The Hanging Wood (14 page)

‘I never knew he’s a volunteer, I assumed he was on the payroll.’

‘Pride, perhaps? Unemployment among the young is far too high, and he may have been afraid of being out of work, who knows? Whatever the motive for his proposal, it was remarkably generous.’

‘Why was he so eager to work here?’

‘I presumed he was spellbound by the magic of the place.’ It was part of the principal’s charm, Daniel thought, not
to see anything odd in a young man offering his services to St Herbert’s for free. ‘If you love books, where on earth could you be happier?’

Yet in his conversations with Daniel, Aslan often moaned about life at St Herbert’s; his recurrent gripe concerned the need to skulk out of doors for a fag break. The principal had asked no questions; mustn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

‘But he doesn’t actually seem to have any interest in literature.’

The principal shook his head. ‘So it seems. Quite inexplicable. But from the outset, Orla took a shine to him, and I heard they went out for a drink in Keswick together. I couldn’t help congratulating myself on a job well done. The chair of trustees could hardly complain, and I’d avoided incurring unnecessary expenditure. What I never bargained for was this complication about Aslan’s supposed identity.’

‘How did you find out?’

A flush of embarrassment darkened the principal’s features. ‘I happened to overhear a conversation between Orla and Aslan.’

‘Here?’

‘Yes. I happened to be on the first-floor corridor, after a conversation with the librarian in her office up there. On my way back to the staircase, I passed Orla’s room, and I heard voices. The door was ajar, and she was talking to Aslan. I would have paid no attention, but it seemed Orla was in distress. I believe she had been drinking.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She was apologising to Aslan, and asking if they could
still be friends. She sounded tearful. I heard her say,
I was so sure you were Callum
.’

‘And he said?’

‘He was trying to calm her down. I had the impression he was trying to talk sense to her, but she kept rambling and wouldn’t let him get a word in edgeways.’ The principal frowned, groping in his memory for the words. ‘
The walls have ears, that’s how I heard about Callum, and Castor and Pollux
.’ As she said that, it occurred to me I’d better move along. They might notice the door was open, and I didn’t want to appear to be listening to a private conversation between two members of staff, with one in such an emotional state.’

‘What was all this about Castor and Pollux?’

‘Heaven only knows. She wasn’t making any sense. Even Aslan probably could make neither head nor tail of it.’

‘Orla once told me her brother liked to be cryptic and mysterious, but I doubt he was in her league when it came to talking in riddles.’

‘She was a troubled young woman. I moved along the corridor not a moment too soon. She came out of her room and dashed past me without a word. I could see she’d been crying.’ The principal toyed with his coffee cup. ‘Daniel, I do not make a habit of poking my nose into the business of others. I simply did not know whether I should offer help or behave as though I was unaware of the conversation.’

‘What gave her the idea that Aslan was her long-lost brother?’

‘I heard her say he looked rather like Callum. The shape of his head, the colour of his eyes, the same beaky nose.’

‘But Aslan’s ethnicity …’

‘He is half-English, don’t forget.’ The principal sighed. ‘I have been unsure whether the conversation I heard has any bearing on her suicide. Hence my decision to consult you. I am aware of your involvement with that matter of the De Quincey Festival.’

Daniel said slowly, ‘I’m beginning to see what happened. How about this? Orla meets Aslan, and takes a shine to him. Then she persuades herself that he is really Callum, but when she puts this to him, he disillusions her with the truth.’ He kept thinking aloud. ‘The relationship fizzles out, and in her distress, Orla decides to end it all.’

‘The truth being, that Aslan is not Callum?’

‘Unless … Aslan lied, and Orla’s idea was right all along.’

The principal chewed on a piece of Turkish delight. ‘You once wrote that all historians are detectives. I am sure your guess is better than mine.’

