Authors: Martin Edwards
‘So what if they discover that we lied about the Hardknott Pass?’
‘Who’s going to tell them?’ he demanded.
‘They have ways and means.’
He reached towards her and gripped her arm so hard she squealed. ‘Listen to me, Kirsty. You’ll keep your mouth shut about that day, if you know what’s good for you.’
Her arm stung and she could feel tears pricking her eyes. He’d never hurt her like that before. What if he became seriously angry, what if he lost it altogether? Maybe next time he tried to kill her, he’d make a proper job of it.
Peter Flint struck Daniel as an easy man to like. Intelligent, affable, articulate. He loved talking about his work, a quality which Daniel always found appealing. And he was honest enough to admit that, although he’d glanced at Daniel’s television series, he hadn’t watched the programmes all the way through. History was all very well, but he preferred to look forward, not back. What turned him on was creating something fresh for the future.
‘I did wonder if you were the BBC man when I heard about the appointment,’ he said. ‘It’s an uncommon name. But I had no idea you owned a second home up here.’
They were sipping home-made elderflower wine beside the tarn. On the table in front of them were fanned out half a dozen pencil sketches by which Peter had illustrated ideas for redesigning the garden.
‘This is our one and only home. It’s not an investment property, it’s where Miranda and I live.’
She’d taken Louise off to the gym in Kendal, leaving him free to see how much he could find out about the fate of Warren Howe without appearing to do so. He was
playing a game, and he was sure Hannah would disapprove. Miranda and Louise too, for that matter. But he couldn’t resist.
‘You’ve settled here for good?’
‘Where better than the Lakes? You come from Beatrix Potter country, don’t you?’
‘A mile up the road from Near Sawrey, yes. Another lovely spot. Be warned, though, it takes a long time to become accepted by the natives. I’m still seen as an
off-comer
and I moved to the village from Penrith more years ago than I care to remember. But there’s more to the Lakes than the Blessed Beatrix and all those poets. The gardens, for a start. This area is so green – thanks to all our rain.’
‘I’ve almost forgotten what rain is like.’ Since the cloudburst greeting Louise’s arrival, each day had been hotter than the last. A hosepipe ban was in force and the lawns of Brackdale were starting to yellow.
‘You’ll remember soon enough,’ Peter promised.
Ideas poured out of him like spray from a geyser. How about building a new glass gazebo, connected by a tunnel of hazelnut trees to the water’s edge? A garden was like a house, it needed to be split into a series of rooms. The key to success was retaining the element of surprise. You could only get so far with CDs that promised to turn you into a virtual Capability Brown. Even the most sophisticated software lacked creative imagination. You needed vision to see how a drab landscape might be set ablaze with colour. Or, with Tarn Cottage, to see how an unkempt jungle might become a secret paradise.
Vision was Peter Flint’s speciality. He drew pictures in the air with his hands, his words tumbling over each other in his enthusiasm. Walkways conjured out of a medley of surfaces – grey slabs, white brick, crazy paving – twisting
and turning to reveal new vistas round every bend. Drainpipes cut and stood on end to form containers of culinary herbs and fragrant jonquils. Logs forming stepping stones to lead towards the tarn through sanctuary planting: hawthorn, meadowsweet venusta and loosestrife. For the stretches up to the lower slopes of Tarn Fell, how about ox-eye daisy, meadow cranesbill, cowslip, and quaking grass?
Yet the garden puzzled him as it did Daniel.
‘Doesn’t make sense,’ he said with a frown. ‘The choice of planting is odd in itself. Mandrake, hellebore, the monkey puzzle trees. And why lay a path that meanders so aimlessly? Failing to take advantage of a setting like this is almost criminal, frankly. An act of sabotage.’
‘Someone, sometime, must have meant it to be like this.’
‘Agreed. And a long time ago, I’d guess.’
‘The cottage is over a century old.’
‘Who knows, the same might be true of this garden? Looks like there have been attempts to keep it up in the past thirty or forty years, but not to much effect. Of course, there are plenty of eccentric English gardens. Think of China and Switzerland captured in miniature at Biddulph Grange, think of the erotic symbolism at West Wycombe Park. Mellor’s Garden in Cheshire tells the story of Christian’s trials in
The Pilgrim’s Progress
and reflects the philosophy of Swedenborg for good measure. But each of those gardens has a meaning. No offence, Daniel, but this is just a tangled mess.’
‘Intriguing, though.’
