The Hanging Wood (23 page)

A holly hedge thicker than the walls of a mediaeval fortress barred off the Mockbeggar grounds, but the stream at the boundary was low after the long dry spell, and they clambered along its edge like mountain goats. At the bridge carrying the new road from Madsen’s to the Hall, instead of following the road, they kept straight on, through an avenue of lime trees with trunks gnarled in elaborate and beautiful patterns.

‘There it is.’ Fleur pointed to the tall elms in the distance. ‘The Hanging Wood.’

So that was the place where Orla and Callum had loved to play with Philip Hinds. Two children and a childlike man, all destined to die before they grew old. Daniel’s heart thudded with anticipation. Soon he would know the truth about their fate.

Fleur spoke a little about Gareth Madsen and Michael Hinds. Garrulous no longer, she chose her words with as much care as counsel delivering a considered opinion on a finely balanced point of law. Every now and then, she threw him a quick glance, as if to gauge his reaction. No teasing now, no provocative smile.

‘Gareth always liked Mike, not only because of the time they spent as students together, drinking heavily, playing sport and chasing women. Two strong, very masculine men.’

He wasn’t sure whether she meant this as a compliment. ‘But very different from each other?’

‘Yes, but they did have some things in common. Whereas Mike and my husband were chalk and cheese. I’m afraid Mike never cared for Bryan.’

‘And is the feeling mutual?’

‘Bryan never forgave Mike for heckling him once at a political meeting, when Bryan said farmers expected too many handouts from government. A silly argument, but the animosity festered for years. Mike was furious that Bryan invested so much trust and responsibility in Kit Payne. He even blamed Bryan for the break-up of his marriage.’

‘A bit harsh, surely?’

Fleur cast him a curious glance. ‘More than harsh. I’m afraid Mike sometimes seemed … unbalanced.’

‘Presumably, if Niamh hadn’t run to Kit, she’d have found somebody else.’

‘Precisely. She was too much of a free spirit to be a farmer’s wife for ever. Second time around, he married a doormat. Deirdre suited him much better than Niamh. She didn’t mind him wiping his feet on her.’

‘You speak of Mike in the past tense.’

‘Did I?’ For a moment she was flustered. ‘It’s just that … it feels as though nothing will ever be the same again. The deaths of Orla and Aslan have changed everything. Poor Mike, I don’t know how he’ll cope.’

‘You think he might choose to kill himself?’

A long sigh. ‘God, I don’t know. I’m not sure I know anything anymore. I suppose … it’s possible. Farmers have the means of death ready to hand, and Mike might decide he can’t go on any longer.’

‘Because of his grief, you mean?’

‘Grief?’ She shrugged. ‘Guilt, as well, I suppose. Here we are. The animal graveyard.’

Between a couple of the lime trees were a row of unevenly spaced slabs of moss-covered York stone. Each bore an inscription, most of which were so weathered as to be illegible. Daniel bent down over the largest stone; it was the size of a small coffin lid. A child’s coffin lid. Next to it lay a fading red rose. A tribute from Aslan, he guessed. Peering hard, he managed to decipher the words.

Castor and Pollux, semper fidelis
.

‘Always faithful,’ she murmured. ‘That’s why we love dogs,
isn’t it? They are so much more loyal than human beings.’

Now for it.
On the way here, he’d shied away from pressing her, but he needed to know what she knew.

‘How did Callum die, Fleur?’

She took a breath. ‘It was an accident. Mike told Gareth that they had a row about the girl Callum had spied on. Callum had called in at the farm after being with Philip at his cottage. I don’t know the details, but Mike lost his rag and thumped Callum, and the boy lost his footing. They were out in the cobbled yard, and Callum fell on to a saw. It ripped open his throat; Mike said the blood spurted like a geyser.’

‘So why didn’t he call an ambulance?’

‘The boy died almost instantly, Mike said, and so he panicked. His son had been killed in horrific circumstances, and it was his fault. He was sure Niamh would seize on the chance to destroy him. He’d be prosecuted for manslaughter, and was bound to lose the farm. His life would be over. His only thought was to save himself.’

‘So he buried his own son’s body in a dog’s grave?’

Fleur’s features were frozen into a mask. ‘Yes, when we stand here and discuss it, Mike’s cruelty seems unimaginable. And yet I don’t suppose it seemed like that for him. Nothing he could do would bring Callum back to life.’

‘Why not hide the corpse on his own land?’

‘I simply don’t know, but I guess he thought that, if it were ever found, the finger of suspicion could only point at him. Although he was in a panic, he knew better than to risk his own neck.’

