The Serpent Pool (15 page)

Hannah had never been kicked in the stomach by a donkey, but it must feel like this. At least if you were coshed by some thug, it wasn’t accompanied by this sickening sense of betrayal by someone you trusted not to hurt you.

In the course of a year, up to a dozen casual workers worked at the shop, helping out at busy times and in the holiday season. The Lake District was full of young people passing through, gap year students, migrants and assorted drifters, who took a job for a while, then left for something else. Marc couldn’t be expected to remember every single person. But he’d remembered Bethany Friend. You wouldn’t forget someone who died in such mysterious circumstances; the story had been all over the local papers for a couple of weeks. Especially if they’d been infatuated with you.

She found herself taking the track that followed Stock Ghyll. Swelled by the rain of the last few days, the ghyll squeezed through narrow channels in the cliff on its way down to Ambleside. Where the path forked, she continued right, climbing steps of rock and oak root before reaching a fence with iron arches. Beyond was a railed viewpoint, overlooking the stream, but she ploughed on, along more rough steps until she reached the footbridge at the top. The paths were thick with mud; her shoes would be ruined, but she didn’t care. At last she stopped, and closed her eyes, listening to the roar of the white water below.

This was Stock Ghyll Force. The waterfall threw up clouds of spray, and Hannah felt drops of water on her skin. A rib of rock showed through the foam; it split the falls like a dorsal fin before the waters converged again, meeting in mid-air to form a raging torrent. If you shut your eyes, you might believe a dam had burst.

Or that all hell had been let loose.

During the original investigation into Bethany Friend’s death, a member of Ben’s team had produced a rough curriculum vitae summarising her work experience. She’d moved around so much, the document was bound to be incomplete. It wasn’t too surprising that there was no mention of a spell at Amos Books. Probably the job amounted to nothing more than a few weekends, paid cash in hand while she worked somewhere else Monday to Friday, and served behind a bar at night.

Marc should have come clean. Wanda Saffell hinted that he and Bethany had been lovers. Mischief-making, but that didn’t mean she was wrong. Even after Hannah had started seeing Marc, he’d dallied with Leigh Moffatt. If an affair with an employee turned sour, maybe she’d become difficult. Threatened a sexual harassment claim or something.

Cold and hungry, with tears pricking her eyes, Hannah leant on the railing and glared down at the cascade. A couple in their seventies walked past, and looked at her with undisguised anxiety. But she wasn’t contemplating a leap into the abyss. Just facing up to the question she could no longer dodge.

Was the man she’d loved for years capable of tying up Bethany Friend and leaving her to drown in the Serpent Pool?

On her way back to the car, she called at a shop that was holding a sale and bought herself new shoes. Three pairs. Retail therapy was her best chance of de-stressing – she didn’t expect to break open a bottle of wine with Marc any time soon. The old, mud-caked shoes she stuffed into a
litter bin. If only you could ditch everything wrong in your life so easily.

Within two minutes of her arrival at HQ, she found herself bellowing at a temp who had messed up some photocopying. As the girl’s face crumpled, she apologised, and cursed herself inwardly. Wrong to vent her ill humour on subordinates, however lazy and incompetent – wrong, wrong, wrong.

Fern wasn’t around, which was a relief. She didn’t want to feed back on her conversation with Wanda until she’d had a chance to confront Marc. But she’d barely stomped into her office and slammed the door to discourage interruptions, before it swung open again. Maggie bounded in like an eager spaniel expecting to be taken out for a walk.

‘Are you all right, guv?’

‘Can’t it wait, whatever it is? I’m busy.’

Maggie’s face fell. She threw a reproachful glance at the PC screen, yet to be switched on.

‘I thought you’d want to know.’

Give me strength
.

‘Fire away, then.’

‘You’ll never guess what’s happened.’

Hannah was about to snap: I’m not into
guessing games, just spit it out
. But if she wasn’t careful, she’d burst a blood vessel. She was too hunched up in her chair, too rigid and tense. Lean back, breathe out, strive for calm.

‘Tell you what, Maggie. Why don’t you pull up a chair, and then break it to me gently?’