To call Madsen’s a caravan park was, Hannah realised as they walked around the site, akin to describing Windermere as a long strip of water. The country club boasted a brasserie that wouldn’t seem out of place on the Riviera, plus a couple of bars, a gym, a climbing wall, a badminton court and a tenpin bowling alley. Beyond vivid rose beds and the large gushing fountain lay a fishing lake, sports arena, and a nine-hole golf course. Hannah had expected the place to be swarming with unruly kids and harassed parents, but everywhere she looked there were smart and sprightly senior citizens, and clean-cut families with offspring who answered to names like Justin and Minette, and who had no doubt
travelled here in the freshly washed SUVs that lined the car park.

Kit showed Hannah and Greg round a luxury lodge that put Undercrag to shame with its triple glazing, underfloor heating, solar panels, spa and hot tub. You could laze in the sunshine on the decking and admire the view of Blencathra. With vaulted ceilings, exposed wooden beams and floor-to-ceiling windows, the atmosphere inside was less like a mobile home, more like a place of worship. Sun worship, at least.

When they moved out in the sunlight again, Greg pointed to a camera fixed high up on the wall of the lodge. ‘That makes a round dozen cameras I’ve counted so far, Mr Payne. You take security pretty seriously here.’

‘Our customers pay good money to enjoy the park, DS Wharf. We have a duty to make sure they are kept safe and sound.’ Kit indicated a squat single-storey building on the other side of a tennis court. ‘Come and take a look at our site security.’

Inside the control centre, two men in shirtsleeves kept a watchful eye on a bank of screens. Kit Payne made Hannah’s eyes water by explaining how much the Madsens spent on park security, before rattling off the technical specifications of the surveillance equipment. She wondered how long it would be before his favourite phrase cropped up:
state of the art
. The answer turned out to be a minute and a half. As he talked, one of the men waved him over.

‘We seem to have a trespasser in Mockbeggar Zone 3.’

Hannah and Greg moved forward to peer over Kit’s shoulder at the screen in question. The rear view of a tall man was visible. He was making his way towards a small
copse. The undergrowth was dense, and as they watched, he stumbled and lost his footing. Kit and the security men groaned in unison.

‘Tripped over a tree root,’ Kit said, with a touch of malicious satisfaction. ‘I suppose he fancied taking a short cut to see how the Hall looks in the run-up to the official opening. You see why we discourage people from accessing areas of the site that we haven’t cleared and upgraded yet. Health and safety is core to our vision, and our insurers insist we take every precaution. That chap could easily sprain his ankle, and ruin his holiday.’

‘He’s one of your residents?’ Hannah was sure she’d seen the man before. Where was it?

‘Presumably.’ Kit sighed. ‘You’ve seen for yourself, we provide every possible facility in the public areas. But some people you could give gold, and it wouldn’t be enough. He’s wandered into a part of the Hall grounds that we haven’t cleared and opened to the public in the first phase of the park expansion. Of course, there’s always someone who doesn’t understand the meaning of “no entry”. We’ll send a warden from our security team to make sure he’s all right, and have a quiet word to remind him of park rules.’

‘Why am I reminded of
The Prisoner
?’ Greg muttered as they moved outside again.

‘Behave,’ Hannah whispered. ‘At least the bloke wasn’t squashed by a giant balloon.’

Kit Payne pointed to a shiny new road and bridge, leading to a mansion visible in the distance through a group of copper beeches. ‘This is the route we created, to cross the beck and connect with Mockbeggar Hall. The official
opening isn’t for a fortnight, but you are welcome to have a quick recce if you like.’

‘It’s kind of you, but—’

‘Won’t you take the full tour, Hannah?’ Gareth Madsen stepped out from behind the fountain. ‘The Hall was disintegrating through lack of maintenance, you could put your foot through the floorboards. Fleur would be the first to admit that her father could never afford to look after the old place. Now we’ve transformed it into a conference complex with leisure facilities and spa. The water centre is the last word in quality. Whirlpools, jacuzzi and sauna, you name it. Rainforest shower, steam grotto, salt chamber and ice igloo, not forgetting the children’s fun pool. Something for everyone.’

‘Wow,’ Hannah said. ‘Sounds utterly state of the art.’

