The Cipher Garden

Chapter Five

The Shroud, officially The Woollen Shroud, was a rambling free house set back from the road out of Kendal. The pub, like the name, dated back centuries, to the days when in an attempt to combat an industrial slump, the authorities forbade people to bury their dead in anything that wasn’t made of wool. To this day the Shroud retained a graveyard atmosphere, if graveyards ever smell of stale beer. But the bar boasted a series of secluded alcoves in which you could conduct a conversation with a degree of privacy seldom found outside the confessional, plus an ill-lit passageway leading to a discreet way out at the back of the building. Ideal for a quiet word with a publicity-shy informer, or a chat between colleagues away from the madding and insatiably curious crowd at police HQ.

Nursing his glass of Guinness, Nick said, ‘What do you want to know about Chris Gleave?’

Hannah took a sip of traditional-recipe lemonade and said, ‘What is there to know?’

‘Not a lot, if you’re looking for a suspect. He had an alibi.’

‘A surfeit of those in this case, don’t you think? Tina, Sam, Kirsty. Roz Gleave. And now her husband Chris?’

‘Yeah, discouraging.’

‘Alibis are made to be broken.’

‘Charlie never cracked them.’

‘That tells us more about Charlie than the strength of the alibis.’

‘If I had to name one man who truly would never hurt a fly, it would be Chris Gleave.’

‘They used to say Crippen was meek and he still got up the nerve to chop his wife into bits and bury them in the cellar.’

‘Even so, he was a sawbones. All Chris cared about was music. He wrote songs and played guitar. Sort of a Cumbrian answer to Paul Simon.’

Succumbing to temptation, Hannah said, ‘Don’t tell me — ‘Bridge Over Troubled Esthwaite Water’?’

Nick groaned. ‘Your jokes don’t get better. With respect. Anyway, when we were in our teens, we lived a couple of roads apart in Ambleside. We had things in common, though the Gleaves’ house was twice the size of ours. His father was an estate agent, his mum a lady who lunched. Sometimes the two of us would walk to school together. As a kid, bullies pushed him around, but by the time he was sixteen, he was able to enjoy the perfect revenge, because most of the girls were swooning after him. A very good-looking lad. I was jealous as hell, but the fact he never showed off made his company bearable. When he went off to Manchester to study music, I missed him.’

‘You said you kept in touch.’

‘Yes, though we went our separate ways and scarcely saw each other. His grandmother lived at Keepsake Cottage. He was her only grandchild and she doted on him, just as his mum did. When Grandma died, she left the house to him. At the funeral, he met Roz Gleave. Within a couple of months they were married. I was invited to the wedding. Despite all that female admiration, it was his first serious relationship with a girl. Roz is someone who knows what she wants and makes sure she gets it. She wanted Chris, so that was that. After a few glasses of champagne, I joked that he couldn’t have had much say in the matter. But he made it clear he was head over heels.’

‘You said he had a breakdown. When?’

‘Three weeks or so before Warren Howe was murdered, Roz called me. She was in a wretched state. Chris had disappeared a few days earlier. She thought he was suffering some sort of psychological collapse. I was one of the first people to hear about it. She and I barely knew each other, but because I was in the police, she thought I might be able to help.’

‘And did you?’

‘As best I could. Which meant hardly at all. He left home one morning and never came back. To begin with, she wasn’t worried. They didn’t live in each other’s pockets and it wasn’t unusual for him to disappear every now and then. She put it down to the artistic temperament, whatever that was supposed to mean. Only when he didn’t get in touch after twenty four hours did she start to worry, make a few calls to friends. By the time she spoke to me, panic had set in.’

‘No hint as to why he might have upped and left?’

‘They didn’t have financial worries. Chris didn’t make a fortune from his music, but there was enough family money to make an impoverished sergeant’s eyes water. Roz’s business was thriving and they didn’t live extravagantly. There was no suggestion of strife between them. According to Roz, they never quarrelled.’

‘Never? What could be more suspicious than that?’

