The Hanging Wood

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Saturday morning in Keswick, and Market Square was crammed with bargain hunters swarming around stalls that sold pies and paintings, clothes and crafts, and pretty much everything else you could wish for. Traders’ raucous cries punctuated the hum of a hundred conversations, smells from the fishmonger’s wafted through the warm air, mixing with those of home-made preserves and pungent cheeses. Marooned in the pedestrianised area was Moot Hall, with its sturdy tower and one-handed clock. Over the years, it had served as a courthouse, a prison and a town hall. Now it housed a tourist information office, with posters, leaflets and videos extolling Keswick’s various delights: Derwent Water, the Theatre by the Lake, Skiddaw, Blencathra — and a pencil museum.

The temperature was rising as Daniel smeared a dollop of sunblock on his face and neck. He’d arrived early, but he was hopeless at waiting, and found himself inventing a dozen reasons why Hannah might not show up. At last he spotted her through the crowd, handing over money at a stall that sold belts and bracelets. The bag under her arm bulged with purchases. A single woman with a busy job didn’t have much time for shopping, and she’d made the most of the market. A short-sleeved blue top and denim jeans clung to her. Since their last encounter, she’d lost weight, he thought, even though she’d never had much to lose. From a distance, she looked scarcely old enough to have left police college, let alone take charge of a cold case squad. His spirits rose as she caught sight of him, and gave a wave before hurrying over to him.

‘Thanks for sparing me an hour or two,’ he said. ‘I’m sure your Saturdays are precious.’

‘Glad to.’ She smiled, showing even white teeth. ‘This is a treat.’

He dropped a light kiss on each cheek. She wasn’t wearing make-up — no need. He liked the fresh smell of her hair and her skin. The Madsen women were sleek and gorgeous in a no-expense-spared way, but give him the natural look any time.

‘Derwent Water, then?’ The lake was only five minutes away. ‘So how is your book going?’

‘The question all writers dread,’ he told her. ‘No matter what target or deadline you set, it always turns into a frantic race against time. Coupled with the need to dream up increasingly unlikely excuses for slow progress whenever your agent calls. Ensconcing myself in the library at St Herbert’s seemed like a smart idea at the time. Allegedly, it’s an oasis of peace, where nothing ever happens, the only disturbance an occasional snore from an adjoining table. But what happens the minute it becomes my second home? Orla Payne decides to make me her confidant, and next thing I know, all hell breaks loose.’

Hannah laughed. ‘You’re fated.’

‘My own fault.’

‘She must have found you sympathetic.’

‘Nosey, more like. I’ve never been able to get rid of this urge to find things out. Very useful in academe, but in the real world, sometimes it’s easier not to know. When I was a kid, Dad used to tell me I was too curious for my own good, and he was dead right.’

‘He usually was,’ she said.

‘I overheard him talking to Cheryl on the phone when he thought the house was empty, so I knew about his affair a week before he broke the news to Mum.’ He aimed a kick at a scrap of litter on the pavement. ‘Looking back, that may just have been the most agonising seven days of my entire life.’

‘I’m sorry, Daniel.’ Her hand brushed his. ‘It’s such a shame you never spent enough time together before he died. He was thrilled by your idea of history as detective work. It showed you were a chip off the old block, he said.’

‘Hardly. When Orla told me about her missing brother, and that she didn’t believe he was dead, I tried to winkle more information out of her. But she clammed up on me. It was obvious she was unhappy, but I didn’t know why.’

‘She never hinted at suicide?’

‘I keep asking myself if I should have spotted what was in her mind.’ His tone was as bleak as Blencathra in winter.

‘There were subtle clues, just as with Aimee. But I didn’t spot them.’

‘You did all you could, you told her to talk to me.’

‘Passing the buck, to be honest.’

‘It was the right advice. Don’t beat yourself up about it.’

‘Easier said than done, Hannah.’

‘Listen.’ She seized his arm, forcing him to stop in mid stride. ‘I spoke to her, so did my DC the day she died. She was drunk and depressed. We are supposed to be the professionals, and we couldn’t get any sense out of her. How do you help someone who won’t let you help? I’m sure you couldn’t have saved Aimee, and you’re certainly not to blame for what happened to Orla, OK?’

‘OK.’ They started to walk again. ‘You know, I could never make out whether she wished she’d kept her mouth shut, or whether she’d discovered something that changed the complexion of things.’

