The Cipher Garden

Chapter Six

A clammy night, too hot to sleep. Daniel sweated under the duvet, battling insomnia for hour after endless hour, Miranda’s smooth warm body nestling by his side. She was restless and every now and then, she murmured in her dreams, but he couldn’t make out the words. In the end, he eased himself noiselessly out of bed and tiptoed downstairs to find the histories of the Lake District that he’d bought from Marc Amos.

He poured himself a glass of water and settled on the living room sofa. He loved the smell and feel of old books. To hold them was to touch the past. Skimming the pages, he came across a handful of references to Brackdale amongst reams of stuff about better-known valleys like Borrowdale and Langdale. Skeldings had lived at Brack Hall for much of Victoria’s reign, it seemed, but there was nothing about the Quiller family. After an hour’s browsing, he found a mention of Tarn Fold in a small book with a splitting spine, published locally in 1935.

Tucked away beneath the fell is Tarn Fold, with its old corn mill and, surrounding the tarn itself, an old and melancholic private garden, mysterious and overgrown. For the visitor, the Fold is noteworthy for its proximity to the old coffin trail that wends from Brack Church up towards Priest Edge.

Not much to go on, but at least there was nothing new about the strangeness of the garden. He parted the curtains and was gazing out into the blackness when he heard a sound behind him. Louise was in the doorway, wearing a short red gown.

‘Too hot, isn’t it?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘What are you looking for out there?’

‘Wish I knew.’

She came into the room. ‘I’m sorry about this evening. I shouldn’t harp on about Dad.’

‘You still regard him as some sort of monster.’

‘You know how hurt Mum was after…’

‘Yes,’ he interrupted, not wanting to dredge up old quarrels.

She picked up the book. ‘What are you reading?’

Glad of the chance to change the subject, he joined her back on the sofa and started talking about the garden. ‘There’s a story to it, must be, and if the secret was old in the Thirties, I’d guess the explanation dates back to the Quillers. The odds are that the garden was scarcely touched after they died. How come Jacob and Alice died on the same day, supposedly of broken hearts? This paragraph hints that the secret was kept by later owners of the cottage. Like Mrs Gilpin, who lived here till she died? No-one attempted to give the garden a makeover. But why?’

‘Respect for the dead?’

‘Could be.’ He couldn’t help laughing at himself. ‘Here I go again. Digging into the past, searching for a puzzle to solve.’

‘I’m glad, Daniel. When you left Oxford so suddenly, I wondered if you’d had some sort of breakdown. After Aimee and…well, you know.’

‘And what do you think now?’

A sheepish grin. ‘Could be that we’re both finally coming to our senses.’

Kirsty huddled under the duvet after waking from a shallow sleep. Her neck was aching. She slid out of bed and inspected herself in the mirror. The mark was red and vivid. It was bound to bruise; she would have to wear a scarf or something to hide it. And hide her shame that her brother, of all people, should have done this to her.

She got back into bed and listened to Sam blundering around downstairs, banging cupboard doors in search of breakfast things. Sunlight filtered in through gaps in her bedroom curtains, but she buried her face in the pillow and waited for him to go. This house had been home to the family all her life, yet she’d never felt more alone.

How long had he kept squeezing her throat? Only for a few seconds, must have been, and yet it had seemed an eternity. Did he mean to kill her, simply in a flash of temper? Closing her eyes, she had waited for death. Strangely, she felt no fear. She was ready to embrace nothingness. To end life would at least end her despair.

Suddenly he’d released his grip. Perhaps he was more afraid than her. Perhaps he realised this, perhaps it made him hate her all the more.

‘You’re mad.’ To her horror, he’d made an effort to get the words out straight. Speaking from the heart. ‘Off your head, that’s you. Of course whoever wrote this shit got it right.’

‘What do you mean?’

She was croaking, it was impossible to recognise her own voice.

‘I hated his guts. I can’t tell you how glad I am that he’s dead.’

Studying the photographs from Warren Howe’s postmortem, Hannah felt bile rising in her gullet. The murderer had slashed Warren’s body a dozen times, tearing off strips of skin. The pathologist reported that the wounds suggested fury — or desperation — rather than physical might, but through luck or judgement the jugular vein had been ripped open. Warren hadn’t stood a chance.

Every time she had investigated a murder, she had forced herself to attend the autopsy and study the corpse with as much detachment as she could muster. The rage welling up inside her helped her to succeed; instead of surrendering to emotion, she channelled it into a fierce resolve to see the murderer brought to trial. Ben’s creed, that everyone deserved justice, had become hers. Nobody ought to die like that. It didn’t matter that, had she known Warren Howe alive, he would surely have made her flesh crawl.

