The Cipher Garden

Chapter Four

The giant hog bared its teeth at Kirsty Howe. She halted on the pathway between the trees, then took a pace towards the beast. For all her distress, she could not help smiling as she reached out and patted its head.

She loved Ridding Wood. Since childhood, she’d felt safe here, surrounded by the weird creatures carved from wood and iron. For all their fangs and contorted faces, they never hurt you as people did. In her early teens she’d confessed to Sam that she thought of the sculptures as friends, each with a pet name, but he’d taunted her without mercy. Now she knew better than to share secrets with her brother, but to this day, she remembered what she used to call the hog.

‘Hello, Boris. How are you today?’

Babyish, Sam would say, but she didn’t care. This leafy haven was her second home, a refuge she escaped to when things went wrong. After her father’s death, she’d wandered around the by-ways of Grizedale Forest for hours, struggling to reconcile herself with what had happened, and there was scarcely a route that she did not know by heart. She liked to come here for the setting of the sun, when families had returned home and hikers had tramped on. Even on a summer afternoon, with whooping kids on the hunt for wild animals along the sculpture trail, the exercise soothed her as words of comfort never could. She drank in the soft air and the mossy smells, she swayed to the music echoing through the woodland, as unseen wanderers struck the huge wooden xylophones standing beside the route to the stream. Even today, with the words of the cruel letter burning in her brain, Ridding Wood did not fail to work its magic.

She ran her hands over the hog’s back, careless of splinters. She envied artists, people who began with a blank canvas or page or a block of marble and had the talent to create something fresh. Imagine the sense of freedom it must give. Whereas she stayed in Old Sawrey, waiting at table and yearning for something that always seemed tantalisingly out of reach. Wanting it so badly that someone who must hate her had noticed, and was tormenting her because of it.

After blundering out of the restaurant, she’d needed to get away. Driving on autopilot, she’d wound up at Grizedale Forest, and parked near the old Hall. Would they miss her if she never showed up again? Oliver, how would he react? Would he suffer a pang of regret?

She crossed the high bridge. On the other side of the water, a circle of steel glinted from the branches of a spreading copper beech. Each familiar landmark she passed calmed her, made her feel more secure. Further on, lights powered by the sun flickered in an elaborate beehive hanging high in the trees. From the river, she heard the shouts of paddling children and the conversation of their parents. Somehow she couldn’t imagine having kids of her own. Plenty of time, her mother said, but that wasn’t the point.

The track emerged from a leafy tunnel into open grassland and she subsided on to a large carved seat, allowing the sight of fields and fells to wash over her.

She glanced at her watch. Oh God, better get going.

Jumping to her feet, she felt her muscles straining. She’d need to get into shape before her next parachute jump. As for Oliver, she would not give in. She would see this through.

‘You never said if you fancied anyone as Warren’s killer,’ Hannah said.

‘That’s right, I didn’t.’

Nick was sitting at his desk in the corner of the CCR team’s room. He was entitled to an office of his own and there’d been talk of him sharing with Les Bryant, who had come out of retirement to give the team the benefit of his wisdom on the fine art of murder investigation. Whether Nick’s preference for remaining in the thick of things was down to an egalitarian impulse or a wish to escape being holed up with the dourest of Yorkshiremen, Hannah wasn’t sure. Right now her sergeant’s gaze was fixed on the computer screen. With all the ringing phones and competing conversations, his voice was so quiet that she had to bend over his shoulder to hear his reply. His aftershave had a subtle tang.

‘Any particular reason?’

‘Nobody believed it was a stranger homicide. Finding evidence to justify an arrest was a different story.’

‘You must have had your suspicions.’

He’d been scrolling through his emails, scrapping routine messages. The sight of his still-overcrowded inbox made him sigh. ‘Why do people send out so much garbage? Half the stuff I’m copied in on isn’t worth a glance. Talk about information overload.’

They often cried on each other’s shoulder about the time-wasting bureaucracy of the modern police service. But she could spot a diversionary tactic a mile off.

‘Did you have a hunch?’

‘Remember the Gospel according to Ben Kind? Theories are for losers.’

