The Serpent Pool (20 page)

‘Hannah, you have a waspish tongue in that pretty head of yours. No one would ever realise.’

‘So, you admit that you and she are lovers?’

‘It’s no cause for shame. Wanda and I have been intimate for years.’ His long tongue licked the rim of his mug. ‘Off and on, as you might say.’

‘You first slept together around the time of Bethany’s death.’

His brows knitted together, increasing his resemblance to an ill-tempered gorilla. ‘Poor Bethany’s death had nothing to do with our relationship. Or with either of us.’

‘Did she commit adultery during her marriage to George Saffell?’

‘I would not presume to speak for Wanda.’

‘Did she sleep with you before he died?’

He shook his head. ‘A gentleman never tells. Suffice to say, we all deserve a little treat, now and then. Live for the moment is a good philosophy, don’t you agree?’

‘Did you know Saffell personally?’

‘We weren’t friends, we had nothing in common, except that we’d both shagged Wanda. Not that the poor old fellow did it particularly well, I gather. As for books, their appeal for him was as items for his collection. His understanding of literature itself was skin-deep.’

He’d answered a question she hadn’t asked. ‘So, you did meet him?’

‘Our paths crossed a few times. His firm sponsored various university activities. Showing the acceptable face of estate agency by subsidising the work of needy academics. I bumped into him once or twice at events.’

‘What form of sponsorship?’

‘I struggle to recall. The bursar can provide you with the details. He and the vice chancellor will still be in mourning. Losing George Saffell’s munificence must have hit the university hard. I expect they’ll use it as an excuse to hike up tuition fees.’

‘Wanda must be a wealthy lady. No wonder you were keen to renew the relationship.’

‘I couldn’t care less about Wanda’s money.’

‘Is that so?’ At last she’d touched a nerve. ‘What were you saying about deserving academics? How refreshing to meet someone who is not remotely interested in filthy lucre.’

He slurped another mouthful of hot chocolate, didn’t speak.

‘You’ll have heard that Stuart Wagg’s body was found yesterday afternoon. His business supported the university too. Did you know him?’

‘You think I could afford his fee rates?’

‘Are you saying the two of you never met?’

His eyes narrowed, as if he’d detected a trap she didn’t know she’d set.

‘When you look into his records, you will find that he represented me once. Six or seven years ago, when his reputation was a little less lustrous and he undertook work on legal aid, not just for privately paying fat cats.’

‘Why did you need his services?’

‘If you must know, I was charged with supplying cannabis to some of the students I taught.’

She gripped her mug handle. ‘This would be about the time you were seeing Bethany Friend?’

‘What of it?’

‘Was she a witness in the case?’

‘It was nothing to do with her, and the only time we smoked a joint together, she nearly choked. Bethany craved excitement and fresh experiences, but in truth she was an innocent. She’d led a dull life, and I’m afraid it rather suited her. Of course, the charge against me was a deplorable misunderstanding.’

Somewhere behind them, a member of the cafeteria staff broke the silence by rattling a canister of cutlery. Hannah leant towards Nathan Clare.

‘Did the case reach court?’

‘Unfortunately, yes. However, Stuart Wagg managed to pick so many holes in the prosecution’s version of events that the judge threw the case out. It never even reached the jury, and I walked away with my character unstained.’

‘Oh yes?’

Justice denied, as per bloody usual.

‘I was innocent, naturally, but the experience destroyed my remaining faith in British justice. Without Stuart Wagg’s advocacy, I might have been found guilty.’

‘Perish the thought,’ she said through gritted teeth.

‘So, I had every reason to be grateful to the fellow. If you’re suggesting I had a reason to murder him, my dear Hannah, you’re not only barking up the wrong tree, you aren’t even in the right forest.’

The self-satisfied grin was back. Even if he dabbled in drug dealing, so what? When it came to finding a motive for three murders, she’d drawn a blank, and they both knew it. He made a show of consulting his watch, and then leapt to his feet with agility startling in such a heavy man.

‘Your ten minutes ran out some time ago, Hannah. Sorry, must dash. Can I leave you to find your own way out?’

