The Dungeon House (Lake District Mysteries) (2 page)

Cheek smarting, head throbbing, he heaved himself to his feet, and poured whisky into the tumbler. He downed it in one, and trudged across the hall to the study. His lair, his private kingdom, a sanctuary looking out toward the Irish Sea. A computer sat on a desk, and a small bookcase stood beside the radiator. He yanked a key from his pocket, and unlocked a cupboard facing the window.

Inside lay the Winchester, polished and smooth. He took it out, and started stroking the barrel. Strange, the comfort given by the caress of a weapon. A mysterious impulse prompted him to raise the barrel to his lips, and he tasted the kiss of cold, hard steel.

Joanna Footit squinted through her bedroom curtains. Seven forty-five, and already sunlight streaked the painted stonework of Ulverston. Perfect weather for this afternoon’s barbecue at the Dungeon House. Across the road from her flat, scarlet begonias blazed in hanging baskets, and bunting fluttered above cars humming through the labyrinth of streets.

Two burly traders were manhandling crates in the direction of the market hall, and she dodged out of their line of vision. She looked so dreadful before she got herself ready. As for the see-through nightie, she meant it for Nigel Whiteley’s eyes only. She’d definitely not given up hope of getting back together with him. Far from it. Her parents were on holiday in Filey, and she was staying overnight at their cottage in Holmrook. You simply never knew what might happen.

Nigel was bound to fancy the pants off Amber, who
wouldn’t? But whatever Amber thought, Nigel wasn’t interested in a serious relationship with a kid her age, even if Amber was sixteen going on twenty-six. Amber was Nigel’s cousin, and besides, Joanna was sure he preferred more mature women. Last weekend, she’d bumped into him in Ravenglass, and he’d greeted her warmly, with a kiss on each cheek. He’d even asked if she was going to the barbecue at the Dungeon House. When she said yes, she was helping out, he’d grinned and said he’d better volunteer too.

On the grapevine, she’d heard that he’d gone out with two or three other girls, but nothing serious, nothing that lasted. Give her another chance, and he wouldn’t regret it. The prospect of seeing him again made her knees weak. What happened at the barbecue today might change her life forever.

Her flat was carved out of a converted loft space in the town centre. There was a sweet shop at street level, and a watch repairer’s on the first floor. The landlord, a local businessman, was one of Gray Elstone’s clients. When she’d complained about being fed up at home, Gray said the chap owed him a favour, and offered to have a word. The flat was tiny, with barely enough room for her clothes, let alone all her books, but the rent was next to nothing. She was saving a fortune on petrol, now she no longer had to commute back and forth from Holmrook.

Did Gray’s kindness have an ulterior motive? Soaping herself in the shower, she imagined her boss lurking outside, summoning up the nerve to part the plastic curtain and get an eyeful. He was thirty-eight, and had never married. If he’d had a girlfriend, nobody knew
about it. People pulled his leg, calling him a Gray bachelor, and worse. Yet he was interested in women, not men, she was sure of it. More than once in the office, she’d caught him sneaking a glance at her when he thought she was preoccupied with her work. Three times in the past month, he’d invited her for a quick drink after work. Different pub each time, as if he didn’t want to be seen to be making a habit of it. But he’d kept his hands to himself, and hadn’t so much as brushed against her ‘unintentionally’, far less ventured a peck on the cheek when she said she really must be going. Perhaps he simply wanted to be friendly.

Amber said he was a dirty old man, but that was Amber for you. Gray was impossibly ancient as far as she was concerned. They’d talked about him last night, after their trip to the Film Club at the Roxy. A Danish movie, all subtitles and full-frontal nudity. Amber lied about her age to get in, but it wasn’t worth the effort. After five minutes Amber started yawning and saying she preferred the real thing. Half an hour in, Joanna surrendered to the inevitable, and followed her friend to the pub round the corner. Amber told the leering barman she was nineteen, and he was happy to take the size of her boobs as corroboration. ‘Of course your creepy old boss wants to get inside your knickers,’ Amber had said. ‘Who wouldn’t?’

That was one of the things Joanna liked about Amber. It was impossible not to feel like an ugly sister, squashed next to her on the plush banquette. Quite apart from their very different looks, they hadn’t much in common. Amber wasn’t interested in history or reading, and turned up her
neat little nose when Joanna extolled the virtues of
Pride and Prejudice
. But Amber was fun to be with, and generous with her compliments. She never missed an opportunity to boost Joanna’s ego. Might her kindness have an ulterior motive, did she reckon that sticking close to Joanna somehow brought her closer to Nigel? Each time the thought slipped into Joanna’s mind, she swatted it away, as if fending off a wasp about to sting.