A shrewd blow, if below the belt. She hadn’t just been the late Ben Kind’s sergeant, she’d been his disciple. Ben had taught her more about police work than all the trainers in Hendon put together and, though it had taken her years to admit it, even to herself, her affection for him had teetered on the brink of something more serious. More dangerous. Not long after retiring he’d been killed in an accident, with so many things unspoken between them. She still mourned him, still thought about him now and then. She could still hear the scorn in his voice at team briefings when eager subordinates indulged in fanciful speculation. Like Nick said, theories were for losers.

‘OK, you win.’

He stabbed delete with his forefinger one last time, then turned to face her. ‘It’s not about winning. The simple truth is that we never came near to making an arrest. If you ask me, this so-called tip-off won’t take us any closer.’

‘I’m not long back from Old Sawrey.’

‘So that’s why you disappeared. Off to catch up on the village gossip?’

She shook her head. ‘I just wanted to get a feel of the place before I summoned up the energy to plough through the rest of the files. I see that Bel Jenner and her chef hold the licence of The Heights jointly.’

‘Oliver Cox fell on his feet. The previous chef left soon after old man Jenner died and soon Oliver was giving the widow something to smile about. The restaurant may not be full to bursting every evening, but Bel won’t lose sleep. Her husband left her with a few quid. The business was more like a hobby. Probably still is.’

‘I saw Warren Howe’s daughter.’

‘Last I heard, she was working there as a waitress.’

‘Kept yourself informed about what goes on in the village, then?’

He shrugged. ‘Chris Gleave and I were at school together. He was a couple of years older than me, but we got on all right. We haven’t spoken for ages but we never lost touch completely.’

‘So you knew the man who owned Keepsake Cottage?’

‘He and his wife still live there.’

‘They own a foul-tempered mongrel.’

‘Name of de Quincey.’

‘Yes, it gave the impression it was as high as a kite. What’s wrong with a nice harmless pet called Tabitha or Tom Kitten?’

Nick laughed. ‘Did de Quincey take a piece out of you, by any chance?’

‘No, but it looked as though it would love to. Tell me about Chris Gleave.’

Nick’s eyes flicked back to his screen. More messages had popped up while they had been speaking. ‘Better catch up on the backlog first. Fancy a drink later on?’

‘Sure.’

Marc was going to be late home this evening, which made things easier. He seemed jealous of her friendship with Nick. Yet they never as much as exchanged a peck on the cheek. It wasn’t that sort of relationship.

‘See you in the Shroud, then.’

Half a mile from The Heights, Kirsty stopped at a passing place when she saw a van coming towards her. As it drew near, she recognised it as belonging to Peter Flint. Oh God, there was no escaping him at present. She lowered her head, keeping her eye on the foot pedals, but predictable to a fault, he didn’t drive on past. He stopped when his car was level with hers and wound down his window.

‘Off to work?’

Silly question. She was tempted to say so, just to wipe the cheerful beam from his face. Their relationship was fraught, but she knew he was making an effort and she always found it difficult to be rude

‘That’s right.’

‘I’ve just been talking to Bel. She wants help with that little garden at the back of the restaurant. Moles have been playing havoc with the lawn and she’d like the border replanting. Oliver’s no gardener, so I said I’d ask that brother of yours to lend a hand.’

‘Best of British.’ She couldn’t think of a reply less sarcastic.

‘I know, I know.’ Peter’s sigh was theatrical. ‘Sam doesn’t like knuckling down, he doesn’t seem to understand, this is a service business. The client is king. Or queen, in Bel’s case. But I haven’t given up hope. Deep down, he has a genuine feeling for plants. Like Warren, of course.’

Kirsty gave a brusque nod and Peter seemed to realise that it wouldn’t be tactful to embark on a conversation about her father.

‘Well, must be getting on. Nice to see you. And if you speak to Sam before I catch up with him, you might mention the job for Bel.’

‘I’ll see if he can fit it in his busy schedule.’

He chuckled to show that he saw the funny side of her brother’s idleness and with a wave was gone. Turning into the car park at The Heights, Kirsty spotted Gail Flint’s sporty yellow Toyota. As usual, Gail had parked in a space reserved for the disabled; it was the type of thing the old bag did just for the hell of it.