He grinned. ‘I’m sure you and Marc never quarrel.’

Hannah refused to be distracted. ‘I know you said he was a sweet guy and all that, but do me a favour.’

‘Actually, I found it easy enough to believe her. Chris wasn’t one for confrontation. If he found himself in…an impossible situation…he wouldn’t want to tough it out. He hated any sort of strife, he’d sooner make himself scarce.’

‘Did he have a lady friend on the side that Roz wasn’t aware of?’

Nick wiped a trace of froth from his mouth. ‘I’m sure he didn’t. And before you ask, there was no suggestion his disappearance was involuntary. I could only assume that Roz was on the right lines. Chris’s temperament was always fragile. A small independent label had brought out a CD of his music a few months earlier and he’d had high hopes of it. But there were distribution problems and it sank without trace. He’d been a bit quiet about that and Roz thought maybe he was more depressed than he’d admitted to her. Or to their GP. He wasn’t taking tranquillisers or anything.’

‘Suicidal tendencies?’

‘No history of attempts at self-harm and I’d never known him give any hint that he might want to take his own life. But people who kill themselves don’t always give any advance warning.’

‘No suggestion someone might have wanted to kill him? Bearing in mind what the ACPO manual says?’

‘“Every missing person report has the potential to become a homicide investigation”.’ He was quoting from guidelines issued by the crime committee of the Association of Chief Police Officers. The Murder Investigation Manual was the closest that serious crime squads had to a Bible, but even the Bible didn’t tell you everything. ‘Sure, but there wasn’t a shred of evidence to suggest foul play. He was a likeable man. Still is.’

‘So you couldn’t help?’

He spread his arms. ‘What could I do? There was no role for the police, nothing to suggest that he was a victim of crime. It’s a free country, people can come and go as they please, however much distress they leave behind. All she could do was wait — and hope.’

‘And then…Warren Howe was killed.’

‘No connection.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘Howe knew your pal?’

‘Through Roz, yes. She’d grown up in Old Sawrey and her married home wasn’t far away. Her best friend Bel Jenner had a fling with Warren as a teenager, then Roz had a turn. Long in the past, and all three of them had married other people. For good measure, Warren was having it away with Gail Flint. Roz’s only interest in the man was as a gardener, I’m sure of that. The cottage grounds were a mess, the old lady had let them become over-run with weeds and nettles and neither Chris nor Roz had green fingers. They liked the idea of a wild garden, but even a wild garden needs to be planned. So they signed up Flint Howe to do the job.’

‘No evidence of any hostility between Warren Howe and Chris Gleave?’

‘Nothing. The only connection was Roz.’

‘Tight-knit community, huh?’

‘They don’t come tighter.’

Hannah pointed at the empty beer glass and Nick nodded. One compensation of the Shroud’s lack of popularity was that it didn’t take an age to be served and she was back with fresh drinks inside a couple of minutes.

‘When did Chris Gleave reappear on the scene?’

‘A month after the murder. He called on his mobile and then minutes later showed up on the doorstep of Keepsake Cottage begging Roz to take him back in. Which she did.’

‘No hesitation?’

‘If she was in two minds, I never got to hear about it.’

‘What was his story?’

Nick indulged in a little crude origami with the beer mat, as if in aid to thought. The Stygian gloom made it hard to read his expression, but Hannah thought he was wondering how much to reveal.

He took in a lungful of musty air and said, ‘Basically, he’d lost the plot. The failure of the CD hit him much harder than anyone realised. Harder even than he realised. He felt overwhelmed, his life was spinning out of control, he just needed to get away from it all for a while. Long story short, he ended up down in London, busking on the Northern Line.’

Hannah made a face. On her rare trips to the capital, she’d found the Underground noisy, smelly and claustrophobic. It must have been a severe breakdown for Chris Gleave to be tempted to exchange the serenity of Keepsake Cottage for the subterranean murk of the Tube.

‘Takes all sorts, I guess. What brought him back to his senses?’