‘What do you think she might have discovered?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps it was all in her mind. She was seriously mixed up, and the booze didn’t help. The last couple of times I saw her, she reeked of it. The principal wasn’t happy, and one or two colleagues started to keep their distance.’

They had reached Hope Park. Hannah said, ‘Which colleagues?’

‘Sham Madsen, for one; she was never a fan of Orla’s. And a chap who worked with her, and took her out a time or two, started avoiding her. Or so she thought.’

High in the sky, a gaudy yellow-and-red kite caught their attention, and they watched it gust along before starting a jittery descent towards Derwent Water.

‘Not Aslan Sheikh, by any chance?’

‘You know him?’

‘I know the name. We haven’t interviewed him yet, but he’s top of the list for Monday.’

‘Good plan.’ In front of them lay the slate and roughcast stone exterior of the Theatre by the Lake, blending in with the landscape so that it looked as though it had been part of the scenery for ever, not for just ten years. A poster advertised What the Butler Saw. Daniel couldn’t resist the temptation to ham up the suspense. Lowering his voice, he said, ‘But … do you know his real identity?’

The park and the paths around it were busy. Elderly couples reminiscing, children squealing, mothers scolding. A gull wheeled overhead, a couple of geese honked messages to each other. Hannah took no notice, eyes widening as she concentrated on him, pupils dilating, lips slightly parted. He felt a thrill of excitement, knowing he had something she wanted badly, even if it was only gossip that he’d gleaned from a drunken girl at a dinner party.

‘Tell me,’ she breathed.

The window of Aslan’s poky bedsit looked out to the steep and sweeping curves of the saddleback mountain. The view was the only good thing about the place, the reason he’d decided to rent it. That, and the fact he could afford nothing better.

He wanted money; he was pissed off with years of living hand to mouth. It shouldn’t be necessary. Not for a kid of his class.

Shame about Orla, but her death wasn’t his fault. He’d wanted her to give him an insight into the Hinds family, it was part of his plan to survey the ground before approaching his father with the truth. He hadn’t checked how the inheritance laws worked, but surely one day he’d be entitled to a stake in the farm at Lane End? What he hadn’t bargained for was Orla deciding that he was Callum, because he’d adopted a Turkish name that happened to feature in a story his mother had read him when he was young. He’d never have guessed that his half-brother loved C.S. Lewis. Orla was so distraught when she found out he wasn’t Callum that he’d not wanted to admit that there was a blood tie between them, until he was clear how she would take the news. With hindsight, he should have come clean. If she knew she had a half-brother, she might not have jumped into the grain. Better sweep the thought to one side. The roses had been an impulsive acknowledgement of the half-brother he’d never known; he wasn’t even sure why he’d made the gesture. He didn’t do sentimentality.

Anyway. The one positive he could take from this whole shitty situation was that he might never be poor again.

This encounter needed to be face-to-face, nothing else would do. Yet he couldn’t turn up out of the blue, and drop such a bombshell.

He’d found the right number.

Now he reached for his phone.

Hannah yanked a straw hat and dark glasses out of her bag as Daniel pushed off from the shore of Derwent Water. Rather than take a round trip by motor launch, they’d hired a small rowing boat for half an hour, so they could talk without being overheard. The sun shone on the surface of the water, in patterns chopped and changed by the motion of the oars. Canoes and kayaks drifted by, the motor launch was chugging back towards the jetty. He watched Hannah rubbing sun oil into her bare arms. She was gazing absently towards the wooded slopes of Friar’s Crag. Lost in thought, mulling over what he had told her.

If Aslan Sheikh was Orla’s half-brother, what bearing did it have on her death? He and Louise had tossed the question back and forth while the taxi took them home to Tarn Cottage, and he’d slept fitfully because his mind kept working overtime, but he hadn’t come close to an answer. If anyone could unravel the knots, it was Hannah.

‘Ruskin said this was one of the three most beautiful scenes in Europe,’ he said.

‘I can believe it.’ She pointed towards the fells flanking the lake. ‘Got your bearings? That’s Cat Bells to the west, Castlerigg Fell to the east. Behind you is Derwent Isle. And the biggest island, over there in the middle of the lake, is St Herbert’s, where the hermit of Derwent Water lived. One summer when I was a student, a couple of friends and I rowed out there. The plan was to stay overnight in a tent.’

‘I never knew you liked life under canvas.’

