The Serpent Pool (13 page)

‘You wouldn’t want it,’ Fern assured her. ‘Not your style, kid. Don’t get in a huff, he’s a gorgeous feller. Most women would scratch your eyes out if they thought they could get their shoes under his bed. Me included.’

Hannah couldn’t help laughing. Fern was, in her way, as provocative as Greg Wharf.

‘There’s no room under his sodding bed because of all those musty old books. You’d hate it.’

‘I’d cope.’ Fern leered as she polished off her baked beans. ‘Any road, George plus Wanda didn’t equal a match made in Heaven. She isn’t cut out for the role of dutiful little woman, small-talking her way through golf dinners and cocktail parties. Her first husband was a drummer in a band. Not a very successful band, but it must have attracted a few groupies, because he ran off with one of them years ago. No kids, she doesn’t seem the maternal type.’

‘Is there a maternal type?’

‘You know perfectly well what I mean. Once Wanda was married, she threw up her job and started this little printing
press. She turns out arty-farty stuff – poetry and something called
belles-lettres
. A lifelong ambition, she told me. Huh, takes all sorts.’

‘And kindly old George helped her to realise her dream.’

‘For him, the cost of setting up the business was small change. A price worth paying, to get inside her knickers. His staff were loyal and mostly discreet, but he had a reputation for a roving eye. You know the sort of thing. Patting the office juniors’ bums and peering down the secretaries’ tops. Middle-aged man’s syndrome. One girl said that she only had to undo an extra blouse button or two to have his tongue hanging out like a roller blind.’

‘Any complaints?’

‘One or two girls left in a hurry, but no formal grievances were lodged, let alone any sexual harassment claims. The women who worked there seemed to feel sorry for him. I’d guess some were disappointed when Wanda snared him. I’ve visited their house, it’s fabulous. Then there was the converted boathouse at Ullswater. Plus half a dozen refurbished terraced houses with long-term tenants. For good measure, there’s a villa in Spain, but so far I haven’t managed to wangle a trip out there to hunt for clues.’

‘You’re slipping.’ Fern’s ability to persuade the top brass that trips overseas were vital to her latest investigation was the stuff of legend. ‘How about New Zealand, for a word with the daughter? They say it’s a beautiful country.’

‘Lynsey came back to England for the funeral.’ Fern pouted. ‘We talked, but she wasn’t able to shed much light. She hadn’t been back since George and Wanda tied the knot. The Saffells visited four years ago, but she and Wanda had nothing in common. She didn’t even seem that heartbroken
about her dad’s demise. They were never that close, and she wasn’t pining for an inheritance. Her husband is loaded, he’s a stockbroker in Christchurch.’

‘The money motive, then. Any other sizeable legacies apart from Wanda?’

‘The National Trust does very nicely, but I think it’s against their rules to murder people to raise funds.’

‘How much does the grieving widow inherit?’

‘Not as much as you’d expect. She has the right to live in the house unless and until she remarries. And she gets the proceeds of his insurance. The lawyers are sorting out George’s estate at their usual snail’s pace. They say it’s complicated, with a rich deceased and properties overseas. Meanwhile, the insurers haven’t paid out a penny as yet.’

‘Praying they can rely on a sneaky get-out in the small print of the policy?’

‘Like insurers the world over. When I talked to head office, they seemed resigned to coughing up. They’d be thrilled if we could prove that Wanda murdered George, but the way it looks today, I’ll never conjure up evidence to satisfy the CPS, let alone a jury. Wanda is playing a good hand. So far she hasn’t chased for payment.’

‘She doesn’t need the cash in a hurry, surely?’

‘Sooner or later, she’ll need a few bob. Her printing press loses money hand over fist – but she won’t want to look like a gold-digger.’

‘Bit late for that. Does she care much about appearances?’

Fern speared the last piece of black pudding, and contemplated the blood oozing out of it.

‘She’s a funny mix. Part ice maiden, part drama queen.’

‘And you think she’s also part murderer?’

Fern devoured the black pudding with a cannibalistic relish and then banged down her knife and fork.

‘Between you and me, Hannah, doubts are creeping in. I thought I had this one figured. But if she’s guilty, God knows how I’ll prove it.’

