The Hanging Wood

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It was sweltering inside St Herbert’s, the atmosphere sauna-like and oppressive. All the windows in the Old Library were open, but it made no difference. Daniel could almost feel the pounds dripping off him in sweat. Much more of this, and he’d look like a wraith. But a change was on its way; the Radio Cumbria weathergirl had warned of a build-up of pressure, and thunder and lightning were forecast for late morning and the afternoon. Everyone Daniel saw seemed heavy-legged and sluggish, as if the humidity had drained their last drops of energy. The Old Library was deserted apart from the librarian, whose footsteps sounded squeaky and unnaturally loud as she trudged to and fro between her desk and the catalogues. Casual readers and residents alike had fled, as though fearing the epidemic of death among members of staff might prove contagious. Even the journalists had abandoned St Herbert’s; Daniel suspected they were circling Lane End Farm like vultures, but at a safe distance, in case Mike Hinds lost it once and for all with his scythe or his gun.

For the first time in their acquaintance, even Professor Micah Bridge had loosened his tie. There was a moist glistening in the deep furrows of his high forehead, and he leant against a bookcase for support. His breathing was an unhealthy rasp; he sounded like a candidate for an imminent stroke. The deaths of Orla and Aslan had diminished him; he seemed to have shrunk, and become infirm before his time. How much more could the principal take?

‘Jolyon Hopes?’ The high scratchy voice echoed in the silence. ‘He was a reckless rider, by all accounts. I heard he took a chance too many with a young and nervous horse.’

‘On the estate?’

‘Goodness me, no. The accident occurred in Cheshire, I believe.’

‘So he was away from home at the time?’

‘He loved horses. The Hopes were renowned as a family of animal lovers, although that did not stop them hunting foxes. I gather he went hunting all over the north of England. His father was devastated by the calamity, of course. Not least because it ruled out any chance of the Hopes name continuing into the next generation.’

‘Was Fleur with him at the hunt?’

‘No, if memory serves, she was on holiday with her husband on a cruise in the West Indies at the time. She flew back to be at her brother’s bedside. In the end, he pulled through, although his vertebrae were smashed beyond repair. He was never able to look after himself again.’

‘Fleur was out of the country at the time of the accident?’ Another theory shot down in flames. Hannah was right to be sceptical.

‘Indeed.’ Micah Bridge pursed his papery lips. ‘Dare I enquire as to the reason for your curiosity?’

Daniel contrived an enigmatic smile. ‘I’m fascinated by stories about families. Like the Hinds and the Paynes. Or the Hopes and the Madsens.’

‘Ah, a true historian of England; those families’ stories concern the perennial struggle between land and trade.’ The principal’s moist eyes locked on him; could he really be as other-worldly as he seemed? ‘Alas, we both know that trade always wins. But your current researches are much more targeted. This book of yours about the history of murder. You are not by any chance suggesting-?’

The double doors leading to the corridor swung open behind them. Daniel did not need to turn round to know who was there. The fragrance was unmistakable.

‘Daniel!’ Fleur Madsen’s voice had an uncharacteristic tremble. ‘I saw your car outside, and guessed you were here. Can we talk?’

‘Sorry, Hannah.’ For once in her life, Terri sounded uncomfortable as she placed the mobile down on the table. Her tan was tinged pink with embarrassment. ‘Zygmunt has changed his mind; he’s wetting himself at the prospect of getting involved.’

Hannah swore under her breath, her shoulders stiffening with anger and frustration. They were sitting opposite Stefan at a table on the pavement outside the Windermere pub where he worked. The stop-start of noisy car engines as the traffic snaked past them, heading lakeside, was making her temples pound, and in the sticky atmosphere the stench of petrol made her throat constrict with nausea. The farm labourer had been due to arrive three-quarters of an hour ago, but he’d failed to show. Stefan finally tracked him down on his mobile, but when Terri took the phone and spoke to the man, the conversation didn’t go to plan, and within a minute, he’d cut her off.

‘He doesn’t have a choice.’ Hannah rapped the table’s metal surface to make her point. It made her feel better, even if her knuckles stung. ‘If he has information that would help our enquiries, he has a duty to share it. He’s not at risk, and even if he were, we could look after him. If he’d rather speak to someone other than me, fine. No way can he put his head below the parapet now.’

‘It’s just that-’

‘Listen, Terri, I’m not pissing about. If he tries to melt away into the landscape, we’ll dig him out. If he keeps his mouth shut, there’s every chance he’ll finish up in a cell, looking at a one-way ticket home. He needs to cooperate, and tell us whatever he knows.’

