The Cipher Garden

Chapter Seven

The morning mist was clearing as Daniel ploughed up the grassy track to the top of Castle Hill. On reaching the summit, he gazed over the lush fields of the Kent valley towards the northern fells on the horizon. A panorama panel named them, but he didn’t need it to recognise the flat-topped peaks of the Brackdale Horseshoe. Already he thought of the valley as home.

Kendal Castle was a ruin, with a tumbledown tower and fragments of wall scattered as artistically as if laid out by a heritage artist. There were peepholes and vaults and signs speculating about the precise design of the old fortress, but its defences had been down for half a millennium and now the stone remains enclosed a grassy expanse for recreation. Schoolchildren shouted, terriers barked, mothers with pushchairs gossiped. Tourists fiddled with camcorders, a teenage couple luxuriated in an endless kiss.

Daniel climbed the wooden steps and inspected the view from the top of the tower. Below sprawled the Auld Gray Town of Kendal, with its limestone houses and squat factories. The mountains in the distance would have looked the same to feudal barons eight centuries ago. Returning to ground level, he settled on a bench on the brow of the hill, soaking up the warmth as the sun came out to keep the forecasters’ promise.

Butterflies fluttered in his stomach. Why did Hannah Scarlett have this effect on him? He would never admit it to a living soul, but he couldn’t drive the woman out of his mind. It was as if he’d persuaded himself that she could unlock a door in his life. But he didn’t know what lay on the other side of the door.

At last he saw her, striding briskly up from the road that led back to the river. She always seemed full of purpose, a woman who knew where she was going. The colour of her hair was a shade lighter than he remembered. Catching sight of him, she gave a quick nod.

‘You’re early,’ he said, springing to his feet.

‘You’ve probably read about police officers spending too much time behind their desks. So I have an excuse for getting out and about. Not that I’m expecting to catch any criminals this morning, unless you confess to breaking the speed limit.’ She extended her hand. ‘How are you, Daniel?’

Her skin was cool to touch. He was seized by the urge to keep hold of her, but conquered it just in time. ‘I almost didn’t recognise you.’

‘You mean the hair?’ A suspicion of a blush. ‘It’s one of my vices. I can never quite make up my mind on what’s right for me. I haven’t got up the nerve to go blonde. One day, perhaps.’

‘It’s good.’

‘Thanks.’ She cleared her throat and jerked a thumb towards the castle. ‘So, what’s your professional verdict on our ancient pile? Not exactly Windsor, is it? Though there is a Royal connection, with one of Henry VIII’s wives. The last and the luckiest, Katharine Parr. Her family lived here, this was her birthplace.’

He smiled. ‘I’ve always loved wandering around old castles. In some ways, the less that survives, the better. Try to picture what life was like six or seven hundred years ago and there’s plenty of scope for the imagination. As for Katharine, the latest thinking is that she was born somewhere else. That’s what people don’t realise about history. It’s not set in concrete, it changes with time. Each time you find new evidence, you’re tempted to form a new theory.’

‘Like detective work. As you said in your TV series.’

‘Good training for a historian to be the son of a policeman.’

‘Ben was fascinated by the history of crime investigation, he told me that one of the earliest manuals about procedures for looking into suspicious deaths was compiled in ancient China. They called it Washing Away the Wrong.’

‘Washing away the Wrong? Easier said than done.’

‘You’re telling me.’ She eased herself on to the bench and he sat down beside her. Keeping a discreet couple of inches between them. ‘So how goes your cottage renovation?’

‘Three steps forward and two back, but the place is taking shape. I’m attacking the garden. Since I started digging out weeds and tree roots, I’ve discovered muscles I never knew I had — and all of them ache. Mind you, I’m allowing myself to be distracted by a puzzle.’

‘Last time we met, you told me there was something odd about the cottage grounds.’

He was glad she’d remembered the conversation. ‘Nobody would create a garden like that by chance. The answer may be in front of my eyes, but I’m too stupid to see it. Perhaps I ought to consult an expert in garden planning.’

‘Do you have anyone in mind?’

He shrugged. ‘I’ve looked in the directories. If you know anybody…’

‘There’s a company called Flint Howe Garden Design, on the way to Hawkshead. They’re supposed to be among the best.’

