The Dungeon House (Lake District Mysteries) (16 page)

‘Keep an eye on the intranet. I might be on an interview panel, so I can’t make any promises, but you’d be a strong candidate.’ They clinked glasses. ‘That was a barnstorming speech, you’d make a good Home Secretary.’

Billie hooted. ‘You should hear me when I’ve drunk something stronger.’

‘Okay, let’s keep in close touch about Shona Whiteley.’

‘Sure. Before I forget, we’ve talked to her teachers, looking for clues to her plans for the Easter holidays. A long shot, but there’s a chink of light. One of them has proved impossible to contact. He said he was going to spend his break hitch-hiking around Scotland, which may explain it. For all we know, he’s holed up in some remote glen, with only the deer and the midges for company, but we’ve made enquiries about him. Turns out, at his last school, he was warned for getting too friendly with a fifteen-year-old female pupil.’

Hannah raised her eyebrows. ‘What happened?’

‘He offered the kid one-to-one tuition after hours, supposedly to help her improve her guitar playing. The
parents became worried she was developing a crush on him, and he wasn’t keeping her at arm’s length. When they spoke to the head teacher, the guy protested his innocence, and nothing came of it. He was highly regarded, and there was no evidence that he’d misbehaved. The school was actually disappointed when he handed in his notice. They gave him a glowing reference, and there was no mention of the issue with the pupil. It had all blown over, but still – makes you think.’

‘No smoke without fire?’ Hannah asked. ‘Four of the most dangerous words in the English language, but yes, it’s worth looking at him. So who is this teacher?’

‘This is what’s so intriguing, there’s a link with the past. His name is Josh Durham. Wasn’t it his father’s affair that provoked the Dungeon House killings?’

Joanna’s head was buzzing as she mounted the stairs up to the meeting room on the first floor of the Eskdale Arms, trying not to spill her Pinot Grigio. She felt shivery with elation, deserving of a little treat. So much had happened so quickly, no wonder her brain was whirling. Nigel needed her. Later tonight, she meant to be with him again.

The upstairs room was crammed with people. She’d bought the very last ticket, and took the last free plastic chair. The man next to her smelt of stale alcohol, and she realised it was Scott Durham. Their eyes met, and she thought – or was this silly over-sensitivity? – that he was dismayed to find her beside him. Anyone would think he’d been caught in a trap. When he said hello, his demeanour didn’t invite further conversation. But it was surely right to be sociable.

‘I came here on impulse,’ she said brightly. ‘Have you heard him speak before?’

Scott shook his head. ‘He used to be on television. I caught his programmes once or twice.’

‘The history of murder,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t suppose he’s intending to talk about Malcolm Whiteley, by any chance?’

‘If he does,’ Scott said in a low growl, ‘I’m leaving.’

He turned his head, to indicate that the conversation was over. Joanna considered his profile. Not a bad-looking man to this day, despite the added weight, but the grubby, moth-eaten fisherman’s jersey did him no favours. Did a guilty conscience plague him, was that why he’d let himself go? It had never crossed her mind before; the Dungeon House murders had turned her brain to mush. If the rumours were true, and Scott had been playing around with Mrs Whiteley, he might never have forgiven himself. Was he obsessed with the Whiteleys and the Dungeon House, was that why he pored over newspaper stories about young Shona’s disappearance?

An elderly man called Broderick who was something important in what he called ‘the West Cumbrian history community’ rapped on a table to silence the chatter, and introduced Daniel Kind. The speaker looked pleasant enough, but Joanna was suspicious of academics, especially Oxbridge types who led such a cosseted existence. They’d surely condescend to a woman who hadn’t made it to university, however good her reason. At least this chap came from Manchester, and didn’t speak in the plummy tones of wealth and privilege.

Murder had scarred her life, but for all its horrors, she couldn’t help but be fascinated by it. What made one person make up his or her mind to do something so … so
final
as to kill another? Over the past twenty years, whenever she’d
asked herself the question, she’d always found the answers unbearable.