Terri stared as if Hannah had stepped out of an alien spacecraft. ‘All these years we’ve been friends, you’ve never talked to me like a detective chief inspector before.’

‘Yeah, well, I’m not in the mood for games.’ Hannah didn’t often raise her voice, but she was past caring about making a scene. ‘Mario Pinardi found a body dripping in slurry on Saturday night. He won’t forget the stink of death and shit in a hurry. As for Orla Payne, I spoke to her less than forty-eight hours before she died of suffocation. Two people, laid out on mortuary slabs long before their time, do you wonder I’m not prepared to let this bloke wimp out?’

Terri put up her hands, like a boxer on the ropes warding off a flurry of punches. ‘All right, all right, I’m only trying to help.’

‘Give me the phone.’ Stefan stretched out a beefy arm tattooed with a picture of a mermaid with bee-stung lips, and breasts the size of beach balls. ‘I will talk to him.’

‘I’d be grateful,’ Hannah said, as Terri slid the mobile across the table to him.

Stefan was a man of few words, many of them heavily accented and hard to interpret, but that didn’t faze Terri, who talked enough for two. He seemed to be a man of simple pleasures, content to gaze with quiet approval at Terri’s cleavage, even if it wasn’t quite a match for the mermaid’s.

He redialled and spoke with quick-fire fury in Polish to his friend. Whatever he said left no room for argument. Inside a minute, he rang off and thrust the mobile into his trouser pocket as though he never wanted to see it again.

‘He changes his mind, he will come soon.’

‘Thanks, Stefan,’ Hannah said.

It crossed her mind that it would be a mistake to underestimate Stefan. For all his taciturnity, he seemed strong in temperament as well as in physique. Not in the same league as Mike Hinds, no doubt, but cross him, and sparks would fly. Did Terri know what she was getting into? A question for another day.

‘Perhaps you can spare me five minutes in my office, Daniel?’

Fleur Madsen set a brisk pace across the floor of the Old Library, not waiting for an answer. Shaken she might be, but she had a nervous energy that the heat hadn’t sapped, and she took it for granted that Daniel would follow her lead. Her pallor made a striking contrast with the black trouser suit; she resembled an exquisitely tailored ghost. She’d made it clear she wanted to speak to Daniel in private, and Micah Bridge needed no encouragement to make himself scarce; he seemed to find her very presence intimidating.

As she made a few noises about the awfulness of Aslan’s death, and the insensitivity of so many journalists, she took him to the back staircase. It led to her office, but so did the main staircase, up from the corridor by the reception desk, and it would have been quicker to go that way. He suspected Fleur didn’t want Sham to know they were having a conversation. And he was beginning to think that he could guess why.

Reaching the first floor, Daniel found himself looking down a narrow passageway that ran the length of the building. Halfway along he saw the landing of the main staircase. Doors spaced at irregular intervals opened off the left-hand side of the passage; on the right, windows looked out on to the drive and car park; beneath them were bookshelves crammed with modern first editions. Fleur pointed out a complete run of Graham Swift first editions as she took out a key for the door marked Chair of Trustees. For a few moments, it rattled clumsily in the lock; her hands were shaking, but at last the door opened and she waved him inside.

The room was spacious, with a dedicated workspace, plus a large leather sofa and occasional table for informal one-to-ones. Everything was predictably neat and well organised; Fleur didn’t strike him as a woman who could bear clutter. Was that why she’d never bothered to complicate her life with kids? Her desk was immaculate, with pens, paper clips and rubber bands stored in the compartments of a bronze tidy, and a sleek wireless laptop. A solitary photograph showed her and her husband shaking hands with Margaret Thatcher. The shot must have been taken long ago; Bryan’s hair was still dark and plentiful. Yet Fleur’s appearance had scarcely changed. She looked steely-eyed enough to have been the Iron Lady’s daughter.

As he took a seat at one end of the sofa, she indicated a door set in the side wall. ‘I even have my own bedroom. A bit of a waste, frankly. My predecessor lived in Whitehaven, and often stayed over. But Bryan and I live so close to the Residential Library, I never need to stay the night. I could walk home, if I was in the mood, but that would mean schlepping through the Hanging Wood, unless I made a twenty-minute detour. So I bring the car, and try not to worry about my carbon footprint.’

You’re talking too much. The torrent of small talk must be down to nerves; she was unfamiliar with not being in control of events, and unsure how to cope with a sense of helplessness.

‘So — you wanted a word?’

‘Yes, um, that’s right.’ She turned round the chair at the desk, and straddled it. ‘The librarian tells me you and your sister were researching my family’s records. I wondered-’

‘Orla Payne said something to Aslan about Castor and Pollux. I think he checked Sir Milo’s memoir and found those were the names of two dogs, buried in the grounds of Mockbeggar Hall. They were painted by Millais, in thanks for the hospitality he’d received.’

