The Serpent Pool (22 page)

‘Bethany Friend and Cassie Weston,’ she said. ‘Two
attractive young women whose shared love of literature brought them together.’

‘So, they had a fling?’

For once, his tone wasn’t prurient. He was getting his head round it all. Beneath the bravado and bluster, he wasn’t a bad detective. Greg was very different from Nick Lowther, but maybe they could work in tandem after all.

‘An intense relationship, yes. Whether sex was part of it, who knows? For Cassie, in particular, it was probably a matter of curiosity. Just seeing what it was like, being with another woman. Probably she’s someone who likes breaking taboos. She made Bethany a present of a novel about possession. A joke, or a sign of self-awareness, who knows? They’d been extremely discreet, that suited them both. But the inscription is a giveaway. It proves they were close, and that’s all we need.’

‘Yet Cassie finished with her.’

‘The minute she met Arlo, is my guess. Or should I say the minute she met Roland Seeton?’

‘The long-haired dropout?’

‘He’s charismatic.’

His eyebrows lifted. ‘Oh yeah?’

‘Don’t start,’ she said wearily. ‘But he’s the sort of man who attracts women. There’s something…I don’t know…masterful about him. Cassie could pick and choose her men, and Wanda’s no mug, but they both fancied him like mad. Takes all sorts.’

‘OK, ma’am.’ He took a slurp of coffee. ‘And meanwhile, Bethany teamed up with Clare on the rebound?’

‘She didn’t choose her lovers wisely, for sure.’

 A stab of self-knowledge stopped her short.
Who am I to talk
?

‘After Clare abandoned Bethany, it was plausible that she might have become depressed enough to kill herself.’ He was thinking aloud, working it out for himself. Hannah approved. ‘Cassie and Seeton took advantage.’

‘He was jealous of Bethany.’

‘Even though Cassie had already dropped her?’

‘There’s nothing logical about jealousy.’
Don’t I know it
? ‘Suppose it excited Cassie to torment Seeton, by inflaming his desire for her – how better than by making him as jealous as hell? A pair of passionate lovers, turned on by pushing the boundaries. One of them fanatical about De Quincey, the other an eager disciple.’

‘Wasn’t there a book,
The De Quincey Code
?’

‘Very funny. De Quincey once lived in Grasmere. For all we know, Arlo moved to the same village as a sort of homage to his hero. De Quincey was famous for two things. He was a drug addict, and he was obsessed with murder.’

‘I suppose your mate Daniel Kind gave you the low-down.’

She gave him a sharp glance, but this afternoon, there wasn’t a hint of innuendo in his tone. Though she didn’t underestimate his capacity to make mischief, if she didn’t watch her step.

‘He’s been helpful.’ Brisk and businesslike, that must be the way when Daniel’s name cropped up. ‘At present, it seems he was the last person to talk to Arlo Denstone.’

‘Useful contact.’ Greg kept his face straight.

‘De Quincey had a craving for opium. In those days, it wasn’t even against the law, you could buy it over the
counter, dirt cheap. Seeton had a record for illegal possession; the odds are he never kicked the habit. If he and Cassie were high on something, it may explain how they came up with such a crazy idea. To kill an innocent woman, simply because of a past relationship. And not only that, to punish her and extract revenge by killing her in the way she feared most… Death by drowning.’

‘Bethany died on Valentine’s Day. If Cassie encouraged her to hope they’d get back together, she might have invented a pretext to persuade her to come up to the Serpent Pool.’

‘Such as? It was a bit cold for outdoor sex, surely?’

‘Like you said, ma’am, it takes all sorts.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Suppose Cassie made use of the fact that Bethany was desperate for affection to persuade her into playing some kind of bondage game. Bethany would have made herself vulnerable.’

‘Yeah, that may have been what happened.’

‘You think Roland Seeton was present at the scene?’

‘The kind of man I think he is, it would turn him on. For all we know, they shared the work. Say Cassie hits Bethany on the head, and while she’s stunned, Seeton leaps out of the undergrowth and pushes her head under the water. The details don’t matter.’

Greg nodded. ‘It’s easier to get away with a weird crime than something orthodox – until you come under the microscope.’

‘Which Cassie never did, because Bethany kept their affair secret. She was afraid her mother would be upset if she found out her daughter was mixed up with another woman. And Seeton may never even have met her. He took a risk by coming forward as a witness.’

‘But he got away with it.’