As Daniel Kind talked about Thomas de Quincey, and something called the Ratcliffe Highway murder case, her thoughts drifted like lazy clouds. He was a good speaker, and his occasional wry jokes brought ripples of approval from his audience. History was all very well, but what really mattered was tonight and tomorrow, not yesterday. Malcolm Whiteley’s name wasn’t mentioned, thank goodness, and she luxuriated in her reverie until the lecture came to an end, and it was time for questions.

‘You said there are supposed to be six motives for murder,’ a man in the audience said. ‘What are they?’

‘A famous criminologist called Tennyson Jesse suggested half a dozen,’ Daniel said. ‘Gain, revenge, elimination, jealousy, conviction, and lust for killing.’

The man raised his hand again. ‘That doesn’t cater for assassinations.’

‘You’re right,’ Daniel said. ‘It’s a rough and ready analysis, but I’m talking about individual murder cases, not political killings or acts of terror like 9/11. The typical murder fits into one or other of Tennyson Jesse’s categories, wouldn’t you agree?’

Without stopping to think, Joanna blurted out. ‘Sometimes there’s more than one reason to commit murder, isn’t there?’

People sitting in front turned round to look at her. Joanna spotted Gray Elstone among the sea of inquisitive faces. He looked astonished, as if she was the last person in the world he expected to chip in with observations about homicide. At her side, Scott Durham stiffened. She didn’t
need to see his face to know he was unhappy. He hadn’t settled all evening. Several times, he’d surreptitiously checked his phone, and he’d kept shifting in his chair. Joanna felt herself blushing.

Daniel Kind gave her a friendly nod. ‘Perfectly true.’

‘Like murdering your husband, and cashing in on the insurance?’ A grey-haired woman in the front row suggested.

People laughed, someone asked a question about Doctor Crippen, and the discussion moved on. Scott Durham grunted something unintelligible, and heaved himself out of the chair, pushing through people standing at the back of the room, in the direction of the staircase. Heaven only knew what had got into him.

Not that it mattered in the least, not tonight of all nights. The night when she was going to get what she wanted.

As she unlocked her car, Hannah called back to Billie. ‘One thing you might like to check out.’

‘Go on.’

‘Whether Josh Durham ever taught at Lily Elstone’s school.’ Billie’s eyes widened. ‘I’ll get on to it first thing tomorrow.’

‘Thanks, Billie. Goodnight.’

Was this the breakthrough they’d been waiting for? It was a cool, clear night, and Hannah found herself shivering. If Josh Durham was, by some chance, a serial abductor of underage girls he taught who had kidnapped Lily long before turning his attention to Shona Whiteley, Lily was bound to be dead, and Shona’s life was in grave danger. If he hadn’t killed her already.

Joanna scurried back to her room as soon as Broderick had given the vote of thanks to Daniel Kind. She had no time to hang around. Thank goodness you-can-call-me-Al wasn’t stationed behind his counter as usual. Getting herself ready took five minutes. After a final check of her make-up and hair in the bathroom mirror, she picked up her bag, and hurried downstairs. In a wild flight of fancy, she’d wondered about using the fire escape. But how could she explain dodging around like a fugitive from justice? Her luck held, and neither you-can-call-me-Al nor any of the other guests were lurking downstairs. Nobody saw her slip through the side door. Before stepping into the Eskdale Arms, she’d squeezed her Polo into a tiny gap behind a brick wall. It wasn’t overlooked, like the car park, and with Main Street full of people who’d come for the talk, she had no desire to bump into anyone she knew.

Just as well she’d only drunk one small glass of wine. As she switched on the engine, she felt giddy with excitement, all because she was hugging a secret. Catching sight of herself in the rear-view mirror, she saw wide, bright eyes, slightly parted red lips. Secrets enthralled her, always had done. Even if the secret made her feel ashamed, just like in her younger days, long before her hairweave, when she’d started wearing a wig.

She swung the car out on to the road, and headed out of the village. Her mood was so light and breezy, she put on the radio, and sang ‘I Say a Little Prayer’ along with Aretha Franklin. An anthem that captured her hopes and dreams. As the song said, forever, and ever, that’s how it would be.

