The Dungeon House (Lake District Mysteries) (17 page)

‘Has she done this before?’

‘No, this is the first time her bed has been undisturbed, and she hasn’t eaten breakfast. Come to that, I didn’t see her car when I locked up last night.’

‘Were you surprised?’

‘Not exactly. She used to live in Holmrook, she knows people round here. She may be staying with friends. If she had a few drinks, she probably decided it wasn’t safe to drive home.’

‘Without letting you know?’

‘She’s perfectly entitled to come and go as she pleases.’

‘I believe she attended a lecture in the Eskdale Arms last night.’

‘You are very well informed, Detective Chief Inspector.’ He sounded disconcerted. ‘She mentioned the talk to me yesterday evening, it was given by a historian. I had some information about it, and we had a brief chat. I’d thought about dropping in myself’

‘You didn’t see her there?’

‘In the end, I didn’t bother with the talk. In this job, there’s always plenty to be done. I mended a broken wardrobe instead.’ A nervous laugh. ‘Never a dull moment, eh?’

Hannah said, ‘This talk – the subject was murder wasn’t it?’

‘The
history
of murder,’ he corrected. ‘The speaker used to present a series on television.’

‘Did Ms Footit say why she was interested?’

‘I assumed she merely wanted to pass the time.’

‘She didn’t mention doing anything else afterwards – like visiting friends?’

‘No, and I didn’t ask.’ He cleared his throat. ‘She’s not … done anything, has she?’

‘I simply want a quick word with her.’

‘You’ll have the opportunity shortly, I presume. I still expect her back, even if she’s found somewhere else to stay, if only to collect her things. I’m sure she isn’t in hiding. She doesn’t strike me as that sort of person.’

‘What sort of person is she?’

‘Pleasant. And … enthusiastic, I suppose. Yes, pleased to be back in the area where she grew up, and keen to make the most of her time here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, someone has been waiting patiently to ask about vacancies …’

Hannah asked him to confirm Joanna’s phone number and car registration from her booking details, and left it there. She tried the mobile, but it went straight to voicemail.

Les Bryant poked his head around her door. ‘Going to this meeting about the new Communications Strategy?’

‘Nobody told me about it.’

He sniggered. ‘Nothing would surprise me in this place.’

‘I’m scheduled for a briefing on the Transparency Agenda, plus catch-ups with Finance and HR either side of lunch. Not to mention ten minutes ruled out for that photo shoot for the new ID cards to get us in and out of the building, and an hour’s online course about …’

‘A fun life you lead. Makes me sad that I’m a self-employed consultant, missing out on so many treats.’

‘Aren’t I the lucky one? Whatever happened to what Desmond loves to call
good old-fashioned bobbying
?’

‘Who cares as long as the crime stats are moving in the right direction? Not the powers-that-be, for sure.’ He stepped out into the corridor. ‘See you later.’

Hannah asked herself, not for the first time, whether she simply was not cut out for management. In her twenties, she’d been regarded as a high flyer, and she’d risen fast. Perhaps too fast. Before long her career nose-dived, and before she could catch her breath, she found herself relegated to reviewing cold cases. A career cul-de-sac, yes, but she loved delving into the past. It wasn’t just that it helped her to understand why historical research bewitched Daniel. She had so much more autonomy than colleagues investigating crimes in the here and now, and management responsibilities were a price worth paying. With a small, over-stretched team, she had the luxury of getting her hands dirty with proper detective work. How exhilarating to deliver justice to people who had waited years to learn the truth about a crime that once seemed insoluble. Was Joanna Footit one of those people, or did she know more than anyone alive about what had actually happened twenty years ago at the Dungeon House? Hannah needed to know.

So … what to do next?

Good Hannah was duty bound to attend the various activities scheduled for her, even if the online course was one more wearisome example of ‘sheep-dip training’. Bad Hannah would suffer a severe memory lapse – why not
blame deficiencies in the IT system? They were a reliable scapegoat. She could race off to Ravenglass before anyone trapped her in a corner, and started blathering away about key performance indicators.