‘That’s right.’ Fleur swallowed. ‘The painting is a family heirloom.’

‘I believe it usually hangs in the dining room at the Hall.’

She nodded. ‘We moved it during the renovations. It needs to be sent away for cleaning.’

‘So, not moved simply in order that I shouldn’t see it?’ Her jaw dropped, as much at his insolence as in denial that the Madsens might be so Machiavellian. ‘Doesn’t matter. I reckon Orla discovered, or guessed, that her brother Callum was buried along with the dogs.’

A rictus grin. ‘You can’t be serious?’

‘Sorry, Fleur, but I am.’

‘And your friend, DCI Scarlett, I presume you’ve discussed your theory with her?’ He inclined his head. This was why Fleur had asked him up here, he felt sure. To get an understanding of what he’d shared with Hannah. ‘So what does she think?’

‘She’d like to take a look at the pet graveyard.’

‘The Hall estate is private property,’ Fleur said. ‘We have only opened up a part of it to the holiday park’s residents. Dead animals deserve a dignified resting place, as much as dead people. I doubt Bryan would be willing to allow the police to dig up the grounds on a wild fancy.’

‘Much more than a wild fancy, to be fair. At first, Aslan was unclear how Orla had learnt about Castor and Pollux. After all, it wasn’t long ago that she thought he was really Callum. Because she’d locked the door to her room here, he shinned up the outside drainpipe to break in via the window. Hardly any of them shut perfectly, as you know.’

Fleur stared. ‘Aslan did?’

‘I saw him with my own eyes. He pretended to me he’d simply climbed up on to the parapet on a whim. It took him a while to figure out how Orla might have learnt the truth about Callum. As it did me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Orla and Callum had plenty in common.’ He exhaled. ‘Just as Callum was a voyeur, so Orla was an eavesdropper. She heard enough to work out the rest.’

‘Heard from whom?’

He smiled, even though he felt genuine sorrow. ‘From you, Fleur, or from someone you were entertaining here.’

‘Is this some kind of macabre joke, Daniel? If so, I have to say it’s in very poor taste.’

‘No joke,’ he said. ‘A summer’s day, and with your window and hers next door both open, she must have listened to your conversation. My bet is that she heard enough to be sure that she knew not only that Callum was buried in the dogs’ grave, but also who put him there.’

Zygmunt proved to be one of the labourers Hannah had seen when she and Greg Wharf visited Lane End Farm. He’d seemed keen to avoid them, but within five minutes of his arrival in Windermere, he’d relaxed sufficiently for her to start asking questions. Stefan had poured him a pint of bitter, which he downed in a few gulps, and it helped loosen his tongue.

‘You’re sure this was on the day Orla climbed up the grain tower?’

‘Uh-huh.’ He wiped the froth from his mouth. ‘But I didn’t see her. Not then.’

Terri said, ‘Ziggy was with Hinds the farmer when they found Orla Payne’s body. A horrible experience — you must have had nightmares ever since.’

‘It was not good.’

Hannah said, ‘Was this in the morning or the afternoon?’

‘Two o’clock, maybe half past.’

‘And you saw someone around the farm, someone who didn’t work there?’

‘Uh-huh.’

Hannah leant forward. Now for it.

‘Can you give me a description?’

Dark clouds were gathering as Fleur and Daniel pushed through thick clumps of nettles in the wilderness beyond the formal gardens of St Herbert’s. They were heading for the Mockbeggar Estate. Sweat stuck Daniel’s shirt to his chest. He kept mopping his brow with a handkerchief, but only a storm could freshen things up. The weather was about to break, and he’d be soaked to the skin long before he regained the sanctuary of St Herbert’s. But Fleur had promised to take him to see the pet graveyard, an offer he was far too curious to refuse.

A holly hedge thicker than the walls of a mediaeval fortress barred off the Mockbeggar grounds, but the stream at the boundary was low after the long dry spell, and they clambered along its edge like mountain goats. At the bridge carrying the new road from Madsen’s to the Hall, instead of following the road, they kept straight on, through an avenue of lime trees with trunks gnarled in elaborate and beautiful patterns.

‘There it is.’ Fleur pointed to the tall elms in the distance. ‘The Hanging Wood.’

So that was the place where Orla and Callum had loved to play with Philip Hinds. Two children and a childlike man, all destined to die before they grew old. Daniel’s heart thudded with anticipation. Soon he would know the truth about their fate.