Gritting her teeth, Kirsty walked into reception. No sign yet of either Arthur the barman or the Croatian kitchen girls. Gail and Bel were chattering away on the sofa where, during opening hours, customers waited while their table was prepared. Two expensively dressed forty-somethings, one blonde, one brunette. Everyone always said Bel was stunning (for her age was Kirsty’s unspoken qualification) but Kirsty suspected she might be putting on a pound or two around her waist. Wishful thinking, probably, but nobody could deny that her nose was too beaky to be remotely beautiful. So was Oliver’s, but somehow it suited him, lent a kind of distinction.

As for Gail, she was fixated on defying the passage of the years. A few weeks ago, Kirsty had overheard her telling Bel that when her divorce finally came through, she’d celebrate by splashing out on more cosmetic surgery. She’d already had a discreet nip and tuck around the jawline and kept harping on about a boob job. Poor flat-chested creature, she could do with one. Now the blonde hair had lengthened overnight and Kirsty was positive she’d invested in extensions. Pity she couldn’t do anything about that letterbox of a mouth. Over the years, Gail had tried her hand at a variety of small enterprises before becoming a supplier of wine. The Heights was her best client, and she and Bel were friends. Gail was scheduled to make one delivery each week, but dropped in every other day. They spent more time yapping about clothes and television than discussing business.

‘Hello, Kirsty, how are things?’

No mistaking the fruity smell on Gail’s breath. Her favourite tipple was gin made from damsons harvested in the Lyth valley. Sweet and strong, no wonder she was having to take care not to mix up her words. An empty glass stood in front of her. Bel, always the goody-goody, was sipping fizzy water.

‘All right, Mrs Flint, how are you?’

‘I told you before, sweetheart, my name’s Gail. None of this Mrs Flint nonsense.’ Gail’s trout-like lips (Kirsty suspected excessive Botox injections) formed a smile. ‘I’m fine, but you do look a little flushed, if you don’t mind me saying so. You’re not working her too hard, Bel?’

As Bel smiled and shook her head, they heard a car pulling up outside. Kirsty caught sight of Oliver through the window, lifting a crate of glasses from the boot of Bel’s gleaming BMW. It always gave her a kick to see him without being seen. She adored his elegance of movement, the movement of his shoulder blades under the thin cotton shirt. He didn’t bother with the gym, but he had as much feline grace as Bel. Even when peeling potatoes or carrots, he seemed incapable of clumsiness. Tall, dark and blue-eyed, in some ways he reminded her of Sam. But her brother’s muscles were running to fat. Too many chip suppers.

Sam had no time for Oliver. He was dead jealous, bound to be, but he loved to wind her up by insisting that Oliver was gay. All chefs were, in his book. Oliver had flowing locks, down almost to his shoulders, high cheekbones and manicured hands; very different from close-cropped, grubby-nailed Sam. But Oliver wasn’t gay, she was sure of that.

He came into reception and put the box down. When his eyes met Bel’s, the intensity of his gaze made Kirsty shiver with cold despair. It was as if the woman were a hypnotist, as if at a snap of her fingers, he would satisfy her every whim. Kirsty imagined Oliver as wild and passionate. Dangerous, even. Yet Bel had tamed him, made sure he did her bidding. Lucky, lucky woman to have that lithe body wrapped around her in bed every night.

‘Where shall I put these glasses?’

Bel reached out and ruffled his hair. ‘Let me show you.’

Her tone was flirtatious, her eyes sparkling with promise, like a teenage coquette. She led him by the hand to the kitchen. For a quick grope, presumably; the woman just couldn’t keep her hands off him.

Gail leaned forward and whispered, ‘Much as I love Bel, I can’t help a twinge of jealousy. How about you?’

It was as if she got a kick out of twisting the knife. Kirsty coughed, scouring her brain for an excuse to get away.

‘She tells me Oliver’s very sensitive to her needs. All he cares about is giving her pleasure. I mean, I’m bound to be jealous, aren’t I? The younger men I’ve known, it’s always wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.’’

Oh God, too much information. ‘I’d better be getting on with my work.’

Gail smirked. ‘Don’t let me keep you, sweetheart.’

Bel and Oliver were coming back already. His hair was messed up and Kirsty yearned to smooth it back into place, it was like a physical ache. But she had to choke her instincts. She dared not touch him.

Time to take refuge in the bar. Oliver didn’t even spare her a glance as she scuttled out. Her throat was dry and she poured herself a glass of water, downing it in a couple of gulps.

