The Hanging Wood

CHAPTER NINE

Ugliness was in the eye of the beholder, but Hannah had to admit that Mike Hinds had not been too unfair to the man who had taken away his first wife. Kit Payne’s face and body seemed lopsided, as if the result of inexpert do-it-yourself. Tall, with an egg-shaped head and hunched shoulders, he had a large nose, a receding chin, and teeth as crooked as Chesterfield’s church spire. There was a mournful light in his grey eyes, and the corners of his mouth drooped, as if apologising for his lack of photogenic appeal. Whatever Niamh Hinds once saw in him, it wasn’t good looks.

His office, on the first floor of Madsen High Command, was airy and spacious, reminiscent of an upmarket hotel room, with a leather sofa, plush chairs, and a balcony overlooking the park’s lovingly tended gardens. A shelf next to his desk was crammed with awards and certificates bestowed upon the park by tourism and environmental bodies. Half a dozen photographs showed a woman with dyed red hair, a toothy smile and lots of bronzed flesh. In one picture, she’d posed on the deck of a yacht in a tiny pink bikini. Niamh’s successor, no doubt, someone else able to see past Kit’s lugubrious appearance to the man beyond. Or at least as far as his bank balance.

Once his secretary had supplied bottles of water, he led Hannah and Greg on to the balcony and waved them into wooden chairs. When Hannah expressed her condolences, the egg-head bowed.

‘Poor Orla.’ Kit chewed at a fingernail. ‘I’m not sure she was ever truly happy.’

‘You’ve known her all her life?’

‘Pretty much. I started work here before she was born, although I began in the offices, assisting the operations director. When he retired, I was promoted, and I became friendly with Bryan and Gareth. In those days, the old man was still in charge — Joseph Madsen, I mean. Gareth and I are much the same age, and he’s always been good to me. He was friendly with Mike Hinds, and through him I met Niamh. That was when Orla was a baby.’

‘So, before you began your relationship with her?’

‘Of course.’ Kit’s sallow cheeks suffused with colour. ‘At that time, we were acquaintances, nothing more.’

‘How come Gareth and Mike Hinds were chums?’ Greg asked. ‘They don’t have much in common, do they?’

Kit raised his eyebrows. ‘You’ve met Mike, then?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘Hard work, isn’t he? But Gareth is brilliant with people. Like Mike and Niamh, he and Sally both had young children, it was a bond. Besides, Gareth always believed it is vital to have good relations with the local community. It’s the secret of our success.’

And Bryan Madsen married the lady who inherited the stately home next door, Hannah thought. No wonder the brothers were rich; even their social life was a masterclass in strategic planning.

‘When did you become involved with Niamh Hinds?’

‘Gareth told me their marriage was on the rocks. It saddened him. He liked Niamh, as well as Mike, but it was a match made in Hell. Mike was a womaniser, who had a string of affairs with local girls he picked up in the bars of Keswick, while everyone saw that Niamh wasn’t cut out to be a farmer’s wife. She was lovely and vivacious, but making sure the cows were milked was never a priority for her. I understand why Mike found her frustrating. She was never the easiest woman.’

‘But the two of you …?’

Kit coughed. ‘She and Mike had a blazing row one night. He’d been messing about with some girl in Keswick, not for the first time, and she consoled herself with a retail-therapy binge at the expense of their joint account. He’s never been the sort to seek forgiveness for his sins. Instead, he threw her out of the house, when she was only wearing a nightdress. I used to go for a walk around the park every night, checking that everything was as it should be. I still do, even though we now have state-of-the-art CCTV. I was on my way home when I saw Niamh. Running from Lane End towards Gareth’s house — though I knew he was away at a conference.’

‘Did she ever have a fling with Gareth?’ Greg asked.

‘Certainly not!’ Kit’s voice rose, and a couple walking along the path below glanced up in surprise. If his outrage was faked, Hannah thought, he was in the Charles Laughton class as an actor. ‘Gareth’s a handsome chap, and he’s never been short of female admirers, but he’s not like Mike.’

‘Meaning?’