‘And then he put the blame on his own brother, and drove him to suicide?’ Daniel had never met Michael Hinds,
but the man Fleur described sounded like a monster.

‘I suppose he was afraid Philip would tell people that Callum had gone to Lane End and he’d fall under suspicion himself.’

Daniel felt drops of rain moisten his hair.

‘And when did you find out about this?’

‘Gareth told me shortly before Orla died. He and Mike had a few drinks one night, and the alcohol loosened Mike’s tongue. He was in a bad way, because Orla’s return to the Lakes had spooked him. She’d developed an obsession about Callum, she kept raking up old ground. And I suppose his conscience kept plaguing him.’

‘Why confide in Gareth, after keeping his mouth shut for twenty years?’

‘It’s a long time to keep such a dreadful secret. Perhaps there was nobody else he trusted, perhaps it was simply a cry for help. Not that there was much Gareth could do.’

‘But he told you Callum was buried along with Castor and Pollux?’

‘Yes, he came to St Herbert’s one day for a private chat. It wasn’t something we could discuss at the caravan park, in case someone interrupted us. He was desperate to make sure that Bryan didn’t know.’

‘Because Bryan would go straight to the police?’

She nodded. ‘He’d see it as a civic duty. Never mind what it meant for Mike Hinds.’

‘You like Mike Hinds rather more than your husband does?’

‘No, I don’t much care for him. But he was Gareth’s friend, and he’d suffered a good deal.’

Again the past tense, he noticed. ‘Gareth told you the
story in your room on the first floor, and Orla, who was next door, overheard because the windows were open?’

‘Stupid of us, but we didn’t think. Frankly, I was so stunned by what Gareth said, it knocked me sideways. All those years, I assumed Philip was responsible for Callum’s disappearance. Gareth made me swear that I wouldn’t breathe a word about Mike. It was desperately difficult to keep it to myself, but before I could work out what to do, Orla killed herself. I’ve been haunted by guilt ever since.’

‘How exactly did Orla come to die?’

She wiped a raindrop from her cheek. ‘I suppose she was mortified by what she’d heard. Not just that Callum was unquestionably dead, but their father had concealed his body here. I feel awful about it. That simply because I lent my brother-in-law a listening ear, a young woman was driven to commit suicide.’

‘It was a symbolic gesture to go to Lane End Farm to end it all?’

‘Presumably. Heaven only knows what dark thoughts go through such a troubled mind. Poor girl, perhaps she wanted to talk to her father; perhaps she actually did.’

‘And Aslan Sheikh?’

‘Orla didn’t tell him the whole story, as I understand it, but she let enough slip for him to work out that Mike had something to hide. Again, I can only guess at his reaction. I suspect he was more interested in Mike’s money than in a family reunion.’

‘You think Aslan tried to blackmail his father, and Mike’s response was to hit him over the head and throw him in a tank of slurry?’

‘How can I know what to think, Daniel?’ The mask
splintered, and she gave him an imploring look. ‘All I know is that there have been too many deaths. It really has to end.’

‘And how do you expect it to end?’ he asked softly.

Was that a tear in her eye, or simply another splash of rain?

‘I dread to think,’ she whispered. ‘I dread to think.’

His throat constricted. ‘By Mike Hinds … doing the decent thing for once in his life?’

She stared at the ground. ‘Gareth doesn’t think Mike can take any more. He’s urged him to make a clean breast of everything, to set the record straight. But I don’t know if he’s up to that.’

The rain was spattering on the leaves above them. Soon they would be drenched.

‘He has no choice.’

‘I hate to say it, Daniel, but you’re wrong.’ Her voice was no more than a whisper. ‘Things have gone too far.’

‘Mario, where are you?’

‘In the incident room. What’s up, Hannah?’

‘I’m on my way to Keswick.’ She was talking hands-free as she sped along the main road from Windermere, only a couple of miles from Ambleside. ‘I have a witness who saw someone lurking around Lane End Farm, the afternoon Orla Payne died. You need to get over there. I’ll tag along, if it’s OK by you.’

‘Be my guest, it’s always good to work with you. But what’s the hurry?’

‘Enough people have died already. We don’t want any more bodies on our hands.’

Mario’s voice was taut. ‘You think the murderer might kill … someone else?’

‘Or himself,’ she said.

Daniel and Fleur parted at the bridge. She said she wanted to go back to the Hall, and check that the maintenance work was on schedule. He suspected it was an excuse. She wanted time to herself, and privacy.

The rain whipped him as if he were a galley slave. He heard a rumble of thunder. Time to move fast, and get away from the trees during the storm. But something made him linger on the bridge’s parapet, watching Fleur’s retreating back as she hurried towards her ancestral home.