‘You’ve used their services?’

‘I know them by reputation.’

He laughed. ‘So long as there’s no criminal connection.’

She made as if to say something, then checked herself. ‘They are supposed to know their stuff.’

He picked up on the hesitation. ‘You came across them at work?’

A wry grin. ‘I’m glad you became a historian, not a lawyer. I’m not sure I’d like to be cross-examined by you. Your father was persistent, too. Good at luring people into indiscretions.’

‘Persistent, I’d own up to that. I hope you didn’t mind my calling you. It’s just that…’

As he groped for words, she came to the rescue. ‘I should have rung back sooner.’

‘I was glad to hear from you.’

‘Pleasure.’ As if to cover embarrassment, she added, ‘I owe a lot to your father. He behaved badly, leaving his family for Cheryl, and I’d say he felt guilty until the day he died. But he was a good man, even so.’

‘Are the cold cases warming up?’

‘The powers that be have secured extra funding for the project, so they’re happy enough.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘Frankly, it’s a mixed blessing. The work fascinates me, but I don’t want to spend too long in a career cul-de-sac. For a historian, there may be a future in the past, but I didn’t join the police to second-guess mistakes made by long-gone colleagues.’

‘So why did you join the police?’

‘To make a difference.’ She spoke as if stating the obvious, and then gave an incredulous laugh. ‘Hark at me, I sound like a politician. Arrogant, puffed up with my own importance. But it’s true.’

‘Nothing wrong with a bit of idealism.’

‘Over the years, you learn to temper it with reality. How much difference can one detective really make? Even so, I suppose a part of me hasn’t changed. I like to think I’m helping justice to be done. Perhaps I’m kidding myself. Ben used to warn me I’d grow out of it. Even though he believed in justice as much as me, each time I became too serious, he’d tease me something rotten.’

‘He was the same with Louise and me.’

‘I can imagine.’

Neither of them spoke for a few moments. An old man in an unseasonal donkey jacket threw a stick for his Golden retriever, a flock of black-headed gulls flapped overhead. Daniel guessed that Hannah was remembering his father. The laconic humour, the quiet resolve that on occasion became unyielding stubbornness. If only he’d seen through Cheryl sooner. The family need never have been torn apart.

‘How did you come across these garden designers?’

She studied her short and unvarnished fingernails. There was nothing fussy about Hannah Scarlett. She didn’t pretend to be someone she was not.

‘A partner in the firm was murdered a few years ago.’

‘Hardly a recommendation?’

She grinned. ‘I don’t think his death had anything to do with the quality of his work.’

‘What was it to do with?’

‘If only we knew.’

He leaned towards her. ‘Is it one of your cold cases?’

‘Maybe.’

‘I suppose your lips are sealed, you can’t tell me anything about it?’

His expression made her laugh and he realised he must look like a spaniel hoping to be taken for a walk. ‘I’m not giving away confidential information. The facts are well known, they were all over the newspapers.’

‘Was my father was involved?’

‘Uh-uh. If he had been, we’d have stood a better chance of getting a result, but the SIO was useless.’

‘Who was the victim?’

‘Warren Howe. He was murdered while he was making over a client’s garden.’

‘Even less of a recommendation. The culprit wasn’t an unhappy client?’

‘Whoever killed him must have had an idea where to find him that particular day. But the client had an alibi and so did several other candidates. Warren Howe was a good gardener but a bad man, as far as I can make out. Motives weren’t in short supply, but no one could be linked to the crime.’

‘No forensic evidence?’

‘Nothing worthwhile.’

‘What made you decide to look into the case again?’

‘A bit more information has come to light. Someone has pointed a finger at a possible suspect. Without, unfortunately, giving us any solid evidence to build a case with. The review is a long shot. We don’t have infinite resources, but the case interests me.’

‘Why?’

‘Good question.’ She rubbed her chin. ‘Perhaps because of the way he died. Or seeing photographs of the man and his family. I’ve been wondering what it must be like, to have it hanging over you for years. The unsolved murder of a husband and father.’

‘What was it about the way he died? Or isn’t that in the public domain?’

‘Oh yes. The journalists loved it.’

