The Arsenic Labyrinth (9 page)

Did Di Venuto have a suspect in mind? Sooner or later, she’d find out who, or what, egged him on. ‘Thanks for your statement. We’ll give it careful consideration.’

‘Please tell me you won’t waste time. The man who rang me did so for the sake of Emma’s sister. Karen’s waited ten years, Chief Inspector. She doesn’t deserve to be kept waiting any longer.’

‘We’ll let you know.’

His face reddened and she could tell he was fighting to choke back a furious retort. When he fixed her with his gaze, she refused to blink. He was the first to look away.

‘Go for it,’ Lauren Self said.

‘We don’t have anything to go on other than this message to the journalist. This
alleged
message. It wasn’t taped.’

Lauren’s eyebrows jumped. ‘You’re surely not suggesting that Tony Di Venuto is fibbing, simply to keep the story alive?’

‘No, but …’

‘As it happens, I know his editor. We’ve had a discreet word. She speaks highly of him as an investigative reporter.’

‘Sure, but the caller may be a crank.’

‘I don’t think the editor of the
Post
would take kindly to the suggestion that her readers include cranks. Here
we have two messages, entirely coherent if a tad cryptic. No hint of self-aggrandisement. Sounds to me as though someone’s conscience is playing him up. This is the beauty of cold case work, isn’t it? Time works in our favour.’

‘But to dig up half a hillside on the strength of an anonymous call …’

‘No need to exaggerate, Hannah.’ The ACC always said that her aim was to achieve consensus, by which she meant getting people to agree with a decision she’d already taken. Denied obedience, she was quick to bring out her claws. ‘The investigation was dead, but Di Venuto has brought it back to life. We can’t ignore what he’s told us. If it turned out that he’d given us a vital lead, but we binned it, we’d be in the firing line. And I’m not just talking about flak from the leader column and letters page in the
Post
.’

‘The budget may not stand a full …’

‘Leave me to worry about the budget.’

Words to die for, when spoken by an ACC to a DCI. A streak of contrariness tempted Hannah to look the gift horse in the mouth.

‘I’m really not sure …’

The ACC switched to action-woman mode. ‘Sorry, Hannah, but if you’re prepared to risk your reputation over this, I’m not. I owe it to you not to let you mess up a delicate relationship with an important branch of the media. Remember, the
Post
is the voice of the people we serve. We need them on our side. I think we’ve knocked
around the pros and cons, don’t you? Let’s get weaving. And I don’t mean tomorrow, Hannah. Right now, please.’

‘Money no object, eh?’ Les grimaced. ‘For crying out loud, she wasn’t talking that way when we were discussing my expenses.’

Hannah swung on her chair. ‘Well, there are limits.’

‘Listen, it’s not cheap renting on this side of the Pennines. Everything round here’s a rip-off compared to back home. You need a bank loan to afford a cuppa in some of these posh tea shops. Any road, what’s the plan?’

‘We’ll start by dropping a camera down the shafts at Mispickel Scar. If that turns anything up, the next question is how to access the old workings.’ Hannah jumped up and started doodling names on the whiteboard in the corner of her room. ‘I’ll talk to the South East Cumbria Mining Trust as well as a specialist in forensic archaeology. Maggie can look into health and safety issues and talk to the Mountain Rescue people. Bob Swindell will hunt out old maps and plans to save time and cost if we make a detailed underground search.’

‘Not if,’ Les said. ‘When. You know the ACC better than I do. She won’t leave any stone unturned when it comes to keeping Mr Di Venuto happy.’

‘There are a lot of stones up on Mispickel Scar.’

‘That won’t bother the ACC. You watch, she’ll insist on being photographed wearing mountain gear and a hard hat.’

Tonight Sarah was a different woman. Her hair was done in a shaggy perm – rather 1980s, but never mind – and the jewelled tunic and black fitted trousers made her figure look svelte. The eye shadow and blusher were laid on with a trowel, but gold peep-toe shoes with kitten heels gave her feet a dainty look. Her toenails were painted a delicate pink. Relief washed through Guy as she locked the front door of the Glimpse and took his arm. This meal was a worthwhile investment – you had to speculate to accumulate – but it was a welcome bonus that she looked good on his arm.

