The Cipher Garden (14 page)

‘Miaow,’ Les Bryant said.

‘Yeah, probably more your type than mine, Les. Bottle blonde, trim figure. CD collection packed with Abba, Neil Diamond and Barry Manilow. You could make sweet music together, I think.’

‘Sounds like a follow-up interview is called for. Conducted by a more mature officer.’

‘Mature’s the word, is it?’ Linz asked sweetly. ‘Not semi-retired?’

Les yawned. Thirty years as a cop had given him a hide that any rhino would envy. He’d made it to detective superintendent, acting as SIO for the Whitby caravan shootings and the Beast of Leyburn case along the way. After opting for pipe, slippers and pension, he’d discovered that he missed the job; or maybe Mrs Bryant didn’t care to have him under her feet so much. Lauren Self had hired him on a short-term contract for the Review Team. They called it Dream Policing, this combination of gurus and young Turks, but managing the generation gap was, Hannah found, occasionally a bit of a nightmare.

‘What does Gail say about her affair with Warren Howe?’ she asked.

‘Her story is that they were just good friends who happened to go to bed with each other a few times.’

‘Being married to other people wasn’t an obstacle?’

‘Obviously there isn’t much else to do in Old Sawrey than sleep around. Tell you what, the village has a pretty efficient grapevine. She let it slip that she knew you’d interviewed Roz Gleave, ma’am. I think she was miffed that she only rated a lowly DC.’

That wouldn’t have gone down well with Linz, whose ego was as well nourished as Les Bryant’s. Sometimes Hannah wondered if this was where she went wrong. Fast though she’d climbed the ladder, status had never mattered much to her. She cared about meeting her own standards, not other people’s.

‘Do I get the impression the two of you didn’t exactly hit it off?’

Linz made a face. ‘She’s in the wrong business, if you ask me. The wine trade isn’t healthy for someone with a
drink problem. She offered me a drink the minute I walked through the door. I said no, but it didn’t stop her pouring herself a large one.’

‘She’s taken the divorce hard?’

‘She says it was her decision to split up, but there doesn’t seem to be another man around. The booze keeps her company, I’d guess. She did her best to come over as nice as pie, but beneath the pleasantries, she’s a
cold-hearted
bitch. She shagged Tina’s husband, now Tina is returning the compliment. Serves her right.’

‘Don’t sit on the fence,’ Les Bryant murmured. ‘Tell us how you really feel.’

‘That’s an objective and professional assessment, actually. She made a point of saying that she and her
ex-husband
are still best mates, and she doesn’t bear him any ill will, but I didn’t buy it. Even though she made a joke of it, said what goes around, comes around. She smiles with her mouth, but not her eyes.’

‘What did she have to say about Warren?’

‘She comes from Hawkshead, just down the road from Old Sawrey, but she hardly knew him until he and Peter set up in business together. Like everyone else she was aware Warren played around, but for years nothing happened between them except for an occasional snog at parties when everyone had had plenty to drink. The Flints and the Howes don’t seem to have had much in common and that was true of the wives as well as the husbands. Tina worked in an office and spent her spare time taking photographs, Gail preferred being her own boss. Over time, Gail and Peter drifted apart. Neither of them was interested in kids, so that wasn’t an issue, but he wanted a little woman at home to take care of him and she was determined to be her own person.’

‘So far,’ Hannah said, ‘she’s got my sympathy.’

‘Her story is that Warren chased her. He had the advantage of knowing when Peter would be out of the way. I suppose if you’re going to carry on with someone else’s wife, it helps if he’s a bloke you can keep tabs on. He turned up at the house one evening when Gail was there on her own. Reckoned he expected to find Peter there, but later he admitted he knew Peter was out of harm’s way up at Cleator Moor, quoting for a new job. Anyway, she offered him a drink and one thing led to another.’

‘How long was this before Warren was killed?’

‘Four months, give or take. They both got what they wanted, a bit of no-strings sex. She said he was a terrific lover. Lots of experience, of course. And she enjoyed telling me that it made her realise what she was missing with Peter. As if to rub it in that Tina had got the worst of the bargain. But she said she went into the relationship with her eyes open. She didn’t want to settle down with Warren, what she really wanted was her freedom.’

‘So why didn’t she leave Peter Flint years ago?’