‘Once was enough. We’d had too much to drink, and the tent collapsed an hour after we landed. Before we could put it back up again, there was a violent storm, with thunder and lightning. We were scared to death as well as soaked to the skin. These days, people camp on the island for corporate team-building events. I hope they have more joy than the three of us — we were barely speaking to each other by the time we made it back to dry land. St Herbert could keep his island hermitage, as far as I was concerned. I’ve never even explored the library they named after him. Next week, I’ll put that right when I have a chat with Aslan Sheikh. Or Michael Hinds’ son, if that really is the truth of it.’

‘Purdey Madsen seemed confident of her facts. Mind you, none of the Madsens are lacking in confidence.’

‘That’s how they got to be filthy rich. I guess dinner at Mockbeggar Hall was a memorable experience?’

‘You bet. The Madsens never do things by halves, and Purdey Madsen is no exception. As if it wasn’t enough to be dragged out of the closet in front of her nearest and dearest, she dropped her bombshell about Aslan Sheikh, and made Sham spit with jealousy for good measure.’

‘Can we rewind a few weeks, to when you befriended Orla Payne?’

‘She was pleasant, rather naive, without a trace of ego or self-consciousness. Even though she wore a scarf to cover her baldness, she didn’t mind talking about her alopecia. Her enthusiasm for history, like her love of fairy tales, wasn’t sophisticated. Much of the time, she lived in a dreamworld. After she told me about her childhood, I understood why.’

‘She talked about her parents?’

‘Yes, she was close to her mother. Overawed by her father. One day when she did something to annoy him, he threw a rag doll of hers on the fire in the inglenook. Once the marriage collapsed, she stayed in her mother’s camp. The two of them had a lot in common, including the taste for booze and the mood swings. When she took Kit Payne’s name, her father was furious. I suppose he felt betrayed and let down, but she just saw the red face and heard the raised voice.’

‘He hasn’t mellowed, trust me.’

‘A dangerous man to cross — that’s how she described her own father.’

‘Sad.’ Hannah pictured the farmer’s fist, clutching the scythe. ‘Yet she was right.’

‘Callum was closer to Hinds. Not that he wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps. He wasn’t cut out for farming. But he had plenty in common with his dad. Orla implied that her brother had inherited that nasty streak.’

‘Was she in awe of Callum, too?’

‘I’d say so. She made him sound smug and superior. A clever boy who exploited the age gap between them, and treated her as a lackey. Literature was the only bond between them. They both read voraciously, and their tastes ran to fantasy. Callum was into C.S. Lewis and Tolkien, she was hooked on the fairy tales.’

Hannah trailed her hand in the water. Her fingers were slim, with nails cut short and not painted. She wore no rings. ‘What did Orla tell you about Philip Hinds?’

‘She was fond of him, they both were. Callum loved to escape from home and explore the Hanging Wood, and she often went along with him. For two kids with vivid imaginations, it was the perfect playground. Especially for Callum. Orla found it spooky, she didn’t like to go in on her own. Of course, she was only a child.’

‘Spooky is right, believe me. I went with my sergeant for a reconnaissance yesterday.’

‘Yes, I heard.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Did the Madsens gripe about it?’

He grinned. ‘Bryan did mutter something about public servants with nothing better to do with their time. Question is, did you learn anything?’

‘We weren’t hoping for forensic evidence twenty years on. Perhaps it was an indulgence, but I wanted to see for myself the place where Philip was supposed to have killed Callum. Your father taught me the importance of thinking yourself into the minds of the people you wanted to investigate, and part of it involves understanding their environment. Where they work and live and play. The snag with cold cases is the passage of time. But sometimes, the distance of the years helps you see more clearly.’

‘And how do you see the case against Philip Hinds?’

‘Purely circumstantial. Doesn’t mean he didn’t kill the boy, of course.’

‘But you believe he was innocent?’

‘I’d say he loved the Hanging Wood, it was the one place he felt at home. To me it felt like a dank and dismal prison, but I’m sure he’d hate to desecrate it. But that’s guesswork. Police officers work on the basis of evidence, not gut feel.’

‘Is that really what my father believed?’

She smiled. ‘That sceptical glint in your eyes reminds me of him.’

He was conscious of the sun scorching his cheeks. What had she felt for Ben? Liking, of course; respect, certainly. Anything more?