Fleur spoke a little about Gareth Madsen and Michael Hinds. Garrulous no longer, she chose her words with as much care as counsel delivering a considered opinion on a finely balanced point of law. Every now and then, she threw him a quick glance, as if to gauge his reaction. No teasing now, no provocative smile.

‘Gareth always liked Mike, not only because of the time they spent as students together, drinking heavily, playing sport and chasing women. Two strong, very masculine men.’

He wasn’t sure whether she meant this as a compliment. ‘But very different from each other?’

‘Yes, but they did have some things in common. Whereas Mike and my husband were chalk and cheese. I’m afraid Mike never cared for Bryan.’

‘And is the feeling mutual?’

‘Bryan never forgave Mike for heckling him once at a political meeting, when Bryan said farmers expected too many handouts from government. A silly argument, but the animosity festered for years. Mike was furious that Bryan invested so much trust and responsibility in Kit Payne. He even blamed Bryan for the break-up of his marriage.’

‘A bit harsh, surely?’

Fleur cast him a curious glance. ‘More than harsh. I’m afraid Mike sometimes seemed … unbalanced.’

‘Presumably, if Niamh hadn’t run to Kit, she’d have found somebody else.’

‘Precisely. She was too much of a free spirit to be a farmer’s wife for ever. Second time around, he married a doormat. Deirdre suited him much better than Niamh. She didn’t mind him wiping his feet on her.’

‘You speak of Mike in the past tense.’

‘Did I?’ For a moment she was flustered. ‘It’s just that … it feels as though nothing will ever be the same again. The deaths of Orla and Aslan have changed everything. Poor Mike, I don’t know how he’ll cope.’

‘You think he might choose to kill himself?’

A long sigh. ‘God, I don’t know. I’m not sure I know anything anymore. I suppose … it’s possible. Farmers have the means of death ready to hand, and Mike might decide he can’t go on any longer.’

‘Because of his grief, you mean?’

‘Grief?’ She shrugged. ‘Guilt, as well, I suppose. Here we are. The animal graveyard.’

Between a couple of the lime trees were a row of unevenly spaced slabs of moss-covered York stone. Each bore an inscription, most of which were so weathered as to be illegible. Daniel bent down over the largest stone; it was the size of a small coffin lid. A child’s coffin lid. Next to it lay a fading red rose. A tribute from Aslan, he guessed. Peering hard, he managed to decipher the words.

Castor and Pollux, semper fidelis.

‘Always faithful,’ she murmured. ‘That’s why we love dogs, isn’t it? They are so much more loyal than human beings.’

Now for it. On the way here, he’d shied away from pressing her, but he needed to know what she knew.

‘How did Callum die, Fleur?’

She took a breath. ‘It was an accident. Mike told Gareth that they had a row about the girl Callum had spied on. Callum had called in at the farm after being with Philip at his cottage. I don’t know the details, but Mike lost his rag and thumped Callum, and the boy lost his footing. They were out in the cobbled yard, and Callum fell on to a saw. It ripped open his throat; Mike said the blood spurted like a geyser.’

‘So why didn’t he call an ambulance?’

‘The boy died almost instantly, Mike said, and so he panicked. His son had been killed in horrific circumstances, and it was his fault. He was sure Niamh would seize on the chance to destroy him. He’d be prosecuted for manslaughter, and was bound to lose the farm. His life would be over. His only thought was to save himself.’

‘So he buried his own son’s body in a dog’s grave?’

Fleur’s features were frozen into a mask. ‘Yes, when we stand here and discuss it, Mike’s cruelty seems unimaginable. And yet I don’t suppose it seemed like that for him. Nothing he could do would bring Callum back to life.’

‘Why not hide the corpse on his own land?’

‘I simply don’t know, but I guess he thought that, if it were ever found, the finger of suspicion could only point at him. Although he was in a panic, he knew better than to risk his own neck.’

‘And then he put the blame on his own brother, and drove him to suicide?’ Daniel had never met Michael Hinds, but the man Fleur described sounded like a monster.

‘I suppose he was afraid Philip would tell people that Callum had gone to Lane End and he’d fall under suspicion himself.’

Daniel felt drops of rain moisten his hair.

‘And when did you find out about this?’

‘Gareth told me shortly before Orla died. He and Mike had a few drinks one night, and the alcohol loosened Mike’s tongue. He was in a bad way, because Orla’s return to the Lakes had spooked him. She’d developed an obsession about Callum, she kept raking up old ground. And I suppose his conscience kept plaguing him.’

‘Why confide in Gareth, after keeping his mouth shut for twenty years?’

