The Frozen Shroud

NOW
CHAPTER THREE

‘Murder for pleasure was invented by a man who lived down the road from here,’ Daniel Kind told his audience. ‘Thomas De Quincey moved into Dove Cottage a year after the Wordsworths left for Allan Bank. You can understand why the tourist board highlights the poetic daffodil fancier. Better PR than a self-confessed opium eater obsessed by serial murder.’

Laughter drowned the rain drumming on the skylights of the lecture theatre. Two hundred and fifty paying customers had come to Grasmere for a Saturday conference on Literary Lakeland. Daniel had turned down countless speaking invitations since quitting academe and starting a new life in the Lake District. In Oxford, he’d lost his zest for lecturing, but the sea of faces in front of him gave him that old adrenaline rush.

‘De Quincey wasn’t a monster, any more than people who enjoy a good murder — any more than Mr Wopsle in Great Expectations, or people flocking to watch The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, are monsters. The world in general is, De Quincey said, bloody-minded. “All they want from murder is a copious effusion of blood … but the enlightened connoisseur is more refined in his taste.” De Quincey was no different from me or you. We all like a good murder.’

He always made eye contact with his audience, and now his gaze was drawn to a woman in the front row. Wherever she’d sat, you couldn’t miss her. Not among the grey hair and cardigans, and not only because she was olive-skinned, not white. Glossy black hair, black eyes, high cheekbones. Her lipstick and nails were crimson, the silk blouse dazzling yellow. A tablet computer rested on her lap, but her tiny hands were motionless.

‘He was an eccentric, De Quincey, a mishmash of contradictions. A solitary soul who fathered eight children. A satirist with a morbid cast of mind. An addict who was also a notable journalist — though come to think of it, that might not be such a contradiction after all.’

The woman tapped into her tablet. Oops. For all Daniel knew, she worked for the Westmoreland Gazette, whose long ago editor was — Thomas De Quincey.

‘I’m not saying De Quincey lacked sympathy for victims of crime. He points out that Duncan’s graciousness, his unoffending nature, makes his murder in Macbeth all the more appalling. But what fired the man’s imagination was the nature of murder. Macbeth, and Lady Macbeth, intrigued him more than their victim. He was the first writer to focus on a burning question. A question that has fascinated people ever since.’

Daniel paused. The woman leant forward, lips slightly parted. Their eyes met.

‘The fundamental question about the ultimate crime. The question that haunts us all. Just what is it that drives someone to kill?’

As Daniel inscribed a hardback for the last woman in the queue, he spotted through the crowd the leonine hairstyle of Oz Knight. Tall, tanned and trim, he was making for the authors’ table. That hair was unmissable — waves so sweeping you could almost surf them. He wore a hand-tailored black jacket — Charvet, at a guess — and a white shirt, unbuttoned to the waist. For a man close to fifty, his physique was enviable, and he relished giving people a chance to envy it.

‘A fabulous lecture, and an even more fabulous book! Treasure that personalised copy, madam, it’s one for the pension fund!’

Oz’s voice was melodious, if unnecessarily loud. A touch of humorous self-parody made his egotism almost tolerable. Yet it was lost on the woman, a slim redhead who was obviously no fan of chest hair. She rolled her eyes, and hurried off in search of refreshments.

‘Great audience today,’ Daniel said.

‘Sold every ticket months in advance!’ Oz gave a theatrical bow. Over-the-top dandyism was part of the package he’d constructed to create a high-profile business, the events management company which had organised this conference. A past master of the technique of persuasion, he was charming and persistent enough to tempt even Daniel to be a speaker. ‘But it’s not simply about putting bums on seats. It’s about creating a buzz, and a wonderful experience for everyone here. To miss the chance of talking about De Quincey in the village where he made his home would be — simply criminal.’

