Careless Love

7

The church bells were ringing. Clanging was more like it — real Hunchback of Notre Dame clanging — as if they were just across the street. Which they were. Annie remembered that she was staying at Carrie and Don’s house in the close and it was Saturday morning. Must be a wedding. She opened one gummy eye and saw that she was in a child’s room — Tabitha’s, obviously — with Disney princesses and fairy-tale castles dotted all over the pink wallpaper. Under the window sat piles of stuffed animals and a glass-fronted bookcase ran the gamut from Beatrix to Harry Potter. When Annie grasped the duvet to pull it over her head, she saw that it was covered with appliqué robins and wrens. A stuffed owl stared at her from pride of place on the dresser.

Annie’s head was pounding and her mouth was dry. Sure signs of a hangover. She spotted the glass of water on the bedside table and downed half of it in one. That felt better. Then she fumbled in her handbag for the handy pack of Panadol Extra Advance she always carried with her, took three and washed them down with the rest of the water. She then rested her head back on the pillow and took stock.

At least she was alone. That was a good start. She didn’t think she had done anything terrible or outrageous last night, though she did remember a bloke chatting her up until his wife saw what was going on and intervened. Rather rudely, Annie thought. Then there was the handsome crime writer. She might even have kissed him and given him her phone number, but that was all. Afterwards, it was slim pickings as most of the partygoers drifted off home. In the end there was just Annie and her friends talking about old times. Hence the hangover. Still, she thought, stirring and throwing off the duvet, she’d had a good girly time with her friends Carrie, Pat, Natalie and Fran, none of whom she’d seen for a while. It was Carrie’s party, and she and Don had shipped the kids off to Grandma’s for the night. Most of the guests had been connected with local bookshops — The Little Ripon Bookshop, and White Rose, in nearby Thirsk — hence the sprinkling of local writers. The men had simply provided a brief distraction from discussions of Jane Austen and Sara Paretsky.

There had been no police presence other than Annie herself. Carrie had left the force five years ago for a more stress-free life of running a second-hand bookshop. Annie had taken one or two well-meant jibes about police incompetence, corruption and so on, but in general people had either given her a wide berth or accepted her as one of the gang. Which she was. She had known Fran and Natalie, Carrie’s best friends for years, even if the booksellers were relatively new to her. It was good to live a part of her life outside the police, she felt.

At least she had been able to put the dysfunctional or deceased Hadfield family out of her mind for the evening. Poppy would probably be proud of her for getting so pissed. And maybe also for that little dance she and Fran and Carrie had done around the Ripon market square at midnight, until the local police constable had told them politely to go home. For a moment, Annie had considered telling him who she was and pulling her rank, but she hadn’t. She can’t have been that pissed, then, after all, except dancing on cobbles in high heels was hardly the act of a sober person. The last she had heard from Gerry before she left for the party was that both Poppy’s alibis held up. She was where she said she was on the weekend of Laurence Hadfield’s disappearance. The previous evening, before leaving for Ripon, and after some difficulty and a lot of swearing, along with a bribe of a bottle of VSOP cognac, Annie had stashed Poppy away in a discreet little boutique hotel in Eastvale until she could figure out her next move.

It was freezing in Tabitha’s room, so Annie pulled on her last night’s clothes as quickly as she could, grabbed her bag, stopped by the bathroom for a quick wash and a spot of make-up, then headed downstairs. She heard voices and found Fran and Natalie leaning on the island in the kitchen, where the coffee-maker was gurgling and emitting its seductive aroma.

Fran smiled. ‘Well, look who’s up at last.’

Annie pulled a face and glanced at her watch. Only 9.30. ‘It’s not that late,’ she said. ‘Them bloody bells would wake up Sleeping Beauty. I didn’t do anything really out of line last night, did I? Please tell me I didn’t.’

Fran and Natalie laughed. ‘Apart from that striptease and the lap dance you gave Steve, you mean? Not at all.’

‘Bastards,’ said Annie, smiling. ‘I think I might remember something like that.’ She picked up a mug from the counter, noticing it had a picture of Elvis Presley on it, pulled the coffee pot towards her and poured. The automatic machine hadn’t finished its business, and a thin stream of coffee dripped from its basket and sizzled on the hotplate. ‘Shit!’ Annie quickly put the pot back.