Through the thin wall, Kirsty heard Gail squawk with laughter. Did she detest Gail more than Bel, or the other way round? And was it because they had both screwed her father? She didn’t think so. Roz Gleave was another member of that not very exclusive club, and Kirsty liked her. But Gail was a first-class bitch. Tina Howe reckoned that Gail was all fur coat and no knickers, though while Gail was married to Peter Flint, no one doubted who wore the trousers. Tina said it was a wonder he’d stuck with her so long. Gail loved talking about girl power and making out that she and Kirsty were bosom pals, but if you stripped away the chatter, underneath she was as hard as nails. She was like Dad in one respect; they both thought only of themselves. As for Bel, she’d been a kid when she’d slept with him. According to Sam, Dad had always fancied her, kept pestering her even when she was safely married to a wealthy man, even when that man was dying, even when he was still warm in his grave. In different circumstances, Kirsty might have felt sorry for Bel. But Bel had Oliver in thrall, and that was reason enough to hate her.

Hate, hate, hate. It was a cancer, eating away at her insides. She could feel it spreading through her, insidious and irresistible.

A couple of times lately, she’d even fantasised about catching Bel alone in the restaurant and bashing her on the head until the life seeped out of her. She could pretend the killing took place in the course of a burglary gone wrong. Of course, she’d never do it. It wasn’t lack of nerve; the truth was she didn’t have a violent bone in her body. But her dreams were becoming desperate. Even on a summer day, they made her cold with fear.

Marc Amos’s bookshop flirted with the senses. If the whiff of old books and background Debussy were insufficiently seductive, the casual visitor would be lured from the craft shops in the courtyard by the rich aromas wafting from the cafeteria. It shared the ground floor of the old mill building with a maze of ceiling-to-floor shelves. Leigh Moffat’s succulent home-baked desserts had found fame beyond this corner of the South Lakes and as many people gorged on her lemon cake and Death by Chocolate as on the tens of thousands of books in the store.

Amos Books wasn’t on Daniel’s route to collect his sister from the station, but he calculated he could get away with an hour’s diversion. It was an indulgence, and not only of his incurable bibliomania. The last time he’d met Hannah, he’d told her about Aimee’s suicide — something he seldom spoke of — but although she’d hinted that she and Marc were having difficulties, she hadn’t confided in him about her private life. Impossible not to be curious. He liked Marc as well as Hannah. The complication was that he’d felt a strong stirring of attraction to her, unexpected, unwanted, yet unmistakable. A couple of times it had kept him from sleeping. He and Hannah were both in relationships, and he didn’t want to wreck things for either of them. But she’d known his father, been close to him, there was so much that she could explain about him; helping Daniel to fill in the blanks. He couldn’t simply forget her. They could still make a friendship work.

‘Hello, Daniel, long time no see,’ Leigh Moffat said as he moved along the counter, ignoring the fudge cake and millionaire’s shortbread with an effort of will little short of heroic. ‘What can I tempt you with?’

Their last encounter had been a fiasco. She’d visited Tarn Cottage, distressed by his interest in the killing on the Sacrifice Stone, and left infuriated by his refusal to let go of the past. He guessed it was rare for Leigh to lose her poise. This afternoon she looked cool and elegant in her neat uniform, though if she sampled much of her own baking, she must have needed a pact with Beelzebub to preserve that slim figure.

‘Thanks, I’ll have a double latte. How are you?’

‘Fine. Is the cottage renovation progressing?’

They chatted idly before he sat down with his drink at a table near the till. After scanning the ground floor for a couple of minutes he caught sight of Marc Amos, emerging from the office at the back of the building where he dealt with the mail-order side of the business. Marc was heading towards the cafe and he tossed a broad grin at Leigh before spotting Daniel a moment later. Sidling past a couple of backpackers clutching Ordnance Survey maps, he took a seat opposite Daniel and indicated the emptiness of the table to Leigh.

‘Couldn’t you persuade him to sample the cake?’

‘Some people obviously like to take the moral high ground.’

Marc turned back to Daniel. ‘I was worrying that you’d forgotten us. Hunting for anything in particular?’

‘The history of Brackdale? There’s a family, the Quillers, I’m interested in. Jacob Quiller was a cousin of the Skeldings of Brack Hall. He built Tarn Cottage.’

