The Hanging Wood

CHAPTER ELEVEN

‘Fancy an ice cream?’ Greg asked.

A kiosk built into the back corner of the country club sold ices and cold drinks. Upmarket ices and cold drinks, naturally.

Hannah gave him a sidelong look. ‘We’re working, don’t forget.’

‘Yeah, might as well enjoy it.’

‘All right, mine’s a 99.’

‘Easily persuaded,’ he said. ‘Excellent, I knew it wasn’t true what they say.’

She halted mid stride, unable to resist rising to the bait. ‘What do they say?’

‘That you are a workaholic.’ He showed sharp white teeth. ‘A perfectionist who drives herself too hard.’

‘Then just to prove I know how to have a really good time, you can buy me a double 99. Sod the cholesterol, live for the moment.’

He pretended to clap. ‘That’s the spirit, ma’am. Throw caution to the wind.’

As he vaulted over a low railing to join a natty septuagenarian couple in the queue at the kiosk, she caught herself assessing his sinewy physique. Must be a touch of the sun — how long since she last checked someone out like this? Not that she had any intention of succumbing to Greg Wharf’s macho charm. It was just a relief to take any interest in a man again; the nonsense with Marc had torpedoed her morale at the precise moment when she’d started shunting her career out of the siding and back on track.

Greg’s short sleeves revealed powerful forearms. He kept himself fit and was a permanent fixture at the top of the division’s squash ladder. Macho men weren’t her type, and when Greg first joined the team, she’d been wary of his reputation for making trouble. Not least because of his womanising. But so far he’d managed to keep his hands off Linz Waller, to Hannah’s surprise and Linz’s barely concealed disappointment. After a few initial skirmishes ending with honours even, he’d given Hannah support in team meetings; all the more useful because everyone knew he was nobody’s yes-man. As a detective, his cussed refusal to settle for easy answers had helped him bond with Les Bryant. They made an odd couple: a grumpy old man and a Jack the Lad, moaning each winter Monday about the football refereeing they’d witnessed over the weekend. Hannah enjoyed their dry wit, even though she scarcely knew a late tackle from an offside trap. Les lived alone these days — on one extraordinary occasion, he’d had a blind date with Terri, but that particular match was made in Hell, not Heaven — and as far as Hannah knew, Greg wasn’t seeing anyone. Not in the force, at least, or news would have sped along the county’s busiest grapevine.

‘Don’t say I never give you anything,’ he said, presenting her with the double 99. ‘You deserve a bit of sin in your life.’

He’d invested in a Diet Coke for himself, a sardonic nod to virtue, and they planted themselves on a bench overlooking a duck pond carpeted in red cup lilies with maroon foliage. A plaque on the bench recalled a deceased caravan owner who loved this park for 30 years.

‘So what do you reckon to Madsen’s?’ she asked.

‘Give me Tenerife any day. Thirty years in a holiday park? Sounds like a life sentence to me. Fuck me, it’s nearly half a lifetime! Probably two-thirds in my case, given how much I like the ale, and that I only packed in smoking last year.’

No beer belly, though, she couldn’t help noticing. ‘I never knew you were a smoker.’

‘Twenty-a-day man.’ He held up a neatly manicured hand. ‘Forensics wouldn’t find it difficult to spot the nicotine traces. On the morning my decree absolute came through, I decided to make a fresh start. Threw my packet of Player’s in the bin, and I’ve never touched one since.’

‘You must have needed self-discipline to manage that.’

‘Believe it or not, ma’am, I am capable of it.’ He lifted his eyebrows a fraction. ‘If the moon’s in the right quarter.’

Hannah pretended to absorb herself in her ice cream and chocolate flakes. Greg’s knack of making her feel he could read her mind was unsettling.

‘What I meant was, how do you see Kit Payne? Grieving step-parent or a man with something to hide?’

‘Bit of both, shouldn’t wonder.’ He ripped the ring pull off his can and took a swig. ‘I told myself not to be prejudiced, just because he looks like the Elephant Man’s love child. But he’s twitchy about the cold case. I reckon Bryan and Gareth Madsen are, as well, but they are too streetwise to show it.’

‘Scarcely a surprise.’ She waved towards the septuagenarians, who were tucking into their cornets as they moaned to each other about the cost of private health insurance. ‘Any bad vibes might make the caravan folk pause before frittering their kids’ inheritance on another year’s site fees.’