The fog cloaking Tarn Fold didn’t lift an inch as the hours drifted by. Louise said she ached to escape from the cottage, and do some shopping; besides, the cupboards of the cottage were bare. Daniel, ready to seize on any excuse to avoid being handcuffed to
The Hell Within
, proposed lunch in Ambleside. He could drop in at the De Quincey Festival office. Arlo Denstone hadn’t answered his latest emails, or a voice message asking if the talk needed any revision. Once that was sorted, he could make headway with the book. Or maybe it was just a writer’s displacement activity.

Neither of them spoke on the journey. Louise wrestled with her private thoughts and Daniel needed to focus on the road. Visibility was down to fifty metres.

Ambleside seemed to be brooding because normal life was on hold. Doom-mongers from the Met Office had scared off even the hardiest walkers, and Daniel was spoilt for choice when looking for a space to park. Louise hurried away to indulge in some retail therapy, while he picked up a copy of the
Westmorland Gazette
– the newspaper De Quincey edited
was still going strong – before strolling past the market cross to the Festival office. Above the door, you could still see the name of a vanished photographer’s studio killed off by digital technology. The unit was surrounded by charity shops on short-term lets, windows stuffed with dog-eared chick lit, faded watercolours, and second-hand climbing gear. Even affluent Ambleside wasn’t spared the tide of change washing through the high streets of England.

The tiny office overflowed with glossy posters advertising the Festival, racks of tourist information leaflets, and a display of classics by the usual Lake District suspects. Behind a desk sat a large, grey-haired woman, whose yellow and red badge proclaimed her as
Sandra, Festival Volunteer
. She was engrossed in a chat magazine and Daniel found himself hypnotised by its lurid cover: ‘
Life! Death! Prizes!’ ‘A vulture tried to EAT me’, ‘The wife who SLICED OFF her hubby’s bits (“I still love him”)’, ‘We sold our pets to pay for Mum’s funeral’, ‘My Reg was banged up for being psychic’, ‘Fab Faye’s big day boob job
’. When he coughed, she treated him to a cheery smile.

‘At last, a customer!’ she exclaimed. ‘How wonderful to see you, Mr Kind.’

Daniel hadn’t given his name, but she was a fan of the TV series, and had just bought his latest book. They chatted for five minutes about history and when she might see him on the box again. If, rather than when, he said.

‘But you’re far too young to retire!’ she protested.

‘Too young to stay on a treadmill, you mean. I’m happy to hide away in my cottage and write.’

Try to write, you mean.

‘I’ve been looking forward to your talk at the Festival.’
The note of regret puzzled him. She sounded like a child expecting to be deprived of a long-awaited treat.

‘Speaking of which, is Arlo Denstone around?’ The grey head shook. ‘Could he give me a ring, when he gets back?’

‘Don’t hold your breath.’ She lowered her voice, as if about to confide a secret vice. ‘To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure if he’s coming back.’

‘Later today, you mean?’

‘No, ever.’

His stomach tightened, a spasm of selfishness tinged with outrage. Had Arlo walked out on the job, or chucked it in? And after he’d sweated blood to deliver the wretched talk by the deadline?

‘I don’t understand.’

Sandra became pink and indecisive, torn between discretion and the desire to unload. ‘The last time we saw him was when he did an interview on television with that Grizelda Richards,’ she said. ‘Nobody seems to know where he is.’ ‘Is he poorly?’

Arlo Denstone was a cancer survivor, he recalled. Sometimes cancer came back.

‘He seemed as right as rain when I last saw him.’ The corners of her mouth turned down. ‘To tell you the truth, he’s never here. It’s us who are worried sick.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s happening with the Festival, not a sausage. One of the other volunteers told me yesterday that the conference centre arrangements still haven’t been confirmed. The university phone us every day, chasing the deposit.
They’ve threatened to scrub the booking if we ignore the latest reminder. The lady who does our accounts says we don’t have any funds in the bank. Two of the other speakers are losing patience because he hasn’t been in touch. We don’t know what to say.’

‘Arlo is still making plans for the Festival. He called at my cottage this week, chasing my talk before the printers’ deadline.’

‘I don’t know about any deadline.’ She twisted a skein of wool around her fingers. ‘See those posters? We owe the printers for them, the bill’s seriously overdue. At half past nine, they rang to say they were putting the matter in the hands of their solicitors. I know cash is tight, but we feel so embarrassed.’