Fran and Natalie laughed again. ‘Oh, Annie,’ Natalie said. ‘What can we do with you?’

‘A nice fry-up wouldn’t go amiss right now,’ Annie answered.

‘Thought you were a veggie,’ Natalie said.

Annie scowled. ‘Yeah, well, but... you ever tasted a veggie sausage?’

‘You mean the ones without meat? Isn’t that what they always used to be like here?’

Fran laughed and pointed. ‘There’s the bread and there’s the toaster. The marmalade’s in the top cupboard. And we’re back on butter. Apparently it’s better for you. Margarine is full of carcinogens or something.’

Annie sipped some coffee then went and put two slices of white bread in the toaster.

‘The brown’s healthier,’ said Fran.

‘But how can you tell when it’s done?’

They both laughed at that. ‘It was a fun night,’ Natalie said. ‘We mustn’t leave it so long again.’

‘How’s the birthday girl?’ Annie asked.

‘Carrie? Still asleep,’ said Fran. ‘Probably enjoying the first lie-in she’s had in ages without the kids to wake her.’

‘You know she loves them to death.’ Annie did, too. She was even godmother to one of them — Melissa, age nine — and when she thought of Carrie’s life there were times that she felt she had lost so much by deciding not to have children herself. Not that it was entirely too late — not physically, at any rate, perhaps — but in many ways it was. For a start, she would need a suitable man. Or maybe just an anonymous donor. She scrapped that thought.

The toast popped up. Annie reached for the knife and butter on the side and started spreading. ‘Hope Carrie had a good time last night.’

‘Oh, she did,’ said Fran.

Annie was enjoying her coffee and toast when her mobile made its sixties police car sound. ‘Shit!’

‘Just leave it,’ said Natalie.

‘Can’t. It might be work.’

‘Big case on?’

‘Big enough.’ Annie found her mobile before it stopped and went into the living room for some privacy. She saw the caller was PC Dave Kingsley, who was supposed to be keeping an eye on Poppy’s hotel.

‘DI Cabbot?’

‘Speaking.’ Annie could hear a hubbub in the background. The loud voice sounded like Poppy’s, and she guessed the calmer conciliatory one belonged to the desk clerk or manager. She let out a long sigh. ‘OK, constable, what’s going on there?’

‘There’s a bit of a fracas, to be honest, ma’am.’

‘I can hear that for myself. What sort of a fracas?’

‘It’s Miss Hadfield, ma’am. She’s creating an awful fuss. Refusing to pay her bill. She was down in the middle of the night shouting the odds, too, but the night manager and the desk clerk sorted things out.’

Annie raised her eyes skywards. ‘So what do you want me to do about it now?’

‘I think you’d better get over here as soon as you can, ma’am. This time I think she’s going to—’

Just then Annie heard a scream of rage and frustration followed by what sounded like a large vase smashing against a wall. The shock waves reverberated through her hungover brain like a kick in the head. The Panadol clearly hadn’t taken effect yet, no matter how fast the packet said it acted.

‘I’m in Ripon right now,’ Annie said. ‘Keep a lid on things as best you can. Don’t let anyone leave. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

Annie went to hall, grabbed her coat, felt for her car keys in the pocket then called out a hasty farewell to Fran and Natalie, who stood in the kitchen doorway looking puzzled. ‘Tell Carrie I’m really sorry,’ Annie added as she turned the doorknob. ‘And wish her a happy birthday again from me. I’ll ring later. Got to go.’ She paused before closing the door and grinned. ‘One day I’ll tell you about it.’

‘Anna Akhmatova,’ said Linda, pushing her empty lunch plate aside. ‘She was a strange one. Beautiful, though you’d hardly think it from existing photos. But elegant, aristocratic. Modigliani sketched her, you know. They were lovers for a while. And like all her lovers, he left her. She was always ill. Suffered from TB and heart problems all her life. Not to mention the revolution, the problems of surviving Stalin’s Russia and the Second World War. Like all artists in Russia, she had to be so careful what she said, or didn’t say. Especially if she committed it to paper. Don’t forget, if you fell afoul of the authorities, it wasn’t just yourself you put in danger. It was your entire family and circle of friends. Sometimes they would leave you free, so you could suffer the guilt of causing your family’s murder. She ended up lonely and sad, with most of her friends and family and lovers and fellow writers dead or on the gulag, but she was celebrated. That was always important to her. That people loved her poetry. She could be very competitive.’