If Gareth thought he was being sent up, he didn’t let on. ‘If you can spare the time, I’ll take you round myself, and let Kit get back to work. He has some visiting Bulgars to see, would you believe, any minute now.’

‘Thank you, but no. We just have a few more questions to put to Mr Payne about his stepson.’

‘Poor Callum.’ Gareth bowed his head. ‘I’ll never forget the day we heard that he’d disappeared. It still seems incredible.’

‘I gather you helped with the search party?’

‘First around this site, later in the grounds of the Hall. Things were different then. The Mockbeggar Estate was very much out of bounds. Alfred Hopes had a passion for keeping himself – and his property – to himself. I remember having to cut through a barbed wire fence to save time before the search began. The very thought of
the hoi polloi trespassing sent Alfred into a lather.’

‘But this was an emergency. A child was missing.’

‘Yes, we needed to rule out the possibility that Callum was on the estate, even though the chances were negligible. We were clutching at straws. Poor Kit had his hands full with Niamh. They were desperate to find the lad. We all were.’

‘Eventually Alfred Hopes relented, and allowed you in.’

‘Fleur persuaded her grandfather that we couldn’t waste any more time. If the boy was lying somewhere, injured and unable to move – well, it didn’t bear thinking about. Sadly, we found what we expected to find. Nothing.’

‘Meanwhile, Mike Hinds was pointing the finger at Philip. Not much brotherly love there, then?’

‘The two of them were chalk and cheese,’ Gareth said. ‘They were never close.’

‘But to suggest that Philip was a murderer?’

‘Mike’s son was missing, remember? He was beside himself.’

‘Why did he detest Philip?’

‘He hated the idea of having an inadequate brother depending on our family for his home and a few pounds to live on. Whenever I saw them together, poor Philip managed to get on Mike’s nerves. It usually ended in a shouting match. Or rather, a mismatch. Mike ranted until he was hoarse, Philip just let it wash over him.’

‘And then Philip Hinds hanged himself.’

Kit flinched. ‘I need no reminding of that, Chief Inspector.’

Gareth said quickly, ‘It was a difficult time for everyone, especially Kit and Niamh. I always had a soft spot for Philip,
and so did my father. The day Callum went missing, I’d asked Philip to do some work, repairing a damaged fence. When Niamh raised the alarm, Philip joined in the search. At first, none of us dreamed that…’

‘You believe he killed Callum?’

‘I’m sure it wasn’t deliberate. My guess is that Callum was injured in some kind of horseplay, causing Philip to do something completely out of character.’

Kit muttered, ‘The simple explanation is usually right.’

‘Thank you for your help,’ she said.

‘Is that all?’

‘For the moment, yes.’ She shared a tight smile with Greg Wharf. ‘Now, can you direct us to the Hanging Wood?’ 

‘Fancy an ice cream?’ Greg asked.

A kiosk built into the back corner of the country club sold ices and cold drinks. Upmarket ices and cold drinks, naturally.

Hannah gave him a sidelong look. ‘We’re working, don’t forget.’

‘Yeah, might as well enjoy it.’

‘All right, mine’s a 99.’

‘Easily persuaded,’ he said. ‘Excellent, I knew it wasn’t true what they say.’

She halted mid stride, unable to resist rising to the bait. ‘What do they say?’

‘That you are a workaholic.’ He showed sharp white teeth. ‘A perfectionist who drives herself too hard.’

‘Then just to prove I know how to have a really good time, you can buy me a double 99. Sod the cholesterol, live for the moment.’

He pretended to clap. ‘That’s the spirit, ma’am. Throw caution to the wind.’

As he vaulted over a low railing to join a natty septuagenarian couple in the queue at the kiosk, she caught herself assessing his sinewy physique. Must be a touch of the sun – how long since she last checked someone out like this? Not that she had any intention of succumbing to Greg Wharf’s macho charm. It was just a relief to take any interest in a man again; the nonsense with Marc had torpedoed her morale at the precise moment when she’d started shunting her career out of the siding and back on track.