‘She claims that Warren’s murder horrified them both. In a strange kind of way, it brought them closer together. But they were only papering over the cracks. She’d tasted excitement and she couldn’t get enough of that from poor old Peter.’ Linz laughed. ‘She said that if he was as inventive in bed as he was when it came to designing pergolas and water features, they’d still be together.’

‘Why did her affair with Warren end?’

‘She said they both recognised it was going nowhere and tongues were wagging in the village. His van had been seen outside her house a bit too often. She was getting cold feet and he didn’t want any more grief from Tina. So they parted by mutual agreement.’

Les sniffed. ‘That’s what they call it when a company sacks an unsuccessful executive or a football club dumps its manager when it’s bottom of the league. Pack of lies. Who do you think really finished it?’

‘Warren.’

‘Would she have been as relaxed about it as she claims?’ Hannah asked.

‘Not if she wasn’t ready to give him up. If you ask me, she isn’t one of life’s gracious losers. I bet she can scratch and claw with the best of them.’

Les puffed out his cheeks. ‘She didn’t have much of an alibi for the murder and there’s a possible motive. I’ll follow up, shall I? If all else fails, mebbe she’ll let me listen to her Abba records.’

As he shambled out, Linz said, ‘One more thing, ma’am. I did just wonder – is DS Lowther OK?’

‘Any reason why he shouldn’t be?’

‘Only that I was in early this morning, before he set off. He had rings under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept and when I said hello, he didn’t answer. Yesterday, when I asked him something, he bit my head off. Perhaps it’s this weather. So oppressive.’

‘You’re telling me, I feel shattered…’

As the door shut behind Linz, Hannah thought the trouble with working alongside detectives was that you couldn’t hide things for long. On the shelf next to her desk was a dog-eared paperback with an orange cover.
Police Interrogation: A Handbook for Investigators
. It had been Ben Kind’s bible until he’d presented it to her years ago. She turned to the page with a quote from Freud that always rang true:

He that has eyes to see and ears to hear may convince himself that no mortal can keep a secret. If his lips are silent
he chatters with his fingertips; betrayal oozes out of him at every pore.

Her mobile rang and she recognised the caller’s number on display. Daniel.

‘Am I disturbing you?’

‘No, it’s fine.’

He felt guilty because it wasn’t yet five o’clock and she was a busy woman, while he was free to roam the fells. Miranda and Louise were back at the cottage and he’d been seized by the urge to hear her husky voice again. Talking to her was a treat, like an extra glass of Chablis. It would be all too easy to overindulge.

He’d gone for a walk up Tarn Fell, halting by the stone cairn to take out his phone. The mobile signal from this point was better than usual on the slopes of Lakeland. His new boots were pinching and he sat on the rocky ground to ease them off. In the distance a buzzard hung motionless in the air. It seemed so calm that it was hard to believe it had murder on its mind. He imagined its small dark eyes, scanning the landscape for prey.

‘I wanted to let you know I’ve met Peter Flint. As well as the dead man’s son.’

‘Is your garden sorted now, then?’

‘Far from it. But you might be interested in what Peter told me.’

‘You didn’t prise a confession out of him, by any chance?’

‘No such luck. All the same, he talked freely enough and I found out a few things. Have you got five minutes?’

As he recounted his discussions with Peter and Sam, Daniel pictured her closing her eyes as she listened. As he answered her questions, he guessed she was sifting through
the answers, assessing whether there was anything she didn’t know already. He liked the way she concentrated her full attention upon him whenever they talked. She didn’t disapprove, she took him seriously. He couldn’t help finding it flattering.

‘I spoke to Tina Howe on the phone and Peter Flint told me the daughter is a waitress at a restaurant called The Heights.’

‘The woman she works for, Bel Jenner, was an old flame of her father’s.’

‘Small world. My sister offered to take Miranda and me out for a meal. I might suggest The Heights.’

Through the crackling, he could make out her laughter. ‘You’re incorrigible.’

‘’Fraid so.’ Any minute the line would go dead. Time to take a chance. ‘I wondered. Would you like to meet up for a drink one evening?’

As he held his breath, the buzzard moved. First it soared into the air, and then it swooped down towards an unsuspecting victim in a patch of gorse. For a long time Hannah didn’t speak. Shit. Had the signal gone, or had he simply overplayed his hand?

Then he heard her voice again. Faint but clear.

‘Yes, why not?’

‘Oliver, we need to talk.’