Good Hannah never stood a chance. Her evil twin opened the door, and chased after Les.

‘So what’s our plan of action?’ Les asked, as they caught a glimpse of the Irish Sea through the drizzle.

He’d spent the journey regaling her with anecdotes of his life as a young policeman in Yorkshire. Hannah let his reminiscences drift over her, like a kid luxuriating in a surfeit of bedtime stories.

‘Here’s my carefully considered strategy. Play it by ear, and see what happens.’

He laughed. ‘You’re a woman after my own heart. We need a slice of luck. Think of how they finally caught the Yorkshire Ripper, the Black Panther, and the rest. A good detective happens to be in the right place at the right time. Sat behind a desk is never the right place, not for the likes of you and me.’

As they parked at Ravenglass station. Les said, ‘Five past twelve. Don’t know about you, but my stomach’s already rumbling.’

‘Quick bite before we talk to the chap at the guest house? Want to try the Eskdale Arms?’

‘You read my mind.’

‘Let’s make a dash for it.’ The rain was now teeming down. ‘Last one to the bar pays for lunch.’

Given the state of Les’ knees, it was an unfair contest, and she was ordering at the counter by the time he
lumbered up, puffing and grunting as though he’d run a marathon.

‘So this is where Lysette and Amber Whiteley ate their last meal,’ she whispered, as Les’ eyes feasted on the voluptuous Polish barmaid.

Les sniffed. ‘Not really a selling point. Decent place, mind.’

She wasn’t quite sure if he was approving the location, the menu, or the barmaid. Ravenglass was gorgeous, even on a murky day. Hannah had the police officer’s habit of checking out her surroundings, but she forced herself to concentrate on fellow customers, rather than the view. Two men at a table by the window caught her eye. They were sipping pints, and talking quietly. Both were in their fifties. One was no oil painting, but his companion was good-looking in a haggard, bleary-eyed way. A fair-haired, blue-eyed bloke who’d seen better days. So had his fisherman’s jersey. She’d googled Scott Durham, and taken a look at his website. His photo suggested someone younger and sexier, but this was him, no question. He only lived round the corner, and his pasty complexion suggested more time spent at his local than catching up on his beauty sleep. Imagining him twenty years younger, however, Hannah saw why Lysette Whiteley had been smitten. Allegedly.

Durham’s companion was speaking. Hannah tried to shut out every sound except his voice, and her concentration was rewarded when she caught her own name.

‘… called herself DCI Scarlett. But why would she want …?’

His voice was so low that it wasn’t easy to recognise,
but it could only be the man she’d spoken to on the phone. Alvaro Quiggin – what a brilliant name. Les was still mesmerised by the barmaid’s cleavage, so she elbowed him in the ribs, and nodded toward the two men. All of a sudden, she was no longer hungry. The pangs she felt were curiosity, pure and simple. Durham and Quiggin were worried, and she had an aching desire to understand why.

Only one way to find out.

‘Mr Quiggin?’

The guest house owner looked up sharply. Hannah suspected that he wasn’t often approached by strange women in bars. That comb-over …

‘I’m DCI Hannah Scarlett. We spoke earlier.’

His small eyes opened very wide, but what struck Hannah was his companion’s reaction. The colour drained from Scott Durham’s face as she introduced herself. She rarely had such an effect on even the most incompetent of criminals. The artist was panic-stricken. She couldn’t resist a cheap flourish.

‘And this is Mr Durham, I presume?’

He seemed incapable of speech. Quiggin rose, and extended his hand.

‘Hello, Chief Inspector. Yes, I’m Alvaro Quiggin. This is a surprise, I must say.’ He cleared his throat. ‘When we talked on the phone, you never mentioned you’d be visiting Ravenglass in person.’

‘No,’ Hannah agreed. ‘I didn’t.’

Les had torn himself away from the barmaid, and as Hannah introduced him. Quiggin shifted in his chair.

‘Didn’t you say you were calling from Kendal? Surely the two of you haven’t come all this way simply because one of my lady guests didn’t sleep in her own bedroom last night?’ He gave an uneasy laugh. ‘I mean, if that’s enough to get the police out, Main Street would forever be choked with panda cars.’