The age difference didn’t bother him, he was ready for a mature woman after the let-down of Megan. Once he’d lavished compliments on her appearance, Sarah did most of the talking. She’d long fancied a makeover, she said, she was fed up of being a couch potato and feeling hot with embarrassment whenever she listened to style gurus on
What Not to Wear
. Next week she might sign up with an exercise class

She’s excited, he thought, she knows what’s going to happen. The evening air was cold and crisp, the moon high. Words from a song bobbed in his memory.
Tonight’s the night, everything’s gonna be all right
. As he hummed the tune, he couldn’t help congratulating himself on his decision to return to Coniston. He’d laid Emma’s ghost and soon he’d lay Sarah. If he played his cards right, he could set himself up very nicely, thank you. How wise he had been not to take things in a rush. He’d hate Sarah to think that he was interested
in nothing more than a quick bunk-up, or how much money he might sponge off her before it was time to move on. This was a two-way thing, he was putting the fun back into her life.

The restaurant was owned by a chef with attitude and staffed by kohl-eyed blondes who shimmied between the tables as though on a catwalk. Guy commented on the finer points of the menu with just the right amount of
savoir faire
; his final touch was to order a bottle of Bolly. Sarah’s protest that champagne always went to her head he dismissed with a masterful smile.

‘The pleasure is mine,’ he said, as they clinked glasses and toasted friendship. ‘It’s so good of you to sacrifice your evening to keep a lonely businessman company.’

‘I’d only be watching
EastEnders
.’

When he shook his head in amiable disbelief, she said, ‘Well, actually, some nights I spend quite a lot of time on the computer, rather than watching the telly.’

‘Doing your accounts?’

‘Not really.’ She sipped the champagne. ‘To be honest, I used to go in for internet dating.’

‘My goodness.’

‘Don’t look so startled. It was a complete wash-out. The lies that people tell, you wouldn’t credit it. Strapping six foot tall company directors turn out to be fat little bald blokes with bad breath.’

He clicked his tongue at such flagrant deception. ‘You’ve given all that up?’

‘Mmmmm.’ She gulped down the rest of her drink,
watched happily as he poured her some more. ‘My guilty secret these days is that I like a bit of a flutter.’

‘A bit of harmless fun.’

She fingered the rim of her glass. ‘You know something, Rob? I’ve never seen the inside of a bookies’ or a casino in my life. But betting is different online. I mean, it’s so much less threatening. After all, nothing’s certain in life, is it? Life is one big gamble, really.’

This struck him as rather profound, as well as a thought process to be encouraged. He steered the conversation adroitly to the world of business, and how much money might be made by combining investment know-how with access to ready cash. She explained that she’d never done anything more adventurous with her cash than open an account with the Halifax. His intake of breath made her turn pale.

‘Whatever you do with your money carries a degree of risk. Even stashing it under the floorboards isn’t as safe as you may think.’

Her eyes widened. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Forget the danger of burglars.’ He leaned across the table, wagging a finger to emphasise his warning. ‘What if inflation slashes the value of your nest egg? It’s like putting a match to a wad of twenty pound notes.’

‘I never thought of it like that. But you’re familiar with investments. I wouldn’t know where to begin.’

‘It’s not that difficult. The secret’s in the timing. Trust me, I’m a financial adviser.’

They were both still chuckling when the starters
arrived. Tucking into his devilled oysters, he let the conversation slide to the topic of Sarah’s grievance about her divorce settlement. Her former husband’s lawyer had been smarter than hers and while Don’s earnings must be handsome these days, she was left to scrimp and save. Or rather, just scrimp. No problem, he decided as the pigeon marinated in liquorice was served. The Glimpse had potential for conversion into flats if she ever needed to downsize. She could fund a foray into the futures market by taking out a second mortgage.

He settled back in his chair. Sarah’s round face looked pretty in the candlelight. He felt her knee touch his and returned the pressure. Everything was working out fine.

Sarah had already made one notable investment. New black lingerie. Basque, suspenders, the full caboodle. Once Guy had stripped her of it, she wanted him to turn off the bedroom light, but he refused.

‘I like looking at you.’