‘Do you feel the same way?’

Linda pursed her lips and thought for a moment, swirling her red wine in the glass. ‘Competitive? Not so much, no. My life has been very different, of course — for one thing, I have never had to live under a totalitarian regime — and I think the English attitude towards writing poetry is very different from the Russian approach. We’re probably more Larkin than Pushkin, on the whole. Oh, I tell myself I don’t give a fuck what the critics say, but I’ll fume or cry over a bad review like anyone else. I suppose if you do put yourself out there then, you want to be appreciated, celebrated, even, not shat on. But that’s not the reason you do it. That’s a different sort of compulsion.’

They were having lunch in the Low Moor Inn, a pub Banks had discovered quite by accident in the middle of nowhere, vast stretches of wild inhospitable moorland all around. For some reason, they had taken to frequenting it for their occasional poetry sessions. Today the landscape was shrouded in a grey gauzy haze, with patches of frost still visible on distant stretches.

The pub was squat and sturdy with thick stone walls, a fireplace you could stand up in and watercolours of local scenes all over the rough plastered walls. The dining room was quiet, conversations a gentle rising and falling murmur around them, no music or machines to break the spell. They had finished their discussion of Eliot’s ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’ just before Banks had asked Linda about Akhmatova. Banks had found Eliot’s poem fascinating, though he admitted he couldn’t really understand it. Linda had said that didn’t matter and that he had to get rid of that archaic and irritating habit of wanting to translate poems into rational prose in his mind. He thought he had imagination, but often poetry defeated him; maybe it was because he’d been thinking like a policeman for too many years. Still, he tried, and the effort was rewarding.

‘Why are you asking about Akhmatova, by the way?’ Linda asked. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever talked about her before.’

‘Someone mentioned her to me the other night,’ Banks said. ‘Why?’

‘I’m not sure you should be getting into poetry in translation just yet. Especially Akhmatova.’

‘Difficult, is she?’

‘Not especially. Not on the surface of it. But there are particular difficulties with just about anything Russian artists produced in the last century.’

‘Rather like with anything their politicians produce in this century.’

Linda laughed. ‘Well, they do have a complex history.’

Banks nodded. ‘I’m a big Shostakovich fan, but half the time I feel lost and stupid when I try to work out the context of his life, the secret meanings of his symphonies and quartets. What Stalin really defined as true socialist realist music and what he dismissed as “formalism” or unpatriotic bourgeois drivel.’

‘I know what you mean. I think you’d have to be Russian to even attempt an answer to those questions, though Julian Barnes wrote a fine book about Shostakovich recently.’

‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘I read it. But it must have been different for a poet. Music doesn’t carry meaning in the same way words do. It’s more subjective, perhaps.’

‘True. And it wasn’t only criticism of the party that went against you, it was also embrace of the personal, the romantic. Bourgeois individualism. Anna could sound like a lovesick schoolgirl, even in her sixties, but there was always some image, some phrase, metaphor or observation, that would pull the rug from under you, throw you sideways. Maybe it would be a cynical comment on her own emotions, or something like that, but it constantly changes and challenges your perception of what you’ve just read, puts everything in a different context.’

‘Most poetry does that for me,’ Banks said. ‘Like most cases.’

Linda laughed again. ‘Maybe that’s why so many people try to avoid poetry at all costs.’ She paused to drink some wine. ‘I visited Russia once, you know. Just Moscow and St Petersburg. I saw all the usual sights: the Kremlin, St Basil’s, the Hermitage, the Nevsky Prospekt, but I remember being struck constantly whenever I saw elderly people in the streets what some of them must have lived through. The suffering showed in the lines of the old women’s faces, in the hunched, stiff figures of the men. And even then, when I was there in the early nineties, there were still long queues for what little was in the shops. I thought of the famines, the siege of Leningrad, Stalingrad, the purges, all the depredations visited on that country — and no, I didn’t forget that so much harm was done by the Russians to themselves, not an invading army, though it must often have seemed that way. All in the name of Communism. And the terrible things they did to the countries around them — but there’s something very... I don’t know... something that really puts you in your place when you visit somewhere like that, with such a weight of history. Now Putin. Have you ever been there?’