‘Which firm of lawyers is handling George’s estate? Stuart Wagg’s outfit?’

‘Now, what makes you ask that?’ Fern said softly.

‘Just wondered.’

‘Yeah? Actually, the executors are two partners in a big outfit called Boycott Duff. As for Wagg’s firm, he and George were book-collecting rivals. They did plenty of business together over the years, but were never close. What I don’t know is whether George knew that Wanda consulted Stuart’s firm about a divorce.’

Hannah sat up in her chair. ‘She did?’

‘Three weeks before he died, she saw a partner called Raj Doshi.’

‘I know the name.’

Doshi, yes, the gallant knight who had taken Wanda home after she poured wine over Arlo Denstone. Hannah didn’t know they were already acquainted.

‘Good-looking feller. How good a lawyer he is, I’ve no idea. Wanda says she didn’t find his advice encouraging. The bottom line was that she’d be worse off if she left George than if they stayed married.’

‘Because they’d only been married for a few years?’

Fern nodded. ‘I checked with Doshi. He hummed and hawed about client confidentiality to salve his lawyer’s conscience, but Wanda had authorised him to disclose his advice. Disappointingly, he backed up everything she’d told us.’

‘Had she primed him? Did he admit to anything more than a solicitor-client relationship?’

Fern’s eyes widened. ‘What makes you ask?’

‘Just a long shot.’ Hannah told her about the New Year party at Crag Gill. ‘Is Doshi married?’

‘He mentioned a disabled wife to the DC who conducted the interview. Turns out she’s older than him and suffers from early-onset Parkinson’s, but everyone assures us he’s a devoted husband. That’s as may be, but my DC was quite taken with him. Stuart Wagg isn’t the only charmer in that firm.’

Hannah wondered if Stuart Wagg had turned up yet. Which in turn reminded her of talking to Daniel last night. She told herself not to become distracted.

‘Maybe the guy she drenched in wine was a lover,’ Fern mused. ‘Or he’d turned her down. Wanda doesn’t strike me as someone who’d be philosophical about rejection.’

‘Not many of us are.’

Fern shot her a sharp glance. ‘Bet you have less experience of rejection than most of us.’

Hannah said quickly, ‘Why did Wanda admit to considering divorce?’

‘It was a smart move. People knew she’d consulted him. Even if solicitors keep their traps shut, receptionists talk, and so do secretaries. Wanda probably thought it better to be upfront.’

‘So, what was her explanation?’

‘Said she realised they weren’t suited within the first twelve months of the marriage. If you ask me, it didn’t take her twelve minutes. They shared an interest in books, but it wasn’t enough. She’s a high-maintenance lady, and George was accustomed to a little woman who knew her
place. Wanda got itchy feet and nagged him into flogging his business, assuming they’d spend his retirement jetting off on luxury holidays. But the villa in Spain was as exotic as it got, and even there he devoted himself to playing golf and drinking with his expat chums. She said she didn’t hate him, far from it. There was nothing nasty about him.’

‘Except that he liked golf?’

‘Spot on,’ Fern chortled. ‘He used to joke that when he died, he wanted
Fairway to Heaven
inscribed on his coffin. Doesn’t seem so funny now. Especially when there wasn’t that much left of him to put in a coffin. Wanda’s story is that she was in no hurry to split with George.’

‘And how did he feel?’

‘Wanda says he was happy with her. She never denied him his conjugals, and that was enough to keep him funding her printing press. She decided to give the marriage until the New Year, and see how she felt then.’ Fern paused in the act of swallowing the last morsel of her breakfast. ‘Next thing she knew, he’d been burnt to more of a crisp than this streaky bacon.’

‘What about other men?’

‘She admitted to a couple of flings, but not with Doshi.’

‘Did she fling the boyfriends, or vice versa?’

‘She claimed they were old pals. One was Stuart Wagg, the other Nathan Clare.’

Hannah put down her toast. ‘I talked to Clare yesterday.’

‘A right charmer, isn’t he?’ Fern scowled. ‘Five minutes into our conversation, I found the urge to cut his balls off almost irresistible.’

‘Why did it take you so long?’

A throaty chuckle. ‘How come your path keeps crossing mine? You don’t think our cases are related?’