Daniel had woken up wishing he’d never agreed to take part. The conference had seemed like a good idea at the time — but why return to a past he’d escaped? Yet he’d enjoyed the day, and the audience’s enthusiasm gave him a buzz. Now he wanted to unwind.

‘It was fun.’

‘Now, it just so happens that one of my clients is recruiting speakers for a month-long luxury cruise. Sail from Southampton to the Caribbean, the itinerary is incredible. Money no object for the right lecturers, and invitations are only going to Europe’s leading-’

Daniel held up his hand. ‘Stop right there! I’ve not been bitten by the bug all over again, you know. Today’s a one-off. When I quit the television series, I decided-’

‘Of course. I understand. You moved to the Lakes for a reason. Forgive me, I should never have mentioned it.’ A smile flashed, vivid as lightning. ‘You won’t blame me for trying, I hope?’

‘No problem.’

‘I’ll leave you to head back for the green room and a well-deserved break. I must find my wife. We need to schmooze the sponsors.’ Oz clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Forget what I said about the cruise, it was crass of me. A colossal opportunity, incredible exposure, and an itinerary to die for, but you don’t want to spend your life back on the treadmill, do you? The global speaker circuit. You have other fish to fry. Fame and money aren’t everything, you’re absolutely right. Catch you later, eh?’

Oz waltzed off, leaving Daniel — probably like most people he talked to — feeling his head had been pummelled. He doubted he’d heard the last of this cruise; it felt more like the opening skirmish in a campaign destined to become a battle of wills. Was this what it was like to fall prey to an accomplished seducer? Oz was legendary for his conquests, in his private life even more than in business; Daniel had asked around, after Oz made his original approach, and persisted after being turned down flat. The gossip was that he’d run wild until, at forty, he’d tied the knot with a girl who worked for his company. Not that marriage had cramped his style.

Money, Daniel presumed, made up for a lot, along with the mansion on Ullswater and holiday homes in Mykonos and Zermatt. One other thing he’d learnt was that Oz stood, not for Oswald, or even Osbert, but for Ozymandias. For God’s sake, what sort of parents would do that to a child? No wonder he had a healthy self-image, he’d have needed it to cope with the mockery at school.

He watched Oz greet the olive-skinned woman from the front row. They embraced, and Daniel noticed the woman’s wedding ring. So that was Melody Knight. As she held forth, Oz listened without a word. The king of kings had transformed into a dutiful husband.

Daniel squeezed into a seat where he could listen to the last presentation of the day. The speaker was Jeffrey Burgoyne, his topic the supernatural stories of Hugh Walpole. In the green room, Jeffrey had proposed a quick drink at the end of the day. He described himself as a jobbing actor, part of a two-man theatre company, and lived in Ravenbank, like Oz and Melody Knight.

Jeffrey didn’t stand at the lectern, or bother with notes. He strode up to the edge of the platform, determined to hold the audience in the palm of his hand. Overweight and red-faced, he looked more like a gentleman farmer than the Lake District’s answer to Kenneth Branagh. But he had presence.

‘When I listened to Daniel talking about Thomas De Quincey,’ he said, ‘I was reminded in a strange way of Hugh Walpole. Once the poor devil was a household name, now he’s forgotten. If people think of him at all, they pigeonhole him as a writer of sugary Lakeland sagas. Look beyond the Herries Chronicles, and you see a man who led a weird life, and wrote even weirder stories. If you fancy a masterpiece of the macabre, read Walpole’s last novel. A landmark in psychological suspense, yet few people know it. It was only published after he died, and it’s called … The Killer and the Slain.’

You could tell Burgoyne was an actor. This wasn’t so much a talk as a performance. Daniel saw Melody Knight note the book’s title.

‘As with De Quincey, the contradictions are mesmerising. Walpole lived in Brackenburn, his “little paradise on Cat Bells”. He designed his own lovely terraced garden, and was a generous host to everyone from J.B. Priestley to Arthur Ransome. He had the gift of friendship. Sadly, he also had a fatal flaw. He wanted everybody to love him.’