‘Not completely. Cassie had a breakdown when it sank in that she was responsible for someone’s death. Seeton lost the plot and abandoned her. Left the country, took a new name, forged a new career.’

Greg put down his cup. ‘He couldn’t keep away from her for ever.’

‘He’d reinvented himself successfully as Arlo Denstone. Nobody was likely to remember Roland Seeton, and in any case, his appearance had changed almost beyond recognition. When the Culture Company dreamt up a De Quincey Festival, and looked around for someone to lead it, the temptation was irresistible. He didn’t even ask for payment. So long as he could get back together with Cassie. He liked to say he was a cancer survivor. A good metaphor for jealousy. Once he was back with Cassie, he found himself succumbing again.’

‘Because she’d slept with Saffell and Wagg.’ Greg’s expression hardened. ‘Even though the affairs were over and done.’

‘That’s the nature of jealousy. It’s a disease. Left untreated, it destroys everything.’

‘Spoken from the heart.’

Greg scanned her face for clues, but she was determined to give nothing away.

‘Yeah, well. I’m trying to get inside Arlo’s head. Not a nice place to be. He’s obsessed with Cassie Weston, and with anyone who’s been involved with her. Two murders in a matter of weeks? He’s losing the plot all over again.’

‘Saffell was a loner. Easy to target him when he was in the boathouse. Wagg must have been a trickier target.’

‘My guess is that Cassie never quite got Bethany out of her system. Bethany had worked for Wagg and Saffell. They were older, successful men, perhaps she carried a torch for them.’ She paused, unable to resist asking herself the question:
Is that how it was with Marc, as well? She fancied him, and he was flattered, but did either of them do anything about it?
She cleared her throat. ‘Cassie followed in her footsteps, she was fascinated by the woman she’d slept with and then helped to kill. But she went further than Bethany. She had brief flings with each of them, but after she teamed up with Arlo again, she rekindled the relationship with Stuart. Possibly George too, for all I know. She’s gorgeous, and they were weak.’

‘Yeah, well, men are different from women.’

‘Brains in their underpants, tell me about it.’ She shook her head, trying not to think about Marc. ‘Wagg even invited her to the New Year party, but she played hard to get. She and Arlo didn’t want to bump into each other in public, and besides, Louise Kind was in the way.’

‘What about the wine-throwing incident?’

‘My bet is that Wanda told the truth.’

‘Don’t tell DCI Larter. She’d rather believe that pigs do fly.’

‘Arlo provoked her as a distraction from any possible link with Cassie.’

‘Over-elaborate.’

‘Like everything about Arlo is over-elaborate. He’s a drama queen, same as his hero, De Quincey. Once the party was over and done with, Cassie persuaded Wagg to drop Louise like a hot potato. As soon as she packed her bags and left Crag Gill, Cassie and Arlo seized their chance. The
MO varied each time, but they were variations on a single theme. They relied on making people vulnerable. Provoking a kind of crazy desire for Cassie. Then destroying them because of it.’

‘Dangerous lady.’

He was right, Cassie was bad news.

She shivered, remembering that Bethany had worked for Marc, and now Cassie did too. What if Marc were with Cassie now?

The cold woke him. That, and the pain. As consciousness returned, he became aware of the throbbing of his head and arms. His wrists and ankles felt as though they were on fire, but the rest of him was freezing.

Where in God’s name was he, what was happening? He didn’t have a clue how much time had passed since he’d rung Cassie’s doorbell. His eyes were shut, and he dared not open them. He dreaded the truth.

‘Coming round?’

A man’s voice, soft, yet not in the least reassuring. Marc tried to speak, but no words came. He couldn’t open his mouth. Someone had taped it shut. His hands were bound up above his head; impossible to move them an inch.

‘Open your eyes.’

Marc did nothing. For as long as he did not see, he could imagine the possibility of escape. Hope, he must cling to hope.

‘Open your eyes!’ the man shouted.

Marc obeyed.

He was in a small, circular room. Old stone walls, rough
floor hewn from rock. A single narrow window, boarded up with a couple of dirty old wooden planks. Ten feet above his head was a brick roof. He was naked, his body shrivelled and defenceless. No wonder his arms ached; they were covered in bruises, and so were his chest and legs. Someone had manhandled him on the way to this place. His wrists were fastened by thick black cord that cut into his flesh. The cord was tied to a rusting hook on the wall. His ankles were bound to each other.

