The Serpent Pool

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Marc’s mother had suffered from insomnia ever since the day ten years ago when she woke up next to her husband to find that he’d died while she slept. She was up at five, and Marc lay in the room adjoining hers, listening as she shuffled about downstairs. All night, he’d tossed and turned, excited yet fearful that everything might go wrong.

Pale streaks of dawn crept through the curtains, furtive as trespassers. Birds chirruped on the branches outside. He levered himself from the warmth of the bed, shivering as he peered through the window. A haze hung over Morecambe Bay, but he saw none of the snow that had slanted down the previous evening as he drove from Ambleside to Grange. Perched on the slopes of the Cartmel Peninsula, the resort was sheltered by fells, and warmed by the Gulf Stream. It liked to think of itself as Cumbria’s Riviera. The climate was mild enough for a palm tree to have grown old in Mrs Amos’s small, steep front garden, although this morning, crystals of frost coated the leaves.

His mother had asked no questions when he phoned and asked for a room for the night. Give her half an hour, she’d said, and a bed would be made up and ready in his old room. She didn’t approve of Hannah’s job, and therefore of Hannah herself. He knew that, secretly, she would never think any woman good enough for him, but she contented herself with just an occasional snipe from the sidelines.

They breakfasted together, but he resisted her conversational gambits and, in silent reproach, she switched on the radio. He lingered over a second cup of milky tea, anxious to catch up with the local headlines. Police had confirmed that the body found in the grounds of Stuart Wagg’s house belonged to the well-known solicitor. Fern Larter explained that a witness had seen a small purple hatchback parked on the verge next to the house on the day of Wagg’s death, and asked the owner, or anyone who had seen the vehicle, to contact the police.

Back to the breakfast show presenter. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘here’s an oldie but goodie from Rupert Holmes.’

Marc winced as he listened to the words.

‘Over by the window, there’s a pack of cigarettes,

Not my brand, you understand,

Sometimes the girl forgets,

She forgets to hide them,

But I know who left those smokes behind,

She’ll say, “Ah, he’s just a friend,”

And I’ll say, “I’m not blind

To…

Him, him, him,

What’s she gonna do about him?”’

So what was Hannah going to do about Daniel Kind? He turned the radio off with such force that he almost snapped the knob.

His mother exclaimed with annoyance, ‘I was listening to that! So much nicer than the news. All these murders. I suppose Hannah is up to her neck in them?’

‘She investigates old, unsolved mysteries, remember? Cold cases.’

Mrs Amos sniffed to demonstrate what she thought of cold cases.

‘We’re not safe in our beds these days. They should build more prisons.’

An eerily cheerful weathergirl warned of dense fog blanketing northern and central parts of the county. The best advice was not to travel if your journey wasn’t really necessary. Mrs Amos clicked her tongue and said she blamed global warming.

Marc swallowed a last mouthful of tea and announced that he was setting off for a walk before he went into the bookshop.

‘Should you be driving at all if the fog-?’

‘Look outside, Mum,’ he said. ‘There’s even a glimmer of sun in the sky over the Bay.’

‘Well, I suppose you know best. But do wear something warm, dear.’

Once a mother, always a mother.

He kissed her leathery cheek and set off for the old promenade. Threads of mist gathered around the fells above the town, and he supposed that Undercrag would be wrapped in a cold grey shroud. Hannah’s problem, not his. She should never have set up secret meetings with Daniel Kind.

He passed the causeway leading to Holme Island, nowadays separated from the mainland by yellow-brown spartina grass so rampant and powerful that some people said it was all that saved the promenade from destruction by the waves. Sheep grazed where once children built sandcastles. Eventually, they’d have to rename the town Grange-over-Grass. Even the metal posts from a long-gone pier had been engulfed by the salt flats.

He leant on the railings at the spot which marked the end of an invisible route across the Bay. A month after his first date with Hannah, he’d taken her on the eight-mile walk from Arnside to Grange, led by a guide who knew the shifting sands like the back of his hand. At times, the water reached up to their thighs. One false move, and you were sunk. That summer Sunday afternoon, the hint of danger added a frisson as he squeezed her hand and whispered what they’d do when he got her back home.