Jeffrey cleared his throat. ‘There was a dark side to Walpole. Something deeply unhappy about … the way he felt the need to keep so many secrets. When he proposed to a girl, he was heartily relieved when she turned him down. Even after his death, his biographer was tediously discreet. All he said was that Walpole found visits to Turkish Baths provided “informal opportunities for meeting interesting strangers”. But his stories give us clues to the terrors that came to him at night. He was obsessed with ghosts.’

The supernatural sparked Walpole’s imagination, Jeffrey said. In one story, a woman is condemned to spend her last days in the company of a clown’s mask, grinning at her in derision.

‘And then there is my favourite.’ Jeffrey beamed. ‘Shameless plug coming up, by the way, for the Ravenbank Theatre Company. Our latest production combines a trio of macabre stories, linked together like that wonderful old movie Dead of Night. We’re touring venues across the North, starting next week, with our premiere in Keswick, at the Theatre by the Lake. We call the show Tarnhelm after Walpole’s finest supernatural tale. Who knows, it might become the new The Woman in Black! But I’m not going to spoil things by telling you much more …’

He beamed, allowing himself a suitably histrionic pause. ‘Except to say that the stories we’ve chosen are sure to make your flesh creep. Like “Lost Hearts” by M.R. James, about a young boy sent to stay with a cousin, a reclusive alchemist obsessed with making himself immortal. “The Voice in the Night” describes a sailor’s dreadful encounter with a mysterious oarsman. But my favourite is “Tarnhelm”, based on a legend of terrible misdeeds. Tarnhelm is a skullcap. Put it on your head, and it works a sort of magic. At once, you become an animal. And you become as wild as the animal you want to be.’

‘Time to come clean, Daniel. Do you believe in ghosts?’

Jeffrey Burgoyne’s voice penetrated the hubbub in the crowded bar. The Solitary Reaper took its name from Wordsworth’s poem, and was one of the busiest pubs in Grasmere, as well as the tiniest. People in the village nicknamed it the Grim Reaper, as oxygen was usually in short supply.

Daniel swallowed a mouthful of Old Speckled Hen. ‘I’m a sucker for stories of the uncanny. I must read The Killer and the Slain.’

‘Indeed you must, but that’s still an evasive answer. You sound more like a lawyer than that sister of yours.’ He waved a fleshy hand in the direction of Louise Kind, deep in conversation at a nearby table. ‘Nail your colours to the mast! You say a historian needs to dig up facts, like a sort of scholarly archaeologist. I bet you don’t think there’s enough hard evidence to justify a belief in ghosts — am I right?’

‘If you’d asked me a few years ago, I’d have said so.’

Jeffrey Burgoyne’s protuberant eyes scrutinised him from behind rimless spectacles. The loud, plummy voice, striped blazer and MCC tie suggested a cricket spectator from the fifties. Fixing a stern gaze on Daniel, he morphed into counsel for the prosecution.

‘But now you’re not so sure?’

Daniel gave a lazy grin. ‘The older I get, the less sure I am about anything. What about you, Jeffrey? You believe in the returning dead?’

‘Certainly.’ Jeffrey leant closer, and lowered his voice. ‘Perhaps I just have an unfashionable belief that old sins cast long shadows.’

The trouble with actors, Daniel thought, was that they never stopped performing. As a student, he’d had a six-month relationship with a girl who was a star of the Dramatic Society, and he’d never been sure he really knew who she was. Giselle was sweet and pretty, but unpredictable, trying out personality traits like changes of clothes, forever agonising over which suited her best. She said actors needed to be a mass of contradictions, adaptable yet bloody-minded, sensitive yet thick-skinned. Wherever they went together, she watched people. Studying their turns of phrase and their body language. Trying to peer inside their minds. As Jeffrey Burgoyne was doing now.

‘Monday is Hallowe’en.’