‘I say it’s worth nosing around in the Madsens’ lives as long as the ACC stays on board. Payne’s life too. It suited everyone for Philip to take the rap. Along with his pig.’

‘The pig couldn’t answer back, either. Especially after it ran off.’

‘Everything was made so easy for Will Durston to wind down the investigation. He was given all he needed to close the file.’

‘Except a corpse,’ Hannah said.

‘Makes you wonder why Mike Hinds didn’t kick and scream, with his boy left unburied. If it was my son, I wouldn’t rest until the kid had a proper burial.’

‘But if he believed there was no corpse to find?’

‘We can’t take it as read that Hinds had nothing to do with the boy’s death.’ Greg’s tone was mulish. ‘Suppose they had a row, and Callum got hurt?’

‘You really didn’t take to him, did you?’

‘Did you?’

‘No, he could use some coaching in anger management. But now he’s lost both his kids. We ought to cut him some slack.’

Greg wrinkled his nose. ‘He was scarcely the perfect father.’

‘Even so.’

‘All I’m saying is, Durston’s team took the soft option. If it had been my case, I wouldn’t have given up so quickly.’

‘If it had been yours, you’d have had the brass telling you not to throw more money at an open-and-shut case. There was a reason why no body was found. Perhaps Durston was too ready to blame it on the pig. But there’s nothing new about investigations being affected by cash constraints. Even twenty years back, there were budget limits.’

‘Not that you were around so long ago, ma’am, of course.’ He grinned. ‘Might there be another explanation why the body was hidden or disposed of? Did something about it reveal what happened to him, and who was responsible?’

‘Or even if it didn’t, perhaps forensic evidence could have proved Philip didn’t kill him.’

He nodded. ‘And Kit Payne is the man who leaves nothing to chance, we’re told.’

She finished her cone and clambered to her feet. ‘Shall we head for the Hanging Wood?’

‘Sure.’ Greg sprang up. ‘And talking of the way things look, ma’am …’

‘Yes?’

‘You have a smear of ice cream on the tip of your nose.’

‘Is Aslan around?’ Daniel asked. ‘He left a message on my voicemail asking for a word.’

Sham glanced up from her computer. She’d perfected the expression of an upwardly mobile young executive interrupted in the midst of a life-or-death task, but a glance at the screen revealed she was catching up on the latest gossip from a soap opera website.

‘Waltzed in this morning, on time for once, and announced he’d only be in for an hour or so today. And then he spent all his time in the library, rather than in his own office. Never known him do that before; he once told me he’s not much of a reader. Sure enough, inside thirty minutes, he was tearing out again. A man in a hurry.’

‘Why the rush?’

‘Dunno, he didn’t say a word. The bloody librarian was asking me a question and he just waved as he dashed past. Didn’t even shut the front door. I saw him stop by the flower bed and take a knife from his pocket. He cut off two red roses and took them with them. The principal would go mental about it, if only he knew.’ Daniel recognised an admiration for Aslan’s effrontery, mixed in with disgruntlement. ‘He didn’t present the roses to me, that’s for sure.’

‘He’s keen on flexible hours, isn’t he?’

‘Another way of saying that he works as little as possible.’ Sham sniffed. Dark rings under her eyes suggested a late night. ‘Not that I blame him. Wouldn’t I just love a job like that? Events organising? A real skive, if you ask me.’

‘Doesn’t he enjoy it?’ Daniel was all innocence. ‘I assumed everyone here would be highly motivated.’

‘Are you kidding?’ Sham allowed herself a lavish sigh. ‘Aunt Fleur suggested I might fill in here for a few weeks, until Mockbeggar Hall opens to the public.’

‘So you’re joining the family business?’

‘Dad told me they want me to run the welcome desk. He came for one of his weekly meetings with Aunt Fleur in her office here, discussing the plans for the Hall. Apparently they like the idea of having a member of the family working in the Hall full-time, and there’s no arguing with that pair once they’ve made up their minds.’ She groaned. ‘No escape, is there? I meant to make a break, strike out on my own. My sister Purdey is the business-minded one, not me. I’m not really cut out for the nine to five. Maybe I should travel the world. Aslan has never settled down, and it hasn’t done him any harm.’