Kirsty dug her nails into her palms. This was a huge risk. If it went wrong, she’d lose him forever. And they didn’t have much time before Bel locked the doors for the night. She’d finished blowing out the candles and clearing the tables, but it had taken the last diners fifteen
teeth-grinding
minutes to agree amongst themselves how to split the bill. Never mind hoping for a tip, she almost volunteered to pay out of her own wages, just to get rid of them. As soon as she managed to bundle them out of the premises, she went in search and bumped into him coming out of the kitchen.

‘Talk?’ His body language spelled uncertainty. He might have been a quiz contestant, stumped by the simplest question. ‘What about?’

‘Please. Two minutes, that’s all I ask.’

Raised voices were coming from the kitchen. Veselka and Danica, arguing about who should mop up. Bel was in the bar, chatting about nothing in particular to Arthur while they washed the glasses. Once the job was done, Bel
would spend five minutes restocking the fridge so that enough beer, wine and soft drinks were chilled overnight, and then she would want to lock up. It was now or never.

Oliver brushed a stray hair out of his eyes and focused on her. His eyes were like lasers, she thought, penetrating her soul. She knew she was blushing, but she no longer cared.

‘All right, Kirsty, if that’s what you want. Two minutes maximum, though, OK?’

‘Thank you,’ she breathed and led him outside.

The overspill car park at the rear of The Heights was empty except for Arthur’s rusty Fiesta. Beyond lay the small garden, separated from the grounds of the house next door by a six-foot willow screen. That lazy sod Sam still hadn’t got round to doing the work that Bel wanted. Typical, bloody typical. When she clutched Oliver’s hand, he didn’t resist. His palm was warm. When the moon passed behind a cloud, they were alone in the darkness.

‘What is it?’

‘Oliver, you’re not going to like this, but I have to say it. I think Bel knows about you and me.’

‘What are you talking about?’ he hissed. ‘There’s nothing to know.’

She squeezed his hand. So far, so predictable. He never wanted to hear a word against Bel. Of course, that was half the trouble: he was in denial. Loyal and faithful to a fault, he couldn’t help still caring for her. He’d never be able to see through her unless she made him understand.

‘It’s the anonymous letter. I’ve been thinking about who could have sent it. We’ve both behaved so discreetly. We’ve never been anywhere together, we only ever see each other here. Yet the letter told me to keep my hands off you.’

The moon came out again and she could see him, rubbing his beaky nose in bafflement. ‘Anyone could have written that. Some spiteful person who saw us chatting together, who knew we were friends. Someone who felt you took too long serving the main course, whatever.’

‘No, no, don’t you see? There have been other letters, two that I know of for sure. One to my mother, another to Sam. Both of them talking about Dad’s murder. Whoever wrote those letters knows our family, Oliver. And wants to hurts us. Me in particular.’

He pulled his hand away and took a step backwards into the shadow. ‘You seriously think Bel sent those letters? It’s mad, Kirsty. She’d never do it. There isn’t a malicious bone in her body.’

Leaves rustled. A squirrel, or more likely a fox. Kirsty swallowed hard. ‘She’s crazy about you, Oliver. A
middle-aged
woman clinging on to a much younger man, she’ll do anything. You’ve never married, you’re not exactly Mr Commitment. She’s afraid she’s going to be left on her own, and she can’t cope with the prospect. Look at how she chased after you within weeks of burying her husband. The stuff about Dad was a blind. I’m the target.’

‘You’ve got it all wrong.’

She reached out and gripped his wrist. ‘Listen to me, Oliver, no other explanation makes sense. I’m not angry with her, I sympathise…’

‘No!’ He shook her off, like a celebrity detaching himself from an over-familiar fan. ‘Kirsty, God knows, I don’t want to hurt you, but you must see sense.’

‘All I want to see is you,’ she said.

‘Look, I’m very fond of you, seriously I am.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Much more than you could ever imagine.’

‘Well, then.’

‘But we’re just friends, that’s as far as it goes.’

‘No! We can—’

‘Listen to me! You say Bel’s crazy about me. What you don’t seem to understand is this. I’m absolutely crazy about her.’

She recoiled as if he’d slapped her. The moon came out again and she could see his white face, skin taut over those high cheekbones. He was breathing hard, in the way she’d imagined he might when they were making love. But if he meant what he said, they would never make love.