‘No, but Doctor Zhivago’s always been one of my favourite films,’ Banks said.

‘I could have guessed. Julie Christie. Men.’

‘That, too. But I was thinking more of Zhivago and his wife’s family. In the film. They were from the aristocracy, too. And look what happened. That scene when Zhivago gets back to the family house in Moscow after all he’s been through and finds they have to share it with a lot of strangers always scares the hell out of me. I used to have nightmares about getting home and finding my parents gone and families I didn’t know living in all the rooms — including mine — and all the way up the stairs.’

‘It’s a frightening thought.’ Linda tapped his arm. ‘But you might have to get used to it, the way the housing crisis is going these days. There’s plenty of room for a few more families in your cottage.’ She glanced out of the window at the broad expanse of wintry moor. ‘And who knows? In a few years’ time all this may be covered with council estates.’

‘Social housing, please,’ said Banks. ‘It sounds much nicer.’

‘Have you read the novel? Doctor Zhivago.’

‘I’m ashamed to say I haven’t.’

‘You should.’

‘I will. If only there were movie versions of great poems, too.’

Linda laughed. ‘Or musicals.’

‘Well, there was Cats,’ Banks said. ‘But could you imagine Prufrock: The Musical?’

‘Or “Ode on a Grecian Urn”.’

‘ “Tintern Abbey”.’

‘ “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”.’

People turned to look at them laughing.

‘Anyway,’ Banks said when their laughter died down. ‘She sounds like a complicated person, this Akhmatova.’

‘I think she was. But fascinating. She certainly fascinated men.’

That made Banks think of Zelda, who had first mentioned Akhmatova to him. He told Linda a bit about their dinner the other night. He didn’t feel he could tell her anything about Zelda’s government work, but he talked about her sculpture, her excitement at moving up to Yorkshire and her interest in the arts.

‘I’d like to meet her,’ Linda said when he’d finished.

‘I’m sure it could be arranged.’

‘I already know Ray Cabbot. The local arts scene is pretty incestuous. But this Zelda is a more recent and exotic arrival.’

‘Then consider it a done deal. I’ll talk to them. We’ll work something out. Dinner or drinks or something.’ Banks felt pleased with himself. He had never considered himself a social arranger, but it felt good to think he was putting two people in touch, people he was certain had something in common, and could possibly even become good friends.

‘Fantastic.’

‘Shall we risk another one or call it a day?’

Linda glanced at her watch. ‘Oh, bugger it,’ she said. ‘Let’s have another. You can tell me all about your latest case.’

When Annie arrived at the hotel, a listed building in a discreet backstreet off the market square, she found Poppy in handcuffs, bedraggled and penitent, sitting beside her suitcase in the lounge, a burly uniformed constable on either side of her. She was wearing jeans and knee-high boots, and an afghan jacket over a torn black T-shirt with a picture of Courtney Love sticking her tongue out. Poppy’s long blond hair was greasy and straggly, and it looked as if it hadn’t been washed for a while. Though her features were drawn and she had bags under her eyes, she gave off the aura of a little girl lost. A chambermaid was busy clearing up the mess Poppy had made of the reception area, dirt, dead flowers and shattered pottery all over the floor.

Annie took a deep breath. At least the Panadol was working now, and her headache had receded to a dull and distant thumping in time with the beating of her heart.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked PC Kingsley. ‘Why is this woman in handcuffs?’

‘It was the only way we could restrain her, ma’am,’ said Kingsley. ‘She was going berserk, smashing things, threatening all sorts of—’

Annie held her hand up. ‘OK. Enough. Did she actually assault anyone?’

‘Well, no, not exactly, but—’

‘Then uncuff her.’

Kingsley swallowed. ‘Ma’am?’

‘You heard what I said. Uncuff her. This young woman has just lost her father. She’s bereaved. Whatever she’s done, I’m sure we can put it right.’ She glanced around at the reception area. ‘It’s nothing but cosmetic damage as far as I can see. I’m sure Ms Hadfield will be more than happy to pay for replacements for any objects she broke, and offer compensation for any inconvenience.’

The manager came up wringing his hands. ‘But what about the other guests, the trauma, the—’

‘I’m sure they’ll get over it, Mr...?’