‘In his younger days, Mike Hinds was pathologically unable to keep it in his trousers. I’m not saying Gareth behaved himself before he met Sally, either, but Mike was reckless. He has a self-destructive streak, if you ask me. Poor Niamh was faithful to him despite the provocations and the mistreatment. At least, until …’

‘Go on,’ Hannah said.

‘That night, we talked. She’d drunk a couple of bottles of Rioja, but I persuaded her to return to the farmhouse and make her peace with Mike. Not a sensible plan, but I didn’t have much experience of marital discord. To be honest, I didn’t have much experience of women, full stop.’ He hesitated, but Hannah’s sympathetic expression encouraged him to continue. ‘I’d only had one significant relationship, and that ended when my girlfriend decided to become a nun. Niamh went home, but she and Mike started arguing again. In the end, she hit him, and blacked his eye.’

Hannah noticed Greg fighting a losing battle to keep a straight face. He loved that line about the girlfriend who fled to a nunnery, rather than get involved with such an ugly bugger.

‘Did her husband retaliate?’

‘Yes, it’s in his nature. An eye for an eye, that’s his philosophy, that’s why I’ve never had a civil word from him, even though Niamh is long-since cold in her grave. He grabbed hold of her arms, and finished up breaking one of them and having to drive her to A and E.’

Kit paused to let his words sink in, but Hannah motioned for him to continue.

‘The next day, I phoned to see how she was, and she told me what he’d done. I was horrified. She needed a shoulder to cry on, and I offered mine. One thing led to another, and within a week she’d walked out on Hinds and moved in with me.’

‘Together with Orla and Callum?’

‘Yes; my life changed overnight. She swept me off my feet, there’s no other way of describing it. Niamh was a challenge, but I was ecstatic. I did everything I could to make her happy to the very end.’ He swallowed, as if embarrassed. ‘As for the children, their rightful place was with their mother, and staying at Lane End Farm wasn’t an option. I was glad to take in the kids, but it was tough on them. Especially on Callum, who resented me for muscling in on their lives. You have to remember, the boy was young.’

‘The two of you had a difficult relationship?’

‘I can’t pretend otherwise, no sense in rewriting history. I was an ignoramus when it came to children. I don’t mind admitting, I made mistakes.’

‘What sort of mistakes?’ Greg had conquered his laughing fit.

‘Oh, I was naive enough to expect them to be polite and well behaved. Orla was no trouble, but Callum made a nuisance of himself at every opportunity. Unfortunately, Niamh refused to let me discipline him.’

Greg exchanged a glance with Hannah. ‘Discipline him how?’

‘Mike Hinds thrashed Callum whenever he stepped out of line, but the one and only time I tapped him on the backside, he ran off to complain to his father, and Mike made a huge fuss. Talk about double standards.’

‘What had Callum done?’

‘He found some beer — I suspected Mike gave it to him, but he refused to admit it. After knocking back the booze, he went out and broke several caravan windows. A stupid act of vandalism. Not hugely important in the scheme of things, perhaps, but embarrassing for me.’

‘When was this?’

‘The week before he disappeared.’

‘Do you think the incident played any part in his disappearance?’

‘Certainly not. The very idea is ridiculous!’

Hannah and Greg kept their mouths shut. Kit’s lower lip was quivering. Perhaps he feared that he’d protested too much.

‘Listen, Chief Inspector, Callum took it in his stride, I can assure you. Mike beat him countless times. I only gave him a single slap.’

‘I see.’ Greg made it sound as though Kit had coughed to grievous bodily harm. ‘So were you really surprised when Callum went missing?’

As Kit opened his mouth, they heard the door open, and a woman’s voice called out.

‘Seen that husband of mine, sweetie?’

Sally Madsen swept on to the balcony. She reeked of perfume, and her white top and shorts displayed acres of orange flesh; she must spend half her life on a sunbed. ‘Sorry, Chief Inspector, didn’t realise Kit was busy.’

‘If Gareth isn’t in his office, he can’t be far away,’ Kit Payne said. ‘We are getting together with Bryan for a sandwich lunch to review the month’s sales figures.’