The man stood in front of him. He was wearing a bright yellow fluorescent jacket, but Marc’s eyes were dragged away to something lying on the floor. A nauseous fear seized him at the sight of it.

A huge creature lay sprawled on the rough ground, motionless.

Sedated, must be.

It had a fawn and white coat, red nose, tail thick and tapering to a point.

No muzzle.

An ugly, savage beast of the kind that growled and slavered through the worst of nightmares.

A pit bull terrier.

‘Marc, where are you?’ Hannah hissed into the phone.

His failure to return her calls was eating into her nerves. At first she’d assumed his silence was payback following their row. Now her anxieties were growing like bindweed. He fancied Cassie, and she wouldn’t put it past him to try his luck with her. If Cassie got a thrill out of provoking Arlo Denstone into jealous crimes of vengeance, she might encourage Marc’s advances.

Why didn’t he answer?

‘Everything all right, ma’am?’

Greg Wharf had come up behind her. On his way to see the chairman of the Culture Company and check out Arlo Denstone’s background.

‘Fine,’ she muttered. ‘Fine.’

Talking the case through with him had helped sort it out in her mind, but she wasn’t in the mood to confide her anxieties. He’d interpret it as a sign of weakness.

A sceptical glint lit his blue eyes. ‘If I can help, ma’am, let me know.’

‘Thanks, Greg.’ She forced a weary smile. ‘And…the name’s Hannah.’

Phoning Mrs Amos was a last resort. Right or wrong, the old lady always took her son’s side. Hannah didn’t blame her, perhaps she would understand better if ever she had a child of her own. But did a mother have to be so blinkered? Rather like Daphne giving birth late on to Bethany, Mrs Amos had had Marc at an age when she’d never expected another baby. It helped to explain why she spoilt him rotten.

Negotiating the conversation was a test of her powers of tact and diplomacy. At first Mrs Amos made it plain there was nothing for them to discuss, and that she had no intention of disclosing Marc’s whereabouts. She might not know the details, but she was clear that Hannah had blown the relationship apart, and it didn’t come as a huge surprise. Police work wasn’t a suitable job for a woman.

‘There’s a serious problem, it’s connected with the shop,’ Hannah said when she managed to get a word in.

‘What sort of problem?’

‘One of my colleagues needs to question someone who works for Marc. I wanted to give him advance warning, but he isn’t answering his phone. I’m worried something has happened to him.’

She didn’t want to be unkind, or to play on a mother’s fears for her favourite child, but needs must. She was desperate to get Mrs Amos to open up.

‘I already said, he isn’t here right now.’

‘When is he due back?’

‘He doesn’t tell me everything, you know. And he wasn’t even sure he’d be home tonight.’

Home? Hannah clenched her fist. Undercrag was his home.

‘What did he say to you?’

‘He just told me not to stay up late.’

‘Where did he go?’

‘He didn’t say, except that he wasn’t due in the shop today. Or in Sedbergh. He told me he was off to buy a collection of books. I don’t pry, you may be surprised to hear. He has his own life to lead.’

What she meant was that she didn’t pry successfully, but this wasn’t the moment to start a row. If something happened to Marc, it would shatter Glenda Amos. Hannah’s relationship with her was uneasy, but she didn’t want to see her harmed.

‘The fog is dreadful.’

‘So, they said on the radio.’

The reedy voice betrayed a note of uncertainty. Hannah hated herself for planting seeds of fear in the mind of an old woman, but it was the lesser evil.

‘I’m worried he might have had an accident. You know what these country lanes are like when visibility is so poor. Every bend a potential death trap. Have you really no idea where he was heading?’

‘He…he never said.’

‘Are you sure he went to buy books? Not to see someone else?’

‘I don’t know.’ Glenda Amos paused, and then the words started to come in a rush. ‘He spoke to someone on the phone, I heard that, though I couldn’t make out the words.
I’m not as deaf as he thinks. He didn’t want me to listen in, I can say that. He went up to his room and shut the door while I cleaned downstairs. But I knew what he was up to. He’s my boy, and I can read him like one of his own precious books.’

But you never got past Chapter One
.

‘He’s involved with someone else,’ Hannah said. ‘I’m aware of it, Glenda. But she’s about to cause a lot of unhappiness for him, and I’d hate that.’

‘You think he’s driven somewhere to meet her?’

‘I hope not,’ Hannah said. ‘If he has, he’s made the biggest mistake of his life.’