Along the way, they’d watched oystercatchers probing for shellfish, and ducks whirring overhead, while she’d listened to his stories about books with the intense concentration of a woman newly in love. He told her about chancing upon the handwritten manuscript of a famous mystery novel in a Lunedale junk shop and selling it to a Japanese collector for a small fortune. The murderer in the story constructed an ingenious alibi. It was only broken when the detective realised the suspect could have reached the victim in time if he travelled, not around the long and winding coast roads, but diagonally across the still waters of the Bay.

Murder, murder, everywhere.

Times changed, familiarity bred boredom. Hannah was weary of books, and his business. Weary of him, too; he was afraid he didn’t turn her on the way he once had. Cassie was different. She was younger, not obsessed with her own career, but the clues suggested she fell for men who adored her, yet let her down in the end. She was ready for kindness. Last night, he’d sent her a text the moment Hannah slammed the door behind her on her way for a tryst with Daniel Kind.

What r u doing 2mrw?

Cassie wasn’t down to work a shift at the shop; and he didn’t need her to provide cover. In addition to Zoe, Judith, a long-serving part-timer, was due in today. He craved Cassie’s company, the ache of emptiness like a physical hunger, chewing at his guts.

Within thirty seconds, she texted back:

Nada.

Straight away, he asked if she fancied a drink, but she’d replied Sorry, no can do.

Shit; was the boyfriend back on the scene? Feeling sick in the pit of his stomach, he punched out another message, wanting to know if they could meet in the morning.

Another instant reply.

Love to.

She even added a couple of kisses.

On a clear day, you could see Blackpool Tower from the crumbling promenade, but this morning he could barely make out the water stretching beyond Holme. The sun had fled, leaving the sky as grey and cloudy as a fortune-teller’s ball. But who cared? His spine tingled.

Go for it.

He fished his mobile out of his pocket.

‘Daniel.’ Hannah’s voice was soft in his ear. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’

He rubbed his eyes. Seven-thirty, and the phone’s relentless wail had dragged him from under the duvet. Thank God he’d resisted the temptation to let it ring. He’d not climbed into bed until three that morning. Too tense to sleep, he’d switched on his laptop, determined to chisel the final paragraphs of his talk for Arlo Denstone’s Festival. He hated missing deadlines, often labouring long and late into the night to meet an editor’s timescale, and he’d crafted a dozen fresh sentences to sum up Thomas De Quincey and the fine art of murder.

But his heart was no longer in his subject. It was one thing to play witty and imaginative games with the notion of murder for pleasure, quite another to stumble across its cold reality. There was nothing exhilarating about murder in the flesh. For all its brilliance, De Quincey’s gleeful prose was streaked with cruelty, and Daniel saw something repellent in his morbid fantasies of vengeance. De Quincey was a voyeur, ogling murderers from a safe distance. His addiction to violent death might have been cured if he’d ever looked down into a disused well, and seen and smelt a rotting corpse.

‘Hello, Hannah.’

He squeezed the phone so tight it hurt. To prove he wasn’t dreaming? His brain was sluggish, he needed a cold shower and a hot coffee. But she wouldn’t call at this hour unless it was urgent.

‘You said something about Stuart Wagg last night. I was knackered, otherwise I’d have picked up on it at the time.’

‘Sorry, I don’t-’

‘It hit me at half four this morning. Woke me up.’

He blinked hard. ‘What’s bugging you, Hannah?’

‘You mentioned he suffered from claustrophobia.’

‘Louise told me. It was no secret. Apparently, he never even used the lift at the office, he always took the stairs up to his room on the top floor.’

‘So, that’s why his architect designed Crag Gill with such vast rooms, and archways instead of doors?’

‘Yes, even though he made a joke of it, the fear was real. Louise said that when he was at school, another kid locked him in a cupboard as a prank, and Stuart was scared witless. He never quite got over the trauma. Hard to imagine a more agonising death for him. To be trapped underground, with no hope of escape.’

While Hannah absorbed this in silence, he moved to the window and nudged the curtains apart. Fog shrouded the cipher garden. Trees and bushes were dark, shapeless forms. The tarn was invisible. He might have been anywhere.

‘Perfect,’ she said at last. ‘Thanks for your help.’

‘What is this about?’