‘Shadwell. Edgar Shadwell. I’m the night manager. I should have gone home ages ago, when my shift ended, but—’

‘Thanks for staying and helping take care of things,’ Annie said, showing him her warrant card. Then she gently led him over to a part of the lobby where they couldn’t be overheard. ‘What exactly did Ms Hadfield do?’ she asked.

‘It all started about three in the morning. She telephoned the front desk and demanded room service. She wanted a cheeseburger and a bottle of vodka. We don’t have twenty-four-hour room service here, so I’m afraid the poor lad on reception had to say no.’

The cognac bribe obviously hadn’t lasted long, Annie thought. ‘And then?’

‘She didn’t take it well. She came storming down with her bathrobe half open, yelling at the top of her voice, waking all our guests, scaring the living daylights out of them. That’s when I came out of my office to see what was happening. She had a cigarette in her mouth, too, and we’re strictly a non-smoking hotel. Tim on the desk explained that we don’t have a kitchen on the premises. We use the restaurant next door for all our orders, you see, and they were closed, of course. As for the vodka, well, it was clear that she’d had more than enough already. We did manage to calm her down. Tim gave her a couple of extra minibar vodkas and she went back up to her room. Then it all started again this morning, when she refused to pay. That was when she became... well, you can see. Quite abusive. Quite violent.’

‘Of course. It’s all my fault, Mr Shadwell, and I do hope you’ll accept my apology.’

‘Your fault? Bu... b... b... but I don’t understand. How could it be your fault?’

‘I had to choose a hotel for Ms Hadfield very quickly, in the wake of her father’s sudden death. She couldn’t remain in the family home. I thought this place would suit her needs, but I obviously overestimated the hotel and underestimated her needs. I should have chosen one of the larger establishments.’

‘I don’t think you overestimated us, Inspector Cabbot. We do our best to keep our guests happy here at the Swan. We even go out of our way. But there are some things... limits...’

‘Yes, I quite understand. We’ll get it all sorted. Would you pass on the bill for the damages to me at Eastvale Police HQ? I’ll see that Ms Hadfield gets it and pays it.’

‘Of course. But you do understand—’

‘I do. But I’m afraid we have to go now. Once again, I apologise.’

Annie went back to Poppy and took her by the arm. Poppy didn’t complain or resist, she simply stood and picked up her suitcase with her free hand. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know yet,’ said Annie between clenched teeth. ‘But the first thing is to get you away from here.’

‘The sooner the better,’ said Poppy, rallying, her voice rising. ‘What a dump. I’m considering suing.’

Annie practically shoved her through the front door, annoyed that her mobile rang just as they reached her car down the street. ‘Yes?’ she answered, a trifle sharply.

‘Ooh, are we in a bit of a mood this morning?’

It was Frank Naylor from the search team at the Hadfield house. Annie knew Frank from the occasional departmental booze up. He was one of the good guys. At least he had never tried to grope her in a dark corner at the Christmas party.

‘What is it, Frank? I don’t have time for this. I’m in a hurry.’

‘You sound a bit hoarse. Not getting that cold that’s going around, are you?’

‘No. What is it, Frank?’

‘Ah. You’re hungover, aren’t you? Tell Uncle Frank the truth.’

‘Well, it is only half past ten on a Saturday morning,’ Annie said. ‘And I do happen to have been up late at a good friend’s birthday party last night, so, yes, you might reasonably come to that conclusion. Now what the hell do you want?’

Frank laughed down the line. ‘OK. No need to take it out on me. What you do in your own time and all that.’

‘Frank!’

‘All right, all right. There’s been a development here.’

‘What sort of development? Where?’

‘The Hadfield house. We’ve found something.’

‘What are you doing working weekends?’

‘We’re spread a bit thin, these days. And there’s still a bit of overtime left. Anyway, it’s probably better if you come and see it for yourself.’

‘Frank, I don’t have time for—’

‘No, really. It’s a bit hard to describe. A piece of jewellery.’

‘Are you at the house now?’

‘Yes.’

Annie looked at her watch. ‘I’m in Eastvale,’ she said. ‘It shouldn’t take me long to get there.’ At least the Hadfield house was on her way to her own cottage in Harkside. As soon as she’d dealt with Frank, she’d ship Poppy off to London, go home, have a long shower or bath and maybe just go back to bed. Some hope, the way this day was going.