‘It’s a long time to keep such a dreadful secret. Perhaps there was nobody else he trusted, perhaps it was simply a cry for help. Not that there was much Gareth could do.’

‘But he told you Callum was buried along with Castor and Pollux?’

‘Yes, he came to St Herbert’s one day for a private chat. It wasn’t something we could discuss at the caravan park, in case someone interrupted us. He was desperate to make sure that Bryan didn’t know.’

‘Because Bryan would go straight to the police?’

She nodded. ‘He’d see it as a civic duty. Never mind what it meant for Mike Hinds.’

‘You like Mike Hinds rather more than your husband does?’

‘No, I don’t much care for him. But he was Gareth’s friend, and he’d suffered a good deal.’

Again the past tense, he noticed. ‘Gareth told you the story in your room on the first floor, and Orla, who was next door, overheard because the windows were open?’

‘Stupid of us, but we didn’t think. Frankly, I was so stunned by what Gareth said, it knocked me sideways. All those years, I assumed Philip was responsible for Callum’s disappearance. Gareth made me swear that I wouldn’t breathe a word about Mike. It was desperately difficult to keep it to myself, but before I could work out what to do, Orla killed herself. I’ve been haunted by guilt ever since.’

‘How exactly did Orla come to die?’

She wiped a raindrop from her cheek. ‘I suppose she was mortified by what she’d heard. Not just that Callum was unquestionably dead, but their father had concealed his body here. I feel awful about it. That simply because I lent my brother-in-law a listening ear, a young woman was driven to commit suicide.’

‘It was a symbolic gesture to go to Lane End Farm to end it all?’

‘Presumably. Heaven only knows what dark thoughts go through such a troubled mind. Poor girl, perhaps she wanted to talk to her father; perhaps she actually did.’

‘And Aslan Sheikh?’

‘Orla didn’t tell him the whole story, as I understand it, but she let enough slip for him to work out that Mike had something to hide. Again, I can only guess at his reaction. I suspect he was more interested in Mike’s money than in a family reunion.’

‘You think Aslan tried to blackmail his father, and Mike’s response was to hit him over the head and throw him in a tank of slurry?’

‘How can I know what to think, Daniel?’ The mask splintered, and she gave him an imploring look. ‘All I know is that there have been too many deaths. It really has to end.’

‘And how do you expect it to end?’ he asked softly.

Was that a tear in her eye, or simply another splash of rain?

‘I dread to think,’ she whispered. ‘I dread to think.’

His throat constricted. ‘By Mike Hinds … doing the decent thing for once in his life?’

She stared at the ground. ‘Gareth doesn’t think Mike can take any more. He’s urged him to make a clean breast of everything, to set the record straight. But I don’t know if he’s up to that.’

The rain was spattering on the leaves above them. Soon they would be drenched.

‘He has no choice.’

‘I hate to say it, Daniel, but you’re wrong.’ Her voice was no more than a whisper. ‘Things have gone too far.’

‘Mario, where are you?’

‘In the incident room. What’s up, Hannah?’

‘I’m on my way to Keswick.’ She was talking hands-free as she sped along the main road from Windermere, only a couple of miles from Ambleside. ‘I have a witness who saw someone lurking around Lane End Farm, the afternoon Orla Payne died. You need to get over there. I’ll tag along, if it’s OK by you.’

‘Be my guest, it’s always good to work with you. But what’s the hurry?’

‘Enough people have died already. We don’t want any more bodies on our hands.’

Mario’s voice was taut. ‘You think the murderer might kill … someone else?’

‘Or himself,’ she said.

Daniel and Fleur parted at the bridge. She said she wanted to go back to the Hall, and check that the maintenance work was on schedule. He suspected it was an excuse. She wanted time to herself, and privacy.

The rain whipped him as if he were a galley slave. He heard a rumble of thunder. Time to move fast, and get away from the trees during the storm. But something made him linger on the bridge’s parapet, watching Fleur’s retreating back as she hurried towards her ancestral home.

There was no doubting her horror at everything that had occurred to the children of Michael Hinds. No doubting, either, that she was afraid. But afraid of Hinds topping himself? He wasn’t sure. If she was right, and the man had caused the deaths of all three of his children, it might seem the best way out.

He fished his mobile out of his pocket. Better speak to Hannah, and let her know everything Fleur had told him.

Fleur had become a tiny doll-like figure, blurred by the slanting rain as she scurried along towards the Hall’s front entrance. Oblivious to the downpour, he fastened his eyes on her again, wondering what thoughts were swimming round inside her head.

Wondering why the story she had spun sounded to his ears like one of Orla’s favourite fairy tales.

He couldn’t believe it.