‘Good question.’ Hannah stood up and reached for her purse. On the other side of the room, Greg Wharf was chatting up a waitress. He treated them to a cheeky wink. ‘Let’s discuss it on our way back to the Centre of Excellence.’

Something extraordinary had happened while they were inside the Beast Banks Breakfast Bar. The sun had come out of hiding. It hung so low over Kendal’s rooftops that you’d have thought it ashamed of its long absence, but its glare was uncompromising. Hannah needed to shade her eyes as they passed the old slaughtering ground on the way to Allhallows Lane.

‘So, did Wanda kill George?’ she asked.

‘She has an alibi. At the same time the boathouse was going up in flames, she’d finished a committee meeting of the Letterpress Publishers Association in Leeds by having a shouting match with the chairman. In front of a dozen witnesses. She didn’t leave until ten to eleven, and rather than drive home, she spent the night in a hotel near the main station. Alone, as far as we can tell. She called for room service at midnight and flirted drunkenly with the waiter who brought the tray.’

‘Making sure she was noticed.’

‘Yeah, but I bet that’s how she always behaves. Quarrelling and making eyes at blokes half her age.’

‘Any chance she hired a hit man?’

‘We found no unexplained payments out of her bank or building society accounts.’

‘Don’t those guys usually insist on cash?’

‘Sure, they’re as bad as plumbers, but if she had any spare funds, she’s kept them hidden. And there’s no suggestion she knows anybody ready, willing and able to burn her husband to death. Cumbria is hardly knee-deep in contract killers. If she found someone in Manchester, Liverpool, or Leeds, she’s covered her tracks to perfection.’

‘Suppose it was an amateur job. Murder by someone without a criminal record. A friend.’

‘Not Arlo Denstone, then?’

‘If he did help her out, she behaved very ungratefully at Stuart Wagg’s party. Suppose she wanted to throw everybody off the scent. Make believe that she and Arlo are at daggers drawn, when really—’

Fern made a face. ‘I suppose it’s possible, but—’

‘There are other possibilities.’

‘You’re thinking Nathan Clare?’

‘Do you have any better ideas?’

Fern sighed. ‘I had his movements checked, and physically, it was just about doable. He spent the first part of the evening in a pub in Ambleside. After he’d finished boozing, he’s supposed to have gone home to prepare for a lecture. He can’t prove it, and it’s just about possible that he had time to jump into a car and head up to Ullswater, burn George to death and nip back home. There’s only one snag.’

‘He was pissed out of his brain?’

‘Not just that.’

‘Break it to me gently.’

‘The bad news is, Nathan can’t drive.’

Hannah halted in mid-stride. ‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously. Nathan has never had a full licence. We’ve checked. He says he’s never had any interest in driving. He
takes taxis if and when the need arises. Other than that, he has a touching faith in Cumbria’s public transport. The mark of a true eccentric.’

‘Not having a licence doesn’t mean you can’t drive.’

‘True. But if he got hold of a vehicle, and despite knocking back five pints managed the journey to Ullswater and back on a dark winter night, he doesn’t just deserve to get away with it, he deserves a bloody medal. It’s typical of this inquiry – wherever we turn, we end up facing a brick wall. So, tell me about your cold case.’

Hannah finished running through the edited highlights of Bethany Friend’s story as they reached Busher Walk. Half eight, time for noses to the grindstone.

‘I’ve arranged to see Wanda this afternoon,’ Hannah said.

‘You never did like delegating, did you?’

‘There has to be some compensation for working in a backwater. Besides, half my team has succumbed to this bug going round.’

‘Let me know how you get on with Wanda. Interesting that she and Nathan both knew Bethany, but two unexplained deaths, six years apart? Hard to see a connection. Bethany drowned, and George was burnt to death.’

‘In each case, suicide was left as an alternative to murder.’

‘Nothing unusual in that.’

‘There’s something else.’

‘Go on, surprise me.’

A vague idea loomed in Hannah’s mind, unrecognisable as a stranger approaching through the mist.

‘Nobody really disliked them. There was no good reason for them to be murdered.’