‘What brought him to St Herbert’s, if not love of the job?’

‘I suppose it’s a pretty place to pass the summer. He’s a volunteer, and in his opinion, that gives him the right to get away with murder. Mind you, the rest of us might as well be working out of the goodness of our hearts.’ As if bored with whingeing, she dazzled him with a sudden smile. ‘Never mind, one thing I’ll say about this place is that you do meet some interesting people. Television stars, for instance.’

‘I was never a television star.’

‘Aunt Fleur never missed a programme. She’s one of your biggest fans; she has all your books in hardback. I’m surprised she hasn’t demanded your autograph yet. Maybe she will at dinner tonight.’

‘You’ll be there?’

‘Wouldn’t miss it for anything.’

‘I assumed you’d have better offers.’

‘Are you kidding? Keswick isn’t exactly alive with excitement for people my age. And in case you’re wondering, Aslan and I aren’t seeing each other, not seriously. Yesterday evening was only the second or third time we’ve even been out for a drink.’

‘Uh-huh.’ He wondered why she was bothering to tell him.

‘I never intended to put poor Orla’s nose out of joint. I mean, Aslan is pretty fit, but she’d have been welcome to him.’ So was she feeling guilty at having tempted Aslan away from the dead girl, or trying to explain away her failure to captivate him? ‘Anyway, I’m looking forward to tonight. Couldn’t let Purdey get one up on me through having dinner with a media celebrity, could I, now?’

An earnest vicar approached the reception desk, flourishing the St Herbert’s annual programme of events. His demeanour suggested he was about to ask complicated questions to which Sham was unlikely to have answers. Daniel seized the opportunity to sidle away.

‘See you tonight, then,’ she called.

Climbing to his eyrie in the library, his thoughts drifted back to the principal’s report of that fraught conversation between Orla and Aslan Sheikh. What connected Callum in her mind with Castor and Pollux — surely not the fact that the two siblings had different fathers?

A red squirrel dashed into the undergrowth as Hannah and Greg approached the Hanging Wood. The wood was separated from the holiday park by a barbed wire barrier which ran behind a group of low buildings where maintenance equipment and backup generators were kept, and which lay behind eight-feet-high waney-lap fences covered with health and safety warnings and signs saying Private. A security man had let them through a locked gate; this was no place for casual visitors. The ground was rough and potholed, and the narrow track was overgrown and surrounded by tall clumps of stinging nettles. The sweet smell of cow parsley hung in the air.

According to Kit Payne, the Madsens had abandoned the Hanging Wood after Philip Hinds’ death, and the disappearance of his nephew. Philip’s cottage was demolished, but there was no question of developing the land, even if it hadn’t been inconceivable that the Parks Authority would allow it. The Madsens owned more than enough land to expand their site, Kit explained; two-thirds of the Mockbeggar Estate remained untouched and out of bounds to visitors.

Greg began to whistle, and Hannah recognised the opening bars to ‘The Teddy Bears’ Picnic’.

If you go down to the woods today, you’re sure of a big surprise.

‘What do you reckon to the guy on the CCTV, wandering into the Forbidden Forest?’ Greg asked.

‘Surely he can’t have become so bored with his luxury holiday home that he went in search of adventure?’

‘Naughty not to heed the notices telling him to “keep out”.’ Greg shot her a glance. ‘He must be as keen to get into the Mockbeggar Estate as the Madsens are to warn off intruders.’

They reached the outer fringe of the Hanging Wood. As they moved between the trees, the temperature seemed to drop two or three degrees. Wych elms towered above them, along with rowan, ash and oak. Coarse grass, heather and spiky brambles obscured the old path, ivy tendrils smothered the bark.

‘Did you think the chap seemed familiar?’ she said at last.

A brisk nod. ‘Hard to tell from that camera angle, but he reminded me of the bloke we saw outside Mike Hinds’ farm.’

So she hadn’t imagined it. ‘Me too.’

They pushed on along the half-hidden track, ducking their heads under low and heavy branches. A foetid stench wafted from a small stagnant pond. Greg trod on a fallen branch, and the snap of wood sounded like a pistol shot.

Out of the blue, he said, ‘I read up about wych elms last night.’

‘You did?’ He had this knack of setting her back on her heels.