Marc pushed a hand through a thicket of fair hair. Good-looking, Daniel thought. He had a youthful carelessness and energy that lots of women must find attractive.

‘The name Quiller doesn’t ring a bell, but Brackdale rates a couple of pages in most books about the South Lakes. Let’s have a look.’

Daniel finished his drink and clattered after Marc up the rickety stairs to an airy room overlooking the weir at the back of the converted mill. Marc climbed a library stool and plucked a few sunned tomes from a high shelf.

‘Doubt if there’s much in either of these. Borrow them if you like. No obligation.’

‘You’ll never get rich that way.’

‘If I wanted to get rich, I wouldn’t have opened this shop in the first place. Be my guest.’

Through the door Daniel saw the first floor crammed with people of different nationalities, cameras slung around their necks. ‘Business is brisk?’

‘I like it best when they buy instead of simply admiring the stock,’ Marc grinned. ‘Hannah and Leigh moan that I devote too much time to acquiring books, not enough to getting rid of them. I’m off to Ravenglass in ten minutes. An executor’s looking to flog her uncle’s collection. He was an aficionado of detective fiction; there may be a few gems amongst the ex-library dross. I’ll email you with details of anything worthwhile. You like a mystery, Hannah told me. The detective thing must run in the family.’

Daniel gave a cautious nod. ‘And how is Hannah?’

‘Still trawling the cold case files.’ Marc glanced skywards. ‘It frustrates her, not being in the thick of the action all the time. But I tell her not everyone can make it to chief constable. And given that the people at the top have to spend all their time toadying to politicians, who would want to be? Your dad was content to stop climbing the greasy pole and I don’t blame him.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Daniel glanced at the books in his hand. ‘You’re too generous. I’ll happily buy these. And — give Hannah my regards.’

‘What are we going to do?’ Kirsty Howe asked.

At long last she and Oliver were alone in the restaurant. While she finished laying the tables for dinner, he’d made them both a pot of Earl Grey and put on Bel’s CD of Andy Williams’ greatest hits. Music to soothe girls by. They were sitting next to the window that looked out towards the lake, but neither of them spared it a glance. They had twenty minutes before Bel returned from the shop in Hawkshead, but Arthur and the Croatian girls might show up at any moment.

‘Nothing.’

‘We can’t do nothing!’

She pulled a piece of screwed-up paper out of the waistband of her skirt and laid it on the table and smoothed it out again. Her face was as crumpled as the sheet bearing the stark stencilled words.

Keep your paws off that chef, you dirty little whore.

She stifled a sob. ‘When I showed it to you this afternoon, you thought it was funny.’

Reading the note he’d laughed wildly, as if shocked beyond reason that anyone could take such an accusation seriously. Thank God Bel and the other staff hadn’t been around. Anger would have been fine, anxiety reasonable. But amazement bordering on disbelief — that cut her to the bone. No wonder she’d wept as she ran out of the restaurant.

‘I’m sorry, Kirsty. I was — well, shocked, I suppose. It seemed…’

‘Ridiculous?’ she asked in a muffled voice.

‘Don’t cry, Kirsty. It’s horrid for you. For both of us. But we mustn’t let it knock us off balance.’

‘You think it is ridiculous.’

‘It’s ridiculous to call you…cruel names.’

‘You think I’m still just a silly kid, don’t you?’

‘No, no. We’ve always been good friends, Kirsty, haven’t we?’ He leaned forward and rested a palm on her shoulder. His cologne smelled of sandalwood. ‘True friends. Friends who care about each other.’

She mopped her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. ‘I suppose so.’

‘You know so. And I hate seeing you upset.’

The directness of his gaze lifted her spirits. When he concentrated his attention on you, it was as if the rest of the world ceased to exist. Was this how Bel felt, when he looked straight at her? ‘So what are we going to do? Tell the police?’

He snatched his hand away as if he’d touched a live wire. ‘For goodness’ sake! How can they do anything? You’ve thrown away the envelope, we’ve both handled the message. Even if whoever wrote this left any fingerprints, which I doubt, they will have disappeared by now.’

Her tea had a tang of lemon. She preferred to take milk with it, but Oliver said that ruined the flavour and he was the expert. The song playing in the background was ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’, one of Bel’s favourite schmaltzy tracks, yet Oliver had put it on for her. How long would it take to break the spell by which Bel had entranced him? Three times in the past year, he’d kissed her on the cheek by way of greeting or farewell. The kisses were chaste, but each one set her pulse racing.