Nick shrugged. ‘His story was that when he managed to straighten out his thinking, he realised he belonged in the Lakes. With Roz. A sad story, but they managed to conjure up a happy ending.’

‘Unlike Warren and Tina Howe. Presumably Chris Gleave was questioned about the murder?’

‘As soon as he resurfaced. Not by me, of course. I’d declared that Roz and Chris were known to me, but Charlie was happy to keep me on the team. Obviously I took no part in interviewing the Gleaves. As suspects they were a long shot, but by that stage we were desperate. We were all acutely conscious that the best chance of picking up a murderer is within twenty-four hours of the crime being committed. After a month had passed, we were clutching at straws.’

‘And the alibi?’

‘Four hours after Warren Howe was scythed to death at Keepsake Cottage, a Good Samaritan hauled Chris Gleave out of the gutter in a side street near Leicester Square and called an ambulance to take him to Casualty. He’d been mugged and had his wallet stolen by a couple of teenage thugs.’

‘What sort of an alibi is that? Four hours might have been long enough for him to do the deed in Cumbria and get back to London.’

‘The train times didn’t fit and he’s never learned to drive.’

‘There are other means of travel. He could have made a secret journey, killed Warren Howe and then hotfooted it back to the city, with everyone none the wiser. Who’s to say that the breakdown wasn’t a part of the plot? A very convenient way of removing him from the scene at the vital moment.’

‘Even Charlie had to rule out push-bikes and making a getaway by hot-air balloon. Logistically, it didn’t make sense that Chris was the killer. Quite apart from the absence of any apparent motive.’

‘Perhaps Charlie should have dug deeper.’

‘For all his faults, Charlie did at least understand that when you’re in a hole, the first rule is to stop digging. We didn’t have an infinite budget. Whichever way we turned, we ran into a blank wall. Trouble is, some cases just aren’t meant to be solved.’

‘All cases are meant to be solved.’

He drained his glass. ‘I’m not holding my breath.’

Would Louise and Miranda hit it off together? Daniel had been full of foreboding. Tact wasn’t his sister’s strong point and Miranda’s moods changed like the weather. They could hardly be more different: the sceptical academic lawyer and the free spirit. But they were making an effort. Louise had changed into a svelte new frock and he guessed she’d dropped a dress size since he’d last seen her, with the odious Rodney in tow. She said all the right things about the cottage, while Miranda rhapsodised about his sister’s taste in fashion before starting to pump her for embarrassing anecdotes from his childhood. He was content to be the butt of their humour until it was time to sidle off to the kitchen to cook dinner for three.

Later, as they relaxed in the living room, Miranda mentioned Barrie Gilpin and Daniel found himself having to explain the part he’d played in one of Hannah Scarlett’s cases, the murder of the woman found on the Sacrifice Stone.

‘As a boy, he could never resist a mystery,’ Louise told Miranda. ‘That’s why he loves unravelling the past. So this police officer was Dad’s old sidekick? Or more than that? Was there something between them?’

‘She isn’t like that.’ Before he could stop himself, he added, ‘Neither was he.’

Louise’s eyebrows arched. ‘Surely you haven’t forgotten, he had form. Look at the way he left us in the lurch for a young woman on the make.’

Miranda saw his brow clouding and quickly changed the subject to the tribulations of dealing with tradesmen. But the mellow mood had been spoiled and he finished his drink in silence. The slur angered him. He was angry for his father, even more so for Hannah.

‘A good haul?’ Hannah asked.

‘Fantastic.’ Marc was sitting cross-legged on the rug in the dining room, marooned in a sea of old books. ‘The chap was a connoisseur. I mean, there he was living in this ordinary semi in Ravenglass and up in the spare bedroom he’d assembled this treasure trove. His sister couldn’t care less, she had no idea of what he’d collected over the years.’

‘I hope you paid a fair price.’

‘Of course.’ He was all injured innocence. ‘You know me.’