‘The link between Stuart’s murder and the other two deaths.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Me neither. But believe me, I will.’

Her voice hardened. Raw anger, he thought, on the behalf of the victims. He’d heard the same edge of furious determination before, in the days when his father lived at home.

‘What do you think it means?’ When she hesitated, he said. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t ask.’

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘If you really want to know.’

A moment of intimacy, like the night before. He had to give her the chance to change her mind, and back away.

‘I don’t want you to breach confidentiality.’

‘It’s not against the rules to think aloud,’ she said. ‘OK, here goes. Bethany Friend was afraid of water, George Saffell was terrified of pain and dreaded losing his book collection, and Stuart Wagg was claustrophobic. Their lives all ended in circumstances that they would have found truly appalling.’

Hannah’s heart beat faster as she dropped the phone into its cradle. Mustn’t let thoughts of Daniel distract her; she had enough on her plate. It had seemed strange, to wake up alone, even though Marc often stayed away from home, when exhibiting at book fairs, or visiting collectors with books to sell. But this morning was different. The draughty, echoing house felt too big for her. She didn’t know when he’d be back. Or if.

She checked her mobile to see if he’d sent a text. Nothing. The mean sod. If he was staying with his mother, he’d soon tire of the tug of her apron strings. OK, let him sweat. No way was she going to make the first move. Not today, at any rate.

Number one priority was to report that Bethany Friend had worked for Amos Books before moving to the university. Whatever she said to Daniel in rare moments of bravado, if she screwed this case up, her career would be flushed down the pan. Lauren would have to be told that Marc knew Bethany, but first she wanted to break the news to Fern Larter. She texted Fern, asking to see her before the joint team briefing. The reply was instant. Fern was in a buoyant mood, pleased with her crack-of-dawn radio interview and that the investigation into George Saffell’s death, stalled for so long, was at last on the move.

The grass outside Undercrag did not look frozen, but when she stood on it to de-ice the windscreen of the Lexus, it felt as hard and crunchy as icing on a cake. The frost had preserved countless deer slots and Hannah wondered if, while she slept, a large number of the animals had roamed outside her home in the moonlight. Or maybe a handful of them had danced round and round in ever-decreasing circles. She knew exactly what that felt like.

The fog clutched at her throat as she locked the front door, and turned the journey to Kendal into a nerve-wracking crawl. Hannah hated fog, and the way it stagnated in the valleys, transforming the Lakes into a cold and alien land. And she hated driving through it even more. You could never tell what lay round the next bend. A car without lights, a multi-vehicle pile-up.

The twists of the road demanded all her concentration. But she couldn’t rid her mind of a single image: the rictus of anger on Wanda Saffell’s face, on New Year’s Eve, as she threw red wine over Arlo Denstone’s white jacket. Wanda was drunk that night, and a woman scorned. But did the incident reveal a dangerous lack of restraint? Was she capable of much worse than making a scene at a party? Or was Hannah simply hoping so because she’d hinted that Marc had slept with Bethany?

She made straight for Fern’s office. Fern organised a coffee for each of them and spent five minutes putting things into perspective. Marc needed to be interviewed, for the record. If he could contribute anything more to the inquiry, fine. But Bethany had finished at the bookshop months before her death. She’d had countless previous jobs if you included all her part-time stints behind bars or waiting on table. It was no big deal.

‘Marc has moved out,’ Hannah said.

Fern swallowed a mouthful of coffee. The slogan on her coaster read Well-behaved women seldom make history.

‘After you read him the riot act?’

‘He ought to have been upfront, and admitted that he knew her. Not leave me to find out from Wanda Saffell.’

As she spoke, she realised she sounded flinty and uncompromising. Mulish was how Marc described her in this kind of mood.

‘Yeah, but we don’t always do the right thing, do we? He must have worried that you’d react badly.’

‘He was right to worry.’

Fern put her head on one side, as if this might help her read Hannah’s mind. ‘You’re not seriously thinking that he might have anything to do with Bethany’s death?’

‘No…’

‘Well, then.’ Fern stood up. ‘With a bit of luck, he’ll come to his senses. And so will you. All right, let’s marshal the troops.’