Peter Flint’s brow wrinkled. ‘Trust me, Daniel, it isn’t a recreation of the past you need here. It’s a new beginning.’
When Daniel asked about Flint Howe’s business, Peter was happy to talk. His partner, Tina, organised the admin;
she was the computer wizard, every firm should have one. Her son Sam, the young fellow who had dropped him off in Tarn Fold before taking the van to size up another job, undertook the heavy labouring along with a couple of contract workers. A taciturn lad, Sam, happier astride a motorbike than a sit-down mower, but possessed of a flair for discovering the perfect place for every plant, and that was a gift that couldn’t be taught. It was in the genes. Lucky Sam, he’d inherited it from his late father.
‘His dad was a gardener, too?’
‘We were partners. He was a true plantsman.’
Peter finished his drink and didn’t object when Daniel filled the large glass again to the brim. The elderflower wine was an experiment. Miranda had never made it before and it was rather strong. So much the better for loosening tongues, Daniel reckoned, and he was spared qualms of conscience, given that Peter wasn’t driving.
‘You were in partnership for how long?’
‘Ten years. People said we were chalk and cheese, Warren and me. Quite right, but neither of us cared. We didn’t socialise, we led separate lives, but we made a damn good team.’
‘You must miss him.’
Of course Warren was a sad loss, Peter said. Tina had taken an age to get over his death, perhaps you never get over that sort of thing altogether. But everyone has to move on. While Warren was alive, she worked on the purchase ledger in a Dickensian office in Ulverston, but she’d inherited his stake in the business. Peter had persuaded her that, rather than sell out her interest, or sit back and enjoy the fruits of others’ work as a sleeping partner, the best way of capitalising on her investment was to help him grow the firm. As for Sam, if he lacked
Warren’s work ethic, never mind. He was young, there was time yet.
Savouring the wine, Daniel asked, ‘Was it a long illness?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Your partner, Warren. Cancer, was it? Or heart?’
Peter wiped his mouth. When he spoke again, his voice was pitched lower, as though out of respect for the dead. ‘To tell you the truth, Daniel, he didn’t die of natural causes. He was murdered.’
Daniel deployed the shocked yet intrigued expression he’d once reserved for financial negotiations with his publisher. Within five minutes he’d gleaned as much as he’d learned from Hannah and his researches in the old newspapers and online.
‘So the killer is still walking the streets?’
‘Well.’ Peter ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I suppose you could look at it like that. Unless the person is dead or in prison for some other crime.’
‘It sounds premeditated. Which argues that the culprit knew Warren personally, had a particular motive for murder. Random killings are different. Homicidal maniacs don’t explore back gardens in search of their victims.’
‘True.’ Peter’s grin revealed crooked teeth. ‘Stupid of me. I forgot that you have a professional interest in detective techniques.’
‘Presumably Tina lives in hope that one day the police will catch up with the man who killed her husband. Perhaps if they come across a fresh lead…’
Peter coughed. ‘I honestly believe that all she wants is to put the whole dreadful experience behind her. She never likes to be reminded of – what happened. Can’t find it in my heart to blame her. She went through so much and then she raised Sam and Kirsty on her own. It’s taken her a long
time to come to terms with her husband’s death. We never speak about it. God knows, the last thing she needs is for the police to start raking over old bones.’
‘She doesn’t want to come face to face with the man who murdered her husband?’ Daniel racked his brains for a suitable tabloid cliché. The only danger was that he might get carried away and blow it completely. ‘To ask him
why
? ’
‘That wouldn’t bring Warren back.’ Peter sighed as he struggled for a diplomatic form of words. ‘I hate to say this, but he made a habit of getting on the wrong side of people. Tina knew that as well as anyone.’
‘Yet she stuck with him.’
‘She’s an extremely loyal woman.’
‘And your partnership with him survived.’
‘Warren loved to provoke a fight, but I refused to rise to the bait. He used to say I was boring, but it preserved a sort of harmony. Not everyone who dealt with him was equally patient. Rumour had it that the police investigation was all over the place, simply because he’d antagonised so many people. The detectives didn’t know where to start.’
‘Must be tough for Tina, knowing that someone killed her husband, but not having a clue who did it.’
‘She’s a strong woman.’ Peter’s mouth twisted and for an instant Daniel saw that the friendly, intelligent man was capable of chilly scorn. ‘These fashionable notions, closure, bereavement counselling and all that, may be fine for some people. But not Tina. She’s embarked on a new life without Warren. Like I said, all she wants is to be left in peace.’