In next to no time, she’d arrived at the car park by the dunes of Drigg. There were no other vehicles, no late night
dog walkers setting off for a stroll along the moonlit beach. She consulted her phone. Ten o’clock, dead on. She’d done exactly as she’d been asked. Five minutes passed, and the moon dipped behind the clouds. A shiver of disappointment ran down her spine. Surely Nigel wasn’t playing a game with her?

Might he be waiting for her in the look-out post? It would be so romantic, but he’d said nothing about it. Besides, where was his car? The big BMW she’d seen parked outside Ravenglass Knoll was nowhere in sight.

She left the car, and looked and listened, but the night air was cold and dark and silent. Scrambling back into her seat, she played the voicemail message again. Nigel must have rung shortly after she left the Dungeon House. She always switched her mobile off while driving.

‘
Can you meet me at the car park by the dunes at Drigg this evening, please? Ten o’clock
.’

That was all. He spoke in a hoarse whisper, as if afraid someone might overhear. The first time she’d listened, she’d been so thrilled that she hadn’t stopped to wonder why.

She trembled as she put the phone into her bag. It was Nigel’s voice, surely. Who else could it possibly be? Why would anyone pretend to be him? How ridiculous to upset herself for no reason. Better play the message one more time, just to make sure.

But when she listened again, it made her less sure. That breathy tone, well, it might almost have belonged to anyone. Possibly even a husky-voiced woman. Yet it had to be Nigel; nothing else made sense. She’d given him her phone number, and his parting words had been a promise
to give her a ring when he had a chance. He hadn’t said when, but of course he was on edge, waiting for news that Shona was safe and well.

Nigel wasn’t the only person around her who knew the number. She’d given it to Gray Elstone, hoping they’d keep in touch, and she’d asked Robbie Dean to pass it on to Nigel. Come to that, she’d put the number down on the form when checking in at the guest house. Could Alvaro Quiggin have passed it on – to Scott Durham, for instance?

Tears pricked her eyes at the thought one of them might have played a horrid trick. A puerile prank, making fun of her because she still carried a torch for an old boyfriend. Was someone watching out there in the darkness right now, gloating because she’d fallen for it, hook, line and sinker?

Her heart pounded, and she’d started sweating despite the chill outside. Oh God, her mascara might run. If this was a hoax, it was very cruel.

And then, thank God, she heard the sound of a vehicle, coming down the lane. She craned her neck, but the engine cut out before it entered her line of vision. She prayed it wasn’t some security guard from the nuclear waste site. Or some pervy bloke. Or a couple wanting to be alone in a deserted car park.

She wound down her window, and heard footsteps approaching. Then she saw a dark figure in a crash helmet. Terror paralysed her as the man – she was sure it was a man – wrenched open her car door. A gloved hand grasped her wrist roughly, and tried to pull her out, but she was still wearing her seat belt.

Shutting her eyes, too frightened to scream, she felt a
sharp point prick her neck. Her flesh punctured, and she let out a little cry. It wasn’t really painful, but the shock was too much to bear.

‘Look at me.’ The same hoarse whisper she’d heard on the voicemail message.

She forced herself to open her eyes. It wasn’t Nigel who was staring at her. And it wasn’t Nigel’s knife blade which grazed her throat.

A thick morning mist smothered Tarn Fell and the land beneath the slopes. Looking out from the warmth of the kitchen, Hannah could see no more than two or three twisted, spectral blurs formed by thick tree branches. The cipher garden was otherwise invisible. No bird sang, no creature stirred, the world outside was silent grey nothingness.

The fog meant the drive to work would take longer, as she’d be forced to crawl along the meandering lanes of Brackdale. After checking the forecast last night, she’d set the alarm half an hour early, and slipped out of bed while Daniel remained dead to the world. His ability to sleep through any disturbance never ceased to amaze her. He’d arrived home late last night, and she hadn’t waited up. The big surprise came as she was pouring her coffee. He sauntered in to the warm kitchen, wearing boxer shorts and a wide grin. A nice sight to greet her on a dismal day.

‘Perfect timing,’ she said. ‘Toast’s almost ready, and the coffee’s made.’

