court would insist that a hard-working father would be allowed to see his child, wouldn’t you?’ He made no attempt to hide his bitterness. ‘What good are rights, if you can’t enforce them, eh? Suzy played ducks and drakes with me for years. I never got any sort of justice. In the end, I gave up.’

Joanna couldn’t think of anything suitable to say, so she touched him lightly on the hand.

‘Of course, I always thought that one day, Carrie and I would see more of each other. I wasn’t to know I’d be denied the chance. Her mother was more interested in sex and drugs than bringing up our daughter. She had no control over Carrie, and let her run wild. Before long, she’d
got mixed up with the wrong crowd … I … oh, sorry.’ Confusion spread over his face like a crimson birthmark. ‘You said the two of you were friends.’

‘To be honest, she was the friend of a friend. I can’t say I knew her well. We met two or three times, that’s all.’

‘But you liked her?’ His eagerness was pathetic.

As a matter of fact, Joanna hadn’t really cared for Carrie North. In the circumstances, however, a white lie was forgivable. ‘Oh yes, she was sweet. Bubbly, you know. Fun-loving.’

‘Really?’

‘Definitely. And so very pretty.’ She indicated the photo. ‘I was jealous of her, to tell you the truth.’

He smiled. ‘No need. You’re a nice-looking lady yourself, Joanna. You’ve got character, anyone can see that.’

The office was small and overheated. Until a few minutes ago, you-can-call-me-Al had seemed rather ridiculous to her. She’d never wondered what might be going on inside his head. As they’d come in to the office, he’d closed the door behind them. Quickly, she pulled it open again.

‘I’m so sorry about Carrie,’ she said hurriedly, groping for words that might mean something to a bereaved father. ‘She was so young, with so much to live for. The way she lost her life was absolutely criminal.’

As Joanna edged into the hallway, he turned to look at her. ‘You know what I think?’

‘What’s that … Al?’

He gestured to the cutting about Daniel Kind’s talk. ‘What happened to Carrie that night was nothing short of murder.’

As the party grew rowdier, Hannah and Billie Frederick took their Diet Cokes into the small garden at the back of the pub, and Billie asked if there was any chance of a vacancy in the Cold Case Review Team.

‘Would you be interested?’ Hannah asked. ‘If we get the green light to make up for some of the cutbacks?’

‘I’d jump at the chance,’ Billie said. ‘It would be brilliant to work with you, Hannah. No disrespect to Ryan, he’s a nice guy, but I’d love to be part of a team run by another woman.’

‘Let’s not worry about the gender politics, huh? It’s a very young team since Greg moved on, and we can’t expect Les to keep going forever. Maggie and Linz have fantastic potential, but I’d like someone else with …’

‘A few grey hairs?’ Billie shook her black curls. ‘Look somewhere else for those, Hannah. I’m staying with this colour till I’m seventy. Maybe eighty.’

Hannah laughed. ‘But you’ve been climbing the ladder in the Federation.’

‘I’m ready to jump off before I’m pushed.’ She sighed. ‘The Federation is still important for me, ordinary men and women on the job need the best representation they can get. They get beaten and hospitalised, and then they see their numbers slashed, not to mention their pay and pensions. Someone needs to give a damn.’

‘Someone like you.’

‘Thanks, but my idealism’s taken a battering. Too many dodgy things have gone on, up and down the country. The Fed became part of the problem, more interested in fighting cabinet ministers than criminals. Sure, the world is full of people in power who look out for themselves, and not the
people they’re supposed to serve, but maybe we’ve become as bad. The stable needs a bloody good cleansing. You could say I’m Fed up.’

‘People are trying to change things. You can be part of the solution.’

‘Talking to you about the Dungeon House and Lily Elstone has cleared my mind. I want to get back to what I joined the force to do. I was proud to be a Fed rep, but now I just want to focus on being a half-decent detective. I’ve heard all the jokes about cold case work being a dead end for dead heads, but I think it’s exciting and worthwhile.’