Ten minutes later, she was steering through the fog-wrapped Kendal streets. Fern was off to a press conference about the latest developments in the Stuart Wagg case. It was too soon to give out detailed information about their interest in Arlo and Cassie, but they could give the registration number of Cassie’s Micra. The priority was to trace the pair before they did any more damage.

Especially to Marc. Hannah wanted to believe she was overreacting. With any luck, he’d be fine, hunting mouldy books in some godforsaken attic or cellar. But in her heart, she suspected his luck had run out.

The case against their two suspects was circumstantial. Her team and Fern’s faced a huge task in assembling enough evidence to persuade the CPS to bring the couple to court. But even as she’d talked through her theory with Greg Wharf, Hannah found herself believing in it more strongly with each passing minute. Arlo and Cassie were guilty, she was certain of it. Between them, they had killed
Bethany Friend, George Saffell, and Stuart Wagg.

The surging sense of success reminded her of one Good Friday years ago, after she and Marc had bought a flat-pack self-assembly cupboard over the Internet. When they opened the box, the components had seemed to bear no relationship to each other. The instructions were in Japanese, and the accompanying diagrams more inscrutable than the Beale Cipher. It had taken hours, but she still remembered their shared triumph when at last they figured out how to fit the pieces together to form something recognisable as furniture. Marc had carried her off to bed to celebrate their achievement, she remembered. They’d dumped the cupboard in a skip the day they moved into Undercrag.

What drove Cassie and Arlo on? She suspected
folie à deux
. Madness shared by two people, whose psychotic bond brought out their worst impulses. The key to detection was to separate the suspects, so they could be interrogated without being able to give each other mutual support. In view of her relationship with Marc, there was no way she could be involved in interviewing either Cassie or Arlo, otherwise the defence lawyers would have a field day. All she wanted to do was to find Marc, and make sure he kept away from the woman who was mad, bad and dangerous to know.

Thanks to the fog, traffic on the A591 was bumper-to-bumper, but Hannah strove for patience. Please God, this would prove a wild goose chase. But she owed it to Marc to check it out for herself.

She was on her way home to Undercrag. To make sure that her partner hadn’t taken Cassie there to commit the ultimate betrayal.

When Marc started choking on his own bile, the man tore the tape from his mouth. It hurt, and made his eyes fill with tears. He found himself spewing onto the rock beneath his feet.

‘That isn’t to allow you to talk, do you understand?’ the man said. ‘I’m not into dialogue. But I would hate you to choke on your own vomit. Too quick, too easy.’

This was Ro, had to be. But he was Arlo Denstone, the expert on Thomas De Quincey. Marc understood nothing, except that he was in danger. The man had brought him here to die.

His mouth formed a single word.

Why
?

‘I don’t believe in explanations,’ Ro said. ‘Life and death, how can they be explained? De Quincey knew what I’m aiming for. Virginia Woolf said he was transfixed by the mysterious solemnity of certain emotions. How one moment might transcend in value fifty whole years. An impassioned man, Thomas, but he got his kicks from writing, not from the things he did. A difference between us, though I swear he’d share my taste for Grand Guignol. My destiny is to make nightmares come true, the way they came true for me.’

The dog made a dozy noise. A throaty rumble.

Ro nodded towards it.

‘A wild creature. I bought him illegally, and that isn’t my only crime. I didn’t feed him for forty-eight hours. And then I slipped something into his last supper.’

Marc forced his gaze away from the pit bull. His heart bumped inside his chest. Much more of this, and he’d have a coronary.

It might be for the best.

‘I named him Thomas, what else? Trust me, when he wakes from his sleep, he’ll be in a very bad mood. And he will be hungry. Ravenous.’ Ro threw a scornful glance at Marc’s skinny, trembling body. ‘He’s a carnivore. Not fussy about the quality of his meat.’

Tears ran down Marc’s cheek. He couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t dry the tears, either.

A noise attracted his attention. Someone was moving away the boards at the narrow window. He peered round and saw a face he recognised.

It was Cassie. Standing outside, looking in.

Through the opening in the wall of the tower, Marc saw no expression in the gaze she fixed on the man who called himself Arlo Denstone, but the faintest of smiles played on her lips.

‘Murder is a fine art,’ the man said. ‘But it evolves with time. It needs updating. This is an age when we watch the world go by, on our television screens or laptops. Cassie, and I, we have turned it into a spectator sport.’