He swung his arms around her, and they kissed. She felt his solid body pressing against her, and forced herself to pull away before she yielded to temptation, and finished up very late for work.

‘I was in Santon Bridge yesterday,’ she said, as the toaster beeped, and four slices of wholegrain popped up. ‘I almost came along to watch you perform.’

‘Don’t feel bad about missing out.’ That grin made him look like a cheeky teenager. ‘The bedroom mirror will be perfect for that tonight.’

Picking up a piece of toast, she flung it at him, but he caught it one-handed with infuriating nonchalance. He had the same love of cricket as his father, and as a teenager, he’d kept wicket for the county schoolboys’ team.

‘Behave.’

He yawned. ‘I was on my best behaviour last night, and …’

‘Can’t keep it up forever?’

‘Now you behave yourself. This evening, I’m at Gosforth, one glitzy venue after another. Can you cope without me?’

She made a derisive noise, and waved him into a chair. ‘Eat that toast, build up your strength for tomorrow night.’

‘What happened yesterday? I thought you were off to St Bees to grill old Loney.’

‘One thing led to another. That’s police work for you.’ She summarised the progress she’d made. ‘I’d love to speak to this Footit woman.’

‘But she wasn’t around when Lily Elstone disappeared, and strictly speaking, the Dungeon House killings aren’t your concern.’

She put on a sad face. ‘Nosey cow, aren’t I?’

‘Pleasantly inquisitive,’ he said. ‘See, I’m on my best behaviour now.’

‘Whatever. Yes, Dungeon House doesn’t count as a cold case, because it’s officially solved. Even so, I’d love to prove your Dad was right, and show there was more to the whole affair than Desmond’s gut told him. Serve the old bastard right if he suffers a belated bout of indigestion. If Ben had taken part in the enquiry, I bet he’d have discovered that the person Anton Friend saw that night was Joanna Footit.’

Daniel rubbed his eyes. ‘You’re sure it was her?’

‘Who else could it have been? Weird that she’s turned up in the neighbourhood after all this time.’

‘A tall woman, thin as a rake, and with long, thick red hair, who’s currently staying in Ravenglass,’ he said dreamily. ‘You know what? She might just have been a member of my audience last night.’

‘Why would she turn up for a talk about history? I mean, I know your TV programmes were popular, but …’

‘Not that popular, huh? Ah, you’d be surprised about the power of the telly.’ He smeared marmalade over his toast. ‘Admittedly, there’s not a huge amount to do in Ravenglass on a spring evening. It makes Kendal look like Las Vegas. She may have fancied whiling away an hour or two before going back to her room.’

‘Hey, perhaps it wasn’t your dazzling personality that
tempted her out, but your subject matter. Murder in the past.’

‘She did ask an interesting question. Or perhaps she was simply making a statement of fact.’

Hannah put down her mug. ‘I need to hear this.’

He told her what Joanna had said. ‘Of course, she might not have anything specific in mind. Can there be more than one reason to murder someone? The answer has to be yes.’

‘She didn’t elaborate?’

‘Didn’t utter another peep. She didn’t hang around to chat afterwards, either.’

‘Don’t tell me she missed out on a signed copy of your book?’

‘Incredible, isn’t it? Tossing away a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.’ Another cheeky grin. ‘Perhaps she’ll think better of it, and show up again tonight. Or perhaps not. She left the moment the last question was asked, as if she’d had enough. I caught sight of her making for the exit. She stands out in a crowd, she’s so much taller than most women. At least six foot. And her whole appearance is … striking.’

‘Did you think she was wearing a wig?’

‘Never crossed my mind. Not that I took a close look at her.’

‘Her hair may have grown back after all these years. I need to find out more about alopecia, but apparently its effects vary from person to person. Maybe she’s had a professional hairweave. I’m not sure if they were widely available twenty years ago.’

‘Tell you one thing.’ He built up the suspense by biting
off a large piece of toast, and chewing it with infuriating deliberation.

‘The woman ruffled feathers when she spoke up. The guy sitting next to her seemed extremely pissed off by what she said. His face reddened and he gave her a very hard stare.’