‘The boss has gone AWOL, then?’

Alf Swallow’s van and trailer were already outside the
front porch when Daniel and Louise arrived. The gardener was a muscular man with a square jaw and features as rugged as the Langdale Pikes. He had close-cropped greying hair and Daniel was sure he’d never tugged a forelock in his life. The rolled-up sleeves of his mud-stained overall revealed brawny arms with blue tattoos. A lifetime spent out of doors in the Lake District meant bad weather didn’t bother him. Probably not much did.

‘He hasn’t answered his phone for twenty-four hours,’ Louise said. ‘Of course, I may be worrying unnecessarily, but…’

Swallow considered her, much as he might assess a choice bloom in a nursery. ‘He’ll be all right, love, don’t fret.’

‘Did he mention going away?’

‘You’d know better than me, love. The boss and I don’t see much of each other. When I’m here, he’s in his office or at court. He leaves it to me to keep these grounds spick and span.’

‘You neatened things up before the New Year’s Eve party, didn’t you?’

‘Tidied all the rubbish people left a couple of mornings later, come to that. I saw the curtains were closed, so I figured out he couldn’t have gone back to work yet. But I didn’t want to disturb anyone. Stuffed my bill through the letter box as usual and went on my way.’

‘You can’t guess where he might be?’

‘Likes to go walking, doesn’t he? Told me once he was a fresh-air fiend.’

He spat on the ground, as if to indicate his private opinion of a soft solicitor who fancied himself as an outdoor type.

‘But he’s disappeared.’

‘Maybe he’s holed up in a B&B somewhere. Or a luxury hotel, more like.’

‘He might have tumbled down a gully,’ Louise said.

‘Trust me, love. Stuart Wagg will always fall on his feet.’ A crooked grin. ‘Least, I hope so. Can’t afford to lose a good customer.’

‘Do you have keys to the outbuildings? If he’s had an accident…’

‘Can’t imagine he’s trapped himself in there. But you can have a look, if you like.’

It was clear he thought she was making a song and dance over nothing, but he led the way around the side of the house to the tree-fringed gardens looking out to Windermere. This stretch of the lake had not frozen over, but there wasn’t a single boat on the water. As befitted a house that took its name from a Ransome novel, there was a wooden landing stage where a sleek fibreglass boat was moored. Just for show, Louise said; Stuart Wagg was too often seasick to be much of a sailor. This was the first time Daniel had seen the view in daylight. Crag Gill’s location was perfect. The house crouched on the slope, quiet as a church in prayer.

The grounds were bordered by tall hawthorn hedges; thick but not impenetrable, like the hedge Daniel had squeezed through the previous day. At the end of the drive stood a triple garage linked to a large brick storeroom. Louise murmured. ‘I never went into the garage, I always parked outside. Too afraid of clipping the wing of his bloody car. The other building is full of garden equipment, but we’d better look inside, in case…’

Swallow opened the store and waved them in. There
was a sit-on lawnmower and an array of hoes, spades and scythes suspended from a rack that ran the length of one wall, but no Stuart Wagg. Daniel looked through the doorway that gave on to the garage. Parked in a neat line were a rich man’s toys. The Bentley to impress clients, an open-top Mercedes for casual driving and a gleaming Harley Davidson for fun.

‘He takes the bike over to the Isle of Man for the TT races,’ Swallow said. ‘That apart, I doubt if he rides it more than once in a blue moon. Anyhow, you can see he’s gone walking. Else a car or the bike would be missing, wouldn’t it?’

‘I suppose so.’

Louise sounded miserable, as though she guessed that Swallow was laughing to himself at her silliness. She hated making a fool of herself.

‘Suppose you’ll want to see the summer house?’ Swallow’s bushy eyebrows lifted. ‘Make sure he’s not keeled over while he was inside, watching the rain pour down?’

He spat on the path before striding off across the garden in the direction of a pine summer house with a verandah. He was whistling something that sounded like an approximation of ‘The Dambusters March’. A son of the soil, humouring folk who ought to know better.

Daniel whispered, ‘They should have called him Alf Spit, not Alf Swallow.’