‘Indeed. As it happens, Quin and I have been invited to a Hallowe’en party by Oz and Melody Knight. Their home, Ravenbank Hall, is magnificent. I’m sure they’d love you and your sister to come.’

‘Very good of you, but-’

‘You must say yes!’ Jeffrey Burgoyne boomed, before Daniel could invent an excuse to say no. ‘You’ll both have great fun. Besides, Quin is making his special recipe mulled wine, and that simply has to be tasted to be believed.’

‘Sounds terrific.’ Daniel had been introduced to Quin at the end of the conference. Young enough to be Jeffrey’s son, he was his partner in life as well as in the theatre company.

‘Believe me. And if all that isn’t enough, as an added bonus, we supply a Hallowe’en legend of our very own. A ghost story involving not one terrible crime, but two! Given your interest in the history of murder, you’ll find the story riveting.’

Daniel’s curiosity stirred. Maybe there was no need for an excuse to avoid a party with a bunch of Lakeland luvvies. His fascination with mysteries of the past had led him to become a historian, and make a career out of being inquisitive.

‘Tell me more.’

Jeffrey was in no hurry to spill the beans. Like any storyteller, he loved building suspense. ‘You live in Brackdale, I saw from your bio in the conference brochure. A fair stretch from Ullswater, but no need for you to drive home in the early hours. Stay overnight, we have two spare rooms. Save the misery of having to go easy on the booze.’

‘Louise went house-hunting in Glenridding last week.’

‘Oh goodness, we’re much further off the beaten track. I don’t expect you’ve visited Ravenbank?’

Daniel shook his head. ‘I haven’t lived in the Lake District for long, and Louise is an even more recent arrival.’

‘No need to sound apologetic, old fellow. I grew up in Carnforth, spent seven years at Sedbergh School, and moved to the Lake District after coming down from Peterhouse. Not good enough — one of my neighbours maintains I’m still an incomer. On her sixty-fifth birthday this summer, she was boasting that she’s never visited London, and a few months in Belfast are the closest she’s come to travelling overseas.’

‘If all you’ve ever known is the Lakes, you might decide there’s no need to settle for second best.’

Jeffrey chuckled. ‘You’re a man after old Miriam’s heart. She loves the place, insists the only way she’ll ever leave is when she’s carried out in her box. Mind you, Ravenbank is so isolated that plenty of born and bred Cumbrians have never made it that far. Frankly, it suits us to stay a well-kept secret, we’d hate to become the last leg of a tourist trail.’

‘I bet.’

‘Believe me, it is one of the most beautiful places on God’s earth …’ Jeffrey paused for five seconds, a performer to his fingertips. ‘Yet amazingly, Ravenbank has witnessed two savage murders.’

‘Statistically a rival for Baltimore, then?’

‘You’re teasing, Daniel, naughty, naughty. We even have our very own ghost. The Faceless Woman. All the best phantoms have a suitably macabre moniker, don’t you agree? Her real name was Gertrude Smith.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘She was a young Scottish housemaid who worked at Ravenbank Hall before the First World War. The master of the house, a man called Hodgkinson, seduced her. Unfortunately, he had a mad wife who wasn’t confined to the attic. Letitia Hodgkinson found out about her husband’s affair, and on a suitably dark and stormy Hallowe’en, she crept up behind Gertrude, and knocked her down with a stone plucked from the rockery in the Hall grounds. Then she battered the young woman’s beautiful face into a pulp.’

On the far side of the bar, a man who’d had too much to drink guffawed at one of his own jokes. Daniel picked up a beer mat, and crumpled it in his palm without thinking. His mind was on the story.

‘Go on.’

‘When Gertrude’s body was discovered, her ruined face was covered with an old woollen blanket. It entered Ullswater’s folklore, as the Frozen Shroud.’

‘What happened to the wife?’

‘She committed suicide within hours of the murder, so there was no trial. The whole business was hushed up. Justice wasn’t seen to be done.’