Well, yes. When it came to business, he was like every dealer she’d met. Books, antiques, whatever, they were all the same, they took as much pleasure from contriving a little extra profit on the negotiation than from contemplating the rarities they’d bought.

She joined him on the rug and picked up a couple of thin books in gaudy wrappers. She liked to take an interest in his business, just as she was happy to talk when he asked about her latest case. With police work, some things had to remain confidential, but her instinct was to be open. There were too many secrets in the world. He’d kept one or two himself, not least the affair with Leigh’s sister that he’d briefly resumed years back, in the early days of their own relationship.

‘You’re like a pig in muck this evening.’

He beamed. ‘I know you worry about this idea of murder for pleasure, but there’s wonderful escapism here. Red harvest, green for danger, five red herrings, nine tailors, murder in Mesopotamia and on the Orient Express. See these Inspector French books? Written by a railway engineer whose culprits concocted alibis based on the assumption that trains ran precisely to timetable.’

‘Jesus, what murderer in his right mind would risk that?’

‘Nostalgic, or what? Those were the days.’

‘Actually, I yearn for chance to gather suspects in the library. No worries about reading them their rights. At least in those books you can count on finding out the solution if you battle through the last page.’

He hugged her close. She often forgot how sinewy his arms were. Each time they held her, she was happy to remember.

‘Tough day at work?’

‘We have a new cold case. A landscape gardener, murdered with his own scythe. Grisly.’

‘As it happens, I was talking about gardens in the shop today with your friend Daniel Kind.’

‘Oh yes?’ Mention of Daniel quickened her pulse, but she mustn’t seem too interested. The last thing she wanted was for Marc to get the wrong idea, as he had done about her relationship with Ben. ‘More of an acquaintance, really. I’ve not been in touch with him since the Brackdale file was closed.’

‘You’ve been watching his TV shows. I noticed the DVD in the rack.’ For a moment she thought he was going to make an issue of it, but thankfully tonight his good humour was unshakeable. ‘His latest passion is the history of his own cottage garden. Maybe you should call him in as a consultant on your murder case. Make the most of having an expert in detecting the past on your doorstep.’

Hannah laughed and flicked through an aged copy of Busman’s Honeymoon, wrinkling her nose at the title page description, ‘A love story with detective interruptions.’ One of the chapters was headed ‘When You Know How, You Know Who.’ A wildly optimistic assertion, not one you’d find in the ACPO manual. Yet so often the key to solving a murder lay in victimology, finding out how a person behaved to find out why they died.

Put it another way. When you know Howe, you’ll know who.

Kirsty Howe’s bottom lip trembled as she studied the torn scraps of paper. She’d fished them out of the bin-liner and, forgetting that she’d been about to put out the rubbish, she was hunched over the breakfast bar, piecing together the bits like completing a jigsaw.

The roar of the washing machine made it hard to think. She switched it off and focused on her task. The envelope was addressed to Sam. She’d recognised the writing at once — the same horrid stencilled style of the note which had destroyed her day.

He’d screwed up the pieces, making tight little balls, but she smoothed them out with care. Soon the message was staring up at her.

Why did you hate your father? Jealousy?

She’d hardly seen Sam all day. He always left early for work and she mostly came back after he’d gone to bed. This evening was an exception, for he was staying out later than usual. Their mother reckoned he had a girl over in Broughton, but he’d not mentioned anything to Kirsty. His life revolved around football and beer and motorbikes and women. Throughout her teens, she’d entertained the romantic hope that tragedy would bring them closer together. For all his laziness at school, he was brighter than he liked to make out and she hoped that, once out of his father’s shadow, he would reveal a sensitive side. After all these years, she was still waiting. Worse, he was smart enough to have picked up on her liking for Oliver and he never lost a chance to sneer.