Nick came in. The photographs spread out on her desk made him grimace.

‘Not a pretty sight. You’re in even earlier than usual.’

‘I wanted to finish reading the files. This morning I’m planning how to take the review forward.’

‘What would you like me to do?’

Hannah hadn’t been looking forward to this conversation. Best keep it low key. ‘You’re busy already. Isn’t your report on the Brock case due in a couple of days? And then you need to interview those people up in Cockermouth. As for Warren Howe, you’ve already given me plenty to chew on. I’ll take charge and Linz can do the legwork.’

‘Maggie Eyre can sort out Cockermouth. I know the Howe case. And the place. And the people.’

‘Yes.’ She sucked in a breath. There wasn’t an easy way to say this. ‘Too well, perhaps. You’re friends with the man whose garden the body was found in. You were a member of the original team whose work we’re looking at. We need to draw on your knowledge of the background, it’s a huge asset, but I don’t see you playing a front-line role in this review.’

‘I’m too close to it?’

‘Correct.’

He was biting his tongue, she could tell, wanting to argue, but knowing that a rant would get him nowhere. She would only be swayed by reason.

‘Didn’t we agree that the beauty of cold case review is that we can make up our own rules?’

‘Spot on.’ For all her worries about being sidelined, she relished the opportunity this job gave her to be a detective again. Not just a well-paid pen-pusher.

‘There you are, then. Failing to detect the murderer wasn’t just a defeat for Charlie, it was a defeat for all of us. Me included.’

‘My bet is, you’ll soon be sick of my pestering you for information.’

‘No more than that?’

‘It’s enough.’

He weighed up her expression, checking for any sign that she might be prepared to budge. ‘Very well, ma’am, if that’s the way you’d like to deal with it.’

He strode out of the room without another word. He only called her ma’am in private when he was deeply pissed off. Shit. What was it about Nick and this case? Something to do with Chris and Roz Gleave; she couldn’t imagine any other explanation. Whenever a personal relationship existed between a detective and a witness, tensions arose. She just prayed that while Chris was away, Nick hadn’t allowed his sympathy for Roz to spill over into something more intimate.

She took another look at the statements made first by Roz Gleave and later, after he turned up again, by Chris Gleave. They’d been interviewed by a pair of DCs whose names she didn’t recognise. Neither Roz nor Chris had contributed much of value, even though Roz had found the body. This time around, she’d talk to the couple herself.

A young girl with a ponytail knocked on her door. ‘The ACC wanted you to see this, ma’am. She asked if you could action it straight away.’

Paling as her eye caught the photographs, she handed Hannah a sheaf of paper about a clampdown on misuse of emails and the Internet. One force had been dragged through the mire in the Press after one group of officers were found sending each other racist and homophobic messages. Another lot devoted half their time to playing an Internet game that involved a yeti with a baseball bat trying to hit animated penguins out of sight. Lauren was putting new policies and procedures in place to make sure that Cumbria’s computer systems were squeaky clean. Hannah gave a long, low groan. The girl was gone before she realised that her ungracious response had come close to shooting the messenger. It wasn’t the sort of mistake she usually made with staff relations. No point in denying it, the brush with Nick had unsettled her.

At moments like this, it was a lonely job. Working for Ben had been tough, he’d been a hard taskmaster, but ultimate responsibility had lain with him and his superiors. The Cold Case Review Team was her baby and Lauren would judge her by its success or failure. Without making a conscious decision, she found herself checking her organiser for the phone list.

She’d give Daniel Kind a ring. It was about time. Hadn’t Marc himself suggested it? As she keyed in his mobile number, she felt her mood lifting. It wasn’t a big deal, just a small treat, on a par with nibbling chocolate or buying a new cologne. Nothing more serious than that.

At last Sam slammed the front door shut and revved his van underneath her window for a full minute, the old engine bellowing like a tormented beast. A parting flourish to make sure she’d woken up.

Kirsty lay very still for several minutes. Gathering her thoughts, and her strength. She told herself he hadn’t meant to kill her. He’d had too much to drink, he didn’t know his own strength. Perhaps she was partly to blame. Mum often said she let him wind her up too easily.