The joint team briefing threw out questions like sparks from a Catherine wheel. None of the radiators were working, but for once nobody complained. The detectives working for Fern on the suspected murder of George Saffell had run into a brick wall. Discovering fresh lines of inquiry gave them an adrenaline rush.

Fern reported that CSIs continued to swarm over Stuart Wagg’s home in the hope of finding forensic evidence to link his murder with the fatal fire in the Ullswater boathouse. Differences in the MO did not disguise similarities between the cases. Two wealthy professionals, who moved in the same social circles, and even shared the same expensive hobby, both killed at home. Nobody believed the choice of victims was random. The murderer must be known to both victims. Throw into the mix a possible sighting of the culprit’s car, and no wonder the room buzzed with anticipation.

A farm worker had spotted a small purple car parked across the road from Crag Gill for three-quarters of an hour shortly after the last known sighting of Stuart Wagg by Louise Kind. The car was tucked away among the trees, but the man had seen it from his tractor cab, as he travelled to and from a nearby field. The windows were steamed up and he’d supposed a couple of teenagers were getting it together inside. If only he’d given a more precise description; in a perfect world, he’d have noted the registration number too. But the world wasn’t perfect, and he knew more about tractors than cars. Maybe it was a Nissan Micra, maybe something else. Even so, the sighting was a break.

Now Hannah had raised a possible link with the unexplained drowning of Bethany Friend in the Serpent Pool. Bethany, like the two men, had a passion for books — and she’d worked for both their firms. And then there was the connection between the psychology of the victims. Each of the three victims had died in terror.

‘Should we call in a profiler?’ asked a young DC called Ciaran who had the manner of an eager puppy.

Hannah ignored the mutterings from the sceptics, Greg Wharf among them, who stood at the back of the room. For some detectives, psychological profilers ranked with witch ball-gazers and folk who offered racing tips, but you couldn’t ignore any tool in the box.

‘We’ve put a call in to Trudy Groenewald at Lancaster University. She’s due here to look over the files this afternoon.’

‘Why the six-year gap between the crimes?’ a DS in Fern’s team asked.

‘Of course, we’re keeping an open mind about whether the deaths are connected. Bethany’s hydrophobia might just be a coincidence. But if the same person or people are responsible for all three deaths, there may be various explanations for the years of inactivity.’

‘For example, that the killer hasn’t been inactive,’ Hannah added. ‘There may be other deaths in the meantime where a connection hasn’t been identified. Think of the MO in the Bethany Friend case. Drowning didn’t exclude the possibility of suicide. With Saffell, the killer didn’t try so hard to disguise the murder. And Wagg couldn’t have killed himself. We have a progression, a murderer becoming increasingly reckless. And we can’t rule out that there were other victims, after Bethany and before Saffell.’

‘Ciaran, I want you to check the records,’ Fern said. ‘Do any other cases fit the pattern? Remember, assumption is the mother of all cock-ups. But if we’re just looking at these three deaths, we need to focus on sadists who spent the past six years out of circulation. In prison, for instance — anyone released last autumn who fits the bill? A job for you, Roz.’

Roz nodded. A dark-haired DC with a toothpick figure, she’d attracted a couple of glances from Greg Wharf. Whether she fancied him or not, she was smart enough not to give the slightest hint that she was aware of his existence.

‘Nathan Clare was in Ambleside yesterday evening.’ Hannah indicated his photograph on the whiteboard, a shot in which he looked more like an apeman than ever. ‘Locked in an embrace with Wanda Saffell. Nathan was Bethany’s lover, although he left her to start an affair with Wanda. And Wanda worked with Bethany, claimed to be her friend. All this was long before she met George.’

‘And the connection with Wagg?’ asked Ciaran.

‘She had a fling with him during her marriage to Saffell. And she was a guest at his New Year party. She was pissed out of her mind, and threw wine all over a man who was rude enough to say no when she propositioned him.’

‘Donna and I broke the news that her husband was dead,’ Ciaran said. ‘She didn’t shed a single tear.’

‘She’s a flake,’ Donna diagnosed. ‘Alcoholic too, if you ask me.’

‘Stuart Wagg had a history of dumping his lovers,’ Hannah said. ‘He was pretty brutal about it: his policy was to go for a clean break, not to let the woman down gently.’