‘It often isn’t.’

Jeffrey took another sip of gin and tonic. ‘Indeed. People were sorry for the Hodgkinsons’ daughter. Dorothy was only thirteen. Nobody cared much about Gertrude, the real victim. No wonder her spirit was restless. A story gained currency that each Hallowe’en, Gertrude would patrol the lane that leads to Ravenbank Hall, seeking retribution for the wrong done to her. Terrifying anyone who chanced upon her — because there was nothingness where there ought to be a face.’

‘Pity you and Quin haven’t managed to catch a glimpse of her.’

‘I’ll say! After the First World War, Ravenbank Hall became a care home run by a charity, but when it closed down, a wealthy hospital consultant turned it back into a private residence. His wife was the last person who saw Gertrude’s ghost. The Palladinos are dead now, but the legend persists.’

Daniel sat back, inhaling the Grim Reaper’s beery air. ‘And the second murder?’

‘Five years ago, and a strange echo of the first. Again, justice was cheated, and the man responsible never stood in the dock.’

Jeffrey Burgoyne lowered his voice, his manner unexpectedly intense. Impossible to picture this plump and pompous fellow, even in his younger days, as a leading man. But he was an accomplished actor.

‘Unfit to plead?’

‘No, Craig Meek died before the police caught up with him. His victim was an Australian woman. Flame-red hair, with a personality to match. Stunning, if your tastes ran in that direction, and plenty of men’s did. But then, a jaguar is a beautiful creature, isn’t it, until it rips out your throat?’

‘I’m guessing you weren’t a member of her fan club?’

‘She was out for herself, first, last and always. Her name was Shenagh Moss, and she liked to describe herself as a therapist with a speciality in massage.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Draw your own conclusions, and you won’t go far wrong. She spouted a lot of drivel about reiki therapy and heaven knows what. At least she was skilled enough to make an impressive conquest. Francis Palladino was more than twice her age, but shortly after they met, Shenagh moved in to Ravenbank Hall. Francis was an intelligent chap, but lonely. Strange to say it of a successful man with pots of money, but he was vulnerable.’

‘Where did Meek fit in?’

‘He was one of Shenagh’s former lovers. His name was misleading — he had a violent temper, and had recently served time for GBH. He ran a club in Penrith, but he ended up bankrupt after fiddling his tax. Shenagh had a fling with him, but when she moved on, he felt betrayed.’

‘The jealous type?’

‘Yes, he was a bully. Refused to let go, and began stalking her. Following her home, making silent phone calls at all hours of the day and night. Francis paid for her to take the best legal advice, and a judge slapped an injunction on him, preventing him from making contact with her. The plan backfired, because for Meek, the court case was the final straw. One Hallowe’en, Shenagh took the dog out for a walk and never came back.’

‘What happened?’

‘Francis found her body, poor fellow. Meek had bashed her face in, then covered it with a blanket. Just as Letty Hodgkinson had left Gertrude Smith’s corpse. It was as if Meek had made a crude attempt to update the legend of the Frozen Shroud. If the plan was to throw the police off his scent, it was doomed to failure.’

‘You said Meek died. Suicide?’

‘No, he was killed in a head-on crash with a lorry on the A66 that same night. Fleeing the scene of the crime. The stretch near Threlkeld is an accident black spot, and Meek careered onto the wrong side of the road. So justice wasn’t seen to be done. Except in the crudest way.’

‘I suppose there was no doubt that Meek did kill Shenagh?’

Jeffrey frowned. ‘Absolutely none. A neighbour saw him leaving home that evening, and later his car was seen in Howtown, heading back towards Pooley Bridge, where he rented a flat. Obviously making a run for it after killing Shenagh. Nobody else died in the crash, but Meek was responsible for two deaths apart from his own.’

‘How come?’