There was no doubting her horror at everything that had occurred to the children of Michael Hinds. No doubting, either, that she was afraid. But afraid of Hinds topping himself? He wasn’t sure. If she was right, and the man had caused the deaths of all three of his children, it might seem the best way out.

He fished his mobile out of his pocket. Better speak to Hannah, and let her know everything Fleur had told him.

Fleur had become a tiny doll-like figure, blurred by the slanting rain as she scurried along towards the Hall’s front entrance. Oblivious to the downpour, he fastened his eyes on her again, wondering what thoughts were swimming round inside her head.

Wondering why the story she had spun sounded to his ears like one of Orla’s favourite fairy tales.

He couldn’t believe it.  

‘God, is that the storm I can hear?’ Hannah asked. She was driving past Rydal Water, and it wasn’t pelting down yet, but the first flecks of water splashed on to her windscreen even as she spoke.

‘Yeah.’ Over the microphone, Daniel’s voice was muffled. ‘You’ve seen drowned rats less sodden than I am right now. Not sure I’ll ever feel dry again. But I needed to tell you what Fleur said.’

‘Thanks, but you need to find shelter fast. Not under the trees, too dangerous if lightning strikes. You could be killed.’

‘I’ll make a dash for it in a second. On your way to Keswick?’

‘Yes, no time to lose. Especially if what Fleur told you is true.’

‘But you don’t think it is?’

‘Do you?’

‘No.’

‘She’s found an answer for a lot of questions, hasn’t she?’ Hannah said. ‘But not all of them.’

‘Do you believe Mike Hinds is a murderer?’

‘Wish I knew.’

‘Come on, Hannah.’ Even as the rain lashed him, he found it impossible to contain his impatience. ‘We’ve found a witness who saw someone spying on Orla just before she climbed up the grain tower.’

‘Really? And do you have an ID?’

‘From the description,’ Hannah said slowly, ‘the man bears a strong resemblance to Gareth Madsen.’

‘I knew Ben Kind,’ Mario Pinardi said. ‘He was a bloody good copper.’

‘The best.’ Hannah took a swig of Diet Coke from a can. The incident room was as noisy as the Saturday market, and she had to raise her voice to make herself heard above the gabble of phone talk and the rattle of keyboards. ‘His son is no fool, either.’

‘So I hear.’

Mario dodged her eyes, and she guessed he’d heard gossip about her and Daniel. Every force brimmed with rumour and innuendo, and she was an easy target. People knew she and Marc were no longer living together, and no doubt her sex life was the subject of endless lascivious guesswork. If only they knew the truth. This last six months, she’d been as pure as any nun, for Christ’s sake.

‘Fleur Madsen didn’t convince Daniel that Hinds killed Aslan Sheikh.’

‘Suppose Gareth spun his sister-in-law a line …’

‘And covered his tracks by putting the blame on Hinds?’

‘Who was supposedly his bosom buddy, yes.’

Hannah clenched her fist. ‘It’s an absolute bugger. Bryan Madsen is pretty odious, but I rather liked Gareth. He’s not like Hinds.’

‘He’s a salesman, isn’t he? Maybe he can talk his way out of it.’

Mario bared his teeth in a fierce grin, but for all the show of resilience, his shoulders were rigid with nervous tension.

‘Sir!’ An admin assistant who was in the middle of a phone conversation shouted over from the other side of the room. Her face was bright with excitement as she gestured to Mario’s phone with her free hand. ‘You need to hear this. The caller is Mrs Birt. I’ll transfer her right now.’

He picked up the receiver and put on the loudspeaker. ‘DI Pinardi. Can I help you?’

‘I was just telling your colleague, I saw a photo in the newspaper of that poor girl who died, and I saw you were appealing for information.’

The woman was well spoken, but sounded breathless and apprehensive. A touch of nervousness was a good sign; this wasn’t someone likely to call the police on a whim.

‘Thanks so much for taking the time to help us.’

He did the PR stuff so well, Hannah thought. If only she’d been able to tease out Orla Payne’s story … no, better not go there.

‘I saw her, it was on the day she died. That very morning.’

‘Uh-huh?’

‘We have a caravan, you see. We’ve been going to Madsen’s for six years, ever since the children were young.’

‘And you saw Orla Payne?’

‘Yes, I go out jogging each morning before breakfast. Trying to lose a few pounds, you know?’

‘I do know, Mrs Birt.’ The woman must think Mario was so pleasant, so unhurried. Surely she would be put at ease and tell them what she knew? ‘Now, what exactly did you see?’