‘Gray is a respectable professional man. He’s a chartered accountant, for goodness’ sake.’

‘Honestly, Jo, you have no idea what men are like.’

Amber had slept with three boys, and had shared the gory details with Joanna. She certainly wasn’t backward in coming forward, but she was too young for Nigel. He was a real man.

‘Gray is kind. Look at how he sorted out my flat. How many bosses would do that for a member of staff?’

‘Wants you at his beck and call,’ Amber diagnosed, taking a slurp of shandy. ‘No chance of throwing a sickie and taking the day off to soak up the sun when the office is so close the head honcho can pop in at lunchtime for a so-called welfare visit. Trust me, Jo, it’s your body he’s after.’

Joanna giggled. ‘I don’t think so.’

Would it be so terrible if Amber were right? Suppose things didn’t work out with Nigel, suppose he wasn’t willing to try again? Her mother’s mantra was that a girl couldn’t hang around forever. Gray Elstone was no Piers Brosnan, but looks weren’t everything. He had good manners, and a nice house, with the mortgage paid off.

‘Mum reckons he’s pervy.’

‘She didn’t say so!’ Joanna was startled. Mrs Whiteley seemed too polite to talk like that.

‘Not in so many words. But the way his tongue hangs out when he’s watching her and thinks no one’s looking, well … all I’m saying is, if he touches you or anything, you don’t have to stand for it. Take him to an industrial tribunal. He’d cough up thousands to keep his name out of the papers.’

‘He’s not like that. Really.’

‘Oh well, don’t say I didn’t tip you off. All set for tomorrow, then?’ Amber had allocated enough time to trashing Gray, and was ready to return to her favourite topic. ‘You’re sure Nigel will be there?’

Joanna didn’t want to mention the conversation she’d had with him. Best keep her cards close to her chest. ‘According to Dad, he will.’

A disingenuous answer, but plausible. Nigel’s father and Joanna’s were old mates. They’d played in the same football team for years, and after age took its toll and they were no longer able to run or tackle, they’d stood in the cold and rain, cheering Nigel on. The Whiteleys lived five minutes away from the Footits, and the two families were always in and out of each other’s houses. After Linda Whiteley lost her long battle with breast cancer, Mum took pity on Ted and his boy, and they often came round for meals or a trip to the chippie. Both Joanna and Nigel were only children, and for years she’d acted like his older sister, though barely twelve months separated them. When he didn’t make the grade as a footballer, and was forced to take a job in Malcolm Whiteley’s company, it hit him hard. Working for his uncle, he’d said in a rare moment
of self-revelation, felt like a punishment for failure. She’d become a shoulder to cry on. And eventually, something more.

Amber fiddled with a beer mat. ‘I was afraid my dad wouldn’t let Nigel come.’

‘Why? It’s Nigel’s dad he fell out with, not Nigel.’

‘He’s a pig-headed old bugger. I keep saying he ought to let bygones be bygones and make it up with Uncle Ted before it’s too late. But he’s not going to blink, those were his very words. I said it’s not about blinking, it’s about common humanity, but he simply won’t listen.’

‘You never told me what Ted did to make him so angry.’

Amber gave her a meaningful look. ‘It’s all to do with Mum.’

‘You don’t mean he and she …?’ Joanna was agog with shock and excitement.

‘Sorry to disappoint you.’ Amber’s teeth flashed. ‘There was nothing in it. Far as I know, anyway. Uncle Ted was just flirting, and she probably gave him too much encouragement. Dad went apeshit. He can’t bear anyone so much as giving her a second glance.’

‘Must be hard for your mum. It’s not her fault she’s so lovely.’

Joanna wondered what it felt like, to look so good that you drove a rich man wild with jealousy. Lysette Whiteley was the most gorgeous older woman she knew. Not that she knew her very well, but whenever their paths crossed, she seemed pleasant and kind, never more so than after the accident. Every time they met, she asked how Joanna was getting on, and sympathised about how awful the car crash must have been. Very
ladylike, Amber’s mum, no airs and graces. Yet to hear Amber after they’d had a row, you’d think her mother was a cross between Margaret Thatcher and the bunny boiler in
Fatal Attraction
.

Anyway, the barbecue was guaranteed to be fantastic. Amber’s Mum and Dad would be on their best behaviour, and so would Gray. She knew from the invoices that Malcolm Whiteley was Elstone and Company’s most valuable client, and she didn’t mind Gray offering the services of his secretary (correction, PA – he’d written the new job title into her contract after her last pay rise) as an extra pair of hands. Robbie Dean would be there too, unfortunately, but she’d put behind her the way he’d behaved at Seascale that night. All she cared about was spending the afternoon with Nigel.