Her gaze settled on Derwent Isle again. They had rowed round in a circle, as he followed a course back to the shore.

‘Orla must always have hoped that a fresh explanation for Callum’s disappearance would emerge. Something that exonerated her uncle.’

‘Wishful thinking?’

‘She was keen on happy endings. If her hopes were dashed, that could have sent her into a tailspin. There must be a reason why she committed suicide.’

‘I suppose there is no doubt that she killed herself?’

‘Very little. Hypothetically, if she came across evidence suggesting someone other than Philip murdered Callum, that someone had a motive to get rid of her. But what evidence, which someone, and above all why? It’s speculation piled on speculation, and I don’t suppose historians approve of speculation any more than the Crown Prosecution Service does.’

‘True, but we all speculate sometimes.’

He eased off on the oars and leant back to take in the view of the forbidding bulk of Skiddaw to the north of the town. Hannah followed his gaze, the breeze ruffling her hair. He was seized by an urge to stroke and smooth it, to feel its silky texture and the warmth of her skin. Bad idea. He needed to be patient. The moment was too precious to spoil.

Aslan crushed the phone against his hand.

‘You killed Callum.’

Silence.

‘And then you killed Orla.’

‘Not true.’

Aslan laughed, incredulous. ‘You expect me to believe you?’

‘Believe what you want. She jumped.’

‘I believe you murdered both of them.’

‘I don’t have to listen to this.’

‘Do you want the police to listen, instead? I’ll ring them now, if you want.’

‘They will think you are mad.’

‘I’m angry, actually, not insane. You killed my half-brother, and then my half-sister.’

‘Why on earth would I want to do that?’

Aslan paused. This was his weak spot. He hadn’t filled all the gaps in his knowledge, there were things he didn’t fully understand.

‘I know about Castor and Pollux.’

A long silence. Surely a killer would not hang up?

‘What do you want?’

Aslan felt a wave of relief wash through him. He had won.

‘I called in at Marc’s shop last weekend,’ Daniel said. ‘Bought a set of Wainwrights, much to Louise’s disgust. She says I ought to throw out at least two books for every one I buy. I had new bookshelves put up in the cottage after moving in, but already the to-be-read pile is mounting on the floor of the spare room.’

‘Marc and I had the same conversation a dozen times,’ Hannah said, ‘but I never made any headway. Once a bibliomaniac, always a bibliomaniac.’

Lunch in the light and airy cafeteria at the Theatre by the Lake. Hannah savoured a mouthful of her open sandwich: smoked Borrowdale trout with lemon-and-dill dressing. Until now, they’d steered clear of personal stuff, which suited her fine, but Daniel knew Marc had moved out back in January, and was bound to be curious.

‘Marc told me you and he were due to meet up this week,’ he said.

So Marc had talked about her to Daniel, even though he’d been jealous of their relationship. Another sign that he might be growing up; pity it was too late.

‘He wants us to get back together again, but I don’t think it will work.’

‘Perhaps you both need more time.’

‘We’ve had six months.’

‘It may take longer.’

‘I’ve had long enough to get used to living on my own. It’s sort of liberating.’

‘I know what you mean. The endless compromises when you share with someone are hard work. Ask my sister.’

He showed his white teeth in a grin. A good-looking man; strong features, clear brown eyes, she couldn’t be blamed for finding him attractive. Plenty of women would, even if he’d never appeared on television. But what drew him to her was that she was sure she could trust him absolutely — as she had his father.

‘And how are things with Louise?’ Grabbing the chance to change the subject.

‘She’s good. That bastard who gave her such a rough time is a fading memory, thank God. Now she’s looking round for a place of her own up here. Not that I’m pushing her out; she’s someone else who likes to have her own space. At least the sparks don’t fly between us the way they did when we were teenagers.’

‘Sibling rivalries, eh?’ She swallowed the last morsel of trout. ‘There’s no escaping them in this case. The Hinds brothers, the Madsen sisters, Callum and Orla. Perhaps it’s just as well my sister emigrated years back.’

‘Speaking of siblings, there’s a question about Castor and Pollux.’

He gave her the gist of what Aslan had told him. ‘Let’s suppose Orla resorted to playing the detective. She’d fantasised that Aslan Sheikh was Callum, larger than life. When he disillusioned her, she was forced to accept that her brother was dead after all. But she was sure Philip was incapable of murder — so she tried to fathom what did happen to Callum.’