He kicked the broken branch out of his way. ‘Idle curiosity, that’s all.’

Hannah guessed he wanted to understand the environment in which Philip Hinds had lived and died. He’d never admit it; he didn’t want to seem touchy-feely. She remembered Ben Kind preaching the importance of getting under the victim’s skin. Do that, he maintained, and you were halfway to getting under the killer’s skin. Not that anybody thought of Philip as a victim. Except for Orla.

‘Disease killed a lot of elms,’ Greg said. ‘Even so, some trees survived. Turns out there’s something macabre about wych elms. They feature in a lot of folklore. Traditionally, they were associated with melancholy and death.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Nobody knows for sure. Perhaps because they drop old branches that can crack your skull, like the one I just tripped over. Possibly because they look like they are weeping. Or because elm was used to make coffins.’

His thirst for finding things out reminded her of Marc. Daniel Kind, too. This energy and enthusiasm for stockpiling scraps of knowledge, she couldn’t help finding it attractive, although she never quite understood why. They walked on in silence, their route carpeted by ferns and moss. Greg was right about the mood conjured up by the wych elms. The sun was barely visible through the canopy of leaves, and there was an earthy primitive smell in the air. Even on a day like this, the Hanging Wood had the odour of decay. Purple foxgloves supplied a scattering of colour, but for Hannah, the flowers conjured up sinister memories. They were poisonous, and when she was small, a thoughtless uncle warned her that nibbling the stems in his garden would kill her. She’d spent the rest of the day in a state of terror. She remembered his nickname for foxgloves: dead man’s bells.

She’d seen photos of Philip Hinds in the files. A bulky shambling man, whose eyes looked anywhere but straight at the camera. He’d felt at home in this melancholy wood, where nobody bothered him. Inside the big body was someone small and frightened, unable to cope when his world was invaded. How must it feel to live like Philip, encircled by tall forbidding trees, with only a fat smelly pig for company? The Hanging Wood covered a tiny area, yet the bright world outside seemed as remote as a faraway land. Philip’s brother had no time for him, and for the Madsens he was no more than a backup handyman. Yet even a man who craved solitude must sometimes yearn for someone to talk to. No wonder he’d welcomed fleeting human contact when his young nephew and niece came to play. You wouldn’t need to be a closet paedophile to relish their zest, their innocence, their lust for life.

Durston had found no evidence that Philip had harmed Callum, far less that he was responsible for his death. The case against him was hopelessly circumstantial. But convenient.

The track sloped gently into a dip where the trees thinned, and soon they reached a clearing. Fir cones were scattered over the ground; they’d been chewed by the squirrels. Sycamores had seeded, but too few to block the sun, which blazed down on a thick tangle of brambles and grass.

‘So this is where the cottage stood,’ Greg said.

Nature had reclaimed the site of Philip Hinds’ home; every trace of his existence had been erased from the Hanging Wood. The undergrowth was so thick that you couldn’t see where the foundations of the cottage had stood, or any sign of a pigsty. In the middle of the clearing, grass and brambles had been hewn back around a small sandstone tablet. The letters had worn, but the inscription was perfectly readable.

In Loving Memory of Callum Hinds.

A single rose lay at the foot of the table, a splash of crimson amidst the green and brown.

‘Well, well,’ Greg said. ‘You reckon that bloke on the CCTV came here and left the rose, before he wandered into the Mockbeggar grounds?’

‘But why?’ She inhaled the perfume of the luscious bloom. Rich and strong, a contrast with the dank foliage. ‘What reason could he have for taking an interest in a boy who disappeared twenty years ago?’

‘If he’s staying at the holiday park, we should be able to track him down.’

‘As for poor old Philip, not a mention. Far less a floral tribute.’

‘Can you wonder?’

She sighed. ‘Not really, though this was his domain, the place where he lived and died. With Callum, nobody knows for sure where he died. According to the file, his mother wanted some sort of memorial to the lad placed here, as well as a stone in the local cemetery. Joseph Madsen insisted on paying for it himself. The Paynes, Mike Hinds, the Madsen family, none of them wanted to think about the man they blamed for Callum’s death. He was the bad guy, he deserved nothing.’

Greg looked around. ‘Did they chop down the wych elm he hanged himself from?’

A cloud of midges buzzed around Hannah’s head, persistent as paparazzi. She swatted them away. ‘Of course. The tree and the cottage, they both had to go.’