‘Description?’

‘Rumpled, fifties. Fairish hair, baggy jersey that had seen better days.’

‘Can you be more specific?’

‘I deduced he’d spent many years in the Far East, smoked Trichinopoly cigars, and wore pink underpants.’ He shook his head. ‘Give me a break, Hannah, I was concentrating on the questions, not on profiling the people asking them.’

‘Okay, okay, I wondered if it was someone who knew Joanna from the old days.’

‘Such as?’

‘Scott Durham springs to mind. The local artist. Hey Sherlock, I don’t suppose you noticed any paint splashes on his jumper?’

‘Sorry. Looks like my childhood dream of becoming a great detective is turning to dust.’

She gave him a goodbye kiss and murmured, ‘Not to worry. There are a few other things you’re very good at.’

The mist was clearing as Hannah joined the long queue tailing back from a red light on the outskirts of Kendal, but her brain was fogged with confusion. The Dungeon House killings, the presumed abduction and murder of Lily Elstone, and the disappearance of Shona
Whiteley were three distinct cases, separated by time, but connected by a small group of people. If she could figure out the missing links, she could grope toward the truth – or, as regards the Dungeon House killings, the
whole
truth. But what mattered most was to find out what happened to Lily. Gray Elstone and his ex-wife deserved answers. Not knowing their daughter’s fate must be a living nightmare.

As the lights turned to green, she found herself wondering how she’d feel once she was installed in her new flat. It was only five minutes from here. Saving time on commuting would be a huge bonus, but she’d miss Tarn Cottage. For the hundredth time she asked herself if she was making a mistake by insisting on independence, cutting off her nose to spite her face. Absence didn’t necessarily make the heart grow fonder. What if Daniel found someone else?
Que sera sera
. Her decision was made.

When at long last she arrived at her desk, her diary was crowded with meetings and reminders to comply with tedious bits of bureaucracy, and her inbox flooded with emails. Anyone would think she’d been out of the office for a month, rather than twenty-four hours. Rather than tackle the backlog, she sought out Maggie Eyre.

‘I bumped into Billie five minutes ago,’ Maggie said. ‘She told me about your conversation last night. Sorry I couldn’t make it, by the way, but it was my grandparents’ golden wedding party.’

Family always came first with Maggie. ‘Any more news?’

‘Josh Durham never taught at any school that Lily attended.’

‘Lots of music teachers give private tuition. If Josh …’

‘Billie thought of that. She’s rung up both Gray Elstone and Anya Jovetic to check. They paid for Lily to have extra lessons in everything from playing the violin to Mandarin Chinese. Money no object. Each parent is putting together a list of teachers they hired for Lily over the years. Sounds like the list runs for pages. So far, there’s no sign of Josh Durham’s name on it.’

Hannah exhaled. ‘It was always a long shot. Any more news about where he might be right now?’

‘Nothing, but the plan is to re-interview Lily’s friends, see if they can shed any light.’

‘I’ll tell you about yesterday.’ Hannah gave her a potted summary, and said, ‘I want to see Joanna Footit, and find out what she was doing outside the Dungeon House on the night of the shootings.’

‘You’re sure it
was
her?’

‘Anton Friend has stuck to the same story all these years. He may have been pissed, but the sight of someone almost diving under his wheels in the dark made a big impression. It must be Joanna.’

‘She had no reason to be there.’

‘What if Amber called her over, in a state of panic?’

‘If she did, by the time Joanna arrived, Malcolm Whiteley had probably done his worst.’

‘True. I’m wondering why she kept quiet.’

‘You don’t think she was … involved with Whiteley in some way?’

Hannah frowned. ‘All I’ve been told is that she fancied his nephew.’

‘Might have been a bluff.’

‘In that case, she was a good actress.’

‘Some women are.’ Maggie paused. ‘Or how about this? What if Lysette Whiteley’s lover wasn’t a bloke – but a young woman?’

‘Joanna?’ Hannah mulled this over. ‘Seems unlikely.’

‘You never know.’ Maggie’s cheeks reddened. ‘She might just have wanted … to experiment.’