She told him about the scythe and that Warren had dug his own grave. Her features were mobile, expressive; occasionally she used her small hands to make a point. Even some of his cleverest former colleagues at Oxford lacked the knack of conveying their knowledge in a way that captivated their pupils, but he could listen to Hannah Scarlett all day. His father had been a wonderful raconteur, had entertained Louise and him for hours with stories he made up about Sherlock Holmes and an exceptionally inept Dr Watson. His protegee had the same gift of entrancing him.

‘I can see why you’re fascinated. Solve the crime and you lift the cloud of suspicion from the suspects. From all but one, anyway.’

‘My sergeant sees it the opposite way. He doesn’t think we’ll find the truth and all that will happen is that we’ll reopen old wounds.’

‘Is his glass always half empty rather than half full?’

‘No, he’s one of the most positive men I know. But this case is different. He was involved in the original inquiry and people he knew were involved.’

‘Difficult to be detached if you have a personal connection.’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve decided to do some of the asking around myself. One of the constables in my team can fill in the gaps. First port of call is Warren Howe’s client, who found the body. I’m seeing her this afternoon.’

‘Poor woman. She wanted a new garden and ended up with a body in a shallow grave.’

‘She lives in the house to this day. The crime scene was preserved for a long time, but eventually Warren Howe’s partner completed the project.’

‘I was about to ask if you thought it suspicious that she never moved. Then I remembered that my cottage was supposedly home to a murderer. So I’m equally weird?’

A couple walked past, on their way to the castle. The young man had a small child over his shoulder, facing behind them. Her ice-cream-smeared face was beaming and she waved a small hand at Hannah and Daniel. When Hannah winked and waved back, the child whooped with delight.

‘That doubtful grin of yours reminds me of your father.’

Daniel laughed and said, ‘Did he ever talk to you about why he left my mother?’

Hannah pursed her lips. ‘Well — it was all about Cheryl, wasn’t it? He was besotted and she wasn’t prepared to be a mistress. She wanted him all for herself.’

‘What did he see in her?’

‘Use your imagination,’ she said dryly. ‘I’m not a member of her fan club, but even I’d admit that twenty years ago she must have looked great. And he was a man.’

‘That simple?’

‘They weren’t soulmates, that’s for sure. He got to know her through work and she set her cap at him. He became infatuated, they started an affair, the rest you know.’

‘What was going on inside his head?’

‘I hate to say it, because I was very fond of Ben, but I don’t think his head came into it. It was another part of his anatomy altogether. Like I said, he was a man.’

‘We’re all the same?’

‘No, but one thing I did learn a long time ago is that men aren’t the same as women. They think differently, behave differently. They compartmentalise their lives in a way that few women do. I’m not even sure they really know what they want like we do. Cheryl wanted Ben. He succumbed to some kind of lustful dream. As time passed, he realised the mistake he’d made.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, not that he ever said so in as many words. I’m certain of it. He’d burned his boats, he couldn’t go back, but when passion began to fade he saw Cheryl for what she was. Not a bad woman, not even — to be fair — a scheming minx. But behind the pretty face was a person he didn’t have much in common with.’

‘At least he had things in common with you.’

‘Our work, yes.’

‘More than that.’

Hannah coloured. As if to cover confusion, she checked her watch and scrambled to her feet. ‘God, it’s later than I realised. I’d better be on my way.’

He stood up. ‘Perhaps we can do this again sometime. You can update me with progress on your cold case.’

She considered him as if checking an ID card. ‘You’re fascinated by detective work, aren’t you?’

‘I’ll take that as a “yes”, shall I?’

She gave him a sidelong look. ‘You can take it as a “maybe”, Daniel. Anyway, good to see you again. Sorry I have to dash.’

They shook hands briefly and then she was gone. He stood beside the bench for a couple of minutes and watched her walking down the slope towards the road, brisk and focused as ever. As if determined not to look back.

He’d meant to drive home after seeing Hannah, but their conversation prompted a change of heart. Like a fat man deciding that a single doughnut couldn’t do that much harm, he set off over the footbridge across the Kent and past Abbots Hall before heading up the main street towards the Carnegie Library. He’d look up the newspaper records and read up on Warren Howe’s murder.