‘Francis Palladino never recovered from the shock of finding Shenagh’s corpse. Within a year, he was dead too. Officially, double pneumonia, but anyone with a trace of romance would say he died of a broken heart.’

‘Murder is like that.’ Daniel glanced at Louise. His sister’s former lover had been killed shortly after she’d moved up to the Lakes. ‘One death creates countless ripples. It isn’t just the victim. So many lives are changed forever.’

‘I suppose so.’ Jeffrey considered. ‘Though the callous might say that every cloud has a silver lining. Take Oz and Melody Knight. They were set on buying Ravenbank Hall, and after Francis died, their dream came true. Not that they would have wished him any harm, needless to say.’

‘Jeffrey! I can spot that mischievous gleam a mile off. You’re not being bitchy about anyone, are you?’

The mellifluous Irish accent belonged to Alex Quinlan, who had been sharing a table with Louise Kind and Melody Knight. A svelte figure in a purple shirt and white trousers, he shimmied towards them, sinuous as a dancer.

Jeffrey stroked Quin’s cheek. ‘Bitchy, moi?’

‘You’ll be telling me next that butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.’

‘Don’t listen to him, Daniel. I’m always well behaved.’

‘Not always, love.’

The people at the next table were leaving, and Louise and Melody came to join them. Melody was probably in her thirties, but her skin was so flawless, it was hard to tell. Her lovely face made Daniel think of a screensaver; you could only guess what hid behind the surface.

‘Daniel, such a treat to meet you in person! And thank you for giving such a wonderful talk.’ She shook his hand. ‘I was telling your sister, I used to work pretty much full-time in the business, setting up events like today’s. But recently Oz took on someone else, to give me more time to pursue my secret passion.’

‘Which is?’

‘The same as yours!’ A full-wattage smile, blinding in its intensity. ‘I love to write, and I’ve started freelancing, covering the conference for Cumbria World. I’ve been dying to talk to you. Any chance you’d let me interview you about your new book about the history of murder?’

‘The Hell Within? Publication isn’t due until next year.’

‘So much the better — I can get in first! What do you say?’

Before he could answer, Jeffrey butted in. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of inviting Daniel and Louise to your Hallowe’en party. Hope that’s all right?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘You’ve been telling Daniel about the Frozen Shroud, I suppose?’

‘It’s an extraordinary story. Poor old Gertrude, eh?’

Quin said quickly, ‘Not forgetting poor old Shenagh.’

‘Yes, Jeffrey was telling me about her,’ Daniel said.

‘Oh yes?’ Quin’s eyes narrowed. ‘She came from Penrith Valley in Australia, a world away from our own Penrith. A beautiful extrovert, Shenagh. She loved life, she was full of fun. Did Jeffrey mention that, by any chance?’

‘Well, I gather she wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea?’

‘No,’ Quin said. ‘She certainly wasn’t.’

Melody compressed her lips. ‘I suppose with a murder victim, that’s stating the obvious.’

Jeffrey’s brow knitted, but when he spoke, his tone was breezy. ‘Anyway, there’s no better place to be in the Lakes on Hallowe’en than Ravenbank. You’ll find Oz and Melody are fabulous hosts.’

‘You’re too kind.’ Melody seemed glad he’d changed the subject. ‘At least there will be no kids making a nuisance of themselves, just plenty to eat and drink, good company, and an outside chance of seeing a phantom housemaid. In fact, Jeffrey, you read my mind. I’d just mentioned the party to Louise. Please say you’ll both come.’

Daniel glanced at his sister, who gave a quick nod.

‘Thanks, we’d love to.’

‘Perfect! Don’t get the wrong idea, it’s nothing glitzy. A few neighbours, and a handful of people we know through work. Strictly no celebs — you’ll be the one and only exception! It’s not so long since you were a fixture on the television screen, is it? I never missed one of your programmes.’

‘Those days are long gone,’ he said. ‘I concentrate on writing now.’