‘This was near the new bridge that leads to the old Hall. They’ve done the area up, you know. It’s still cordoned off, but I go round the edge. It’s quiet there, and I like it best when there aren’t too many people around.’

‘I understand.’

‘I caught sight of the young woman. She was crying. I don’t know why she was distressed, but I thought she must be someone who worked at the holiday park, and perhaps had done something wrong. I changed my course, to keep out of their way. I’m sure they didn’t spot me, they were too wrapped up in their conversation.’

‘They?’

‘I told your colleague, Stacey, he took her into one of the old caravans by the new road. Half a dozen of them are empty, they are waiting to be refurbished, I think. I supposed he just wanted a word in private with her. He put an arm round her shoulder, as if he was trying to calm her down.’

‘Did you recognise him?’

‘Of course I did, I’ve already explained. It was Mr Madsen.’

‘Which Mr Madsen?’ Mario asked.

Hannah held her breath.

‘Why, Gareth, of course. He’s the one you see around
the park, he’s much more hands-on than Bryan.’ The woman paused. ‘Don’t take that the wrong way. I’m sure there was no funny business going on with the girl. He was just trying to comfort her, that’s how it looked.’

‘Did you hear what they were talking about?’

‘Not a word.’ She sounded virtuous. ‘I kept my distance.’

Mario exchanged a look of frustration with Hannah. ‘Of course, Mrs Birt. I’ll hand you back to my colleague now, if you don’t mind, so we can take one or two details, just in case we need to speak to you again. Thank you so much, it’s so good of you to take the trouble to call.’

‘I hope it helps.’ Mrs Birt was pleased with herself. ‘And don’t worry about the fact I didn’t hear anything. You can always ask Gareth, can’t you?’

‘We certainly can,’ Mario said.

He transferred her back to Stacey, and clenched his fist in triumph.

‘Gareth will need a brilliant line in chat to wriggle out of this. He never mentioned talking to Orla on the day she died. If he followed her to the farm …’

Hannah swivelled on her chair. ‘Say Orla challenged him about Callum’s death, and whether he was responsible. He might have threatened her – or simply laughed in disbelief. Either way, it was an unequal contest, a young woman with a history of mental health problems up against a rich and powerful businessman.’

‘Yeah, she could never prove anything, not after twenty years, even if Callum’s remains were dug up from the pet cemetery at Mockbeggar Hall.’

‘The chances of forensic evidence establishing who was
responsible for putting him there are close to nil. If that conversation left her in despair, she might have been ready to end it all. Her brother was never coming back, and she’d made a deadly enemy of the man who employed her stepfather.’

Mario nodded. ‘Time to give Gareth a ring?’

He lifted his phone and called the holiday park. Impatiently negotiating the automated answering service, he demanded to be put through to Gareth Madsen the moment he made it as far as a human being. He got no further than Gareth’s PA. Hannah saw him wince at her response as he banged down the receiver.

‘Shit, shit, shit.’

‘What’s up?’

‘He left ten minutes ago, and didn’t say where he was going.’ Mario snapped his fingers. ‘We just missed him.’

‘You could have caught your death,’ the principal said.

Daniel was ensconced in one of Micah Bridge’s armchairs, clad in an ancient and moth-eaten dressing gown that must have represented a fashion crime even in the 1970s. The rich smell of Turkish coffee filled his nostrils, the taste of it lingered on his tongue. While he’d recovered from his drenching in a hot bath, the principal had asked one of the staff who doted on him to set about the task of drying the sodden clothes. Thank God St Herbert’s was equipped for emergencies. A tumbler containing an inch of whisky squatted at his feet.

Racing back from the Mockbeggar Estate had felt like something out of a low-budget horror movie. Even by Lake District standards, the storm had been hellish. A falling
branch missed fracturing his skull by inches, and although he managed not to be struck by lightning, the rain whipped him with a sadist’s glee. As he squirmed around the holly hedge boundary, he tripped and fell into the stream. Scratched and bruised, he picked himself up and struggled on in the face of wind and rain, but the wildness of the weather drove out of his mind all thoughts of Mike Hinds and his dead children.

Only as he relaxed in the steamy bathroom did he contemplate an alternative scenario to the one Fleur had conjured up. An explanation fitting all the facts, not merely those that suited her. When he finally clambered out of the vast old claw-footed bath, he wiped away the mist from the mirror, and saw the beginnings of a smile on his face. His mind was clearing, too.

‘Fleur showed me her office upstairs. I never realised there was a bedroom attached. Not that she needs it, of course, living so close by.’