‘I’ll put in a call to her, and see if we can meet. And I’d better run the gauntlet with Cheryl again, see if she can tell me more about Joanna and Lysette. Fancy coming along to Ravenglass with me?’

Maggie’s face fell. ‘I’d love to, but Linz and I are booked in for training on Information Security all afternoon.’

‘It’s probably against the rules even to tell me that. Enjoy.’

‘Absolutely ridiculous.’ Cheryl’s voice quivered with homophobic outrage. ‘Lysette would never look at another woman, not in that way. I knew her almost from the day she could walk, and she was perfectly normal in every respect. I can’t imagine why people have to go around blackening …’

‘We have to consider every possibility,’ Hannah interrupted. ‘However outlandish.’

‘Sounds to me like you’re getting desperate.’ Cheryl sniffed. ‘Desmond Loney proved as useless as ever, presumably?’

‘Pretty much.’ Hannah was glad to change the subject. ‘I’m hoping to talk to Joanna Footit shortly’

‘Joanna? My God, what’s she up to nowadays?’

‘She’s back in the Lakes on holiday, I’m told.’

‘She never had much luck, what with her health problems and her appearance. To say nothing about the car crash.’

‘Tell me more about the car crash.’

‘It was Robbie Dean’s fault, or so Lysette told me. I was living in Manchester at the time. Robbie and Nigel Whiteley were bosom buddies, and one night they’d taken their girlfriends out to a club in Whitehaven. Robbie was showing off, and as they were driving back past Sellafield, the car veered off the road and into a tree. Robbie was badly injured, and the girl in the passenger seat was killed. Joanna and Nigel had been smooching in the back, and they weren’t hurt, but the shock was devastating. And no sooner had she recovered and found herself a decent job with Gray Elstone, than her best friend was murdered. No wonder she lost the plot.’

As Hannah put down the phone, the new admin assistant looked in. She was an Estonian girl who had moved to Cumbria after meeting a lad from Cleator Moor whilst he was over in Tallinn for a stag party. She was bright, spoke good English, and had interviewed well, but Hannah was yet to be convinced about her diligence.

‘Sorry, ma’am. Joanna Footit isn’t at the guest house. I tried to leave a message, but the owner isn’t sure when she’ll be coming back. He wonders if she has moved elsewhere.’

‘You’re not telling me she’s done a bunk?’ The girl looked mystified. ‘Left in a hurry to avoid paying her bills?’

‘She paid in advance with her credit card, so she is not trying to dodge payment.’

‘Then why leave suddenly?’

‘The owner says he does not have an idea.’

‘What makes him think she might have left permanently?’

‘He was not clear. She has left some of her things in her room.’

‘Then she must be coming back.’

‘Her bed was not slept in last night. And her car is missing.’

‘She was in Ravenglass yesterday evening. Someone … saw her.’ The girl shrugged helplessly, and Hannah gave up. ‘Thanks, Edita, it’s all right. I’ll take over from here.’

If you want a job doing, do it yourself. Delegation had never been Hannah’s strong point. Inside two minutes, she was talking to the proprietor of the Saltcoats View Guest House. Alvaro Quiggin sounded wary, and no wonder. It isn’t every day you receive a phone call from a detective chief inspector.

‘I told the other young lady.’ He paused, as if anxious to phrase his reply with care. ‘Joanna left no message. I suppose she will come back, I simply don’t know.’

‘How many of her belongings are left in the room?’

‘How would I know? I haven’t rifled through them, it wouldn’t be … appropriate.’ Hannah visualised him puffing his chest out with self-righteous outrage. Why did people so often try to take the moral high ground when talking to the police? It was totally counter-productive. ‘She might walk back through the door at any moment.’

‘In the meantime, you’ve no idea where she may be?’

He hesitated, as if tempted to retort
I’m not her keeper
.

‘None whatsoever.’

Yet he’d referred to her as Joanna, not Ms Footit. Was
Quiggin a naturally informal guy, on first name terms with any guest who booked in for a day or two? Or had he got to know this particular woman well, and if so, what was his interest in her?