Louise was asleep in bed when Daniel returned to Tarn Cottage, and he spent an hour tinkering with the first chapter of
The Hell Within
, achieving little more than replacing a few commas with semicolons and exterminating a rogue split infinitive. That night he dreamt about the bright September afternoon when Aimee died, and his heart-stopping race through the streets of Oxford after he picked up the message she’d left on his voicemail, desperate to reach her before she jumped. The nightmare was vivid enough for him to recall the slow-motion agony of failure to save Aimee. He never dreamt about Miranda, which said it all.

When he awoke, his head felt as though someone had tightened an iron band around it. After a scalding-hot shower, he padded down to the kitchen to find Louise seated at the old pine table, cocooned in a thick white dressing gown. In front of her stood a half-full cafetière and a mug which proclaimed
I’m a pleasant person
after
I’ve had my caffeine fix
. She was munching her way through a large
bowl of cornflakes as she read a moral dilemma column in
The Independent
.

‘Morning! Help yourself to some coffee.’

He halted in his tracks. ‘You sound cheerful.’

She stiffened, and put her spoon down with a bang. A confrontational expression, all too familiar from her teens, spread over her face like a dark red stain.

‘You prefer doom and gloom?’

‘No, it’s just—’

‘Forget it.’ She slumped back in her chair. ‘I’m the one who should apologise. When I opened my eyes this morning, I said to myself, today’s the day when I start making changes in my life. And the moment you walk in the room, I bite your head off.’

‘Old habits die hard, I guess.’

She winced. ‘I suppose I deserved that.’

‘Yep.’ He pointed at the newspaper. ‘What’s the dilemma today?
Should I confess that I stabbed my boyfriend
?’

‘Hey, Daniel, I’m trying to be nice.’ She nodded at the slogan on her coffee mug. ‘And I haven’t even absorbed all the caffeine yet. Meet me halfway?’

He dropped down onto the bench and swung an arm around her. Under the fluffiness of her dressing gown, her shoulder was hard and bony. Until that moment, he hadn’t realised that she was shaking slightly, or how much of an effort she was making to conquer the fear she’d felt the day before.

He poured himself coffee. ‘OK, let’s start again. I had a useful conversation with Hannah last night. She seemed confident that Stuart would turn up soon, safe and sound.’

Louise’s eyes widened in horror. ‘You didn’t tell her everything?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘Holy shit. She’ll think I’m a neurotic sociopath.’

‘She’s a detective chief inspector, she should be unshockable. You don’t spend years in the police without coming face to face with plenty of bad stuff.’

Louise crunched on her cornflakes. ‘I suppose Dad came across a lot of it, too. How can anyone want to do that job? I couldn’t bear it. Especially not in the CID, dealing with death and disaster. Imagine having to break the news to someone that their child has been murdered. The work would crucify me.’

‘When I was a boy, he told me it was like an addiction. Once the drug got into his system, he could never imagine doing anything else.’

‘You understood how his mind worked.’ She turned her face to him. Without make-up, her flesh seemed raw. The breezy mood had evaporated. ‘I never did.’

On another day, he might have resorted to a teenager’s jibe.
You never tried
. Like a lot of siblings, they often brought out the worst in each other. Instead, he said, ‘Hannah said she’d keep in touch, and let me know the news about Stuart.’

‘She’s interested in you.’

He withdrew his hand from her shoulder. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Touched a nerve, did I? It’s obvious, there’s chemistry between the two of you.’

‘Don’t be stupid, she’s in a long-term relationship.’

‘Tell you something.’ She leant towards him. ‘Marc
Amos didn’t pay her much attention at the party.’

‘Nothing odd in that. Plenty of couples make a deliberate effort to socialise with other—’

‘You’re making excuses for them.’ A touch of Louise’s habitual asperity; she couldn’t help herself. ‘Familiarity breeds contempt. Or at least boredom.’

‘Slow down, Louise. I enjoy talking to Hannah about Dad. Filling in gaps, you know? But that’s as far as it goes. I don’t even want another relationship. Certainly nothing as heavy as I had with Miranda. I’m ready for a break.’

The look in her eyes said:
You’re protesting too much
.

‘You’ve had a break. That’s why you pissed off to America. To lick your wounds before you came back to start again…’

He groaned. ‘You sound like an agony aunt.’