‘I’ve always dreamt of publishing a book of my own. But I’m just a beginner.’ She smiled again. ‘Do bring your partners along tomorrow night, both of you.’

‘I’m single at the moment,’ Louise said.

‘Me too,’ Daniel said. ‘So it’ll just be the two of us.’

‘Fine, like I say, you won’t be overwhelmed with loads of people you don’t know. We organise so many events, we like to keep our private parties quite — intimate. By the way, Jeffrey,’ Melody turned to him, ‘did you mention the masks?’

He shook his head, and she threw another smile at the Kinds. ‘This is the third time we’ve held a party at this time of year, and we’ve developed a little tradition of our own. Lots of people come in Hallowe’en themed fancy dress, and that’s fantastic. But what we do hope is that every guest will at least wear a mask.’

‘What sort of mask?’ Louise asked.

‘Oh, a ghost, a vampire, a creature from myth and legend, whatever takes your fancy. It all adds to the atmosphere, Hallowe’en is such a special night. Especially in Ravenbank.’ Her eyes gleamed with mischief. ‘It seems only right that none of us should wear our own face.’

Fastening her seat belt in the car, Louise said, ‘You could invite Hannah Scarlett to the party. Why do you keep shutting her out of your life?’

Daniel switched on the engine. ‘Hey, you’re not in court now.’

‘I’m not a bloody trial lawyer, don’t muddy the waters. It’s obvious, I’m cramping your style. If I haven’t moved into a place of my own by Christmas, I’ll rent somewhere, get out from under your feet.’

‘You’re not cramping anything. Honest.’ He patted her knee. ‘Stay at the cottage as long as you like.’

‘I can’t fault you for generosity, but life in Brackdale is too comfortable, for both of us. You need to get out more. Whether or not with Hannah, that’s up to you.’

He groaned. ‘You know something? You’re starting to sound like Mum.’

Not so long ago, the jibe would have provoked anger. Instead, Louise laughed. He was glad; she was loosening up at last.

‘Oh God. Perhaps that’s every woman’s fate. To finish up talking and acting like their mother.’

‘There are worse fates. You’re wrong about Hannah, anyway. She’s shut me out, not the other way around.’

‘You’re imagining it. Trust me, Daniel. For a smart guy, you’re really not that smart when it comes to women.’

‘After I last met Hannah for a drink, I rang a couple of times, and left voicemail messages. Sent her an email. She did reply in the end, very brief. Said she was up to her eyes with a couple of cases, and she’d get back in touch soon. That was five weeks ago.’

Five weeks, two days, in fact. Not that he’d been counting.

‘She’s a senior police officer. Her life isn’t her own.’

‘I’m not complaining. Hannah and I are still mates, always will be.’

‘You fancy her like mad, I can tell.’

‘She needs space. Don’t forget, she’s had a rough year. Splitting up with Marc, finding that mutilated body on the farm. Horrible.’

‘Don’t be so bloody altruistic. You’d do her good. A lot more good than Marc Amos, for sure. For all I know, he still nurses the fantasy she might take him back one day. As if. She’ll never forget what he got up to with that girl who worked for him.’

Louise’s last lover had also been a philanderer. She was determined to scrub him out of her memory, and his name was never mentioned. Marc Amos was a dummy target for the scorn she felt for the man who had hurt her.

He knew better than to argue with her. You could never win. He manoeuvred the car down the narrow passage leading out of the car park, a task complicated by defunct bulbs in several of the lamps fixed on the pub wall. Suddenly, he braked, before putting his foot down after a few seconds, so that the car shot forward and out into the lane.

‘Wow!’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘You’ll never guess.’

He felt a stab of astonishment at what he’d seen. Two figures in the shadows. Jeffrey Burgoyne had slammed the side door of the Grim Reaper behind him, and then slapped Quin’s cheek so hard that he staggered backwards and almost lost his footing. A stinging blow on the same cheek Jeffrey had stroked a few minutes earlier.