Life must go on. Clambering out of bed, she paused to look at a photograph on her dressing table. It had been taken at the airfield, the last time she’d jumped there. She was kitted out in her skydiving gear, a broad smile splitting her face. Recalling the excitement of the day lifted her spirits. For years, she’d found it simplest to share the enthusiasms of her current boyfriend. Football, quad biking, skiing, whatever. Trouble was, though she found it easy enough to pick up boyfriends, their enthusiasm for her never seemed to last. Skydiving was a hobby she’d discovered for herself. The Westmorland Gazette had carried an article and she decided to give it a go. It had looked like fun but she’d never imagined the sheer liberation of jumping from a plane and seeing the world beneath as you sailed through the air. Sam mocked her as a buzz junkie, but she didn’t care. Skydiving empowered her, made her feel as though at last she was living life to the full. She’d never felt so free before.

In the bathroom she studied the mark on her neck. No need to panic. Give it a few days and it would disappear. Sluicing herself under the hot shower jet, she considered her body. There was a bit more of it than she’d have liked, but never mind. She kept trying diets but in her opinion restaurants didn’t want waitresses to look like stick insects, it wasn’t a good advertisement. If she curved in the right places, a few excess pounds weren’t worth worrying about. She’d never match Bel for elegance and glamour, but at least she was still young.

Halfway through a self-denying breakfast of muesli and orange juice, she heard the mail drop through the letterbox. Skydiving Monthly was due to arrive today. Jumping off her stool, she padded out to collect it, but it wasn’t the shrink-wrapped magazine that caused her to freeze as she bent to pick up the delivery, it was an envelope addressed to her mother. The stencilled lettering was unmistakable.

‘It’s great to hear from you,’ Daniel said into his mobile.

He was up in the tiny third bedroom, staring at a blank computer screen. This was his temporary study until the bothy was converted. He liked to look out on to the peaceful tarn and watch the water birds come and go.

‘Sorry I didn’t return your call sooner.’

‘No problem.’

‘Marc tells me you called into the shop.’

‘I was looking for books about Brackdale’s history. Not that I’ll have too much time for research over the next few days. My sister has come to stay.’

‘Louise?’

He whistled. ‘You have quite a memory.’

‘Your father liked to talk about you both. He knew she’d taken the break-up to heart and it hurt him to realise how much pain he’d caused. It’s funny, I felt almost as if I knew your family, long before you and I ever met.’

He was beginning to wonder how well he knew his own sister. In the living room, Miranda and Louise were discussing lingerie. Suki wanted a thousand-word piece reviving the thong-versus-knickers debate, ‘hopefully with a rural lifestyle angle, darling’. When Miranda had complained to his sister that she found G-strings as comfortable as a chastity belt made from piano wire, Louise startled him by saying that she always liked to wear something sexy under the severe suit she wore for work: ‘Something lovely, you know? Turquoise, leopardskin, whatever.’ He’d escaped upstairs, unable to contain his amazement. Louise the Puritan in leopardskin knickers?

‘You must have known him — understood him — better than anyone.’

‘Well, perhaps Cheryl…’

He didn’t bother to hide his scorn. ‘I can’t believe she understood him.’

‘No, maybe not.’

‘I was wondering if we could get together sometime, have another chat. I know you’re very busy-’

‘OK,’ she interrupted. ‘Why not? Would you bring Louise along?’

‘Christ, no,’ he said quickly. ‘I mean, she isn’t ready to talk objectively about Dad. The wounds are still raw, as far as she’s concerned. And she’s finished with a boyfriend, that’s why she’s here in the Lakes, to get away from it all. It wouldn’t be a good idea…’

‘Just you and me, then?’

‘If you don’t mind.’

‘No,’ Hannah said. ‘That’s fine.’

‘Lovely morning!’

A pair of cheery grey-haired walkers greeted Kirsty and she forced a smile in reply. In one sense they were right: the sun was already so fierce that she was wearing her dark glasses and a skimpy T-shirt emblazoned with a picture of an opened parachute and the legend If at first you don’t succeed…maybe skydiving isn’t for you. It turned her on to think of Oliver stealing a glance at her boobs or bare midriff. But the hate mail hung over her like a big black cloud.

She’d borrowed her mother’s chiffon scarf to hide the mark on her neck and left her Citroen at home. Walking to The Heights would clear her head. Sam would never have attacked her but for their row about letters. What had she and her family done to cause someone to be so cruel? They were harmless, ordinary people.

Leaves from an overhanging oak grazed her cheek as she rounded the last bend in the lane. Pushing the branch away, she reminded herself that one extraordinary thing had happened in their lives. Her father’s killing. Why would anyone rake the tragedy up after so long? It didn’t make sense.