‘He got away with it,’ Fern said. ‘Until the day before yesterday, when his luck ran out.’

‘Suppose Wanda had a grudge against him,’ Maggie Eyre said. ‘What motive could she have for harming Bethany Friend? She was a gentle soul. People liked her.’

‘But she was confused about her sexuality. Maybe the relationship she had before Nathan Clare was with a woman,’ Hannah said.

‘You think she and Wanda slept together?’ the puppy asked.

‘The original investigation never picked up anything. But Wanda isn’t short of charisma, and Bethany was pretty and impressionable. She’d had a crush on a teacher when she was at school, and she liked older lovers. Nathan Clare, for instance. Maybe she and Wanda fancied an experiment.’

A furrow appeared in Maggie Eyre’s forehead. She wasn’t the quickest thinker in the room, but she gnawed at problems as if they were chicken legs.

‘If we put Wanda in the frame, doesn’t the connection between the cases break down? The relationships ended in different ways. If Stuart dumped Wanda, revenge might be a motive for her to murder him. But Bethany was dumped by her lover, we were told. Not the other way around. Just like she was dumped by Nathan Clare.’

‘We don’t know for sure there was a relationship between Wanda and Bethany,’ Fern said. ‘But DCI Scarlett and I agree about the importance of close liaison. Assuming a link between the cold and current cases, we’re not going to be territorial about this. Maggie and Liam will cross-check the lists of people who had a connection with Bethany against those associated with Saffell and Wagg. Meanwhile, DCI Scarlett will question both Nathan Clare and Wanda Saffell again.’

‘Pissing in the dark, aren’t we?’

Greg Wharf’s murmur was so audible, he must have meant everyone to hear. His hands were behind his head. For the past half hour, he’d been leaning so far back in his plastic chair as to be in imminent danger of tipping over onto his backside. No such luck, but that was Greg for you. Never quite as unbalanced as he seemed. He’d kept so quiet, Hannah wondered if he was sickening for something. But he’d just been biding his time, waiting for the chance to make waves.

‘All right, Greg,’ Fern said. ‘Let’s have the benefit of your wisdom, eh?’

‘So, Bethany knew Wanda, George and Stuart through work, so what? This is the Lake District. The most incestuous bloody place in Britain, if you ask me. Leave out the tourists and itinerants, and everybody knows everybody else. Sometimes seems like everybody shags everybody else, too; it’s the only thing to do in this bloody place during the long, cold nights of winter.’

Maggie Eyre, fiercely loyal to her home turf, turned crimson with outrage. She shot him an angry look, but it would take more than that to bother Greg Wharf.

‘We need to face facts. If every dodgy relationship led to murder, the streets of Windermere would be as deserted as Wasdale.’

Fern intercepted the glance he tossed at Hannah.

‘Hang on, Greg. Touch of exaggeration there, don’t you think? Grasmere isn’t exactly Gomorrah.’

He shrugged. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘Sure, but you know rejection can be painful. It breeds resentment, might even be a motive for murder. Though I guess you’re lucky, and nobody’s ever turned you down.’

Donna sniggered, and Roz raised her neat eyebrows, but Fern’s sarcasm bounced off Greg Wharf like slingshot fire off armour-plating.

‘These people live in each others’ pockets. If someone knows one of the murder victims — assuming they were all murdered — chances are, they will know the others. The question isn’t whether Wanda was one of Wagg’s fancy women, never mind Bethany’s. What we really want to know is this…’ He allowed himself a rhetorical pause, a performer skilled at holding an audience in the palm of his hand. ‘A woman drowned, a man burnt to a cinder, another buried alive. So brutal — but why?’

Fern frowned. ‘And your answer?’

‘Sorry, don’t have one. That’s why I’m still a DS.’

He leant back even further in his chair, testing gravity to the limit. Drawing everyone’s eyes to him. A sly smile crept across his face, and Hannah saw how much he loved to be the centre of attention.

‘One thing is for sure. The motive has to be powerful. Overwhelming, I’d say. Never mind profilers, we need to ask what could drive someone to such extremes? Find that out, and we’ll find our murderer.’