‘Ms Footit still hasn’t turned up?’

‘No, but I can’t tell you any more than I did when we spoke.’

Scott Durham found his voice. ‘Why do you want to talk to Joanna?’

‘Mind if we join you?’ Les pulled up a couple of chairs without waiting for a reply.

‘You’ll appreciate,’ Hannah said, ‘that we can’t divulge confidential information. As I said, I’m in charge of a team reviewing certain old files.’

‘Old files?’ Durham seemed to relax fractionally. ‘I don’t understand. Joanna’s been living in Lancashire for the past twenty years.’

‘Have you seen her since she came back?’

‘Well …’ He seemed afraid of a booby trap. ‘Well – yes, I suppose I have.’

‘You suppose?’ She waited as the Polish girl served their baguettes. ‘Don’t you know for certain?’

‘Sorry … I mean, yes, we’ve bumped into each other once or twice. Passed the time of day, so to speak. That’s all I can—’

Quiggin interrupted. ‘If you ask me, she’s catching up with old friends at this very moment.’

‘Nostalgic about old times, is she?’ Hannah asked. ‘That’s odd. When she lived here, she was involved in a fatal car crash, and suffered a breakdown. No sooner had she recovered from that than her closest friend was murdered. I’m not surprised she left the area. It’s harder to understand why she returned.’

‘She … she’d heard about her old boyfriend, Nigel Whiteley,’ Scott Durham muttered. ‘He’s in the news lately, you must know. This fuss about his daughter. I’d guess she’s dreamt of rekindling their romance. I wouldn’t put it past her. Joanna’s a sweet girl – woman – but she was always desperately naive. She’s already got more than she bargained for.’

‘Meaning what?’ Les demanded.

Durham shot Quiggin a quick glance. ‘Oh, nothing.’

If he was trying to deflect attention away from himself, he was succeeding. Les moved closer to him, and repeated,

‘More than she bargained for?’

‘Like I say, it was nothing. I suppose she had no idea Al was Carrie’s father.’

Quiggin swallowed some beer, and put his tankard down with exaggerated care. ‘I’m not with you.’

Durham’s eyebrows rose. ‘Al, don’t tell me you didn’t know?’ he said. ‘She has an unusual surname, I presumed you realised who she was.’

‘Who she was?’

‘Joanna was the other passenger.’

‘She was … Nigel Whiteley’s girlfriend.’

‘That’s right. As the Chief Inspector says, it took her a long time to recover.’

The conversation had raced away down a fresh track,
and Hannah needed to keep up. ‘The
other
passenger?’

‘Yes,’ Scott Durham said. ‘Four people were in the car on the night of the crash. Nigel and Joanna, and Robbie Dean and his girlfriend. She was known as Carrie North, but Al here was her Dad.’

‘My wife left me long before Carrie died,’ Quiggin muttered. ‘She married again, though it didn’t last. She made Carrie take the husband’s surname.’

‘Were you living here at the time of the accident?’

‘No, I only moved to Ravenglass three and a half years ago, when the guest house came on the market. Before then, I lived in the North East, where Carrie was born. She’d lived in Carlisle for years, that’s where her mother moved with her fancy man.’ He breathed out. ‘My wife did everything in her power to destroy my relationship with Carrie. At the time she died, I was a stranger to her. My only child.’

‘Why move here? Plenty of guest houses in the north east.’

‘It sounds stupid and sentimental,’ he muttered. ‘She’s buried not far away, in Gosforth. I liked Ravenglass, and I liked the idea of being close to her. Simple as that.’

‘You didn’t realise Joanna was in the car when your daughter died?’

‘No.’ He was gazing toward the bar, but Hannah was sure he wasn’t ogling the Polish barmaid. ‘No, I’d forgotten the name, that’s all. It’s Carrie who needs remembering. If I don’t remember her, who will?’