It was as if the Howes were cursed. The Lakes were full of folklore about spells and jinxes: who could say it was all nonsense? Roz had once given her a book she’d published, packed with strange tales. Hidden above these sunlit lanes was the dark domain of the Crier of Claife. Ferrymen of old never took passengers across Windermere at night, for dread of the wailing spectre that prowled the Heights. One to remain ‘until a man could walk across Windermere dryshod’. Kirsty remembered a couple of customers swearing they’d heard weird howlings as they walked home in the dark, but Oliver reckoned that had more to do with the whisky they’d been drinking than the Crier of Claife.

Outside the restaurant, Bel was watering the tubs, bending over the pansies, green can in hand. Kirsty stopped in her tracks. For a wild instant she imagined sidling up behind the woman. It would be so easy to slip off the scarf, loop it around her neck — and squeeze.

Oh Jesus, what was happening to her? She would never do it, could never do it. But even to let the idea creep into her brain…

Bel straightened and glanced over her shoulder. When she saw Kirsty, she gave a smile that showed off her flawless teeth. Trust the bloody woman never to have needed a filling in her life.

‘I’ve just taken a booking for noon. Table for eight, a gathering of grandmas. We’d better have them sitting in the window.’

‘Fine,’ Kirsty murmured. ‘I’ll put two tables together.’

‘Lovely.’

All their conversations were like this. Pleasant, superficial, the same as the movie tunes Bel liked to hum. Sometimes she repeated herself word for word, as when complaining about walkers who didn’t take off their muddy boots before entering the restaurant. Her pleasant, softly spoken manner disguised the fact that, in Kirsty’s humble opinion, she really was rather stupid. Thank God she didn’t have an inkling of how Kirsty felt about Oliver. Kirsty knew that was how it had to stay; she couldn’t risk the sack. Not because it would be difficult to find work elsewhere, but because this job gave her an excuse to spend hours in Oliver’s company. Was that pathetic? Sam would say so, but he would be wrong, there was nothing feeble or pathetic about wanting to be close to someone you cared about. Oliver was almost — but not quite — a married man and she’d tried to distract herself with flings, but it was no good. Oliver hadn’t encouraged her, but she couldn’t help herself. The harder she tried to forget him, the more she yearned to be with him. All the time.

‘Has your brother mentioned when he might get round to that work at the back of here?’ Bel smiled again. ‘I asked Peter Flint, and he said Sam’s the one with green fingers.’

Kirsty remembered Sam’s warm, chunky fingers, closing around her throat. ‘He hasn’t said. I expect he’ll get round to it soon.’

A car’s horn pipped and Bel said, ‘Here’s Roz. Reliable as always. I phoned and said we were running low on her recipe book and sightseeing guides. She promised to let me have a few more copies.’

Both of them waved as Roz Gleave jumped out of her little green sports car. Kirsty liked Roz almost as much as she resented Bel and Gail. For a start, Roz never bothered about trying to look glamorous. Bel was uncannily pretty, even Kirsty had to admit that, and Gail disguised mutton as lamb with the help of an army of cosmetic surgeons, while both of them spent a fortune on clothes. In contrast, Roz didn’t give a toss about defying the advance of years. Her once-dark hair had turned as grey as Blencathra in the wet; but she never dyed it, and she didn’t always bother with a comb. If she fretted about the thread veins on her cheeks or the pouches under her eyes, you’d never guess. This morning, she was wearing dungarees and scuffed trainers. To look at her, you wouldn’t dream she ran a business at least as successful as Gail’s or Bel’s.

A month ago Kirsty had eavesdropped on a conversation in the restaurant between the three friends when Gail asked Roz if she’d thought about investing in implants. To Kirsty’s delight, Roz burst out laughing.

‘Chris loves me as I am, thanks very much! He’s put up with my meagre boobs all these years and I’m a bit too long in the tooth to change them now.’

Another thing Kirsty liked about Roz. She was happily married to a man who might be good-looking, but wasn’t remotely as exciting as Oliver Cox. In Chris Gleave’s company, Kirsty never had the same sense of fierce passions, barely suppressed.

‘Half a dozen copies of each title, wasn’t it?’ Roz lifted a box from the car boot and displayed the contents for Bel to see. ‘Hi, Kirsty, how is life?’

Actually, Roz, I’m receiving vindictive anonymous letters and last night my brother tried to strangle me.

Without meaning to, Kirsty rubbed her throat. It was still sore.