‘Thanks, sweetie. I only wanted to see if he needed the Merc this afternoon. My little runabout is in for repair.’ Sally Madsen gave a smile so brilliant that Hannah became convinced she’d invested in cosmetic dentistry. ‘Sorry to interrupt. Have fun!’

She left as quickly as she had arrived, but the dynamics of the interview had been wrecked. Sod’s law. Kit had been rocking on his heels, and Sally Madsen’s fortuitous arrival had given him time to regroup.

‘In your first statement to the police,’ Greg said, ‘you admitted you’d had a disagreement with the boy, but you downplayed it. You certainly didn’t mention that you had hit him.’

‘It was a tap, not a beating.’

On the path below the balcony, two couples and their fresh-faced children in tennis kit were knocking a ball back and forth between them. Happy families, but who knew what tensions festered beneath the smiles and chatter?

‘What made you decide Callum’s uncle killed him?’

‘Philip was the last person to see the boy alive, and he committed suicide after a police interrogation. What else could anyone think?’

Convenient, Hannah thought. If Philip hadn’t been tried and found guilty in the court of public opinion, more questions would have been asked about Callum’s relationship with his stepfather.

‘Mr Hinds told us that, when they were small, Orla and Callum loved playing together in the grain. So they were close?’

‘Orla told me about the grain — it stuck in her memory, poor girl. She looked up to Callum, but most of the time he regarded her as a nuisance. I hate to say it, but he was patronising and sarcastic by nature. As well as rather sly.’

Apart from that, a lovely lad, Hannah reflected. ‘How did Orla react when her brother vanished?’

‘She was a dreamer.’ Kit drained his glass of water in a single gulp. His mouth must have been very dry. ‘A fantasist. She seemed to see it all as something out of a storybook.’

‘She was in denial?’

‘In a matter of days she lost her brother and uncle. She found it hard to take in.’

‘When did she give up on the idea that Callum might still be alive?’

‘With hindsight, I’m not sure she ever did. After a year or two, she stopped talking about him. But recently, I discovered she still clung to the belief that he might turn up, safe and sound.’

The sun was grilling Hannah’s forehead. She blinked in the glare, wishing she’d had the foresight to bring a hat. Greg was sprawled out in his chair, soaking up the heat like a holidaymaker. Kit had pushed his own chair back into the shade.

‘How recently?’

‘Oh, since she came back to Keswick. She phoned me one night, when she’d had a skinful. It was like rewinding the years, and trying to make sense of Niamh in her cups. After a few drinks, it was impossible to reason with either of them.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She insisted Callum wasn’t dead, said she’d never accepted that Philip was capable of harming a hair on his head.’

‘Did she explain herself?’

‘Not at all. She seemed to be on a high, and kept repeating, But he’s alive, you don’t understand, he’s alive. She was right, I didn’t understand. In the end, she rang off in disgust because I was being obtuse. Yet the next time we spoke, which was the last time I saw her, she’d changed her tune.’

‘In what way?’

‘She still maintained Philip was a scapegoat, but when I pressed her on why she’d said Callum was alive, she refused to give a straight answer. It was as if she’d suffered a massive disappointment. She seemed desperate to talk about something else, anything else.’

‘When was this?’

Kit Payne’s pale tongue passed over his lips. ‘Last Friday.’

Well, well. ‘As recently as that?’

‘Yes, she called at my house after finishing at St Herbert’s. Glenys had popped out for her weekly get-together with three old school friends; Orla preferred it when she wasn’t around. That pair never found much to talk about together. I made her a pot of tea, but she didn’t stop long. Twenty minutes, maximum.’

‘How did she seem?’

Kit Payne contemplated his bitten nails. What caused his habit, Hannah wondered, stress or bad temper?

‘Absurd as it seems, I think she had finally accepted that Callum was dead, though she still clung to her fantasy that Philip hadn’t killed him.’

‘Daniel! Just the man!’

A greeting that, in Daniel’s experience, never spelt good news. He turned at the door to the Old Library, and saw Professor Micah Bridge walking towards him. There was an ominous quality in the principal’s delight at catching his attention.

‘I hate to disrupt work on your magnum opus, but I wonder if you would be kind enough to spare me a couple of minutes?’