‘Wagg was good in bed,’ Cassie whispered. ‘But nowhere near as good as you. No one is as good as you, my love.’

Marc wanted to scream.
It’s a lie, a wicked lie. I only wanted to be her friend. I never even touched her
.

But he knew nothing he might say could save his life, and no words came.

The man grinned at the dog. ‘Last week, I watched Thomas chew a rabbit that had escaped from a hutch next door. Call it a rehearsal. Took a while, but there wasn’t much left by the time old Thomas was done.’

Marc shivered uncontrollably.

Jesus, was the dog stirring?

Undercrag was melancholy in the fog, a sombre, hollow shell. Hannah was no longer sure she wanted to live here, but that was a decision for another day. Marc’s car was nowhere to be seen. Hannah searched the ground floor and then ran upstairs to look into each of the bedrooms. Nothing.

OK, it would have been extraordinarily crass for Marc to bring Cassie to their home for a quick shag. Hannah was ashamed of herself for having feared it possible.

But if he wasn’t misbehaving here, that begged the question of where he might be, and what he might be doing.

Hunger pangs assailed her. She needed to eat. This wouldn’t be a good time to fall down in a faint. She found an apple from a fruit basket in the kitchen, and was starting to peel it when her phone rang. She took a quick bite and shoved knife and fruit in her jacket pocket. Food would have to wait.

Greg Wharf’s Geordie tones filled her ear. ‘I’m just leaving Sir Julius Telo’s mansion.’

Sir Julius was the chair of the Culture Company. ‘What did he have to say about Denstone?’

‘He’s been fretting about the guy for weeks. He had a great CV, and he was brimming with enthusiasm as well as expertise. The clincher was that he offered to do the job for free. It sounded too good to be true.’

‘Did nobody wonder how he could afford to be so altruistic?’

‘He said he’d inherited money from his uncle, but the key point was that he loved the Lakes, and was crazy about De Quincey. He’d fought cancer and won, and now
he wanted to make every day count, plus raise money for a good cause. This was only a six-month contract, and he saw it as a dream job. A challenge combined with a chance to put something back into the community.’

‘So, Sir Julius bit his hand off?’

‘Not the done thing to cross-examine a cancer survivor who behaved so selflessly. Especially if you have more money than brain cells. Sir Julius accepted his CV at face value, there wasn’t any due diligence. At least not until the Culture Company realised that the start date of the Festival was drawing near, and there was still a vast amount of work to do. The troops were becoming restless, and there was gossip about Denstone’s habit of disappearing for hours or even days at a time.’

‘To shag Cassie Weston, I suppose,’ Hannah said bitterly.

‘Some people guessed he was conducting an affair, and that was taking his eye off the ball. Sir Julius rang up the Australian university where Denstone was supposed to have held some senior post, only to be told that the guy’s track record was much less high-powered than he’d led everyone to believe. It’s the old story: there are lies, damned lies, and CVs. Arlo Denstone was a foot soldier who promoted himself to field marshal.’

‘Why didn’t Sir Julius take action?’

‘He called Denstone in straight after New Year. They met here in Rydal, but the conversation didn’t go to plan. Denstone played the sympathy card. He said the cancer had come back.’

‘We know what he really meant, don’t we?’

‘We sure do, but Sir Julius fell for it, hook, line and
sinker. In his words, he felt he was treading on eggshells. Denstone reckoned he had a wonderful new idea for the Festival. Holding a De Quincey event at a folly near Ambleside.’

‘A folly?’

‘Yeah, he’d dreamt up a
son et lumière
production. Said it would give the Festival an added wow factor. Load of bollocks, if you ask me. Even Sir Julius wasn’t convinced it was practical, but he let Denstone go ahead with a feasibility study. The place was disused and locked up, to keep out trespassers, so he made arrangements for Denstone to be given the key.’

‘The folly, Greg,’ she said, trying to control her impatience. ‘What is it called?’

‘Didn’t I say? Some place known as the Serpent Tower.’

Hannah flung on a pair of heavy boots and jumped into her car. She headed down the lane that led to the fell. The last time she’d come this way was on New Year’s Eve. A lifetime ago. She couldn’t drive far, and had to get out and walk once she reached the end of the lane, but every second saved was precious. She couldn’t be certain that Cassie Weston and Arlo Denstone had taken Marc to the Serpent Tower, but it was a decent bet. What they had in mind for him, she dared not guess.