On her way out of Divisional HQ, Hannah looked in on Fern’s office. Both of them were pleased with the briefing, except for the last few minutes.

‘Bloody Greg Wharf,’ Fern said. ‘Complete pain in the arse.’

‘I’ll have a word with him after I’ve seen Clare and Saffell.’ Hannah hesitated. ‘There is just one thing.’ Fern gave her a curious look. ‘What?’

‘Has Greg worked this patch before?’

‘Don’t think so. Spent most of his career in Newcastle, hasn’t he?’

‘Can you check if he ever had a secondment on this side of the Pennines? Keep it low-key, I’m just ticking a box.’

Fern was suspicious. ‘So, what box do you want to tick?’

‘Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m sure there’s nothing in it.’

‘Come on.’

‘Well, he arrived in the county a month before Saffell was killed. If he was around six years ago…’ Fern laughed. ‘You can’t seriously believe he had anything to do with those three deaths?’

‘No, but…’

A wicked glint came into Fern’s eyes. ‘Yeah, but I catch your drift. Won’t do any harm to rattle his cage, will it?’

‘I’ve moved out,’ Marc said.

Cassie took a long time to answer. He began to worry that she’d hang up. For the past hour, he’d kept wandering the streets; now he was perched on a low wall near the library. This was the third time he’d called her. Until now, her phone had been switched to voicemail. He’d left two messages, but she hadn’t called back. Busy, or simply playing hard to get?

‘You’ve left home?’ Her voice was small and wondering, like a child’s at Christmas. ‘I never expected-’

‘Things are…difficult.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. Hannah’s seeing someone else.’

‘What makes you think so?’

‘I know so. The man is Daniel Kind, the television historian. They’ve been meeting in secret. She used to have a soft spot for his father. Daniel’s better looking and more successful than his old man; no wonder she’s acting like a star-struck teenager.’

‘She’ll get over it. And come back to you.’

He took a breath. ‘I’m not sure either of us want that.’

Was that true? He didn’t know, he wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

‘Really?’

He didn’t answer.

‘So, where are you?’

‘Staying with Mum in Grange. For a day or two, while I make plans.’

Another pause. What was Cassie thinking?

‘And what plans do you have in mind, exactly?’ she asked.

‘Hate to disappoint you, Hannah, my dear, but not only don’t I own a car, I never even learnt to drive. My contribution to saving the planet, you know. Sorry I can’t be of more assistance.’

If Nathan Clare experienced even a twinge of dismay at his inability to help, he hid it with an insolent leer. Payback for Hannah’s temerity in interrupting his day.

They were sipping allegedly hot, but actually tepid, chocolate in a draughty cafeteria on the Staveley campus of the University of South Lakeland. There wasn’t a student in sight: term hadn’t started yet, and in any event, Hannah guessed the first thing they learnt here was the inadequacy of the catering. Clare had been summoned to a meeting of external lecturers, and at first he’d insisted he didn’t have time to fit her into his busy schedule. When she offered an alternative of an interview at Busher Walk, he grudgingly agreed to spare her ten minutes. No more, he was a busy man.

‘How do you get around?’

‘Some of us possess genuine green credentials.’ He tutted in mock rebuke. ‘I’m a passionate believer in public transport. If only the people who run the trains and buses shared my faith, all would be well. As it is, I do a lot of walking.’

Hannah suppressed a groan of irritation. She’d hoped against hope he might blurt out something that contradicted what he had told Fern. Suppose he’d lent Wanda a car to drive to Crag Gill? But it had been the longest of long shots. Nathan Clare might not be as clever as he thought he was, but he wasn’t stupid.

‘And Wanda Saffell?’

‘She drives a sports car. A BMW, I believe, but you’ll need to confirm that. Cars mean nothing to me.’

‘She doesn’t happen to have a second car?’

His nose twitched, as if smelling sour milk. ‘Why would she bother with two cars?’

‘She could afford to buy a runabout. What about her late husband’s car?’

With exaggerated patience, he said, ‘George’s car was leased by his firm, I remember her mentioning that it went back when he died.’

‘It’s clear the two of you are very close.’ He took a swig from his mug, and the chocolate left a frothy moustache.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘You don’t deny it?’