Louise didn’t appreciate his attempt to lighten the mood. ‘Something bad has happened,’ she hissed.

She was shivering beneath the heavy fleece. He grabbed her arm, and squeezed it tight. They hurried after the gardener and caught up with him as he rattled a key in the
lock securing the summer house. Inside stood a table and a set of stacked garden chairs. Boxes of cutlery and crockery occupied a single shelf at the back of the building. Cobwebs criss-crossed the windows and, when they stepped over the threshold, a cloud of dust blew up and made Daniel sneeze.

‘Bless you,’ Swallow said.

‘Is there anywhere we haven’t searched?’ Louise demanded.

A shake of the head. ‘There’s the well, of course, but no way would he be down there.’

‘Oh God, I’d forgotten the well,’ Louise said. ‘Stuart pointed it out to me, when he showed me round here.’

‘It’s not been used for many a long year. Dates back to when the old house was on this site. It may have been dug out before then, for all I know. Once upon a time there were wells like this all over the countryside.’

‘How deep is it?’ Daniel asked.

‘Thirty feet, maybe less. The bottom’s silted up. The boss talked about filling it in, but we haven’t got round to it yet. It used to be covered with wooden boards, but they were rotting, so I put a new metal sheet over the hole this time last year. Heavy bugger to shift. You needn’t worry, love. Nobody could fall down there by accident.’

‘Let’s have a quick look,’ Daniel suggested. ‘Better not leave any stone unturned.’

Swallow shrugged and led them along a grassy path, past a couple of dense mahonias and into a small clearing with a compost heap, a short distance from the boundary hedge. Daniel wrinkled his nose at the stench of the rotting vegetation. On a small platform of broken house bricks lay
a round metal cover showing the first traces of rust.

‘That’s funny,’ Swallow said.

‘What?’ Louise sounded hoarse.

‘I could have sworn the metal sheet wasn’t in that position last time I dumped a barrow load of compost. You’ve got me imagining things myself now.’

‘Can you move the cover?’ she asked in a small voice.

Alf Swallow cast a glance to the heavens. ‘There’s a hell of a lot of weight in that, love. Look at it. No way could anyone shift that bugger by mistake.’

‘I’ll give you a hand,’ Daniel said, moving towards the well. ‘Let’s do it.’

‘You’re all right, mister, leave it to me.’ Swallow’s good humour sounded as though it was wearing thin. ‘Don’t want you to put your back out.’

After a preparatory spit, the gardener bent down and, with a loud grunt, like a Wimbledon star striving to serve an ace, he heaved the metal cover to one side. A small dark opening appeared.

The moment Alf Swallow glanced down into the well, his eyes widened. His face grew dark as scorn gave way to horror, and he swore with primitive savagery.

Daniel’s gorge rose. He’d dreaded this. Tried to persuade himself that it was not possible.

Louise gave a strangled cry. ‘What…what is it?’

Daniel stepped forward, pushing past the gardener to see for himself. The well hole was a black abyss. When he knelt down by the edge and peered inside, the stench hit him like a blow from a knuckleduster. He recoiled, but with a frantic effort, managed not to fall down.

Wedged fifteen feet below ground level, before the hole
narrowed to nothingness, was the bruised and broken body of a man in shirt and trousers, not dressed for outdoors, let alone for the cold underground. He’d curled up into a foetal ball – whether to ward off blows, or to avoid confronting the fate that awaited him, Daniel dared not guess. The face was hidden, thank God, for the insects must have been busy. No question about the corpse’s identity, though. No mistaking that proud mane of dark hair, even though now it was dirty and matted with blood.

The gardener had been wrong.

For once, Stuart Wagg had not fallen on his feet.

‘Hannah, you’ve heard the news?’

Daniel’s voice was low and tense and disturbingly good to hear. She pressed the mobile closer to her ear. He’d rung the moment she hurried out of the well-lit entrance of Divisional HQ into the night. It had been a long and hard day and it wasn’t about to improve. Tonight she had to confront Marc about Bethany Friend. 

‘Stuart Wagg is dead.’

‘Louise and I found the body.’