‘Perhaps he’s lined up another firm of printers.’

‘I don’t know if he’s bothered about the Festival anymore.’

‘Surely he wouldn’t walk out on it?’

‘He’s a volunteer, like the rest of us. What if he’s received a better offer?’

A volunteer? Arlo was keen on De Quincey, but Daniel hadn’t realised he was that keen.

‘Seriously? He isn’t being paid?’

‘He was full of enthusiasm at first, we were thrilled when he agreed to do the work for nothing but expenses. He’s organised festivals all over Australia, you know. But…’

A movement on the other side of the window caught his eye. Someone walking past on the pavement. Hannah Scarlett, brisk and full of purpose.

‘I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding,’ he said hastily. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse—’

Sandra reached into her knitting bag and pulled out his most recent book, beaming like a conjuror with a rabbit. ‘I wonder, before you go, would you mind signing this to me? I must have something to write with somewhere…’

He itched to dash out and buttonhole Hannah, but good manners held him back. Sandra produced a ballpoint pen, and the chance of escape was gone. By the time he made it to the pavement outside, Hannah had disappeared into the mist.

‘There’s something special about foggy days.’ Even on the mobile, Cassie’s voice sounded warm and tempting. ‘I love it that everything is so blurry and mysterious.’

‘Like life, really,’ Marc said.

He’d been back at his mother’s house for the past hour, chewing his nails up in his room, while downstairs, her vacuum cleaner roared. Yearning for the phone to ring, hating himself for acting like a heartsick adolescent. Cassie had cut their first conversation short, saying she needed time to think. Despite the weather, she was setting off for a walk to clear her head. She’d promised to call later, but he hadn’t been sure she’d keep her word.

‘Mmmmm.’

He waited.

‘So.’ She was breathing hard. ‘Would you like to come over?’

Wanda Saffell made Hannah wait in a cubbyhole while she chatted on the phone with someone who was mixing pigments for her next book of woodcuts. From the fragments Hannah overhead, Wanda was spinning out the
conversation. The buggeration factor, Les Bryant called it. For all her forty-something elegance, Wanda was a stroppy teenager at heart. Was that common streak of adolescence the bond between her and Nathan Clare? She’d go berserk if Hannah arrested her. It might be worth it, just to wipe the sneer from her face.

‘How long will this take?’ Wanda demanded when at last she hung up. ‘You see how busy I am.’

The table in the little room was piled high with vast printed sheets, ready to be folded. ‘Don’t you have anyone to help you?’ Hannah asked. ‘Nathan Clare, for instance, does he lend a hand?’

‘Why would I want help?’ Wanda asked. ‘I adore the physical act of making books. Not for one second would I go back to public relations, and all the false smiles and back-stabbing. As for Nathan, he’s a creative writer. A very different craft.’

‘But the two of you are very close.’

Wanda put her hands on her hips. Even in a thick Aran sweater and grubby chinos, her figure curved in provocation. Easy to understand why Nathan was smitten. Let alone old, priapic George.

‘Is there a law against it?’

‘Do you or he drive a small purple Micra?’

‘Nathan never learnt to drive. He hates following rules, the Highway Code would bore him rigid. My car is a BMW, you must remember when I carved you up on the way to Stuart’s party?’

‘And now Stuart is dead.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re poking your nose into that case now. Given up on Bethany Friend?’

‘Did Bethany and Stuart have a relationship?’

Wanda moved closer. Even her breath seemed to smell of ink. ‘What are you driving at?’

‘Can you answer the question, please?’

‘Who knows? I doubt it, they swam in different pools.’

‘She temped for his firm the year before her death.’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘Did you know Nathan Clare was a client of his, then?’

‘So, what? Any minute now, you’ll hint that Bethany rented a flat through George.’

‘Did she?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea. This all sounds like wild guesswork. To my knowledge, only one person links the three of them.’

‘Namely?’

Wanda smiled. ‘Marc Amos, of course. George and Stuart were his customers, Bethany…’

She let the sentence trail away, but Hannah was ready for her this time.

‘Aren’t you forgetting? You are another link.’