The rusty hinges of the back door screeched. Veselka in sullen mood, bringing rubbish out to put in the bin. She was bound to see them, but Kirsty no longer cared. Oliver was lying, or at least she prayed he was, but he would never admit it. And if he was telling the truth, she no longer cared about anything.

Louise joined Daniel in the kitchen as he took the stopper out of the wine bottle. The smell of chicken curry lingered in the air. The clock on the oven said ten to midnight, but you would never have guessed. This was the hottest night so far.

‘Is Miranda OK?’

‘She has a migraine, that’s all.’

Miranda had been tetchy and monosyllabic all evening. He’d kept quiet, hoping to avoid a row, but in the end she’d gone up to bed, leaving Louise to watch a Julia Roberts DVD while he browsed through a stack of books about the Lakes, searching in vain for clues to the mystery of the garden. Even with the window open, there wasn’t a breath of air. He felt like an aged miner, hacking coal out of a poor seam. In the end he gave up and decided to finish off the Sancerre with Louise.

‘She blames the weather, but there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? All day she’s been tense and fidgety. Even working out in the gym didn’t help.’

‘That’s Miranda for you.’

‘She’s missing London, she said so.’

‘I don’t know why. Whenever she isn’t flogging down there on the train, she and the people at the magazine are firing emails back and forth.’

‘While we were out, she took a couple of long private calls. From her editor, she said.’

He poured the last of the wine. ‘No offence, Louise, but if I wanted relationship counselling, I wouldn’t come knocking on your door. Miranda and I are fine.’

In her dream, Hannah was sitting in her car up the lane from Keepsake Cottage, obscured from view by willow trees. Nick Lowther’s Mondeo appeared from round the bend, sun glinting on its bonnet, and turned into the drive. He hadn’t seen her, but through the leaves she watched him park and jump out. He was in shirt-sleeves and had taken off his tie. The front door opened to reveal Roz Gleave in a well-filled black lace gown. Grey hair, freckled skin, dark eyes and brows. A strong woman, confident of her subtle allure. They embraced and then she took his hand and led him inside. The door shut behind them and Hannah looked up towards the bedroom window. Moments later, she glimpsed two shadows, intertwining.

When she woke up she was sweating. The red digits of the bedside alarm clock blinked at her, as if in reproach.
Four-twenty
; another broken night. She had a tight feeling in her abdomen and her head was throbbing. Marc murmured something unintelligible before rolling over in his sleep. They were both naked. Earlier, they’d made love, but she’d
been exhausted and his face had betrayed dismay at her lack of ecstasy. He wasn’t to blame for her mind being elsewhere.

She needed to scrub Daniel Kind out of her mind; she should never have said yes to his suggestion of a drink. It was a mistake, a seeking out of fun and excitement, and a change in fortune, and it was doomed from the start. If she wasn’t careful, it might lead to something dangerous, and she didn’t want that. At least she didn’t think she did.

And then there was Nick. Surely he wasn’t having an affair with Roz, surely it was absurd to imagine for one second that he might be covering up the truth about the murder of Warren Howe. He deserved her trust, as Marc deserved her undivided attention. She was letting down the people she cared for most.

She padded downstairs and toasted a couple of slices of bread to assuage pangs of hunger. Catching a glimpse of her pale flesh in the hall mirror didn’t make her feel better. Not quite such a pretty sight these days, she thought, whatever Marc might say when he was in the mood for love. She was so accustomed to feeling young and fit and capable of anything, but the years were slipping by. Perhaps she’d risen too fast in the force and hit the ceiling too soon. There was a question she’d regularly asked other people in promotion interviews, but right now she’d hate to have to answer it herself.

Where do you see yourself in ten years’ time?

When Kirsty came downstairs, she found her mother and Sam at the breakfast bar. Tina was wearing nothing but a cotton top that scarcely covered her modesty. Unsuitable for a woman her age, in Kirsty’s opinion, especially in front of her own son. Kirsty was careful to keep her bits covered when Sam was around, because he wasn’t above getting an
eyeful, even of his own sister. But she knew that if she said anything, her mother wouldn’t be angry, she’d just turn the tables on her and mock her prudishness.

Tina was tucking into milk-drenched cornflakes, but she’d cooked bacon, sausage and eggs for her son. She wouldn’t do that for me, Kirsty thought, she’d expect me to look after myself. She’s always favoured Sam, and not thanks to anything he’s ever bothered to do for her. It’s because he’s a boy. She’s never had much time for her own sex, it’s men that matter to her.

