The Arsenic Labyrinth

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Within ten minutes of walking back into Divisional HQ, Hannah took a call from Fern Larter. Sarah Welsby had identified the dead man as Guy Koenig. Or, as she insisted, a supposed financial services guru called Robert L. Stevenson.

‘He was taking the mickey,’ Hannah said. ‘Maybe the worm turned and Sarah murdered him.’

‘Great minds, Hannah. I’ve asked for a back-up ID of the deceased, in case Sarah is our killer and we can’t use her in court to prove identity. But Guy kept himself to himself. No mobile, and he didn’t make personal calls from Sarah’s place. Maybe he was in hiding. We found an old laptop in his bag, but he used it as a toy, it’s given us no clues. As for Sarah, she might have followed him out to the pier. What if she caught him with another woman and the red mist descended?’

‘But you don’t think so?’

‘Can’t see her lugging a heavy torch and two chunky bricks all that way on the off chance she might want to biff him on the head, and tether the weights to his corpse so that he’d sink to the bottom of the lake.’ A long sigh. ‘No, if she wanted to kill him, she’d have done it nearer home. A couch potato like our Sarah wouldn’t fancy schlepping over to Monk Coniston.’

‘Does she have an alibi?’

‘Time of death is so uncertain, we can’t rule her out. But if you assume Koenig got his come-uppance before he was due to jump into his taxi, it’s hard to see how she can have killed him if he did leave the house at seven, as she says. At ten past, she called at a chippy in Campbell Road for fish and chips and mushy peas. That’s corroborated. One of the women behind the counter actually saw Sarah let herself back into her house on the opposite side of the road. Doesn’t leave her much time to switch from battered cod to battering Guy Koenig. And why would she report him missing so quickly?’

‘Cunning double bluff?’

Fern chortled. ‘Sarah Welsby couldn’t do cunning if her life depended on it. According to her, they had sex half an hour before he left, and he was much rougher than ever before. Sounds to me like he never expected to see her again. But if she was guilty, would she have shared that with us? I don’t think so. You know what really hacks me off, Hannah? Koenig was treating her like shit and that poor bloody fool convinced herself the sun shone out of his pretty little arse.’

‘Thoughts on motive?’

The door swung open and Les Bryant popped his grizzled head round. When Hannah gestured towards the phone, he mouthed, ‘Di Venuto is here.’

Fern sighed. ‘It’s an amateurish crime, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t planned in advance. If the bricks weren’t lying around near the shore, the murderer must have brought them to the scene for the specific purpose of weighting down the body. Although they weren’t heavy enough to do the job properly.’

‘You think the murderer was disturbed?’

‘Uh-huh. I have a team doing house-to-house, trying to find anyone who may have been hanging around Monk Coniston the night before last. As for why Koenig was killed, it may have something to do with money. From what Sarah tells us, he was skint. I’d bet he was working some kind of scam. Then someone got wise to it, and got angry too.’

The Diva could scarcely conceal his satisfaction that another body had been discovered. One man’s tragedy is another man’s breaking story. When Les nodded him into the meeting room, he strode up to Hannah and offered the firmest of handshakes. The after-shave was more pungent than ever and self-assurance oozed out of every pore. Their last conversation might never have taken place. With a hide that thick, Tony Di Venuto was surely destined for great things in journalism.

‘Good to see you again, Chief Inspector. I realise the investigation at Monk Coniston is separate from your inquiry, but no doubt you share my view that the case is inextricably linked with the bodies found at Mispickel Scar.’

‘We’re keeping an open mind.’

‘Of course, you’re bound to say that, but …’

‘Have you anything to tell us, Mr Di Venuto?’

The Diva smirked. ‘Actually, I was expecting you would be more than happy to cooperate, to share information.’

Hannah shook her head. ‘It doesn’t work like that. As you well know.’

‘You disappoint me, Chief Inspector. If not for my investigations on behalf of the Post, the maggots would still be snacking on Emma Bestwick in her underground tomb. Never mind. I’ve already interviewed Sarah Welsby, the dead man’s lover.’