As she taped the fragments of the message together, she heard the thundering of a motorbike for a few moments before the engine died. The smell of alcohol wafted as he strode through the back door, helmet in hand. His eyes might be tired but his skin was glowing. She’d seen that look on the face of a couple of boys from Hawkshead whom she’d slept with. A look of bleary triumph. Her lovers reminded her of Lakeland twitchers excited by the sighting of a rare bird, or trainspotters at Oxenholme who’d ticked a rare number off their list. All they wanted was to bask in their conquest until they targeted a new trophy.

‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘I found this.’

She waved the anonymous message at him. He made as if to snatch the note from her, but she was too quick for him and, evading his lunge, skipped off her stool and stood in the doorway, daring him to hit her. He’d never gone so far as to strike her, at least not since he was a boy and he used to poke her in the ribs or twist her arm behind her back.

He moved forward, the soles of his trainers scraping on the tiled kitchen floor. His mouth was inches from hers. It wasn’t only the stale beer that stank, but the Pot Noodle on his breath. No wonder he hardly ever ate at The Heights, even though he and Peter had been doing some work for Bel in the garden lately. His idea of gourmet dining was curry and chips.

‘Hand it over.’

‘Why? You didn’t want it, obviously. I found it in with the rubbish.’

‘Who do you think you are, some kind of detective, sticking all the bits together again so you can have a good laugh?’

‘Sam!’ Even through the haze of drink, she hoped he might realise he was being unfair. ‘I was upset for you. The fact that someone has written something so nasty to you.’

‘Who cares about shit like that?’

‘I care! Nobody ought to say that about my brother! Do you think we ought to tell the police?’

‘What?’ He blinked. ‘You must be joking, didn’t we see enough of them to last a lifetime when…?’

‘When Dad was murdered.’

‘Well, yeah.’

‘I know, but it isn’t acceptable, Sam. Who can possibly be doing this?’

‘Some interfering scumbag with nothing better to do.’

‘I didn’t know you had any enemies.’

He scowled. ‘You never know what some people might do after a couple of pints.’

‘So you think a man sent this?’

‘No idea.’

‘I thought it might be a woman.’

‘Someone I’ve screwed, you mean? Some bitch trying to get her own back?’

She winced. ‘Surely it’s someone who knows something about Dad. It’s so strange, after all this time.’

He shrugged. ‘I’ve got better things to do than lose sleep over it.’

‘You mean you’re going to let them get away with this?’

She thought she’d landed a shrewd blow. Turning the other cheek wasn’t Sam’s style. Again, she watched his fuddled expression while his brain cranked into gear. In the end, he took the easy option. Typical.

‘I’ll think about it tomorrow. It’s been a long day, and I’ve put my back out. You know what, I’ve been digging all afternoon, it’s a terrible slog.’

Whatever form of exercise had put out his back, Kirsty doubted that it was gardening, but she bit back a waspish retort. They needed to be on the same side over this. Someone wanted to hurt both of them.

‘We can’t brush this under the carpet. Who could bear such a grudge against us?’

Her brother spread his arms. He didn’t have an answer, so much was clear.

‘It’s me they’re getting at, not you.’ She didn’t speak and he frowned. It was almost possible to watch the jumble of thoughts clattering around inside his brain. ‘Hey, did you get one?’

‘One what?’

‘You know what I mean.’ He waved vaguely at the note. ‘A creepy thing like this. Poisoned pen letter or whatever you call it.’

‘All right.’ She put her hands on her hips, wanting to face him down. ‘What if one was sent to me?’

A coarse smile. ‘How could anyone write anything unkind about sweet little Kirsty? What did it say?’

‘It doesn’t matter, it was nonsense. A pack of lies.’

‘Come on. You shouldn’t…’ — he was groping for the simplest words — ‘you don’t want to blush if you’re trying to hide something from me.’

He reached out and clamped his hand on her shoulder. She screamed in disgust at his foetid breath, she couldn’t stop herself shoving him away with all her might. He lost his balance and finished up on the floor. When he looked into her eyes, he didn’t seem to like what he saw. Perhaps it was revulsion; she couldn’t disguise how she felt.

‘You fucking bitch,’ he said thickly.

The next thing she knew, his hands were around her throat.