‘Horrible for you. I’m sorry.’

‘Louise has never seen a corpse before.’

‘Is she OK?’

‘Shocked, as you’d expect. He was so wrong for her, but she can’t understand why someone murdered him.’

‘Assuming he was murdered. Until the forensic people have finished—’

‘His head was badly wounded and he’d been shoved down an old well which was then covered up. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that he could climb out. I really
don’t think there’s any chance of accident or suicide, do you?’ He paused for breath. ‘Hey, this is a bad idea. You’re a chief inspector, it’s more than your job’s worth to discuss what has happened.’

She dug her nails into her palm.
I’ve blown it
.

‘I didn’t mean—’

‘Louise is a suspect, bound to be.’ He groaned. ‘Stupid of me to call. As a matter of fact, I don’t have an alibi myself.’

‘Don’t talk nonsense.’

He didn’t reply. One of the senior women from Legal stepped into a pool of light cast by the security lamps. She waved as she headed at a brisk clip for her people carrier at the other end of the car park. Hannah waved back and mouthed goodnight.

She softened her tone. ‘Listen, I’m glad you rang me. You want to meet?’

‘Thanks, but I don’t want you to feel compromised,’ he muttered.

‘This isn’t my case, there’s no question of compromising me.’ She was far from certain about that, but what the hell? She was sick of trying to do the right thing. ‘You and I are friends. Your dad was my boss. Nobody can stop us having a conversation.’  

A pause.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

Despite himself, he laughed. ‘All right, you’ve persuaded me. When?’  

‘When suits you?’

A pause. ‘I suppose there’s no chance of later tonight?’

And then there were two. The last customer had long gone when Mrs Beveridge finished cashing up and disappeared into the evening cold. Cassie put the
Closed
sign on the door and collected her coat and scarf. Marc stood at the counter, checking an Internet auction sale, as she approached him.

‘Goodnight, Marc.’

‘Your car’s fixed, I hope?’

She shook her head. ‘The garage said it will be a couple more days. No problem, the bus journey gives me a chance to unwind.’

‘Am I such a taskmaster that you need an hour to unwind?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘What time is your bus?’

She clicked her tongue in annoyance as she checked her watch. ‘Bummer. I just missed one. Never mind. I think they run every half hour.’

‘In January? You’ll be lucky. Don’t worry, I’ll give you a lift.’

‘Very kind, but I don’t want to take you out of your way again.’

‘It’s not out of my way at all.’ He spun round quickly, before she could protest, then called back over his shoulder.‘Give me five minutes.’

As he busied himself, quite unnecessarily, behind the closed door of his office, he told himself this was what she wanted. No harm in it, he deserved a bit of pleasure. Especially after Hannah had concealed her encounter with Daniel Kind. But he didn’t want things to get out of hand.

‘Ready?’ he asked, emerging from his retreat as soon as the stipulated five minutes were up.

‘When you are.’

He set the alarm and followed her outside. The courtyard was deserted. As he locked up, she stamped her feet. He could hear her teeth chattering.

‘God, it’s freezing.’

‘See, I couldn’t let you hang around in the dark, waiting for a bus that might never show up.’

‘I can’t believe you’re my boss,’ she said. ‘Some of the other people I’ve worked for simply couldn’t care less about their staff. But you’re so kind.’

He zipped the shop keys up in his shoulder bag. ‘Perhaps I’m just not very good at being a boss.’

Her smile glittered in the night. ‘You shouldn’t do yourself down all the time. You’re fantastic.’

‘And you’re very good for my morale.’ For a moment, his hand touched hers. Her flesh was cold. ‘You were right, you are freezing.’

She took a couple of strides towards where he was parked. ‘I’ll need to warm up when I get home.’

They climbed into the car. ‘If you like, I’ll buy you a Jameson’s at the godforsaken pub.’

She fastened her seat belt, and smoothed her coat down, demure as a nun. ‘I don’t think so, thanks all the same.’

‘Up to you.’