The detectives contemplated the sandstone memorial. Everything was still; no birds sang in the trees, no breeze rustled the leaves. People supposed a savage murder had taken place in this quiet and lonely spot, but you would never guess.

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Greg asked.

She managed a smile, still trying to make sense of the strange idea. ‘Depends on what you’re thinking.’

‘It seems crazy,’ he muttered.

‘Go on.’

She felt tense, expectant.

Greg took a breath. ‘We’re assuming the man at the farm, the man in the wood, the person who left the red rose, were one and the same?’

‘Agreed.’

She was sure he’d had the same idea, and she found it thrilling. Detective work did this to you, if you cared enough about your job. She’d learnt as much from Ben Kind. Solving a mystery was a turn-on, he said, and he was right. In her excitement, she had to force herself not to give Greg a hug.

His eyes were shining, and she knew he was excited too.

‘What if we’ve just seen Callum Hinds?’

‘It was something and nothing,’ Kit Payne said. ‘When you run a large holiday park, there are a thousand and one issues to deal with every day. That’s the price of working in the service sector, dealing with Joe Public. Our insurance premium costs rise year on year, and don’t get me started on legal fees.’

Hannah and Greg had bumped into him on their way back, as he said goodbye to the visiting Bulgars. Hannah asked whether the security wardens had found the man spotted wandering around the grounds of Mockbeggar Hall. Kit said that by the time the wardens turned up, he had vanished, and he might have headed off in any number of directions. Back to the holiday park, most likely, but he could just as easily have walked to Mike Hinds’ farm, along the lane that ran from the Hall, or over towards St Herbert’s Residential Library. Kit said his sole concern was to make sure the chap wasn’t at risk of coming a cropper on Madsen property, and claiming compensation for personal injury.

‘Back with us already, Hannah?’

Hannah looked up and saw Bryan Madsen on the balcony outside his first-floor office. A broad smile of greeting did not quite disguise his irritation that the police were still present in his holiday park.

‘They wanted to know if we found the chap who was trespassing in the Hall grounds,’ Kit said.

Bryan frowned. ‘He’s a nosey holidaymaker, not a criminal on the run.’

‘He reminded me of someone, that’s all,’ Hannah said.

Kit stared. ‘Who did-?’

She gave them a sweet smile. ‘I must have been mistaken.’

Louise was fretting over which dress to wear for dinner at Mockbeggar Hall, while Daniel checked his mobile for messages. The signal in Brackdale, and especially in and around Tarn Fold, was unreliable, and he found he’d missed a call. When he dialled voicemail, he heard the voice of Aslan Sheikh.

‘Daniel, it’s Aslan. Sorry to miss you, but it’s not important. Catch up with you next time you’re at the library.’

‘I’m off to have a shower,’ Louise announced. ‘Be honest, I can take it — don’t you think the black dress is a bit too revealing? Even a bit tarty?’

He made reassuring noises, knowing that she’d make her own choice in the end. No doubt she’d decided hours ago on the red gown with the high neckline, but felt the need to indulge in the formality of consultation, like a politician wanting to be approved for doing the right thing.

When she padded upstairs, he took his mobile out into the lane that petered out at Tarn Fold. As soon as he was clear of the trees, he dialled Hannah’s number. For once he got straight through, and he heard her excuse herself to a companion and step out into the street.

‘Sorry, I’m up in Keswick, at the police station.’

‘I wondered if you’d like to get together?’

A pause. He could hear traffic noise.

‘Love to.’

‘I’m tied up this evening. The Madsens have invited Louise and me to dinner at Mockbeggar Hall, would you believe?’

‘My sergeant and I called in at the caravan park today. You’ll probably have to listen to them complaining about our wasting their valuable time on a fool’s errand.’

‘Look, I wanted to talk to you about Orla. One or two things I’ve gathered from her colleagues at St Herbert’s. You wouldn’t be free tomorrow, by any chance?’

‘It’s Saturday, and the budget doesn’t allow for overtime. When and where?’

His spirits lifted. He liked Hannah’s directness, and the absence of fuss about needing to check her diary. ‘The weather forecast is fine, and I’ve an unfulfilled ambition to explore Derwent Water. How about meeting in Keswick and then we can go on the lake? Unless you’d prefer somewhere closer to Ambleside?’