‘You ought to study the problem pages.’ A mischievous grin. ‘All human life is there.’

‘No matter how many I read, I’ll never figure out how women think.’

‘Like I never understood Dad?’ she asked softly. ‘I never worked out why he left us for that woman. As for Stuart, why did he treat me the way he did? Men and women, trying to read each others’ minds? It’s like trying to crack an unbreakable code.’

Marc didn’t haul himself out of bed until Hannah sang goodbye up the stairs. A sign of good humour; often she left without a word, her mind already focused on the day ahead at work. The sex had been good last night, and he wished he could be sure that was the reason for her cheeriness. But his confidence was in bits.

It was too easy to blame her job for what had gone wrong. In their early years together, it suited him that she was a police officer. He was happy to have time and space for himself, the chance to get lost in books and dreams. Hannah’s anecdotes about her cases fascinated him; she was a good storyteller and, long ago, he’d encouraged her to embellish the tales and put them into a book –
It Shouldn’t Happen to a Policewoman
or something – but the suggestion made her laugh in appalled amazement. She preferred action to words.

In her haste to be away, she’d forgotten to put her breakfast things in the dishwasher. He lined up the dirty cups and plates in neat rows – in their early days together, he’d found her lack of domesticity endearing; now it provoked irritation. A DCI should never be slapdash, surely? Order and method pleased him; the real world was messy and unsatisfactory – this was why, at every opportunity, he escaped into a Victorian triple-decker.

He forced on a pair of new trainers. They were tight, and the only other time he’d worn them, they’d made his heels bleed, but today he’d wear them as a penance. An antique mirror hung in the hallway; he’d picked it up at a craft fair at the Brewery in Kendal the day after they’d moved in here, an overpriced impulse buy. His reflection glowered at him, scornful of his extravagance. After the lawyers shelled out his aunt’s legacy, he’d allowed himself to become carried away. He’d bought in too much stock that he couldn’t shift, while repairs and renovations to the house and the new shop in Sedbergh swallowed far more than he’d budgeted for. The new roof alone cost double the estimate. At the end of
December, the quarter day’s rental payments on the two shops came close to cleaning him out. Thinking about it brought him out in a cold sweat. Hannah wasn’t aware: he kept meaning to break the news, but the time never seemed right.

He stood in the cloakroom, zipping his windcheater. The washbasin taps dripped permanently and the wooden window frame was too rotten to survive another Lake District winter. So much work still needed to be done, and he wasn’t sure Hannah’s heart was in their new home. Had she agreed to move to Undercrag just because it was close to the Serpent Pool?

He couldn’t bear to live here alone. To be comfortable with his own company was one thing, the echoing emptiness of solitary existence very different. Until early this morning, he’d presumed he and Hannah would spend the rest of their lives together. When they’d made love, there was no hint of anything amiss. But he’d woken and couldn’t get back to sleep. He got up around four to make himself some hot chocolate, and noticed her mobile, lying on the chest of drawers. Something prompted him to pick it up and check her messages. Unforgivable, but he couldn’t help being nosey, and she’d been annoyingly vague about the police business that had kept her out that evening. He expected it was something she could easily have ignored, if she hadn’t been a workaholic.

She hadn’t deleted her latest text. Carelessness, again. Reading the four words dried his throat, and made his heart hammer against the walls of his chest.

Running late. Traffic. Daniel
.

Traffic, bloody traffic. As he queued at a red light on the A591, Marc told himself that Daniel Kind must have sent the text. Newly returned to England, a free agent after splitting with his girlfriend. Marc had always wondered about Hannah’s devotion to Ben Kind. Was she making up for missed opportunities by starting an affair with Ben’s son? She was getting itchy feet, and so she had lied to him. It felt like being battered about the head with a brick. If she had nothing to hide, she’d have been upfront and said she was seeing Daniel. He might have suggested coming along himself. Hence why she’d pretended she was up to her eyes in work. Sometimes three was a crowd.

An impatient horn blast ripped through his reverie. The light had turned to green, and he was dawdling. He raised a hand in apology to the guy in the car behind and put his foot down, rounding the next bend so fast that he veered onto the other side of the road. Luckily there was a gap in the line of vehicles heading towards Ambleside.