The car seemed as quiet as a hearse. To break the silence, he switched on the radio. Duffy, covering a Sixties heartbreaker, begging her lover:
Don’t go, please stay.
He squeezed the steering wheel, aware of Cassie’s body, inches from him. He couldn’t guess what might be in her mind. She kept blowing hot and cold. Was teasing her stock-in-trade, a means of exercising her power over men? The
ballad reached a melodramatic climax as he paused at the junction with the main road. At this hour, he usually had to queue, waiting for a gap in the traffic, but tonight both lanes were deserted, as if everyone had already fled home.

Six o’clock. Time for the local headlines.

‘The body of a man has been discovered in the grounds of a house near Bowness,’ the announcer said. ‘Police have refused to confirm reports that the deceased is prominent local solicitor Stuart Wagg. Mr Wagg is believed to have been missing for the past twenty-four hours. Meanwhile, as weather conditions deteriorate across the county…’

‘Shit!’

Marc came within inches of steering the car into a road sign at a fork. They juddered to a halt. Neither of them spoke as their breath misted the windscreen.

‘It’s…’ He found himself lost for words.

‘Unbelievable?’ she murmured.

‘It must be a mistake.’

‘It’s no mistake.’

He peered at her through the darkness. ‘What makes you so certain?’

‘Elementary, my dear Amos. The media wouldn’t mention the name if they weren’t sure of his identity. Imagine the outrage if they’d got it wrong.’

‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘Don’t take my word for it. Your partner’s a detective, she’s bound to be in the know. Why don’t you ask her?’

He’d forgotten that Cassie had once met Hannah. At the time, he’d felt a pinprick of irritation about her visit to the shop: she didn’t take any interest in the business usually, and he suspected her of wanting to size up his latest
recruit. Still, it was as well that Cassie knew he was in a relationship. That way there could be no misunderstanding. No recriminations.

‘She’s in charge of the Cold Cases team. Investigating crimes from the past, not in the here and now.’

‘Yes, but she’ll have the inside track. She knew Stuart, you told me you were taking her to his party on New Year’s Eve.’

‘He was in good form that night.’ Marc gazed out into the night. There was no moon; they might be anywhere. Just the two of them, alone in the dark. ‘What in God’s name has happened to him? They said the body was discovered out of doors.’

‘It must have been an accident.’

He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Like George Saffell?’

‘Hey there.’ She might have been a mother soothing a fractious child. ‘They were customers, not your best friends.’

‘George Saffell was murdered, it’s a stone-cold certainty.’ He was almost talking to himself, struggling to get his head round what had happened to his clients. ‘For all we know, so was Wagg. The same person may have killed them both.’

‘Or else it’s a spooky coincidence.’

‘The police don’t believe in coincidences. That’s one thing I’ve learnt from Hannah.’

‘Don’t say you’re worried they will treat you as a suspect?’

‘Christ knows.’

‘Hannah will look after you.’

He didn’t answer.

‘I mean, you’re the last person who would have wanted them dead. Two rich book collectors?’

‘Of course, it’s madness. But I’ve learnt from Hannah how the police work when they are in a jam. If they find a convenient fall guy…’

‘Don’t sound so anxious.’ Her fingers brushed against his cheek, then scuttled away, as though embarrassed at their presumption. ‘You feel like a cold case too, Marc Amos.’

His body tensed, his heart was beating faster…

‘You need that whisky more than I do,’ she murmured.

In for a penny
…

He cleared his throat. ‘Won’t you change your mind about having a drink with me?’

‘In that wretched pub? Are you joking? I’ve visited more cheerful mausoleums. Or do I mean mausolea?’ She hesitated. ‘Tell you what, if you have a few minutes to spare, come up to the flat and I’ll make you a mug of Irish coffee. Special recipe, with double cream to soak up the alcohol.’

‘Sounds tempting.’ He paused, as if deliberating over pros and cons. ‘OK, it’s a deal.’

‘Fine.’ As he turned on the ignition, she settled back in the passenger seat and shut her eyes. ‘How good to have a chauffeur. Wake me up when we get home, will you?’

He listened to her soft, rhythmic breathing as he drove, unsure if she was asleep or dreaming. This felt different from the last time he’d taken her home. They were growing closer to each other, but he meant to be careful. Go so far, but no further.