Plainly he meant ten minutes minimum, but Daniel believed in showing good grace when surrendering to the inevitable.

‘Glad to.’

‘Splendid, splendid.’

The principal accompanied him down the corridor to his suite of rooms in the wing at the far end. The charity’s published accounts showed that the salary of the man in charge was pitifully low. But his accommodation was luxurious if old-fashioned, and Daniel suspected Micah Bridge was so unworldly that he might have paid for the privilege of working here.

The bookshelves in the sitting room held the principal’s personal collection of first editions; oil paintings of his predecessors hung on the walls. No television, no sound system, this might have been the home of a nineteenth-century man of letters. Daniel submitted to the leathery embrace of a voluptuous old armchair while the principal rang a bell to summon Jonquil, a student who worked in the restaurant, and ordered Turkish coffee for two before making small talk about the challenges of preserving the De Quincey manuscripts in the Old Library. He was building up to something. Perhaps he’d got wind that Fleur had invited Daniel to become a trustee, and wanted to recruit an ally against the balance sheet barbarians knocking at the gates of Rome.

Turkish coffee was one of the principal’s vices. Jonquil served it piping hot, with glasses of water to freshen the mouth, and slabs of Turkish delight. As they took a taste, the principal murmured, ‘Did I ever mention that, traditionally, the grounds are used for fortune-telling?’

Only three or four times, but Daniel mustered an expression of polite enquiry.

‘It’s a form of tasseography, a discipline we associate more commonly with reading tea leaves. It’s bad luck to interpret grounds from the coffee you have been drinking yourself. An upturned saucer is placed on the cup, and … but you didn’t spare your valuable time to listen to an old man showing off his knowledge of trivial superstitions. As for fortune-telling, I am at present struggling to interpret events of the recent past, let alone look into the future. Daniel, I wish to seek your advice.’

Daniel inclined his head, and waited. The principal’s conversational style meandered like Lakeland lanes. He always took an age to reach his destination.

‘Thank you.’ The principal fiddled with the knot of his tie. ‘I am troubled by the death of young Orla Payne.’

‘Uh-huh?’ Daniel tried to fight off a wild fantasy that he was about to hear some kind of confession. Had Professor Bridge and Orla become embroiled in an affair which led to the young woman’s decision to end it all in such a bizarre fashion? Even his inventive mind boggled.

‘Oh, I realise it’s a nine-day wonder. Suicide while the balance of her mind was disturbed is the inevitable verdict. Yet the truth is more complex. As so often.’

‘I don’t follow.’

The principal took another sip of coffee. ‘Orla found it hard to accept that her brother was dead. And, reflecting after her tragic demise, I have come to a conclusion which I wish to share with you before I speak to the police. If you don’t mind?’

Daniel moved forward in the armchair. ‘Feel free.’

‘In my opinion,’ the principal said, ‘Orla Payne believed that her brother was not only alive, but had turned up here, at St Herbert’s Residential Library.’

‘Seriously?’

‘It took me some time to realise what was going through her mind, and I found the notion equally unpalatable. But she was indeed serious. At least for a short time.’

‘But who …?’

Professor Micah Bridge stared at the stern faces of the men who had once lived and worked in this room, as if hoping for advice. After a few moments, he closed his eyes, unable to defer his revelation any longer.

‘Aslan Sheikh.’

Greg slurped some water, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Why did Orla change her mind about whether Callum was dead?’

‘If I knew that,’ Kit Payne asked, ‘don’t you think I’d have mentioned it already? She was hugging secret knowledge to herself. A habit she picked up from Callum himself, long ago.’

‘The Madsens wouldn’t have been pleased, would they? The fuss when Callum disappeared was bad enough for business. Worse than an outbreak of foot-and-mouth.’

Hannah threw Greg a warning glance; Kit replied with sorrow rather than anger.

‘You do Bryan and Gareth a disservice. All they cared for was Callum being found safe and sound.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. And for what it is worth, our takings actually rose after all the publicity about poor Callum.’ Greg stared. ‘You expect us to believe that?’

‘I promise you, people flocked to Madsen’s that summer.’