‘Just be careful driving,’ Frank said. ‘You know how some people are still technically pissed from the night before even the morning after.’

Annie took a deep breath. ‘Frank?’ she said.

‘Yes?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘There’s not much to tell,’ Banks said.

‘I know you can’t give any details away. I’ve been through it, remember? On the receiving end.’

‘I remember,’ said Banks. ‘But there’s still not a lot to tell.’

‘I’ve read the newspaper reports, seen the TV news. It sounds tragic.’

‘What’s really tragic is that we don’t have a lot to go on. No, that’s too flippant,’ said Banks. ‘It is tragic. A young girl like Adrienne Munro, cut down in her prime, all her life ahead of her.’

‘And you’ve no idea why?’

Banks shook his head.

‘It is suicide, isn’t it?’

‘Even if I knew for certain, I couldn’t say. Cause of death is still under investigation.’

‘Then there’s the other case. Laurence Hadfield. Accidental death, the papers say. Is that yours, too?’

‘I’m officially Senior Investigating Officer, though Annie’s got the role in reality. It’s another puzzle.’

‘I know I’m just an overimaginative poet speaking,’ Linda said, ‘but has it crossed your mind that the two cases might be connected in some way?’ When Banks just guzzled some beer and didn’t say anything, she went on. ‘Unless, of course, you already know they are and you can’t tell me?

‘No, no. It’s not that. I don’t believe in coincidences any more than you do. It’s one of the first things I thought of, but I’ve learned over the years not to trust first impressions without evidence. It’s just that there’s no obvious connection between the victims, no evidence to tie them together, except they both died rather mysteriously within a short time of one another. They moved in very different circles. If I could find something to link them, anything, it would be different.’

‘What if there was a point of contact? If something brought the circles to intersect?’

‘We think it’s possible that Adrienne was involved with drugs in some way, but there’s no connection there with Hadfield. At least not yet. It’s more likely to be connected with someone at the college.’

‘I’ve heard of Laurence Hadfield,’ said Linda. ‘I even met him once, briefly. Maybe that’s why I’m interested.’

Banks’s ears pricked up. ‘Met him? Where? When? How?’

‘Aha,’ Linda teased. ‘Now he’s interested.’

‘If you know anything, you should tell me.’

‘It’s nothing relevant. Don’t get your hopes up. You’ll only be disappointed. It’s just that Mr Hadfield was a bit of a philanthropist, and his benevolent gestures even extended as far as the arts community. He was involved in setting up a local poetry award, mostly to encourage young people to write poetry. I had the honour of presenting it at a dinner a couple of years ago. We were at the same table. That’s all.’

‘What did you think of him?’

‘I didn’t really get the chance to form an impression. He was polite, said all the right things. It was pretty obvious he wasn’t really interested in poetry, but that was hardly a surprise.’

‘So why not come up with an award for some other field?’

‘It’s my guess that the other fields weren’t doing too badly as far as the Arts Council budget was concerned. He saw a gap, or someone saw it for him. People like Hadfield are constantly searching for ways to unload their money that make them look good in the public eye.’

‘Isn’t that a bit cynical to say about someone who was so generous?’

Linda snorted. ‘For him it was a mere drop in the ocean. For the poet, it was an opportunity to spend a year concentrating on her writing. Have you any idea how much of a godsend that is? I’m sorry if I appear cynical, but I’m afraid philanthropists have often been in the business of whitewashing their business practices, the sources of their wealth, perhaps even seeking atonement, if you like. Basically, they all want to be loved, but they know that what they do makes them unlovable — things like propping up foreign dictatorships or orchestrating coups against moderate governments that might not exactly be marching in time with their financial interests, selling weapons to both sides, or being involved in practices that seriously damage the environment. Not all, of course. Some don’t give a damn about public perception or what harm they do, and others are genuinely selfless. But most fall somewhere in the middle.’

‘So Laurence Hadfield chose to share some of his good fortune with young, unknown poets. Isn’t that a good thing, whatever his motives?’

‘Of course it is.’

‘I mean, he wasn’t trying to impose a programme on them or anything, was he, or using his position to take advantage of... well, you know.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Linda. ‘All those impressionable young girls with their love poetry. But no, I don’t think he was. Someone told me he was involved in a lot of charities and good causes, that he donated time as well as money.’