Greg’s short sleeves revealed powerful forearms. He kept himself fit and was a permanent fixture at the top of the division’s squash ladder. Macho men weren’t her type, and when Greg first joined the team, she’d been wary of his reputation for making trouble. Not least because of his womanising. But so far he’d managed to keep his hands off Linz Waller, to Hannah’s surprise and Linz’s barely concealed disappointment. After a few initial skirmishes ending with honours even, he’d given Hannah support in team meetings; all the more useful because everyone knew he was nobody’s yes-man. As a detective, his cussed refusal to settle for easy answers had helped him bond with Les Bryant. They made an odd couple: a grumpy old man and a Jack the Lad, moaning each winter Monday about the football refereeing they’d witnessed over the weekend. Hannah enjoyed their dry wit, even though she scarcely knew a late tackle from an offside trap. Les lived alone these days – on one extraordinary occasion, he’d had a blind date with Terri, but that particular match was made in Hell, not Heaven – and as far as Hannah knew, Greg wasn’t seeing anyone. Not in the force, at least, or news would have sped along the county’s busiest grapevine.

‘Don’t say I never give you anything,’ he said, presenting her with the double 99. ‘You deserve a bit of sin in your life.’

He’d invested in a Diet Coke for himself, a sardonic nod to virtue, and they planted themselves on a bench overlooking a duck pond carpeted in red cup lilies with maroon foliage. A plaque on the bench recalled a deceased caravan owner
who loved this park for 30 years
.

‘So what do you reckon to Madsen’s?’ she asked.

‘Give me Tenerife any day. Thirty years in a holiday park? Sounds like a life sentence to me. Fuck me, it’s nearly half a lifetime! Probably two-thirds in my case, given how much I like the ale, and that I only packed in smoking last year.’

No beer belly, though, she couldn’t help noticing. ‘I never knew you were a smoker.’

‘Twenty-a-day man.’ He held up a neatly manicured hand. ‘Forensics wouldn’t find it difficult to spot the nicotine traces. On the morning my decree absolute came through, I decided to make a fresh start. Threw my packet of Player’s in the bin, and I’ve never touched one since.’

‘You must have needed self-discipline to manage that.’

‘Believe it or not, ma’am, I am capable of it.’ He lifted his eyebrows a fraction. ‘If the moon’s in the right quarter.’

Hannah pretended to absorb herself in her ice cream and chocolate flakes. Greg’s knack of making her feel he could read her mind was unsettling.

‘What I meant was, how do you see Kit Payne? Grieving step-parent or a man with something to hide?’

‘Bit of both, shouldn’t wonder.’ He ripped the ring pull off his can and took a swig. ‘I told myself not to be
prejudiced, just because he looks like the Elephant Man’s love child. But he’s twitchy about the cold case. I reckon Bryan and Gareth Madsen are, as well, but they are too streetwise to show it.’

‘Scarcely a surprise.’ She waved towards the septuagenarians, who were tucking into their cornets as they moaned to each other about the cost of private health insurance. ‘Any bad vibes might make the caravan folk pause before frittering their kids’ inheritance on another year’s site fees.’

‘I say it’s worth nosing around in the Madsens’ lives as long as the ACC stays on board. Payne’s life too. It suited everyone for Philip to take the rap. Along with his pig.’

‘The pig couldn’t answer back, either. Especially after it ran off.’

‘Everything was made so easy for Will Durston to wind down the investigation. He was given all he needed to close the file.’

‘Except a corpse,’ Hannah said.

‘Makes you wonder why Mike Hinds didn’t kick and scream, with his boy left unburied. If it was my son, I wouldn’t rest until the kid had a proper burial.’

‘But if he believed there was no corpse to find?’

‘We can’t take it as read that Hinds had nothing to do with the boy’s death.’ Greg’s tone was mulish. ‘Suppose they had a row, and Callum got hurt?’

‘You really didn’t take to him, did you?’

‘Did you?’

‘No, he could use some coaching in anger management. But now he’s lost both his kids. We ought to cut him some slack.’