Jesus, he was quick off the mark. ‘DCI Larter hasn’t made any announcement about the identity of the deceased as yet.’

Di Venuto sniggered. ‘Me, I like to keep ahead of the pack. Which no doubt is why Ms Welsby contacted me. I gather she’s identified the deceased as her lodger, Stevenson? Though I have it on good authority that wasn’t his real name and that he was previously known to the police.’

Someone in Fern Larter’s team must be earning a few quid on the side by leaking stuff to the Post. Shit, that was all they needed. ‘I can’t confirm that. DCI Larter will call a press conference as soon as she’s ready.’

‘How long does the public have to wait before it gets answers?’ he demanded. ‘The Post will be running Sarah Welsby’s exclusive story tomorrow. I simply wanted to make sure you were the first to know. I’ve spoken to her at length and I’m convinced that this lodger of hers was the man who called me.’

‘What makes you so confident?’

‘He slipped out of her house on the day he first arrived. She caught sight of him from an upstairs window. He was only out for a few minutes, but the timing coincided with the first telephone message I received about Emma Bestwick. Same story the second time around. When she lost sight of him each time, he was heading in the direction that would take him to the nearest public call box.’

‘She was spying on him?’

‘She was a lonely, middle-aged woman. That says it all.’

Hannah suppressed the urge to smack him. ‘It’s not much to go on.’

‘He read my article about Emma Bestwick before he rang the first time. She remembers him borrowing the newspaper and shooting some line about wanting to catch up with the local news after being away for years. That was the day we led on my story about the tenth anniversary of Emma’s disappearance. How much more evidence do you need?’

‘You can’t identify his voice.’

‘He spoke in a whisper, what do you expect? I mean, do you want me to give it to you on a plate, or what? Stevenson killed Emma, you can bet on it.’

She stared. ‘Why? You’re suggesting a sex crime?’

He contrived a theatrical groan. ‘Isn’t it obvious? Jeremy Erskine wanted Emma dead, but he was determined not to be implicated in her murder. So he hired a hitman to kill her. When his paid assassin came back to the Lakes, he was scared of exposure. Solution — kill the killer.’

Daniel had booked an early table at a seafood restaurant in Staveley as a peace offering. On the drive from Brackdale, neither he nor Miranda spoke and although the food was excellent, their conversation was desultory. Miranda was off to London again the following day and she seemed lost in a world of her own. She insisted that he order a bottle of Chablis, and although he only allowed himself one glass, she’d finished the rest before the end of the dessert course.

His mind kept straying to Sylvia Blacon and the gentleman in the lake. After leaving the old woman’s bungalow, he’d checked out the news on Radio Cumbria and learned the police were treating it as murder. The detective leading the inquiry sounded unexpectedly jovial, but gave no hint about any link with the bodies hauled up from beneath the Arsenic Labyrinth.

‘Daniel, we need to talk.’ Miranda fiddled with a shoulder strap of her little black dress. ‘I’ve come to a decision.’

He considered her flushed face. This wasn’t going to be good news.

‘About?’

‘About us.’ She pushed her cup to one side and leaned across the table, keeping her voice low. ‘It’s not working, is it?’

Two drunken couples at the next table were arguing about how to split their bill and a Scouse waiter was sharing a raucous joke with the girl behind the bar. At the piano, a young man who had hired an ill-fitting tuxedo was playing selections from the Barbra Streisand songbook. The background noise made no impression, he and Miranda might have been alone on a desert island. But she’d built a raft for herself and was planning to sail away.

‘No, I suppose not.’

The moment he admitted the truth, relief rippled through him. He wouldn’t protest, wouldn’t try to urge her to stay. She’d had the courage to say out loud what both of them had known for weeks. Months, maybe.

She reached out and ran her nails over the surface of his hand. ‘I’m sorry, Daniel. I so wanted this to work out.’

‘Me too.’

She folded her arms, a defensive gesture. ‘You think I’m sleeping with Ethan, don’t you?’

‘I don’t think about Ethan.’

‘Well, I’m not.’ Huge intake of breath. ‘But I won’t lie to you. I want to, and he wants it too.’