‘I wished George no harm. But even if I did, why should I want to kill Bethany or Stuart?’

‘And you’re suggesting Marc has a motive?’

‘That’s your department, Chief Inspector. I’m not accusing anybody of anything. Though if I were you, I’d pay attention to what your man gets up to with the hired help.’ A mischievous smile. ‘Don’t look puzzled, it might shake my faith that our police are wonderful. Haven’t you met that foxy assistant of his?’

‘Assistant?’

‘Cassie Weston. I spotted her when I called in with copies
of Nathan’s book. She tried to keep out of sight, but I’d recognise that slinky figure a mile off. Tell you what, Chief Inspector, instead of hassling me, you’d be better keeping an eye on her.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning that when she worked for George, the two of them had an affair.’

Hannah dug her nails into her palm. Just as well that she’d steeled herself for this interview.

‘Cassie Weston worked for your husband?’

‘And slept with him. Not that I minded much, our relationship was fucked by the time she was. She’s trouble, always has been.’

‘When was this?’

‘Not long before he died. He made quite a fool of himself over the girl. Every Thursday lunchtime, they’d nip off for a bit of hanky-panky in a hotel. He did his best to keep it quiet; nobody knew. I only found out when he fessed up after she finished with him. He was an old goat with all the pretty girls in his office, but Cassie made a deeper impression than the rest. He was badly cut up when she said it was over. She’d teamed up again with the love of her life, and she told George what he could do with his job. To say nothing of his Thursday lunchtimes.’

‘Am I leading you astray?’ Cassie asked.

Despite the cold, and the fact that she obviously didn’t spend much on heating, she was only wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Bare arms, bare feet. And there was no mistaking that she hadn’t put on a bra. They were in her living room, a couple of half-empty flute glasses on the table between
them. On the way over, Marc had stopped at an off-licence, and splashed out on a bottle of Bolly. The opened bottle was in an ice bucket in her kitchen. He wasn’t rushing it. They had all the time in the world. This wasn’t about sex. He’d been at pains not to touch her since she’d greeted him at the door with a peck on the cheek. All he wanted was to get to know her better.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Well, I have an excuse, it’s my day off. You’re a businessman, you ought to be minding the shop. Or out bidding at auction, or exhibiting at a fair.’

He settled back in his chair. ‘All work and no play, et cetera.’

‘So, I’m therapy for a stressed entrepreneur, is that it?’

‘We can all do with a bit of therapy, now and then.’

She stretched out her legs. Toenails painted pink to match her fingernails. ‘What can I do for you, then?’

‘Tell me your life story. We’ve worked alongside each other for months, but I don’t know enough about you.’

‘You wouldn’t be interested.’

‘Wrong.’ He took another sip of champagne. ‘I’m fascinated.’

‘OK, you asked for it.’

As Hannah departed the whitewashed home of Stock Ghyll Press, she checked her messages and saw that Maggie Eyre wanted her to ring as soon as she was free.

‘Any news?’ she asked.

‘We’ve found a fresh name.’ Maggie sounded as though she’d run a four-minute mile. ‘Someone whose path crossed with all three victims.’

‘Go on.’

‘She was on the list of students at the university at the time Bethany died. It was her first year, though she dropped out at the end of her second term, a few weeks after the body was found. And she had a spell with George Saffell’s firm last year. Go back eighteen months, and she temped on maternity cover for Stuart Wagg.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ Hannah said. ‘Cassie Weston, right?’

‘Hannah!’

She was striding past the Salutation Hotel when Daniel hailed her. He and Louise had just left the bistro where they’d had lunch and were heading back to the car. This time he was determined not to let her disappear without a word.

‘I’ll be in the handbag shop,’ Louise said quickly, as Hannah waved and began to cross the road towards them.

He gave her a crooked grin. Surely she wasn’t becoming tactful in her old age? ‘See you in ten minutes?’

As Louise vanished into a misty side street, Hannah arrived at his side.

‘How is she?’

‘It hasn’t hit her yet. Infatuation, break-up, discovery of the body. A lot to cope with. In the long run, she’ll be fine, but…’

‘You’ll take good care of her.’ She scrutinised him. ‘Anything wrong?’