‘Like they might slow down to gape as they pass a car crash on a motorway?’

‘Your analogy, not mine, Sergeant. But … yes.’

‘All right.’ Greg began to backtrack. ‘I only meant that there was huge pressure on everyone when Callum went missing.’

‘Stating the obvious, if you don’t mind my saying so.’ Kit Payne specialised in wounded dignity. ‘Bryan Madsen agreed that the park should be turned upside down in the efforts to find Callum. Some of our customers were very unhappy about it, but Niamh and I couldn’t have asked more of the Madsens. They knew my stepson, of course, and they did whatever they could to help. Not that I expected Callum to be found on the site. It was more likely something had happened to him at the farm.’

Hannah leant forward. ‘Such as?’

‘Farms are appalling death traps. And Mike Hinds was never exactly safety conscious. Slurry tanks, heavy plant, dangerous machinery.’

‘Did you and Niamh know that Callum made secret visits to his father?’

Payne shuffled in his chair. ‘I spotted him a couple of times, making his way over to Lane End. I didn’t challenge him about it, and I decided it was better not to mention it to Niamh. If we stopped Callum seeing Hinds …’

‘Yes?’

‘God knows how Hinds would have reacted. His pride took a hammer blow when he lost Niamh, even though their marriage was dead in all but name. A father and a son ought to be allowed to see each other. I decided to turn a blind eye.’

‘How did Callum and his father get on?’

‘Shouldn’t you ask Hinds? I doubt everything was sweetness and light. The boy was … difficult.’

‘You thought it possible that Michael Hinds could have lost his rag with his son, and-?’

‘Please don’t put words in my mouth, Chief Inspector.’ The edge in Kit Payne’s voice reminded Hannah that he’d risen to the top in a ruthlessly competitive business. Softly spoken, yes, but nothing like as soft as he seemed. ‘All I’m saying is that Callum might have had an accident at Lane End. Searching the whole farm took time, but there was no trace of him. Just as there was no sign of him in the Hanging Wood.’

‘What did Philip have to say about Callum’s disappearance?’

‘I heard he was distraught, but whether he was worried for the boy, or in a state because of something he’d done, who can say? I didn’t know him well — I’m not sure anyone did. He was a strange person, content with his own company. Nothing like his brother.’

‘No temper?’

‘None. Mike Hinds hated him because he was ashamed to have a brother who suffered from learning difficulties. They’d grown up together in less enlightened times, but Mike Hinds has not an ounce of compassion in his make-up. Whereas Philip was kind and generous to Orla and Callum, perhaps because he was childlike, too. As time passed, we became desperate, and Niamh was drinking herself into oblivion. The search spread out — not just police officers, but people from all around took part.’

‘Where else did you search?’

‘We combed the gardens of St Herbert’s Library, although to the best of my knowledge, Callum never spent time there. It wasn’t so easy to get permission to look round the Mockbeggar Estate. You’d think that, with a teenager missing, anyone would be glad to do whatever they could to help. Not the old man, Alfred Hopes. He was a recluse, obsessive about personal privacy. Said it was out of the question that Callum could have trespassed on his land. Patently absurd — the grounds were fenced off, but not so effectively that an active boy could be kept out if he was determined to get in.’

‘Did Callum frequent the Mockbeggar Estate?’

‘Not to my knowledge, but we didn’t dare rule it out. The grounds were a jungle, and we were desperate to search them, just in case Callum had got in and then suffered some kind of accident.’

‘Hopes didn’t prevent a search in the end, did he?’

‘No, but he delayed it. He was selfish to a fault. It wouldn’t have hurt him to cooperate from the outset.’

‘Was there any reason to believe that he had an ulterior motive for delaying the search?’

‘Good Lord, no.’ Kit Payne’s eyebrows jumped. ‘Because he lived so close, he would have been aware of Callum’s existence, but I doubt their paths ever crossed. At that time, he was in his late sixties, and suffered from asthma, diabetes, and very severe hypochondria as well. A succession of housekeepers tended to his wants, as well as carers to look after his son Jolyon, who was confined to a wheelchair. They were a sad pair, father and son. They never got on, although Jolyon’s accident bound them together permanently. The old man suspected his boy was a closet homosexual, and that was anathema to a curmudgeon of his vintage. The pair of them felt more at ease with their beloved dogs than fellow human beings.’