Earlier in the year he’d checked what the papers said about the killing on the Sacrifice Stone and found they devoted more ingenuity to an endless rehashing of facts released by the police at media briefings than to research giving an old story fresh legs. The murder of Warren Howe followed the same pattern. The vision conjured up by the abandonment of the gardener’s mutilated corpse in a hole of his own making slaked the thirst of the most ghoulish readers for a few days, but once the initial flurry of excitement died down, there was little else to say. There was no obvious culprit — or, if the reporters believed otherwise, they were too worried by the law of libel to come clean — and few leads to suggest an arrest was about to be made. Those who knew Warren Howe — his business partner, the woman who ran the local restaurant, the client who had found his body — seemed guarded, unwilling to yield anything beyond expressions of shock and horror. Opinion pieces moaned about the state of society and that decent people were no longer safe in their beds (or, presumably, their back gardens) but the arguments, like the police inquiry, lacked conviction. The savage manner of the murder meant nobody could sensibly suggest that he was a victim of random lawlessness. The papers were coy about speaking ill of the dead, but dropped hints that he wasn’t exactly an upstanding member of the community. The case migrated from the front page to anorexic paragraphs on page thirteen before disappearing with the emergence of a juicy local government scandal.

Daniel scrutinised grainy photographs of the victim’s family and friends. One shot showed Tina Howe dressed in black. The expression on her long face was as bleak as winter on the fells, but whether from grief or guilt he could not divine. Had Hannah received a tip-off suggesting that the widow had killed her husband? This might explain why the pictures had sparked her interest. It was the traditional explanation for murder. Relationship meltdown, one spouse murdering another.

His thoughts strayed. Why hadn’t Hannah married Marc Amos? They’d been together for years, but she was a strong woman, she could stand on her own feet. Even so, he couldn’t help wondering. He’d seen her smiling at the child up at the castle. She was at ease with kids; did she want some of her own? Plenty of time yet, but the clock never stopped ticking.

‘And what might you be looking for, Daniel?’

Good question. He turned to see the amiable moon-like face of a librarian with whom he’d enjoyed a chat on a couple of previous visits. An avid fan of his television series, she had an encyclopaedic knowledge of fell-walks in the South Lakes, Hugh Walpole’s novels and the Picturesque Movement of the late eighteenth century. Daniel told her that he’d heard of the murder of Warren Howe and been unable to resist the urge to look it up.

‘They never found who did it, you know.’

‘It’s never too late,’ he assured her. ‘There’s something fascinating about an unsolved crime, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, absolutely! My husband’s family comes from Hawkshead, they know the Gleaves. They’re the folk who owned the garden where the man was murdered. Roz publishes local books; we have a selection of her latest titles in the rack over there. Nice woman. She comes in every six months with her new catalogue; she doesn’t run to a sales force. Actually, Chris Gleave wasn’t around at the time. Poor Roz was there on her own.’

‘He wasn’t around?’

‘He’s a musician, and arty types can be temperamental, can’t they? Mood swings. Well, he disappeared for weeks and it turned out he’d gone off to London and had some sort of mental collapse.’

‘So he wasn’t even in the Lake District at the time of the murder?’

‘No, but then, nobody could ever imagine that Chris Gleave would hurt a fly. I only met him years ago, when he did a gig in Ulverston. I bought a CD of his songs and he autographed it for me. Very meek and mild, not the sort of chap who trashes his hotel room or runs around with young floosies. Roz must have been beside herself when he went off like that, without as much as a by-your-leave, and then she had to cope with all the trauma of policemen tramping through her house and grounds in their size twelves. For all I know, they suspected the poor woman of killing Chris as well and burying his body in the vegetable patch. It must have been hellish. But when he finally showed up and asked for forgiveness, she took him back without a murmur.’

‘And they both lived happily ever after?’

The librarian gave him a guileless smile. ‘Oh yes. They’d been through so much, it must have drawn them even closer together.’

‘Be honest with me, Kirsty,’ Bel Jenner said. ‘You look washed-out and tired. Are you sure you feel well enough to work this evening?’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Because if you’re not up to it, you’d be better off going home.’

‘No thanks, I’ll be OK.’