‘You know Wanda and I have been friends for years.’ He wiped his mouth, rather to Hannah’s regret. ‘She admires my work. Why do you think she published my latest book of poetry?’

‘Because you sleep with her?’

‘Hannah, you have a waspish tongue in that pretty head of yours. No one would ever realise.’

‘So, you admit that you and she are lovers?’

‘It’s no cause for shame. Wanda and I have been intimate for years.’ His long tongue licked the rim of his mug. ‘Off and on, as you might say.’

‘You first slept together around the time of Bethany’s death.’

His brows knitted together, increasing his resemblance to an ill-tempered gorilla. ‘Poor Bethany’s death had nothing to do with our relationship. Or with either of us.’

‘Did she commit adultery during her marriage to George Saffell?’

‘I would not presume to speak for Wanda.’

‘Did she sleep with you before he died?’

He shook his head. ‘A gentleman never tells. Suffice to say, we all deserve a little treat, now and then. Live for the moment is a good philosophy, don’t you agree?’

‘Did you know Saffell personally?’

‘We weren’t friends, we had nothing in common, except that we’d both shagged Wanda. Not that the poor old fellow did it particularly well, I gather. As for books, their appeal for him was as items for his collection. His understanding of literature itself was skin-deep.’

He’d answered a question she hadn’t asked. ‘So, you did meet him?’

‘Our paths crossed a few times. His firm sponsored various university activities. Showing the acceptable face of estate agency by subsidising the work of needy academics. I bumped into him once or twice at events.’

‘What form of sponsorship?’

‘I struggle to recall. The bursar can provide you with the details. He and the vice chancellor will still be in mourning. Losing George Saffell’s munificence must have hit the university hard. I expect they’ll use it as an excuse to hike up tuition fees.’

‘Wanda must be a wealthy lady. No wonder you were keen to renew the relationship.’

‘I couldn’t care less about Wanda’s money.’

‘Is that so?’ At last she’d touched a nerve. ‘What were you saying about deserving academics? How refreshing to meet someone who is not remotely interested in filthy lucre.’

He slurped another mouthful of hot chocolate, didn’t speak.

‘You’ll have heard that Stuart Wagg’s body was found yesterday afternoon. His business supported the university too. Did you know him?’

‘You think I could afford his fee rates?’

‘Are you saying the two of you never met?’

His eyes narrowed, as if he’d detected a trap she didn’t know she’d set.

‘When you look into his records, you will find that he represented me once. Six or seven years ago, when his reputation was a little less lustrous and he undertook work on legal aid, not just for privately paying fat cats.’

‘Why did you need his services?’

‘If you must know, I was charged with supplying cannabis to some of the students I taught.’

She gripped her mug handle. ‘This would be about the time you were seeing Bethany Friend?’

‘What of it?’

‘Was she a witness in the case?’

‘It was nothing to do with her, and the only time we smoked a joint together, she nearly choked. Bethany craved excitement and fresh experiences, but in truth she was an innocent. She’d led a dull life, and I’m afraid it rather suited her. Of course, the charge against me was a deplorable misunderstanding.’

Somewhere behind them, a member of the cafeteria staff broke the silence by rattling a canister of cutlery. Hannah leant towards Nathan Clare.

‘Did the case reach court?’

‘Unfortunately, yes. However, Stuart Wagg managed to pick so many holes in the prosecution’s version of events that the judge threw the case out. It never even reached the jury, and I walked away with my character unstained.’

‘Oh yes?’

Justice denied, as per bloody usual.

‘I was innocent, naturally, but the experience destroyed my remaining faith in British justice. Without Stuart Wagg’s advocacy, I might have been found guilty.’

‘Perish the thought,’ she said through gritted teeth.

‘So, I had every reason to be grateful to the fellow. If you’re suggesting I had a reason to murder him, my dear Hannah, you’re not only barking up the wrong tree, you aren’t even in the right forest.’

The self-satisfied grin was back. Even if he dabbled in drug dealing, so what? When it came to finding a motive for three murders, she’d drawn a blank, and they both knew it. He made a show of consulting his watch, and then leapt to his feet with agility startling in such a heavy man.

‘Your ten minutes ran out some time ago, Hannah. Sorry, must dash. Can I leave you to find your own way out?’