Hannah caught Les giving an almost imperceptible nod toward Scott Durham. Quite right; she mustn’t allow herself to be side-tracked. ‘As you say, Carrie was your
only child. And Mr Durham, you have one son, don’t you?’

Durham coloured, but didn’t reply directly. ‘You said you were reviewing old files, Chief Inspector. Surely not in connection with the car crash?’

‘No, a couple of other things. A girl went missing three years ago, and …’

‘Gray Elstone’s daughter?’ Quiggin interrupted. ‘Joanna Footit knew Gray. But I can’t see how she can possibly …’

‘What was the other thing?’ Scott Durham asked. ‘Surely not the Dungeon House case?’

‘Why do you say
surely not
?’ Hannah lowered her voice, as if about to impart a secret. ‘To be frank, there are one or two loose ends …’

‘Loose ends? After all this time? You can’t be serious. Everyone knows what happened. Malcolm Whiteley went crazy with his rifle. End of.’

‘You were here that night, weren’t you, Mr Durham?’ Hannah indicated their surroundings. ‘Dining with Mrs Whiteley and her daughter. Along with Joanna Footit and Gray Elstone.’

‘Is that a crime?’ Durham snapped. ‘You make it sound like I should feel guilty. As it happens, a police inspector and his lady friend were with us. Why not talk to him? Maybe he should have realised what Whiteley was about to do, and saved two innocent lives.’

Without intending to, he’d struck a nerve. The killings had gnawed at Ben Kind. Hannah knew he’d beaten himself up, wondering if anything he might have done would have made a difference; he was that sort of man. Yet Whiteley’s
rampage had come out of the blue – hadn’t it?

‘Mrs Whiteley didn’t have an inkling of what her husband was capable of?’

‘Obviously not. Otherwise, she and her daughter would never have gone back home that night, would they?’

His reply verged on condescending. Time to regain the initiative.

‘Surely she confided in you?’

The blue eyes were chilly with disdain. ‘We were friends, but she wasn’t likely to discuss her marriage with me.’

‘You painted together, didn’t you? She attended your art group, and you gave her personal tuition. I understood you were … close.’

‘Then you understood wrong.’ He folded his arms. ‘Don’t think I wasn’t aware of the rumours swirling around after that bastard shot Lysette. Let me tell you this, Chief Inspector. There wasn’t an iota of truth in any of them. That’s all I intend to say about her. In my opinion, she and Amber should be left to rest in peace.’

Quiggin made a performance of consulting his wrist watch, and then stood up. ‘I have to go. A family of guests will be arriving any minute.’

‘Thanks for your time.’ Hannah handed him a card. ‘Perhaps Joanna Footit will turn up as well. If she does, could you let me know, and ask her to give me a ring?’

He gave her a curt nod, and said, ‘I’ll see you later, Scott. And don’t worry, eh?’

Hannah expected that Scott Durham would seize the opportunity to follow him out of the door, but he stayed put. Studying his fingernails, as if trying to come to a decision.

Les said, ‘Something worrying you, Mr Durham?’

He shot them a furtive glance. ‘I wonder … perhaps we could go to my cottage? It’s only a few doors down the road. I’d prefer to continue this conversation in private, if you don’t mind.’

They told him they’d be round in ten minutes. The rain had eased off, and they walked along the Green so that Hannah could call Divisional HQ to learn the latest about Josh Durham without being overheard.

‘What do you reckon?’ she asked as she dialled.

‘He’s hiding something,’ Les diagnosed. ‘About the son, rather than the Dungeon House.’

‘And Quiggin?’ Hannah asked as she dialled.

‘Would he hate Joanna because she survived that car crash, while his darling daughter died?’ He shrugged. ‘Funny bugger, that one.’

Hannah asked to be put through to Billie Frederick, who sounded cock-a-hoop.

‘We’ve struck oil! The Jovetic woman has remembered that Lily took part in a pantomime the Christmas before she disappeared. Two of her school teachers were in the cast, along with several pupils, but the show was organised by a charity, and guess who was on the committee?’

‘Not Josh Durham?’ Hannah squeezed the required amount of wonder into her question, and was rewarded by a hoot of glee.