‘So did Jimmy Savile.’

Linda glared at him. ‘But he had ulterior motives. I’m saying I don’t think Mr Hadfield did, other than the usual need to be thought well of in the community. Oh, maybe he flirted with the young lasses at the dinner a bit, but it was nothing serious.’

‘As far as I know, flirting hasn’t been made illegal yet.’

‘And you’d know, of course.’

‘I can accept that nobody’s wholly bad, not even a rapacious venture capitalist. But are you sure he wasn’t using his philanthropy to cover up more sinister activities?’

Linda laughed. ‘Have you ever wondered how your job warps your perception of the world?’

‘Every day. But I try to stay on the straight and narrow.’

‘Anyway, on a brief acquaintance, I’d have to say no. I didn’t get that impression about Laurence Hadfield. He seemed genuine enough. He came across as fairly well educated, too. I mean, I’m not saying he was a huge poetry fan, but he knew his Keats from his Eliot. Said he mostly read non-fiction, though. Biographies and history. If anything, he seemed a bit bored. Kept looking at his watch. Put his hand over his mouth to stifle a yawn when the winner read her poem.’

‘That’s hardly unusual at a poetry reading, is it?’

Linda lifted her glass. ‘Hey, enough of that, or you’ll be wearing this glass of red wine.’

Banks held up his hands. ‘I take your point. I take all your points. But Adrienne Munro never won a poetry competition. Never even entered one, as far as I know. She played the violin.’

‘Maybe he was involved in sponsoring musical talents, too?’

‘It’s worth a look,’ said Banks. ‘Are you after a job or something?’

‘With the police? Never. I like the idle life of a poet best.’

‘Well, whatever Laurence Hadfield’s true motives for his philanthropy, and however he earned his wealth, the mystery remains of what the hell he was doing up on Tetchley Moor wearing a business suit, and how he got there.’

‘Well, somebody must have driven him,’ said Linda. ‘I know I’m not a detective, but I would have thought that much was obvious.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Poppy, slouching down as far as she could in the passenger seat of Annie’s small car. She looked as if she were trying to shrink or make herself disappear. ‘I just couldn’t sleep. I mean, it really hit me. About Dad. That I’ll never see him again. I didn’t mean to lose my temper but they were just so snotty and mean to me.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Annie. ‘I’ll send you the bill. You OK now?’

Poppy nodded. ‘I’m all right.’ She gave a wan smile. ‘I could do with a drink and a snort, but I’m OK.’

‘Valium?’

‘Already taken two.’

‘We’re all set, then. I’ve got to make a call at your dad’s house first. The search team’s turned up something they think I should see. I want you on your best behaviour if you’re to come in with me. And don’t touch a thing. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Mummy.’

‘That’s enough of that.’

‘Then what? If I can’t stay there, where am I supposed to go?’

‘You might be better off at home.’

‘You mean I’m free to go back to London?’

‘Yes. It could be a while yet before your father’s body is released for burial. There’s no point your hanging around up here and wrecking our hotels.’

‘You should have seen Mad Dog wreck a hotel room. Gave Keith Moon a run for his money. He once threw a mattress from the sixth floor of a Holiday Inn. Anyway, the rates hotels charge, I think you should be entitled to do a bit of damage.’ Poppy smiled at the memory.

Annie had to think for a moment before she realised that Poppy was talking about Nate Maddock, her deceased rock-star boyfriend, and Keith Moon, The Who’s late drummer, who had a reputation for smashing up hotel rooms. Even she knew that.

She approached Rivendell on the lane through the woods and saw the CSI and search team vans parked outside, as well as Poppy’s red sports car.

‘You probably shouldn’t be driving,’ Annie said. ‘Not after the Valium and whatever you had to drink in the middle of the night. Not to mention the cognac.’

‘Only a couple of miserable minibar vodkas.’

‘Even so.’

‘No matter. I don’t feel like driving anyway. Too tired. Can I at least leave the car where it is?’

‘I don’t see why not. I can give you a lift to the station in Northallerton.’

‘Station? What do you mean?’

‘The train station.’

‘A train? You wouldn’t catch me dead on one of those bloody things. Can’t you drive me home?’

‘You must be joking.’

Poppy folded her arms. ‘Fine. I’ll take a taxi, then.’

Annie swallowed her surprise and parked beside the CSI van. A taxi to London. How the other half lived.