‘She does not need to sleep here, that is true.’

As with a lawyer or a politician, it was what Micah Bridge didn’t say that counted for more than what he did say.

‘But she did use the bedroom?’

The principal’s face turned traffic-light red. He folded his arms, as if to repel further interrogation. ‘I can say no more.’

‘Hey, Micah, we’re both grown men. Don’t fret about telling tales out of school.’

‘This is a most delicate business.’ The older man hesitated.

‘We are speaking in the strictest confidence?’

‘You have my word.’

‘Very well.’ The principal lowered his voice, as though the walls had ears. And in St Herbert’s, of course, they did. If Orla hadn’t eavesdropped, she and Aslan might still be alive. ‘This morning I was provided with certain rather distressing … intelligence.’

‘About Fleur?’

A nod. ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Who told you?’

The principal looked over his shoulder, as if checking for eavesdroppers. ‘The librarian. She came to me in a state of considerable anguish, having kept her own counsel for some little time. But after the two deaths, and the unpleasantness of press intrusion, she felt I had to know. She fears for the very future of St Herbert’s if we fall prey to scandal.’

‘What scandal?’

‘It involves muffled cries coming from the chair of trustees’ room – her bedroom, the librarian thought. Sounds of a … shall we say … unequivocal nature.’

Daniel gripped both arms of his chair. ‘She overheard Fleur having sex with someone?’

The principal’s Adam’s apple bobbed in distress. He might have been a bishop, contemplating the desecration of a cathedral by heretics. As for Daniel, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

‘The librarian was passing along the first-floor corridor one evening. It’s a quiet area, hence her amazement at what she heard. Naturally, I questioned whether Fleur Madsen might simply have been exercising vigorously on her own, or something of the sort.’ Daniel fought the urge to giggle. ‘I have to say that the librarian was adamant. The chair was up to no good of a very particular kind.’

‘She couldn’t have been mistaken?’

‘Daniel, the librarian may be sixty-three and rather … um … rotund. But she was married once, long ago, and I believe she now has a … shall we call it an understanding … with a gentleman who keeps pigeons in Maryport. I can assure you, she is by no means as unworldly as she may seem.’

Daniel tried not to be distracted by images of the librarian disporting herself in a remote pigeon loft. ‘Any idea who her companion was?’

‘No doubt whatsoever about his identity, Daniel. The librarian happened to see him leaving the first floor a few minutes after the … um … sounds died down.’

Daniel pictured her lurking within eyeshot of Fleur’s door, holding her breath, flabby jowls trembling with a mixture of outrage and glee. The principal lowered his gaze.

‘He wore a cheery smile, needless to say. And the librarian noticed that his shirt was carelessly buttoned.’ The principal’s frown lines deepened. ‘He has a reputation as something of a ladies’ man, but even so – fornicating with his own brother’s wife!’

‘Gareth Madsen?’

‘I am afraid you are correct. Ghastly even to think of it. In all candour, I do not care for Bryan Madsen, but nonetheless, it is a shocking business. Such a sordid betrayal.’

Daniel swallowed a mouthful of whisky. Glenmorangie, from the St Herbert’s cellar. It seemed sinful to sit here in the shabby comfort of Micah Bridge’s rooms, and savour its tang, while Hannah and her colleagues were striving to find the truth about the savage murder of Aslan Sheikh. And self-indulgent to want to satisfy his curiosity about
the strange relationship between Fleur and Gareth Madsen. But it wasn’t prurience. He had the makings of a theory about Callum Hinds’ death, and the historian in him could not resist testing it against the evidence.

‘You told me before that you don’t know Bryan well, but did you come across him all those years ago, when you first came to St Herbert’s, around the time that Callum Hinds disappeared?’

The principal considered. ‘I think not. Of course, I was aware of him, given that he had married the daughter of Alfred Hopes of Mockbeggar Hall, and was the heir apparent to Joseph Madsen. My recollection is that he was incapacitated, following a road accident. He sustained very bad injuries, by all accounts, though obviously he lived to tell the tale.’

‘He told me he crashed his car not long before Callum went missing, hence his limp. Do you recall the circumstances?’

‘I’m afraid not. He was supposed to have been lucky to have escaped with his life, that’s about all I can remember. Presumably he was driving too fast and spun off the road.’ A wrinkling of the nose. ‘Gareth, of course, was once a racing driver, and I seem to recollect some rather distasteful gallows humour to the effect that Bryan was trying to emulate his younger brother. I’m sorry I cannot be of more assistance.’

‘Please don’t apologise, Micah,’ Daniel said. ‘You have helped, more than you can know.’