Her skin was white, her face pink with champagne and excitement. ‘You don’t mean that.’

‘Promise.’

She started to say something self-deprecating about her bulging tummy and the sag of her breasts, but he put a hand over her mouth and whispered in her ear.

‘No more words, OK?’

Happiness lit the pale blue eyes as her head moved in
assent. He felt her lips moisten his palm as he surveyed her body with the care of a great artist examining a model. Of course she could not compare to Megan, let alone lithe Farfalla, but the soft undulations of her doughy flesh were not unappealing. He meant to give her a night to remember. Gently, he took hold of her wrists and brought them up over her head. She made an inarticulate sound as he manoeuvred her into position. It was a rattle of contentment, she was ready to submit to whatever he wanted.

He smiled down at her. For a moment he was tempted to take advantage of her defencelessness and wrap his fingers around her white throat, just for the hell of it, just because he could. But he wouldn’t do it. Tonight she was the safest woman in the world. He wouldn’t betray her trust.

He’d been lying in the coffin again and when he woke, it was pitch dark. Sarah’s plump buttocks were hot against his. He eased away from her and squinted at the digits on the clock radio.

Christ, still only 3.25. A long time until sunrise. Even lying here next to his newly acquired lover, he felt so alone. This must be how Al Pacino felt in
Insomnia
. He’d often wondered about the life of a detective. Maybe he could try it out after he moved somewhere else. How about checking into a country retreat as an ex-cop, someone who’d left the force under a cloud after being framed by a ruthless enemy? On second thoughts,
perhaps not. Better to spend a few weeks blending in with the scenery.

His mouth was dry, his head throbbed and there was an uncomfortable nagging in his gut. Too late he’d remembered that although he liked champagne, it didn’t like him. The sex had been good, but the trouble with pleasure was that it was over in a trice. Only pain lingered.

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but he knew he would fail. Hard as he tried to shut them out, images from the past were crowding into his head. In his mind, he was back up on the Coniston Fells, standing over the prostrate form of Emma Bestwick.

After hitting her, he only had one thought. How to dispose of Emma, so that she would not be found. It was one thing for her to go missing, quite another for the corpse to be discovered and a murder inquiry launched. In the hue and cry, his name would soon come up on the list of suspects. Emma had agreed to keep their meeting secret and he’d taken care to avoid being seen on his way to Mispickel Scar, but the police’s first step would be to check on local people with a criminal record. None of his convictions were for violence, but that would cut no ice if he lacked an alibi for the time of death. He needed breathing space, time to plan his escape.

Emma must disappear. The fells were pitted with
mine-workings
, but he needed to choose a place off the beaten track. Not easy, since pot-holers rushed down where wise walkers feared to tread. His options were limited, he
didn’t have the strength to carry her far. His only hope was to hide her in one of the shafts close to the Arsenic Labyrinth.

Even after ten years, the memory of that dreadful journey made him sweat like a pig. Tears had half-blinded him and he’d shivered with cold and fear as he lugged the dead weight of the woman along the rocky terrain. His heart was pounding, his muscles screamed, he wanted to fling himself down and weep and wail and beat his fists against the stony ground. He’d come here hoping to do good, but everything had gone wrong.

God knew how he’d managed it, but at last he’d reached the old footings, all that remained of the old labyrinth. Not far away was a narrow slit in the ground, barely large enough for the body of a full-grown woman. A deep, dark hole – he’d once dropped a stone down it and never even heard it hit bottom.

His knees were ready to buckle, but with a last effort he thrust Emma into the gap at his feet. He had to ease himself into the opening and use his boots to force the body past a rocky ledge that obstructed the shaft below ground level. He needed to make sure that she could not be seen from above. One more heave and the job would be done. He heard a crack, perhaps a bone in the leg breaking.

Suddenly, a faint sound came from the depths beneath his feet.

‘
Aaaaaaah
.’

Oh sweet Jesus.

Sitting on the edge of the bed in Sarah Welsby’s darkened room, the same horror clutched his throat as ten years before, at the moment he thrust Emma Bestwick out of sight.

She hadn’t died when she banged her skull on the ground. It was a terrible mistake. She was still alive as he pushed her down, down, down. Into the blackness of her underground tomb.