‘I don’t want to go in,’ said Poppy. ‘Is it all right if I just stay out here in your car until you’re finished?’

‘As long as you don’t wreck anything.’

Poppy looked around the car’s interior. ‘As if anyone would notice.’

Annie laughed and got out. It wasn’t a bad day, now she finally got the chance to sniff the air. A bit cloudy, but not too cold. Annie crunched over the gravel and let herself in the open front door. It was easy to see what Frank had meant about CSIs being thin on the ground. There were only two of them painstakingly checking the large mansion for fingerprints and trace evidence, anything to show how and why Laurence Hadfield had been found dead on Tetchley Moor. There had been nothing up there, so now they had moved on to the house.

Frank Naylor was in the kitchen pouring himself a cup of milky coffee from his vacuum flask. He turned when she walked in. ‘Ah, Annie,’ he said.

‘And no more jibes.’

‘Sorry. Sorry. Good time last night?’

Annie smiled. ‘Great time, thanks.’

‘Good. I’m sorry to drag you away. I suppose it could have waited, but everyone’s been stressing just how little there’s been to go on so far. I thought you should see this for yourself.’ He reached for a plastic evidence bag on the island beside him and passed it to her. ‘What do you make of that?’

Annie held up the bag and peered at the object. ‘Well, it’s pretty obvious,’ she said.

‘Maybe to you, but not to me. Like I said, it looks like some sort of piece of jewellery.’

‘It is. It’s a charm.’

‘As in charm bracelet?’

‘Right. But not just any charm bracelet. It’s a charm from Pandora.’

‘Is that good? Rare?’

Annie laughed. ‘I’m afraid not. Very popular. But it’s a hell of a lot better than nothing. For a start, it’s not the sort of thing you’d expect a man like Laurence Hadfield to be wearing, that’s for sure. Where did you find it?’

‘Bathroom. Round the back of the toilet. Any number of ways it could have got there, but most likely someone dropped it and it bounced or rolled and that’s where it ended up. They probably didn’t even notice.’

Annie examined the charm again. ‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘It’s a treble clef, silver encrusted with cubic zirconia.’

‘You never cease to amaze me,’ said Frank. ‘Expert jeweller as well as ace detective. Are you going to be able to find out where it was sold and to whom?’

‘I told you, Frank, these things are very popular. You can buy them from lots of places, including online. No, I don’t think it’s going to lead us to a particular person, but it does tell us one thing we didn’t know before.’

‘What’s that?’

‘That Hadfield must have had at least one female friend in the house.’

‘A young woman?’

‘Not necessarily young. These Pandoras cross a number of age ranges. But that’s most likely. And we’ve no idea how long it’s been there, though I’m sure Adele Balter will swear she cleans behind the toilet every time she does for Mr Hadfield. Even so, we’d better get the CSIs to give the rest of the bathroom a good going over. If someone lost a Pandora charm there, then there’s always a chance of hair or something down the plughole, stuck to the side of the bathtub, whatever. There may even be a possibility of DNA traces. Can I take it for a moment, Frank? Something I want to check.’

‘Course.’

Annie walked back out to her car. Poppy was still in the passenger seat, and when she saw Annie, she guiltily flicked away her cigarette and put up the window. Annie got in beside her and decided to say nothing about the smoking. There was no point treating Poppy like a wayward child the whole time, even though that was exactly how she behaved. Instead, she sat down and showed her the charm. ‘Do you recognise this?’ she asked.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s a treble clef from a charm bracelet. Pandora. Is it yours?’

Poppy handed it back as if it were contaminated. ‘Mine? Mine? What the fuck do you think of me? I wouldn’t be seen dead wearing that fucking bling.’

Annie glanced at the bangles on her wrists and the chains around her neck and guessed they were not bling. Or Pandora.

‘So it’s definitely not yours?’

‘Definitely. Never seen it before.’

‘Have you any idea whose it might be? It was found in the bathroom here.’

‘No idea.’

‘A girlfriend of your father’s?’

‘I doubt that he’d be seen with anyone who wore that sort of thing, either, but there’s no accounting for taste. Anyway, I know nothing about the girls he hung out with.’

Annie reached for her phone.

Poppy looked nervous. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Calling you a taxi. Which part of London did you say you lived in?’