He picked up his napkin, crushing it in his fist. ‘What would you like to do about the cottage?’

‘I’ll move out as soon as I can, if that’s OK. I can’t bury myself here any longer. For me the Lakes will always mean me and you, and if we aren’t to stay together … as for my half-share, we can sort things out when it suits you. No panic. I’ve decided against buying the flat in Greenwich, so I won’t be desperate for cash.’

‘You’ll be moving in with Ethan?’

‘When he suggested it, I said no way. You know something? I actually said I would be sticking with you, trying to make things work between us. He and I had a blazing row, actually. A hundred times worse than when you and me fell out. Sparks fly off the two of us when we’re together, it’s a weird relationship. But right now it feels like what I need. While you were out this afternoon, he called me to apologise for putting me under too much pressure too soon. Things seemed to fall into place while he was talking, I couldn’t fight my feelings one moment longer. Though if you’d changed your mind about sharing the flat … well, it might have been different.’

The pianist was humming as he played that song about people who need people. The luckiest people in the world. Daniel fixed the man with a stare, willing him to stop.

‘Thanks for telling me.’

She tapped her saucer with a teaspoon, a little clink of irritation. ‘You’re taking this in a very English way. No ranting, no raving. If we don’t watch out, we’ll finish up acting like characters in a 1940s film.’

‘You’d rather I scream blue murder?’

She ventured a smile. ‘If I were a suspicious soul, I might wonder if I’ve played into your hands. Is that what’s going through your mind? I’ve got rid of the needy cow, I’ve won back my freedom?’

He shook his head. ‘At this precise moment, my mind is a vast empty void.’

‘Louise will be thrilled. She really can’t stand me.’

‘Feeling’s mutual, isn’t it?’

‘Louise is so protective of you, I’ll never measure up. I can understand why, after what happened to Aimee. You were a wreck, you kept blaming yourself, even though it wasn’t your fault she jumped from the tower. All I wanted was to make things better for you.’

God, she was so gorgeous. That flawless skin. Those eyes.

‘And you did.’

The familiar dreamy look spread across her face. She’d battled through the worst of the conversation, she was ready to rework it, as any good journalist might revise a piece of hasty writing to smooth out the flaws. Create a better impression.

‘Whatever you may think, I fell head over heels in love with the Lakes, same as with you. And I don’t regret it, please don’t imagine I do. But it’s a mistake to become infatuated with a place. When I was a kid, I used to love our holidays in Great Yarmouth. When my parents took me there one winter week-end, with the amusements shut up and a gale howling in from the sea, it wasn’t the same. The spell was broken forever and I’ve never gone back since.’

He intercepted the glance of the Scouse waiter, who was running his eye over Miranda’s curves, and asked for the bill. ‘So it’s back to London for good tomorrow?’

She nodded. ‘I’ll take as many of my things as I can carry. The rest I can leave till I’ve moved in with Ethan. I suppose you’re still determined to stick it out here?’

Why did she have to make it sound like a feat of endurance? ‘Me, I’m still infatuated.’

‘But with the Lakes, not with me.’ She sighed. ‘That’s the difference, Daniel. The countryside just doesn’t do it for me, I need the excitement of city life. Sheepdog trials and ivy-clad coaching inns are fine, but they aren’t enough. For me, something always needs to be happening.’

Pictures flickered in his mind. Strap-hanging commuters on the London Underground, glancing nervously at their fellow passengers’ rucksacks. Drunken youths smashing bottles outside the doors of a nightclub and pissing in shop doorways. Oxford dons bickering at High Table.

‘Depends on what you want to happen, I guess.’

At five to eight, Les put his head round the door and said, ‘Time to go home.’

Hannah pulled her eyes away from the columns of figures on the spreadsheet on her screen. She’d spent the last hour juggling overtime and equipment budgets. Even in cold case work, making the numbers add up was more of a challenge for a DCI than detecting crime.

‘See you tomorrow.’

‘I meant time for you to go home,’ he said, stepping into her room. ‘For me, it doesn’t matter. Long hours are good, it’s like the old days, takes me out of myself. It’s different for you. Don’t make the mistake I made.’