‘You’ll need to make fresh coffee,’ Tina said. ‘We’re almost out of paper filters, by the way, you’d better pick some up from the shop. I didn’t fill the machine, it’s not like you to grace us with your presence this early.’

‘I had a bad night. Couldn’t sleep properly.’

‘It’s the heat.’ Tina indulged in an elaborate stretch. Kirsty could see the swell of her breasts straining against the thin cotton. Sam was looking up from his
motorcycling
magazine to take in the view as well. ‘Peter’s the same, he’s as restless as I don’t know what. Anyone would think he had a guilty conscience. That’s why I came over here last night, to get a bit of shut-eye. Best not complain about the weather, though. Any day now we’ll be soaked to the skin by a thunderstorm. Not that you’ll be sorry if it pours down, will you, Sam? He was telling me, Kirsty, when he was digging yesterday it was like trying to drill into Scafell Pike, the ground was that hard.’

Another example of how close they were. He never talked to his sister about his work, not even to grumble. Kirsty reached for the fruit bowl and picked out a banana. At this time of day, healthy eating was easy. It was nibbling at Oliver’s chocolate fudge cake during her shift that ruined every attempt at a diet.

‘Still going skydiving tomorrow, Kirsty?’

‘Yes, why do you ask?’

‘No need to bite my head off. You always complain I don’t show enough of an interest. It’s for charity, isn’t it? Peter and I thought we might come along and watch. How about you, Sam?’

Keeping his gaze on a photograph of a semi-naked blonde astride a gleaming Suzuki, he mumbled with his mouth full. ‘If I’ve nothing better to do.’

‘Don’t feel you have to turn up on my account,’ Kirsty said.

‘We’d love to,’ her mother said. ‘I said to Peter, I’ll be scared witless, watching you float through mid-air. But he told me it will be wonderful.’

Mum’s buttering me up, Kirsty thought. Trying to persuade me that Peter’s a regular guy and we can break the habit of a lifetime and become one big happy family. Perhaps the anonymous letter has brought them even closer together. For God’s sake, what if they’ve decided to get married?

She peeled the banana. There was only one way to push the worries out of her mind. Thinking about Oliver didn’t work these days; he was just one more thing to worry about. Freedom wasn’t down here on earth, you only found it up in the clear blue sky. Staring up at the ceiling, she recalled her first tandem dive.

Ten people, packed like sardines in the tiny plane. Shuffling into position at 10,000 feet and planting her backside in the lap of her partner, a complete stranger, a man who smelled of tobacco and whom she had to trust, because there was no choice. Tightening her harness and remembering a boyfriend who’d tried in vain to persuade her to get into bondage. This was the closest she’d ever
come to it. Checking her goggles and hat, waiting for the magic 12,000 to hit on the altimeter.

The door opening. Putting her legs over the side, experiencing the exhilaration as she saw the sky below. Saying a silent prayer as she jumped.

Floating through a cloud, with fluffy whiteness all around. Fighting for breath and freezing cold, yet alive in a way she’d never known before. Alive with excitement and sweet, sweet fear.

Bel Jenner had said on the phone that she and Oliver would meet Hannah at The Heights, rather than in the couple’s house next door. Hannah recognised a technique for keeping the investigation at arm’s length. No doubt that by now everyone in Old Sawrey knew about the cold case review. The grapevine in a Lakeland village works faster than the latest broadband.

Oliver led them into the bar area, guiding her towards one of a pair of two-seater sofas facing each other across a table with a mosaic top. The place exuded comfort and contentment. The walls were covered with Lake District scenes and in the background Perry Como crooned about magic moments. Oliver waited as his partner took a seat, deferential as a courtier. It wasn’t what Hannah expected when a couple had been together for years. What was the old joke – you start by sinking into his arms and end with your arms in his sink?

According to the file, Oliver was fifteen years younger than Bel, but he was as attentive as a man in the first flush of infatuation. To talk to her, Bel was Mrs Ordinary, yet her life had been anything but. In her time, she’d hooked a rich older husband and a sexy young lover. To say nothing of having a teenage fling with a man who was stabbed to
death at the home of her oldest friend. Nor was there anything ordinary about her appearance. Posh clothes, lustrous hair and cheekbones to die for. Hannah suppressed a stirring of envy.