‘Keswick suits me fine. Shall we say ten-thirty? I fancy taking a look at the market, so if we meet outside the Moot Hall?’

‘Perfect.’

‘So Callum Hinds might still be alive?’ Mario Pinardi said.

Hannah and Greg were debating the case in The Forge Brow, a tiny pub backing on to the River Greta. Half five on Friday evening, and the place was packed with people who had finished work and were getting in the mood for the weekend. Mario had bagged a table outside, on a small paved patio that separated the saloon bar from the river.

‘I have to admit, it’s the longest of long shots,’ Hannah said.

During the afternoon, her initial excitement at the possibility that Callum might have staged an audacious comeback had waned. She and Greg hot-desked at Keswick police station for a couple of hours, catching up on emails and chewing over their theory. The longer they talked, the more unlikely it seemed that Callum was back in town.

‘If Callum is alive, it would explain a few things,’ Mario said.

‘And raise plenty more questions,’ she said. ‘Like where he disappeared to, and what he’s been playing at all these years.’

‘Explains why you saw him at Lane End — looking out for his long-lost father. Maybe plucking up the courage to say, Hello, remember me?’

Hannah found herself playing devil’s advocate. ‘Why would Callum leave a rose at a memorial to himself? I mean, narcissistic, or what? And why would his reappearance coincide with Orla’s suicide?’

Mario took a swig of orange juice. ‘It might explain Orla’s suicide, don’t you think?’

‘How?’

‘Suppose she met this bloke and got an inkling he was Callum. So she became insistent that her brother hadn’t died at the hands of Philip Hinds. But for some reason, things turned nasty. Did she discover he had some dark secret that explained why he’d stayed away so long?’

‘Must have been very dark for her to dive into a silo full of grain.’ Greg drained his glass. ‘Same again?’

He strode into the saloon bar, leaving them to watch the river rushing over stones set in shallow mud. Hannah found it hard to imagine that, only months before, the Greta had smashed through its banks during freakish floods that drowned large areas of Western Cumbria, claiming lives and wrecking homes. Scaffolding still shrouded houses along the riverside, and flood defences were being built in an attempt to make the buildings safe in case the waters ever swelled again.

‘Where are you up to with the enquiry?’ she asked.

‘Orla was a pisshead,’ Mario said. ‘She never settled to anything; jobs and relationships, none of them lasted. The most exciting thing that happened to her was that her brother was supposedly a murder victim. She was bright and not bad-looking, and Kit Payne did his best by her after her mother died. Decent education, she was a long way from destitute. But she wasted her opportunities.’

‘Callum’s disappearance defined her,’ Hannah said, almost to herself. ‘How life-changing must it be, to lose your brother in those circumstances?’

‘She moved away to make a fresh start, but it didn’t work out. Once she took the job at St Herbert’s, the old memories came flooding back. I’d say that in the end, they killed her.’

‘You’re still certain it was suicide?’

‘Her father’s farm and the Hanging Wood were just around the corner from St Herbert’s. There was no escaping the past. She persuaded herself that Callum was alive, then changed her mind, and couldn’t cope with the grief. End of.’

‘Is that what you really think?’

Mario flashed the smile that sent so many women weak at the knees. ‘Dunno. It’s a job for an ace detective, I guess.’

‘But where do you find one of them?’ Greg demanded as he returned bearing drinks. ‘Solved it yet?’

Mario tilted his glass. ‘Cheers, mate. Might be worth my having another word with the feller that Orla palled up with at St Herbert’s. He says they were casual acquaintances, no more than that. But the word is, she saw it differently. Perhaps he has something to hide.’

‘Hasn’t everyone?’ Greg said. ‘What was his name?’

‘Aslan Sheikh,’ Mario said.

Hannah almost choked on her lemonade. ‘Aslan?’

The two men stared at her.

‘What?’ Greg asked.

‘Did you never read C.S. Lewis?’

‘The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe?’ Mario asked.

Greg made a face. ‘Wasn’t that the film with Tilda Swinton? Saw it on Sky by mistake. Not my cup of tea.’

‘But The Chronicles of Narnia were Callum Hinds’ favourite books.’ Her voice was unsteady. ‘Aslan was a Christ-like figure who came back from the dead.’