‘What was that?’

‘Forgetting that there’s someone waiting for you at home.’

She felt her cheeks burning. ‘Marc is out visiting a customer in Carlisle this evening. Besides, he knows what the job involves.’

‘And he’s happy about it?’

‘He spends all his time with his books, anyway.’

Les raised bushy eyebrows. ‘I used to say my old lady liked not having me under her feet. She was able to suit herself. Watch trash on telly, natter on the phone to her mates. In the end, it wasn’t enough.’

‘Yeah, well, thanks for the advice.’

‘Don’t be huffy. I know it’s none of my business.’

‘True.’

‘All the same, take heed.’ He turned to go. ‘Goodnight, Hannah.’

She exhaled. ‘Sorry, Les, I don’t mean to …’

‘Listen, you can tell me to piss off, that’s fine. Like I said, it’s nowt to do with me.’

‘I’m not sure I’m doing much good here. I’d feel better trained for this job if I’d trained as an accountant instead of at police college. I’ll pack it in and start fresh tomorrow. We’ll drive over to Coniston together.’

He nodded and lumbered off down the corridor. She checked her on-screen diary before switching off her computer. After Di Venuto’s departure, they’d agreed that even if someone had hired Guy Koenig to kill Emma, Jeremy wasn’t the only candidate. It was a long shot, but there might be some connection between the two bodies buried in the same spot decades apart. The plan was to call on Alban Clough and see what he had to say for himself.

She locked her desk and the door to her office and set off for home. On the CD player, Jimmy Webb crooned about the Wichita lineman. Her mind roamed over the events of the day, but she knew she was too weary to have a hope of making sense of them. Fifteen minutes into the journey, her hands-free phone trilled.

‘It’s Maggie, ma’am.’

Her DC worked out at the gym every other day, but for once she sounded out of breath. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes, fine, I’ve just run back to the car. Dave and I were on our way out to a pub in Skelwith Bridge, and as we were approaching Coniston, a fire engine passed us, siren blaring. A couple of miles down the road, we saw why.’

Hannah’s pulse quickened. ‘What’s happened?’

‘It’s Inchmore Hall, ma’am. The building is on fire.’

Brack village was dozing as Daniel drove through on the way back to Tarn Fold. The church clock was chiming, a few lights shone behind curtained windows. Tarn Fell was a dark shapeless mass in the distance and it was impossible to make out where the fells ended and the sky began. Daniel glanced to his left. Miranda was slumped low in the passenger seat, her eyes half-closed; the Chablis had taken hold. He recalled waking some nights and watching her sleep by his side, telling himself how lucky he was to share her life.

‘Hey, you still awake?’

‘Mmmm.’

‘I’ll sleep in the spare room tonight.’

‘No need.’

‘It’s better that way. You have a journey tomorrow and you look knackered.’

Her brow creased, but if tempted to argue, she thought better of it. ‘Suit yourself,’ she murmured.

When they reached the cottage, she said goodnight and dragged her weary body up the stairs. He turned on the gas fire and made himself a mug of hot chocolate. For ten minutes he channel-hopped on the TV, but late-night snooker and a re-run of Friends did not appeal, so he pulled out the bulging carrier bags that he’d borrowed from Sylvia Blacon and started picking through the auction lots. Might as well make a start, see if he could find something to fire his imagination about an aspect of Lakes history that Hattie Costello had not yet done to death.

There were scrapbooks, diaries and household records of Coniston residents that covered much of the twentieth century. Many of the notebooks were written in the same cramped but legible hand. They had been kept somewhere damp and the paper was brittle to the touch. It wasn’t late, but he had to force himself to keep his eyes open as he turned the pages. His arms and legs felt heavy and his throat was dry. He ought to go to bed, but he knew that when he did, he would spend hours tossing and turning. So often it had been like this in Oxford, during the weeks after Aimee committed suicide. Better to keep working, until he was so exhausted that sleep could no longer be denied.

A single sentence snagged his attention. He read them a second time and the words jerked him wide awake.

You’d never believe it to look at me now, but once upon a time I killed a man.