‘I was wondering…there was this programme on Channel 4 the other day, about investigating crime. What about DNA tests?’

‘This isn’t a hunt for a sniper or a serial killer. The police won’t be interested, Kirsty. Trust me.’

Of course she wanted to trust him, but his reaction baffled her. ‘You’re suggesting we let this…this creature get away with it?’

‘With what? Whoever sent that message wants to upset you. Don’t give him the satisfaction, Kirsty. The best thing you can do — we can do — is to behave as though nothing’s happened. Why should we let some sad person with nothing better to do get under our skin? Let them spin their lies about someone else if they want to spark a reaction.’

She stared at him. ‘As simple as that?’

‘Of course.’ He was breathing hard, as if this meant a lot to him. ‘After all, we know there isn’t a shred of truth in this note, don’t we? You’ve never laid a finger on me, nor me on you. We’re just very good friends — and I swear, we always will be.’

‘So this is Paradise?’

‘An outpost of Virgin Rail, actually,’ Daniel said. ‘Don’t worry. The Lake District gets better.’

Louise arched her eyebrows and stepped aside to allow him to pick up her suitcases. The train had disappeared north on its journey over the high moors to Carlisle and Glasgow beyond and a group of Swedes with bulging rucksacks were scanning the horizon in a baffled search for the vanished sun. The line below the platform was awash with puddles after a sudden cloudburst, the sky was as grey as the stone station waiting room. Daniel considered mentioning that Oxenholme station was designed by the man who built the Bank of England, but thought better of it. Louise’s arrival had been delayed by fifty minutes (engineering works), the on-train buffet had been closed (staff shortages) and she’d spent the journey sharing a table with three Macbeth-like witches who discussed their digestions at the top of their voices (deafness coupled with contempt for the fit and youthful). She wasn’t in the mood to be impressed by local trivia. Not that Louise was often in the mood to be impressed.

As he led his sister down the ramp to the tunnel that linked the parking areas on either side of the station, he stole a sideways glance at her. All at once, her resemblance to their late mother was striking and, as much as he’d loved Mum, he was sorry to recognise the similarities. Gone were the flowing dark tresses, replaced by a severe bob in her natural mousy shade. She’d never liked going out without ‘having her face on’ but now the make-up was confined to a touch of colour in otherwise pallid cheeks. If she seemed tinier than before, it wasn’t merely because of the flat shoes. He guessed she might have lost as much as a stone; there were lines around her mouth that he hadn’t seen before. Not even when she’d suffered from anorexia in her late teens, a phase that persisted until an ardent if acned suitor who lived next door helped her recover her self-esteem. He yearned to put his arm around her, but he knew that if he did, chances were that she’d shrug it off with a furious remark.

He’d left his Audi in a marked space on the brow of the hill above Kendal. As they emerged into the light, she halted on the edge of the pavement and took in the prospect of the fells in the distance.

‘This is where he lived with her, isn’t it, Oxenholme?’

He’d meant to avoid mentioning their father. Her resentment of the old man was excessive, but too deeply ingrained to be smoothed away overnight. He should have known better than to believe that they could gloss over the past.

‘Cheryl’s in Grange-over-Sands now. She’s moved in with someone else.’

‘You looked her up?’

Her voice rose; she was too astonished to be angry. For her, Cheryl was the serpent who had tempted their father into destroying his family’s happiness and he’d been too weak to resist. She’d never met Cheryl, but like her mother, she hated the woman with blind ferocity.

‘I was curious.’

Louise was struggling for calm. ‘You were always too curious for your own good.’

He heaved the suitcases into the car and slammed the boot shut. ‘Believe it or not, I felt sorry for her.’

Louise swore. ‘You’re joking!’

‘She’s not ageing well and the man she lives with is an old misery. He’s obviously planning to spend his retirement looking around for errands she can run for him. Waiting for her to mess up so he has something fresh to complain about.’

‘Serves her right, the selfish bitch.’

‘He used to be her boss.’

Louise grunted. ‘That was her modus operandi, wasn’t it? Seducing men she worked for.’

They drove through the town in silence. As they turned on to the road that led to Brackdale, she said, ‘I know I look a fright.’