‘Um, fine, thanks. Absolutely fine.’

‘That’s good. Love the scarf, by the way. Though aren’t you a bit warm on a scorching day like today?’

‘No, no, it’s OK. I like the feel of it, next to my skin.’

Would Roz understand how she felt about Oliver, would it help to confide in her? Kirsty had known Roz and Bel all her life, even though while her father was alive the two women kept a distance from the Howes. Presumably because of their past affairs with him. Roz was funny and kind and things hadn’t always been easy for her. Chris’s breakdown, for instance, there must be a story behind that, though Kirsty didn’t know what it was. Surely she could trust Roz to keep a secret. The snag was, Roz was bound to take Bel’s side. They were bosom buddies. In fact, everyone liked Bel. They didn’t seem to care that she was too bland, too perfect, the same as her home-made apple pie.

While Bel chatted to Roz, Kirsty trudged into the building. She kept her uniform in a locker and soon she’d changed into the short black skirt and white top cut low enough to keep the old blokes from nodding off during the pensioners’ discount lunch hour. The scarf stayed on. Through the thin wall of the kitchen, she could hear Oliver talking to the Croatian girls who were here for the summer. Veselka and Danica were lively enough, but scarcely soulmates. All they were interested in was picking up a few quid to take home to their families and seeing how often they could get laid.

Moments after she started lugging the tables into position, Oliver wandered out from the kitchen. He hadn’t shaved yet, hadn’t even combed his hair. In his sweatshirt and patched-up jeans, he looked nineteen. Too young for Bel, for sure. She’d insist he smartened himself up before any customers arrived. Pointless, Kirsty thought. People liked chefs to be unconventional, they expected it. If this was her place, she’d change a few things. Liven it up.

‘How are you?’ He fiddled with a hangnail. ‘Got over that hiccup from yesterday?’

‘The letter, you mean?’

‘That anonymous drivel, yes.’

‘My brother received something yesterday; the handwriting’s identical. And this morning an envelope has arrived for Mum. She wasn’t around to open it, thank goodness.’

His face was ashen. Even in her distress, she felt excitement surging inside her. He was genuinely concerned for her.

‘Oh, Jesus, Kirsty. This is dreadful. What — what does the letter to Sam say?’

‘It accuses him of hating our father.’ Her voice was rising, but she couldn’t help it. ‘Not that Sam can complain, he admits it’s true.’

‘Everything all right?’

Bel’s voice made Kirsty shudder. She’d breezed back in without either of them noticing. When Kirsty mumbled a reply, Bel said, ‘You look a bit off colour.’

‘Oh, it’s nothing. A touch of hay fever, that’s all.’

‘You poor girl. Have you been sneezing? I heard on the radio the pollen count is at an all-time high. I don’t know what’s best for hay fever. Would a paracetamol help?’

Typical, Kirsty thought, as she murmured thanks. Of course Bel didn’t know about hay fever, she’d probably never had a day’s illness in her life. But she believed any problem could be magicked away, that there was a quick and easy solution to everything. For all her little acts of kindness, she had no idea of how other people struggled to cope. Even when the woman had lost her husband, she’d fallen straight into Oliver’s arms. Her whole bloody life was charmed.

Miranda had joined a yoga class in Staveley and she’d persuaded Louise to come along with her. When Miranda talked about getting in touch with her spiritual side, Daniel expected his sister to cringe. Instead, she started asking Miranda about her take on Indian mystic philosophy.

The old Louise, the Louise he’d grown up with, wouldn’t have had any truck with it. She was down to earth, focused, practical. As their lives moved in different directions, they’d exchanged a word on the phone here, an email there. He’d never hit it off with Rodney, so contact dwindled. Maybe over the years his sister changed from the girl he’d known, without his even realising it.

Should he mention that he was going to meet Hannah Scarlett? He was tempted not to say a word. He could see Hannah while Miranda and Louise were assuming the lotus position and they would be none the wiser. But it wasn’t as if he had a guilty secret to conceal.

He broke the news while the three of them walked around the tarn, but Louise wasn’t impressed. ‘Oh, Daniel, why don’t you let it go? This constant harking back, it doesn’t do any good.’

He wondered about reminding her that she’d often spoken of his father’s betrayal, she hadn’t let that go. But he decided against it.

‘I’m a historian,’ he said, picking up a pebble and skimming it over the surface of the water. ‘Harking back is what I do.’