‘If she decided that he was killed by someone she cared for, that could have driven her to suicide.’

‘Kit Payne? He’d done his best for her, as he did for her mother.’

‘And we do know that Callum didn’t hit it off with Kit.’

‘Did she talk to you about Kit?’

‘Not much, but she seemed to like him.’

Hannah savoured her camomile tea. ‘After so many years, she is hardly likely to have found any evidence that Kit was responsible for Callum’s death. But if she confronted him …’

‘Would he admit his guilt to her, do you think?’

‘Only if she caught him off guard. He’s a streetwise businessman, don’t forget. I’d expect him to deny it. Perhaps prey on her fears, say that she needed psychiatric help. Which might explain why she jumped into the grain.’

‘I’ve never met him, but even hard-nosed executives aren’t always natural-born killers. Do you think he’s capable of murdering a young boy?’

‘Depends on the provocation. If they had a fight, and Callum died by accident, Kit might have panicked and hidden the body. Once he’d done that, he was trapped. No going back.’

‘So he sat back and watched an innocent man persecuted for a crime he didn’t commit?’

‘You’ll be amazed what people will do when the self-preservation instinct kicks in. Besides, he might be able to salve his conscience on the basis that there was no evidence to prove Philip’s guilt, and that the storm would soon blow over.’

‘It was Kit who found Philip’s body.’

Hannah nodded. ‘I hadn’t forgotten.’

‘If that’s how it happened, it may never be possible to prove Kit’s guilt.’

‘No.’ Hannah fiddled with her teaspoon. ‘Unless — something else happens.’

‘Such as?’

‘If we finally find Callum’s remains.’

Taking risks didn’t faze Aslan. How else could you make something special out of your life? The mistake he’d made so far in his life was that the risks he’d taken had never earned a proper reward.

The butterfly knife lay on his bedside table. He traced a finger along the blade, so gently that the skin did not break. He liked danger, that was the truth of it. It turned him on more than any woman.

Looking through his window, he spotted distant walkers, tiny dots of colour on the grey slopes. His eyesight was keen, his body muscular and strong; he needed to make more of his life before he grew lazy and old. Since arriving in the Lakes, he’d spent time climbing. Once, he’d nearly found himself stranded on Helvellyn when the mists closed in. He was alone, and nobody knew where he was. He’d got away with it, suffering nothing more than bruises as he scrambled down the scree as if his life depended on it. Perhaps it had. He was accustomed to getting away with things; some days he could persuade himself he was invulnerable, and like a denizen of Shangri-La, he would live for ever.

The sun was high, tonight his star would be in the ascendant. His life was going to change, no question. He wasn’t a planner — he was too disorganised a thinker to bother with tactics or strategy. Sometimes you just had to play a card, and see where it fell. In returning to the Lakes, he hadn’t worked out a plan of action. Curiosity had pulled him back. Mum had talked of the Lakes for years after she left Turkey. When he was older, he’d asked about his father, but she hadn’t told him much. Perhaps there wasn’t much to tell. She’d spent a couple of years in England on a student visa, earning a few quid behind a bar to help fund her studies. Mike Hinds came in for a pint one night, and swept her off her feet; almost literally, she told her son. He was a farmer, big and strong as well as intelligent. Enough virtues for her not to mind too much about his temper. For a few weeks, she was in seventh heaven, until a fellow barmaid told her he was married, and forty-eight hours later a pregnancy test came out positive. She plucked up the courage to tell Hinds, fearing a volcanic outpouring of rage. But all he wanted was to solve a problem, and he gave her the money for an abortion, along with plenty of cash to pay for the plane home.

Thank God she was determined to keep me.

Mum stayed in England until after he was born. It seemed strange that she’d given him the name of the man who had let her down, but she said that, in the hospital crib, his newborn face was the image of his father’s.

He was half-English, and Mum remained a passionate Anglophile until the day she died. She’d deserved so much more than the hand-to-mouth existence she’d led. She kept in touch with news from Britain, and she knew all about Callum’s disappearance. It made the national newspapers, and she said she’d thought about contacting Mike Hinds, and letting him know that he still had one son, but she was afraid her child would be rejected, as she had been.

He was intrigued by Callum’s disappearance and wondered if his half-sister knew more about it than had been made public, but he’d never returned to the land of his birth until this year. It wasn’t a conscious avoidance, it was just how it happened. You had to trust to fate. In the States, he almost came a cropper when he sold some drugs to a pretty customer who turned out to be a female cop. A quick getaway saved him, but he was ready for a change of scene. And, for a man who never did things by halves, why not a change of ID as well?