‘Shit,’ he muttered. Too close for comfort.

The low sun half-blinded him. Squinting through the windscreen, he spotted a police car lurking in a lay-by four hundred yards ahead. A burly PC stood on the verge, lifting a speed gun with the dead-eyed menace of a latter-day Sundance Kid. Marc slammed on the brakes and the speedo pointer plummeted. As he crawled past, the sharpshooter scowled at him. Marc fixed his gaze on the road. Today of all days, he was in no mood to be caught out by the Cumbria Constabulary.

He reached the courtyard in one piece, and as he unlocked the shop, he heard the clatter of footsteps on the gravel. Turning, he saw someone in a hooded duffel coat and black
boots walking towards him. A gloved hand pulled down the hood. It was Cassie Weston, her expression stony. Surprised to see her here so soon, he fixed on a smile and gave her a wave. She gave a curt nod, said nothing.

‘Bright and early, Cassie!’

‘Why not?’ she said, shrugging off the duffel coat.

‘Everything all right?’

‘Yeah, why shouldn’t it be?’

‘You look knackered, that’s all.’

‘I’m fine.’

Her eagerness of yesterday had vanished. Even her clothes looked drab. She’d put on a shapeless sweater and a grubby old pair of trousers and hadn’t bothered with the dark eyeliner, either.

He lit the fire in the inglenook. The prospect of a cosy refuge from the bitter cold might tempt some passing trade. You had to stay optimistic if you earned a living from selling old books. No blazing logs in his office; he had to make do with a noisy fan heater. He booted up his PC for the customary morning trawl through emails from customers in different time zones. An American fan of the Lake Poets was planning for retirement and wanted to know if Marc would like first refusal on his collection. In the current market, it might take years to get a decent return on the investment. There was more money to be made from breaking up the set and selling the individual titles, since the likeliest buyers would have collections of their own and wouldn’t be keen to spend on duplicates. But that game required patience, and deep pockets.

He’d left the office door ajar, and he heard Mrs Beveridge greet Cassie with a jovial complaint about the weather. The
reply sounded grumpy. Why was she in such a funny mood? Stupid to become intrigued by someone who worked for you. Never mix business with pleasure.

His thoughts strayed to Bethany Friend. How long before Hannah discovered that he’d known the girl? On New Year’s Eve at the Serpent Pool, she’d looked at him sceptically when they spoke about Bethany.

He remembered his last conversation with Bethany. Her face, tarnished with dismay. What she said…

No, don’t even go there
.

Daniel suspected that, if and when he finished
The Hell Within
, his royalties would be swallowed by the cost of heating Tarn Cottage. Winter’s bite was sharp this morning, and Radio Cumbria reported that teenagers were cavorting on the frozen surface of Derwent Water. They interviewed an elderly woman who reminisced about skating on Windermere in the Sixties. A safety expert warned against venturing onto thin ice. But people did it all the time.

He left it until mid-morning before phoning Stuart Wagg. The man was supposed to be on holiday. If he had spent the previous day traipsing over the fells, he might be having a lie-in. There was no answer on the landline and the call to his mobile again went straight to voicemail. Daniel left a brief message, and tried Wagg’s office. The receptionist said he wasn’t expected in this week. Perhaps Wagg had instructed them to dead-bat all inquiries. Did he have reasons of his own for blipping off the radar?

‘Where is he?’ Louise demanded.

‘Nobody admits to having a clue.’

She closed her eyes. ‘God, I’d persuaded myself you were
right, and I was worrying myself sick over nothing. But—’

‘Hannah Scarlett will let us know as soon as there is any news.’

Louise’s cheeks were as white as the frozen earth outside.

‘We can’t just sit around. We have to do something!’

‘For instance?’

‘Let’s ring the cleaners. Stuart hired a firm in Newby Bridge to look after the housework in Crag Gill.’

Louise found the number, and he phoned the woman who owned the business. No joy. The bug had laid low most of her staff and she said she’d left messages on the answering machine at Crag Gill, apologising for their nonarrival this week. Normal service would be resumed as soon as possible. She hadn’t spoken to Stuart Wagg in person, or received any response to her calls.