‘A bit wan, that’s all.’

‘I’ve lost a bit of weight too.’

‘Not a bad thing.’

‘Still not got any manners, then?’ She hesitated before saying, ‘Thanks for letting me stay with you.’

‘I’m glad you came.’

‘Who knows, in a couple of weeks people might start mistaking me for a country maid, with pig-tails and cheeks like apples.’

He laughed. ‘So this is your first time in the Lakes since that holiday?’

He’d wanted to keep their conversation on safe ground, but with Louise you could never be sure what was safe ground. In a moment, the temperature in the car plummeted.

She said in a low voice, ‘Do you ever wonder how he could sleep? How he could live with himself?’

Daniel kept his eyes on the road. ‘He’s dead now.’

After a pause she said, ‘Yes. And I’m sorry about that. And I know how much you cared for him. Like I used to. And I realise I’m a miserable cow, I fully understand. It’s just that…’

To his horror, she started to sob. In all the years since their father’s departure, Daniel could never remember his sister crying. Not even during those frail anorexic days. Louise didn’t yield to emotion, Skiddaw would crumble before she shed a tear. A flame of anger spurted inside him. That smug bastard Rodney, this was his fault.

He pulled off the road and parked on a grassy verge. If ever there was a time to put his arm around her, this was it, but she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and pushed him away.

‘I’m all right.’

‘You think so?’

‘Happens every day, doesn’t it? Woman falls for man, man shags woman, woman gets clingy, man meets another woman and runs away. And the whole cycle begins again. I’ll get over it.’

‘So you don’t like men too much at the moment, big sister?’

‘I don’t exactly like myself, come to that.’

A sudden instinct made him want to say, ‘But I like you, Louise.’

Thank God he bit the words back on his tongue. She’d never forgive him for such a horrendous outburst of sentimentality. For patronising her. For taking pity on her.

In the quiet of the car, as she dried her tears, he realised — with a shock, because he’d never turned his mind to it before, except in the shallowest way — that it was true. For all the years of bickering, for all the gulf between them whenever they discussed their father, there was a bond between them. They were all that remained of their family.

So Kirsty Howe was weeping buckets and the same day, her mother had been accused of killing her father. Hannah leaned back in her chair. She’d been in the job long enough to realise that coincidences, like cock-ups, were commoner than conspiracies. Interesting, though.

Nick looked in. ‘See you there in twenty minutes. Mine’s half a Guinness.’

She slipped the anonymous message into a plastic wallet and Charlie’s irritatingly uninformative crime-scene log back in its labelled folder. There were few less exciting virtues in an SIO than tidiness, but Ben Kind had always preached its importance. Mess wasn’t merely a nuisance, according to Ben, it could hamper an investigation if it prevented you seeing the facts with a clear eye. It wasn’t the end of the world if the facts were incomplete — an occupational hazard in an investigation led by Charlie. Spotting gaps might suggest fresh lines of inquiry. Even the lack of evidence is evidence. Like The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time.

She sat up in her chair, realising it wasn’t an original thought. She could hear Daniel Kind quoting those words, in a television programme. A week ago, she’d seen a DVD of his BBC series on special offer and picked up a copy. One evening when Marc was out, she’d watched it for half an hour. The following day, she’d picked up a voicemail message. Daniel, suggesting that they get together again sometime. He wanted her to tell him more about Ben, fill gaps in his knowledge of his father. She hadn’t returned the call, wasn’t sure it would be a good idea.

He liked to compare the work of historians and detectives. She was reluctant to be convinced, but his arguments defied easy contradiction. Ben might not have been an academic, but he had had a sharp mind and was more down to earth than his son. To abandon fame and fortune to get away from it all — even in the Lakes — was daring. Reckless. She could never do what he had done. Yet she couldn’t help admiring his nerve in walking away from fame and money, to make a new life with the woman he loved.

At least, she supposed he loved his partner. When they’d last talked, he’d hinted that Miranda was having second thoughts about the move. If he felt let down, he hadn’t said so. She was sure he would be loyal, just like his father. Even though Ben, in an aberration, had left his wife and kids to move up here with Cheryl. Something else the Kinds had in common. On occasion, they acted out of character and surrendered to a wild impulse that changed their lives.

Frightening. Yet fascinating.