So Aslan Sheikh was born.

The small room was stuffy, even with the window thrown open. He kicked off his shoes and padded off to stand under a cold shower, relishing the jets of water as they smacked against his chest, buttocks and legs.

It was almost a metaphor. Washing away the wrongs of the past. Shutting his eyes, he pictured his mother’s face, and saw a slow smile creep across it.

‘How are you spending the rest of today?’ Daniel asked, as they leafed through the pamphlets in the theatre shop.

‘Praying for an excuse to put off mowing the lawn,’ Hannah said. ‘Occasionally, I remember Marc did have his uses.’

‘Why don’t we take a walk around the lake? Not enough time for a full circuit, obviously, but we can catch the launch back from one of the jetties.’

‘Don’t you have a book to write?’

‘I’m in search of inspiration.’

‘You’re writing about the history of murder, aren’t you; De Quincey and all that? I’m not sure I’m flattered.’

He laughed. ‘While I’m at it, why don’t we come back here for dinner this evening and then watch the play, if they have a couple of tickets left? What the Butler Saw, it’s my favourite by Orton. It’s the one where a character says, We must tell the truth! To which she is told that’s a thoroughly defeatist attitude.’

‘Sounds like a lot of defence lawyers I’ve met.’

‘Can I take that as a yes, then?’

‘So why did you want to meet here?’ Aslan asked. ‘A bit risky, I thought.’

His companion’s eyes settled on the farm buildings. The day was over, and the roaring tractors had fallen silent. Aslan had arrived in good time before his appointment, and he’d caught sight of the farm labourers clambering into the van that would take them to their accommodation in the town. In the old farmhouse, a light shone behind a curtained window.

‘There’s a very good reason, believe me.’

‘Want to share it with me?’

Aslan leant against the side of the slurry tank, as if he’d paused for a casual chat. Not for the first time in his life, he was finding it hard not to sound cocky. So far, so brilliant. The bag at his feet bulged with banknotes. This was a highly professional transaction. A pleasure to do business.

‘Don’t you want to count the money?’

Aslan smiled. ‘Shouldn’t I trust you?’

A shrug. ‘It’s up to you.’

‘Oh well, you’re right. It’s sensible to take precautions.’

Aslan grinned. Crushed in his hand was his tiny mobile. Any messing, and he’d dial 999. And the butterfly knife was sticking out of his jeans pocket, backup if he needed it.

As he bent down, he heard the knife fall to the ground and before he could pick it up, he felt a searing pain in the side of his head. He fumbled frantically with his phone, but the agony was unbearable, and he couldn’t think straight.

His last conscious thought took him back all those years to when he used to watch the cruise ships sailing away from Warnemunde. Sailing beyond the lighthouse and into the unknown.

‘It’s years since I’ve seen an Orton play,’ Hannah said, as they joined the crowd streaming out of the theatre. ‘The last one was Loot. I seem to remember it features a bungling police inspector.’

Daniel cleared his throat. ‘I’m innocent till I’m proved guilty. This is a free country. The law is impartial. To which Inspector Truscott replies, Who’s been filling your head with that rubbish?’

She laughed and mimed applause. ‘Do you have an encyclopaedic recall of loads of British literature?’

‘Only enough to get me through the pub quiz at the Brack Arms.’ They stopped outside the front entrance, letting people bustle past on their way to the car park. Darkness had fallen, but the night was still warm. ‘Speaking of pubs, how about a drink before we head back?’

‘Thanks, but I’ll say no.’ She smiled. ‘It’s been a lovely day, Daniel. I’ve enjoyed seeing you again, and thanks for filling me in on your conversations with poor Orla Payne.’

‘Any time.’

As he bent forward to kiss her cheek, a ringtone pierced the chatter of the passing theatregoers. Hill Street Blues.

‘Shit, that’s me,’ Hannah murmured. ‘Lousy timing, as ever.’

She plucked a phone out of her bag and took a few paces to one side as she listened. He watched as her expression changed from annoyance to alarm.

‘What is it?’ he asked as she finished the call.

‘That was Mario Pinardi,’ she said hoarsely. ‘He’s investigating Orla’s death. And now he has another corpse on his hands.’