‘Bull’s eye! So they did know each other, after all.’

‘Les and I have just met Josh’s Dad, and he wants to talk to us in private.’

‘Fantastic!’

‘Let’s see how much he knows about his son’s interest in young girls. As soon as we’re done, I’ll ring you back.’

She stuffed her phone into her bag, and they strolled down Main Street to Scott Durham’s cottage. Pretty at a distance, but on closer inspection, like its owner, it was showing its age. Grubby windows, peeling paint. Making money as an artist in the Lakes wasn’t easy, with so much competition. It didn’t help if you drank away a large chunk of your earnings.

‘This way.’

Durham motioned them into the studio. Jazz music was playing in the background.
Mood Indigo
. She and Les sat on a sofa facing the estuary. On an easel was a not-quite-finished view of Buttermere at sunset. Paintbrushes were everywhere, and half a dozen folders of pictures lay on a vast rectangular table in the middle of the room. All around was the paraphernalia of the modern commercial artist’s trade, a computer, scanner and printer, and a sophisticated-looking camera on a tripod.

‘I photograph the views I want to paint.’ Scott Durham’s haggard expression lightened; he was talking about his passion in life. ‘It’s vital to capture what I’ve seen, before subtle changes creep in. The quality of light alters so quickly, it can change in a few minutes, especially during that magical hour before sunset.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Time passes, and it makes a difference. Which is why we like to review investigations. Take a look with fresh eyes.’

He grimaced. ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here,’

‘We’re all ears, Mr Durham.’

‘It’s about my son, Josh.’

Her calm nod made clear this was no surprise.

‘You’re … aware of him, then?’

‘Yes, we are.’

‘What – what do you know?’

‘We’ll make quicker progress,’ she said, ‘if the two of us ask the questions, and you answer them. Why don’t you tell us about Josh? Start at the beginning.’

Durham sighed. An intelligent man, Hannah surmised, brought low by melancholy and resentment. As if he’d failed to play a good hand of cards to his best advantage. Life’s mishaps had defeated him, and he didn’t think it was fair.

‘Josh was always a solitary lad. I suppose his upbringing didn’t help. His mother was diagnosed with cancer when he was young, and she struggled with the disease for an eternity until it finally beat her. Once she was gone, Josh was all I had left. Along with my art, of course. That helped, but I was miserable as sin, and I wasn’t the best father. His refuge was the guitar, mine was painting.’

‘You never remarried?’

‘I’m coming to that,’ he said. ‘I was sure that it would do Josh good if the two of us had female company. I wasn’t looking for someone to replace his mother, that would be crass. Just someone to help create a normal family environment for him. And I won’t lie, I also wanted a lover, someone to keep my mind off what I lost when Trish died, a woman as different from her as possible. Preferably, to be blunt, someone who was gagging for it in bed.’

Hannah tried to look non-judgmental, and failed. He said, ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

‘I doubt it, Mr Durham.’

‘You’re thinking Lysette Whiteley fitted the bill, but you’re way off beam. I don’t mind admitting, I slept with a dozen or more women who were members of my art group, or came to me for lessons in watercolour technique. Lysette wasn’t one of them. I fancied her, and we got on like a house on fire, but she always stayed out of reach. With hindsight, I suspect the idea of illicit romance turned her on, but she baulked at the prospect of turning fantasy into reality. I don’t think morality had much to do with it. More likely, she was frightened of Malcolm, and guessed what he was capable of, if he discovered she’d been unfaithful. I was wary of him myself. Not that I expected him to go on a shooting spree, I hasten to add. But he had a lot of money, and a vicious streak, and he could have made life difficult for me if he’d wanted.’

‘You and Lysette Whiteley were Just Good Friends?’ Les asked.

‘Please, there’s no need for cynicism. It was a long time ago, why would I lie?’

‘Okay, keep talking.’

‘The shootings came as a bolt from the blue. Utterly shocking. It was such an extraordinary experience. To know that people were pointing the finger at me … the atmosphere in the local community was dreadful, the whole business was quite surreal.’