Greg wrinkled his nose. ‘He was scarcely the perfect father.’

‘Even so.’

‘All I’m saying is, Durston’s team took the soft option. If it had been my case, I wouldn’t have given up so quickly.’

‘If it had been yours, you’d have had the brass telling you not to throw more money at an open-and-shut case. There was a reason why no body was found. Perhaps Durston was too ready to blame it on the pig. But there’s nothing new about investigations being affected by cash constraints. Even twenty years back, there were budget limits.’

‘Not that you were around so long ago, ma’am, of course.’ He grinned. ‘Might there be another explanation why the body was hidden or disposed of? Did something about it reveal what happened to him, and who was responsible?’

‘Or even if it didn’t, perhaps forensic evidence could have proved Philip didn’t kill him.’

He nodded. ‘And Kit Payne is the man who leaves nothing to chance, we’re told.’

She finished her cone and clambered to her feet. ‘Shall we head for the Hanging Wood?’

‘Sure.’ Greg sprang up. ‘And talking of the way things look, ma’am …’

‘Yes?’

‘You have a smear of ice cream on the tip of your nose.’

‘Is Aslan around?’ Daniel asked. ‘He left a message on my voicemail asking for a word.’

Sham glanced up from her computer. She’d perfected the expression of an upwardly mobile young executive interrupted in the midst of a life-or-death task, but a glance
at the screen revealed she was catching up on the latest gossip from a soap opera website.

‘Waltzed in this morning, on time for once, and announced he’d only be in for an hour or so today. And then he spent all his time in the library, rather than in his own office. Never known him do that before; he once told me he’s not much of a reader. Sure enough, inside thirty minutes, he was tearing out again. A man in a hurry.’

‘Why the rush?’

‘Dunno, he didn’t say a word. The bloody librarian was asking me a question and he just waved as he dashed past. Didn’t even shut the front door. I saw him stop by the flower bed and take a knife from his pocket. He cut off two red roses and took them with them. The principal would go mental about it, if only he knew.’ Daniel recognised an admiration for Aslan’s effrontery, mixed in with disgruntlement. ‘He didn’t present the roses to me, that’s for sure.’

‘He’s keen on flexible hours, isn’t he?’

‘Another way of saying that he works as little as possible.’ Sham sniffed. Dark rings under her eyes suggested a late night. ‘Not that I blame him. Wouldn’t I just love a job like that? Events organising? A real skive, if you ask me.’

‘Doesn’t he enjoy it?’ Daniel was all innocence. ‘I assumed everyone here would be highly motivated.’

‘Are you kidding?’ Sham allowed herself a lavish sigh. ‘Aunt Fleur suggested I might fill in here for a few weeks, until Mockbeggar Hall opens to the public.’

‘So you’re joining the family business?’

‘Dad told me they want me to run the welcome desk. He came for one of his weekly meetings with Aunt Fleur in her office here, discussing the plans for the Hall. Apparently
they like the idea of having a member of the family working in the Hall full-time, and there’s no arguing with that pair once they’ve made up their minds.’ She groaned. ‘No escape, is there? I meant to make a break, strike out on my own. My sister Purdey is the business-minded one, not me. I’m not really cut out for the nine to five. Maybe I should travel the world. Aslan has never settled down, and it hasn’t done him any harm.’

‘What brought him to St Herbert’s, if not love of the job?’

‘I suppose it’s a pretty place to pass the summer. He’s a volunteer, and in his opinion, that gives him the right to get away with murder. Mind you, the rest of us might as well be working out of the goodness of our hearts.’ As if bored with whingeing, she dazzled him with a sudden smile. ‘Never mind, one thing I’ll say about this place is that you do meet some interesting people. Television stars, for instance.’

‘I was never a television star.’

‘Aunt Fleur never missed a programme. She’s one of your biggest fans; she has all your books in hardback. I’m surprised she hasn’t demanded your autograph yet. Maybe she will at dinner tonight.’

‘You’ll be there?’