When they arrived at her place, he nudged her awake and then, without a word, followed her up a narrow flight
of stairs to a tiny landing on the first floor. There was a door with her name next to the bell.

‘Welcome,’ she said, shrugging off coat and scarf and waving him into a small sitting room. ‘Sorry, it’s not exactly Crag Gill.’

Stuart Wagg again. For a few minutes he’d banished the man’s suspected death from his mind.

‘It’s incredible. Within a few weeks, my two best customers…’

The gas fire roared into life, and she lit a trio of candles before switching off the main light. In one corner stood an old-fashioned Japanese hi-fi unit; she pulled a Neil Young CD out of a rack and put it on. The room reminded him of a student house. Furnished on the cheap, but she had an eye for casual chic. Indian wall hangings, throws over the armchairs and sofa, and a warm red and brown kilim spread over the carpet tiles. On every available surface were incense burners decorated with Chinese dragons, exotically carved wooden boxes and trinket pots. Even the paperbacks in the bookcase by the window seemed chosen to fit the colour scheme; although every spine was creased with reading.

‘Maybe someone has got it in for you.’

The ironic grin made him blush. It was a knack she had, of constantly pushing him onto the back foot.

‘Sorry, did I sound very self-absorbed?’

‘No need to look shamefaced. You run a business, and times aren’t easy. The likes of Stuart and George pay the bills. And my wages, I’m not forgetting. I hope this won’t cause you any grief.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll get by.’

‘Phew, that’s a relief. I’ve had more jobs already than some people have in a lifetime. I’d be sad if you chucked me out on the street.’

‘No danger of that, Cassie.’

‘Let me fix that Irish coffee while you take the weight off your feet.’

She vanished into a tiny kitchen, leaving him to sprawl across the sofa. Neil Young was singing ‘Tonight’s the Night’. It excited him, to be invited up here, but he was determined not to succumb to his old weakness of allowing himself to get carried away. He didn’t want Cassie to misunderstand him. Not that he was confident that he entirely understood himself.

He closed his eyes. How easy to drift away. What if she invited him to smoke a joint, or share a line of cocaine? He found it impossible to predict her; there was no knowing how far she might go. Suppose the invitation to coffee was a ruse? He’d made himself vulnerable, he wasn’t in control. What might she be stirring into his drink, what pills or potion might the whisky and cream disguise?

As he opened his eyes, she walked through the door, carrying a tray. She cleared a space on the bamboo table by the sofa and set the drinks down.

‘Here.’ She passed him one of the mugs and sat down in the chair facing him. ‘Take a sip. See how you like it.’

He tried the coffee. She’d made it very strong.

Cassie’s lips were parted as she waited for his reaction.

They exchanged smiles. Yes, he was taking a risk, but the weird thing was, he didn’t care.

He took another taste.

‘What did Hannah say?’

Louise was curled up on the sofa in the living room of Tarn Cottage, dressing gown wrapped tight around her. The lights shone bright, the fire blazed, the aroma of their hot chocolate lingered in the air. It couldn’t seem cosier; but appearances deceived.

She had barely stopped shivering after an hour spent answering questions from the police while her lover’s body was hauled out of the well by the CSI specialists. Daniel had called in a solicitor from Preston to represent her, a cadaverous pessimist in a washable but unwashed brown suit. All the lawyers they knew in the Lakes were either colleagues of Stuart Wagg or competitors with an axe to grind. The solicitor’s demeanour suggested that all his clients pleaded guilty in the fullness of time. His advice so far consisted of instructing her to say as little as possible about her relationship with the dead man, and at least this curtailed the inquisition. Perhaps he was smarter than his clothes. But the DC conducting the interview made it clear that Louise was only postponing the inevitable. He’d talk to her again, once the shock began to subside.

Daniel prodded the burning logs with a poker before warming his hands in front of the fire. Louise must feel as numb. If only he could scrub from his mind the surreal vision of Wagg’s body, stuffed down that hole in the ground. Perhaps he’d imagined it, and was about to wake from a nightmare.