‘Stop being a clever clogs.’ How many times had he heard her say that during his teens? ‘You know exactly what I mean. I don’t mean to seem harsh, Daniel, but Dad is dead. Picking over the past with his old sergeant won’t change anything.’

Shielding her eyes from the sun, Miranda said, ‘I don’t think that’s his only motive for seeing Hannah Scarlett.’

He felt his throat drying, but her expression was amused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s the detective thing, isn’t it? Louise was telling me that before you took up history, you wanted to be a cop, just like your old man.’

‘I was ten years old.’

‘But you’ve never lost it, have you? That’s why you wrote the book. You’re obsessed with doing justice to history. That’s why you’re so keen on talking to a cold case detective. You think her line of business is pretty much the same as yours.’

Louise rolled her eyes. ‘Well, Daniel, is she right?’

He thought about it. ‘Yes, I suppose she is.’

During the dead hours between lunch and dinner, Kirsty’s habit was to hang around at The Heights rather than going home. Any chance to spend time with Oliver was worth seizing and Bel didn’t mind slipping her a few extra quid for making herself useful. Today was different. The Croatian girls were embroiled in a noisy tug of war over some boyfriend, and Bel asked Oliver to nip over to Ambleside to pick up a set of new menu folders.

Kirsty watched from the corridor as Bel patted his rump and then stuck her tongue down his throat as they shared a parting embrace. Oliver didn’t even seem embarrassed, though surely he must be cringing inside. Bel wasn’t young or fresh any more, the skin of her neck was definitely loosening; so sad to see a middle-aged woman pretending she was still in her twenties. Kirsty stifled an urge to sob and set off home.

When she arrived back, her mother’s big black SUV was parked in the drive. Kirsty hesitated on the doorstep. Should she ask about the latest anonymous letter? She didn’t want to tell her mother about the message sent to her. Too embarrassing. Yet how could she sleep, not knowing what the letter-writer had said to Mum? Clenching her fist, she told herself that it would be stupid to keep her mouth shut, for fear of what she might be told. Go for it.

Tina Howe was sitting on a high stool next to the breakfast bar, munching an apple while she checked her post. Her skirt showed off her bare legs, her top was even more revealing than Kirsty’s waitressing garb. The old, old story: whatever Kirsty tried to do, Mum always did it better.

‘Hello, stranger.’

Tina looked up from a gas bill. ‘Isn’t that what parents are supposed to say to children? Before long, you’ll be complaining that I treat this place like a hotel.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re denying it?’

‘Well…I have been very busy lately.’

‘Oh, yes?’

Tina tossed the apple core into the bin. ‘Sorry, sweetheart. I don’t want to be a neglectful parent.’

‘I’m old enough to look after myself.’

‘But?’

Kirsty pointed to the stack of opened mail in front of her mother. ‘Something arrived for you today. An envelope with your name and address printed in capitals. What was it?’

Tina swung her legs back and forth. ‘‘Why do you ask?’

‘It looked — odd. Not the handwriting of any of our friends or relations.’

‘As a matter of fact, it was a piece of horrid anonymous rubbish. Not worth talking about.’

‘Can I see it?’

‘Listen, it was vile, you’d only be upset. As soon as I read it, I ripped it into pieces and shoved it down the waste disposal.’

‘What did it say?’

Tina frowned. ‘Look, sweetheart, it’d be best-’

‘Please, Mum. Tell me.’

‘All right. If you really want to know.’ Tina took a breath. ‘It said something like this. When you killed your husband, you were screwing his partner.’

As the words sank in, Kirsty put out a hand to steady herself against the breakfast bar. ‘But that’s nonsense! I thought you were…you told me you’d only been seeing Peter Flint within the last year or so.’

‘Darling, it’s bad enough to open a letter and find a message like that. I don’t want a Spanish Inquisition on top, OK?’ Tina eased off the stool. ‘I’d better be getting back to the office. We’re still trying to catch up after the computer crashed.’

‘Will you be back tonight?’

Tina paused at the kitchen door. ‘I doubt it.’

‘Are you going to tell him about the letter?’

‘Who, Sam?’

‘No.’ The question was disingenuous. ‘Peter.’

‘I don’t want to think about it any more. I wouldn’t have told you if I’d thought you’d make a fuss.’ Tina lifted the keys to the SUV off a rack decorated with little wooden fish and the fading legend ‘Souvenir from Llandudno’. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, all right?’

As the door banged shut behind her, Kirsty ground her teeth. Her mother hadn’t given a straight answer. Was the accusation in the letter really nonsense? Or had the affair with Peter Flint started while Dad was still alive?