‘Wouldn’t miss it for anything.’

‘I assumed you’d have better offers.’

‘Are you kidding? Keswick isn’t exactly alive with excitement for people my age. And in case you’re wondering, Aslan and I aren’t seeing each other, not seriously. Yesterday evening was only the second or third time we’ve even been out for a drink.’

‘Uh-huh.’ He wondered why she was bothering to tell him.

‘I never intended to put poor Orla’s nose out of joint. I mean, Aslan is pretty fit, but she’d have been welcome to him.’ So was she feeling guilty at having tempted Aslan away from the dead girl, or trying to explain away her failure to captivate him? ‘Anyway, I’m looking forward to tonight. Couldn’t let Purdey get one up on me through having dinner with a media celebrity, could I, now?’

An earnest vicar approached the reception desk, flourishing the St Herbert’s annual programme of events. His demeanour suggested he was about to ask complicated questions to which Sham was unlikely to have answers. Daniel seized the opportunity to sidle away.

‘See you tonight, then,’ she called.

Climbing to his eyrie in the library, his thoughts drifted back to the principal’s report of that fraught conversation between Orla and Aslan Sheikh. What connected Callum in her mind with Castor and Pollux – surely not the fact that the two siblings had different fathers?

A red squirrel dashed into the undergrowth as Hannah and Greg approached the Hanging Wood. The wood was separated from the holiday park by a barbed wire barrier which ran behind a group of low buildings where maintenance equipment and backup generators were kept, and which lay behind eight-feet-high waney-lap fences covered with health and safety warnings and signs saying
Private
. A security man had let them through a locked gate; this was no place for casual visitors. The ground was rough and potholed, and the narrow track was overgrown and
surrounded by tall clumps of stinging nettles. The sweet smell of cow parsley hung in the air.

According to Kit Payne, the Madsens had abandoned the Hanging Wood after Philip Hinds’ death, and the disappearance of his nephew. Philip’s cottage was demolished, but there was no question of developing the land, even if it hadn’t been inconceivable that the Parks Authority would allow it. The Madsens owned more than enough land to expand their site, Kit explained; two-thirds of the Mockbeggar Estate remained untouched and out of bounds to visitors.

Greg began to whistle, and Hannah recognised the opening bars to ‘The Teddy Bears’ Picnic’.

If you go down to the woods today, you’re sure of a big surprise
.

‘What do you reckon to the guy on the CCTV, wandering into the Forbidden Forest?’ Greg asked.

‘Surely he can’t have become so bored with his luxury holiday home that he went in search of adventure?’

‘Naughty not to heed the notices telling him to “keep out”.’ Greg shot her a glance. ‘He must be as keen to get into the Mockbeggar Estate as the Madsens are to warn off intruders.’

They reached the outer fringe of the Hanging Wood. As they moved between the trees, the temperature seemed to drop two or three degrees. Wych elms towered above them, along with rowan, ash and oak. Coarse grass, heather and spiky brambles obscured the old path, ivy tendrils smothered the bark.

‘Did you think the chap seemed familiar?’ she said at last.

A brisk nod. ‘Hard to tell from that camera angle, but he reminded me of the bloke we saw outside Mike Hinds’ farm.’

So she hadn’t imagined it. ‘Me too.’

They pushed on along the half-hidden track, ducking their heads under low and heavy branches. A foetid stench wafted from a small stagnant pond. Greg trod on a fallen branch, and the snap of wood sounded like a pistol shot.

Out of the blue, he said, ‘I read up about wych elms last night.’

‘You did?’ He had this knack of setting her back on her heels.

He kicked the broken branch out of his way. ‘Idle curiosity, that’s all.’

Hannah guessed he wanted to understand the environment in which Philip Hinds had lived and died. He’d never admit it; he didn’t want to seem touchy-feely. She remembered Ben Kind preaching the importance of getting under the victim’s skin. Do that, he maintained, and you were halfway to getting under the killer’s skin. Not that anybody thought of Philip as a victim. Except for Orla.