‘But Fleur Madsen isn’t like that?’

‘Utterly the reverse, she’s the most charming woman I’ve ever met. I’ve heard her say she thanks God she takes after her mother’s side of the family. Of course, she made her escape from Mockbeggar Hall once she teamed up with Bryan. It was thanks to her that we finally managed to undertake a search of the estate. She persuaded Alfred to allow Gareth to lead a search party.’

‘Why Gareth?’

‘Alfred Hopes and Hinds never got on, and Bryan was recovering from a serious car crash, while Joseph Madsen suffered from persistent ill health. I was occupied with caring for Niamh and Orla. Hinds led a party of his workmen searching the open countryside. Obviously there was a chance Callum had fallen down a ravine or off a fell side, even though he normally kept close to home.’

‘But none of the searches found him.’

‘I suppose we didn’t expect them to. We heard the police were interviewing Philip Hinds in connection with Callum’s disappearance.’

‘What was your take on that news? No smoke without fire?’

‘Putting it like that, Chief Inspector, makes it sound like a witch-hunt. But don’t forget, Hinds’ son was missing. That is why he was prepared to think the unthinkable. That his own brother was responsible for Callum’s death. And then Philip committed suicide.’

‘Perhaps he was just frightened. I’ve read the transcript of his interview. It must have been a terrible ordeal for a man like Philip Hinds.’

‘I’m sure. But when he went home to the Hanging Wood and strung himself up, people drew the inevitable conclusion. I found the body, you know. It is something I shall never, ever forget.’

Down below the balcony, a group of passing teenagers burst into laughter. Their accents were public school posh, their clothes bore designer labels. Hannah and Greg might have been gatecrashing a hideaway for the rich and powerful. Come to think of it, that was exactly what they were doing.

‘According to the file, Philip’s pig went missing, as well as Callum?’

‘Yes. What happened to it, nobody knew.’

‘Bit odd, that the pig should vanish?’

‘There was a rumour that Mike Hinds slaughtered it in a rage, because it had devoured his son, but who could ever prove it?’

‘There was no proof Callum died in the Hanging Wood, or that his remains had been disposed of, or eaten by the pig. This is the countryside, the animal might have gone anywhere. With the pig gone, no tests could be carried out. Forensics hit a blank wall.’

‘We didn’t hear quite so much about DNA evidence in those days, Chief Inspector.’

‘This was only twenty years ago, not the Dark Ages. Genetic fingerprinting was in its infancy, but the detectives who investigated weren’t idiots. They couldn’t find any evidence of what happened to your stepson.’

A weary sigh. ‘The likelihood that Callum was dead shocked me, and devastated my wife. She never properly recovered. If you ask me, three people died in the Hanging Wood, not two.’

‘Yet we don’t know for sure that Callum did die there.’

‘Philip may have buried the body somewhere, but it wasn’t practical to excavate the whole of the Hanging Wood.’

‘Did Philip strike you as a potential killer?’

Kit Payne spread his arms. ‘What do killers look like, how do they behave? Did Philip have the instincts of a paedophile? With hindsight, I simply can’t be sure.’

‘Presumably neither you nor Niamh thought he was a risk, or you wouldn’t have allowed the two children to visit the cottage in the Hanging Wood?’

Kit frowned. ‘One possibility was that Philip put his arm round Callum in a clumsy gesture of affection, or did something else that my stepson misconstrued. Another was that Callum caught him masturbating in the cottage, and said something cruel. If there was a struggle, Callum’s head might have banged against a wall or something. Philip would be terrified by the prospect of trying to explain why the boy was hurt, or even dead. Maybe feeding him to the pig seemed like the easiest solution.’

Quite a long speech, and it sounded rehearsed, as if Kit had his narrative of events ready and waiting for the day when he was questioned.

Hannah stretched out her legs and treated him to a saccharine smile.

Time to rattle his cage.

‘Who else had a reason to harm your stepson?’