Bel’s face clouded. ‘It’s just that, if you are sickening for something, we don’t want the customers catching a bug, do we? It’s not just your welfare, it’s a question of health and safety.’

Typical. Bel was generous to a fault, and capable of charming and apparently spontaneous little kindnesses, but she took good care of herself and her business at the same time. Kirsty even wondered if she’d had an ulterior motive in starting her relationship with Oliver in the first place. Bel had lost a good chef around the same time as losing her husband. She’d needed someone to fill the vacancy in her kitchen as well as in her bedroom.

‘Honestly, I’ll manage.’ Kirsty lowered her voice. Confidential, woman to woman. ‘It’s just my monthly, that’s all. Sometimes it hits me very hard. You know how it is.’

‘Oh, yes. Of course.’

Bel gave a vague nod and bustled back to the kitchen. Probably to grope Oliver — she was so bloody tactile, that woman, it was past a joke. Kirsty reckoned Bel didn’t have the faintest idea how it was. Her life was so serene. It was impossible to imagine her suffering from period pains.

The blackboard listed the desserts in Bel’s neat, prissy italics. Kirsty picked up a duster and rubbed out the sticky toffee pudding with frantic zeal. If only she could wipe Bel off the map so easily. There’d been a run on the desserts at lunchtime, thanks to a coachload of wrinklies from Hexham. They were members of a Darby and Joan dancing club, on their way to a tournament in Preston, but judging by the amount of food they’d put away, they’d all keel over the minute they got up for a cha-cha.

Since Mum had told her about the anonymous message, she’d been tormenting herself with unanswerable questions. More than anything, she wanted to talk to Oliver. Share her fears with him, let him comfort and reassure her. But it wasn’t going to happen. She wasn’t a fool, she had to be realistic. The minute she started talking to him about the murder, he’d back right off. When she’d first worked here, once or twice she’d mentioned her father, but Warren Howe was a conversational no-go area. Oliver and her father hadn’t known each other well, and Kirsty guessed that Oliver’s distaste stemmed from the fact that Bel was one of the notches on her father’s bedstead. Probably, he was glad that her father was dead. Like Sam.

And like her mother? Kirsty had never been able to read her mind. As a kid, she’d assumed that her parents were deeply in love, that the late-night rows and the crockery-throwing were not signs of anything wrong with the marriage, but rather a token of how much they cared. Growing up, she’d assumed that her mother was devastated by the murder. If she’d been sleeping with Peter Flint at the time, that changed everything. What if Dad had found out? His temper was volcanic.

She went down the passageway leading to the customer toilet. Out of hours, it was a sanctuary. She locked herself in the cubicle and dialled Sam on her mobile. It was a lovely afternoon, he should be hard at work, but as soon as he answered, she could tell that he was on the skive. In the background she could hear heavy metal music blaring from a jukebox and shrill drunken female laughter.

‘I need to talk to you. It’s about Mum. She’s had an anonymous letter and it says she was sleeping with Peter at the time Dad was killed.’

‘What are you mithering me for?’ The disembodied tones combined boredom with bad temper. With each year that passed, he sounded and acted more like their father at his worst. Obviously there was no chance of his apologising for hurting her.

‘Is it true?’

‘How the fuck should I know? I’m hardly going to ask her, am I?’ His voice was faintly slurred. It was still early, but he was a fast drinker. She only hoped he’d left his motorbike at home. One of these days, he’d kill someone. If not himself.

‘What about asking Peter?’

‘Are you losing your marbles? What do you expect me to do, walk up to my boss and demand to know if he was shagging Mum while Dad was alive? He may be a feeble little wimp, but even he would sack me for that.’

‘But don’t you see? If it is true, and this person who’s sending the letters knows all her secrets, who knows what else is going to come out?’

‘It was a long time ago. Who cares?’

‘I care, Sam. And so should you. Don’t you see? If the police found out, Mum would be a prime suspect.’

For a few moments she could hear nothing except the racket from the pub jukebox. She knew her brother well enough to realise he was scouring his vocabulary for some brutal putdown.

‘You’re mad. I don’t have the foggiest when they first got it together. But if anyone should be shitting himself, it isn’t Mum, it’s that smug bastard Peter. After all, he finished up with her and the business, didn’t he?’