The stillness of the clearing was interrupted by a vehicle reversing down the lane. Sam Howe, back to collect his boss. Peter glanced at his watch and clucked in surprise.
‘Your wine is too seductive. I’ve outstayed my welcome.
I’ll let you have a few plans soon. I’m sure we can create a garden you and Miranda will love.’ He glanced towards the lonely spikes of the monkey puzzle trees. ‘Something very different.’
They strolled towards the cottage. As they drew closer, a burly figure in a red and blue rugby shirt and fraying jeans appeared, following the grass track by the side of the building. A young man with a wish-I-wasn’t-here demeanour, mouth moving in montonous rhythm as he chewed a piece of gum. The resemblance to the photographs of Warren Howe was unmistakable.
‘Sam, meet Daniel Kind. You know, the television historian?’
From Sam’s expression, the name meant nothing to him. He offered a shovel-like paw, and grunted something unintelligible.
‘Have you time for a quick look round?’ Peter suggested. When Sam shrugged in reply, he said, ‘Ignore the brambles. Bags of potential, don’t you agree?’
Sam Howe spat out his gum and shambled off to explore the grounds without another word. His indifference to Peter bordered on contempt. Daniel wondered if he didn’t believe in kowtowing to the boss. Maybe he just didn’t like the boss sleeping with his mother. Or possibly, just possibly, Sam wondered if Peter had murdered his father and got away with it.
Bel was a mobile-phone addict. Call herself a businesswoman? Kirsty wasn’t impressed. She spent hours each day glued to her tiny Nokia, texting or gossiping with the likes of Roz Gleave and Gail Flint while everyone else sweated their guts out. All very well for a teenager, but pitiful in a woman old enough to be a grandma. Ever since
she’d heard from Roz that the police were looking into the case, Bel had talked about little else. Because she took pride in considering the feelings of others, whenever she thought that Kirsty was within earshot, she changed the subject with more haste than finesse. Sometimes it was so obvious as to be embarrassing.
‘Had your visit from the police yet?’ She was chattering away to Gail. ‘Only a detective constable? My God, it’s almost a snub. After Roz got the chief inspector! One consolation, they can’t regard you as a prime suspect. Though I’m not sure whether you should be flattered. What was she quizzing you about?’
Veselka was coming down the corridor, flip-flops slapping against the vinyl floor. Kirsty bustled out of the kitchen, menu cards in hand, as Bel was putting her phone back in its leather pouch. The Croatian girl smirked at them both; it was becoming her habitual form of greeting. Kirsty ignored her, but treated her boss to a smile. Bel raised her eyebrows and Kirsty wondered if she’d been caught out. Had she come out of the kitchen too quickly and given herself away? Bel would be furious if she thought Kirsty was snooping on her, even if it served her right.
Kirsty distributed the menu cards and wrote up the specials in chalk on the blackboard next to the bar. Her script was large and extravagant, a stark contrast to Bel’s neat calligraphy. Bel, Bel, Bel, the bloody woman haunted her. Behind that eternal smile lay the calculating mind of an Olympic gold medallist in the sport of getting her own way. Look at how she’d given Oliver a stake in her business to tie him to her apron strings. Suppose she’d guessed about Kirsty’s feelings for him, suppose she feared that, deep down, he felt the same? She was like a Persian cat,
gorgeous and pampered. Threaten her, and she’d unsheathe her claws.
Oliver seemed tense and distracted and who could blame him? Falling for the daughter of a murder victim was one thing, falling for the daughter of a woman who had killed her husband was quite another. The anonymous letters might have been designed to wreck Kirsty’s chances with him. Bel was agog at the revived inquiry into the murder. What if she’d instigated it, as a means of hurting Kirsty and her family? Perhaps it suited her plan for Kirsty to overhear endless conversations about the police’s investigations. Psychological warfare.
Yes, if Bel had written the anonymous letters, the two of them were at war. And Kirsty had nothing to lose. She would fight to the death.
Hannah waved Linz Waller and Les Bryant into vacant chairs around the table in her office. Everyone else in the team was out. Nick was up in Cockermouth all day. Hannah guessed he was glad of the excuse to make himself scarce. She ought to stop worrying about him, but she still felt tense and on edge and she didn’t think it was just down to the heat. Better submerge herself in the Warren Howe case.
‘So tell us about Gail Flint.’
‘Attractive lady,’ Linz said, ‘at least ten or fifteen years ago, she must have been.’