‘You two had a row?’ Amber demanded as she tipped her breakfast things into the dishwasher. ‘I mean, you’ve not spoken a word to each other all morning.’

‘All morning?’ Her father strove for jollity, but the shadows under his eyes told a different story. Despite the time he’d spent in the sun this summer, his skin looked sallow. No wonder his doctor was worried. She hoped he wasn’t going to have a coronary or something, and leave her on her own with Lysette. ‘Give us a chance, it’s barely nine o’clock.’

‘I’m the lawyer, better leave the quibbles to me.’ She wasn’t a lawyer, of course, but the plan was for her to study law at York or Leeds. This was her father’s idea; he liked to say he’d never known a solicitor to starve. Mum’s idea of humour was to trot out the line that Amber was ideally
suited to becoming a lawyer, given how much she loved an argument.

‘Nothing to fret about.’ Malcolm patted her head, as if she were still nine years old. Anyone else, and she’d have smacked his face. ‘We’re suffering a bout of pre-barbecue stress, that’s all. Big day for us, princess. Lots of important guests, we need to make sure they all have a great time.’

He’d coated himself with after shave, but up close, the stench of last night’s booze was unmistakable. Lately, he’d been drinking too much, and on his own too.

‘Even those scumbags who bought your company?’

‘Even them. Don’t forget, they paid through the nose for the privilege.’

The breakfast kitchen stretched from the front of the house to the back. French windows gave on to a paved area, and the pink, cream, and yellow blooms of the rose garden. A large, fiercely trimmed lawn sloped down toward the summer house, and a low hedge surrounding the lily pond. Robbie Dean stood on the grass, putting up a green canvas gazebo.

Deano was stripped to waist, muscles rippling. He spotted her, and raised a hand. Was that a smirk on his face? Yes, she was still in her pyjamas. Deano fancied her, she felt sure, but he wasn’t her type. She turned away to face her father.

‘Weren’t they threatening to take you to cleaners?’

Her father bit into the last piece of toast. ‘No fear. Gray is on top of the situation. Worst case scenario, we botched the small print of the deal. A breach of the warranties and indemnities, just a technicality. Nothing to lose sleep over.’

Amber didn’t have a clue what warranties and indemnities were, but she was certain he was fibbing. She’d persuaded Joanna to indulge in some industrial espionage, borrowing a key without Gray’s permission, and sneaking the confidential takeover file out of a locked filing cabinet. Jo reported that Gray had consulted some pricey barrister in London whose advice was stuffed with dire warnings about fraud and tax penalties. Whatever this meant, now wasn’t the moment to make an issue of it. If the new company chairman, that slimy greaseball Morkel, so much as touched her arm, she’d scream the place down, and insist on her father calling the police. Serve the scumbag right. In her mind, she pictured Nigel rushing to comfort her.

‘What are you wearing this afternoon?’ her mother asked.

‘In this weather?’ A sweet smile. ‘I thought the crop top and those shorts I bought in Aruba.’

Her mother winced, but kept her mouth shut. Amber had made a bet with herself that she would be spared the
stop-dressing-like-a-hooker
lecture. Neither of her parents could afford to waste energy on an argument, with so much still to do. Especially when they were so keen, so pathetically keen, to pretend they were the perfect family.

How come no one saw through the bullshit? For no one did, not even Jo. Since selling the business, Dad had reinvented himself as a member of the idle rich, spoilt for choice between playing golf and quaffing champagne, with the lovely Lysette as his adoring soulmate, a devoted wife and doting mother. Depressing to think people were so gullible. Everyone except her. And Nigel, of course.

‘You’re looking very … um … summery this morning, Joanna.’

Gray Elstone held open the door of his Honda Legend with an old-fashioned courtesy Joanna rather liked. His compliment was awkward, but so was Gray. Six feet three, hopelessly uncoordinated and possessing an Adam’s apple with a mind of its own.

His clumsiness and shambling gait matched his ham-fisted way with words. A numbers man, he found comfort in balance sheets and profit and loss accounts. Whenever conversation veered toward stuff that normal people talked about, like pop music and fashion, he became twitchy and inept, and started chewing his mangled fingernails. Joanna arranged herself carefully on the passenger seat, making sure she wasn’t showing too much leg. Gray needed to keep his eye on the road. To be involved in another accident would be too much for her to bear.