of the commotion, he made up a story. I was embarrassed by my own foolishness, but he didn’t let me down. I never told anyone except my father what he did for me that day. If my mother had found out, she would have panicked. So it was our little secret.’
‘Which you’ve never forgotten?’
‘How could I?’ Daniel paused. ‘I bet my father never forgot it, either. Barrie saved me from the consequences of my own bravado. More than that, he saved my life.’
An hour later, they headed out to The Moon under Water for an evening meal. The original building was a couple of hundred years old and had been much extended. It boasted beamed ceilings, uneven floors and decor with a Hitchcock movie poster theme. Miranda amused herself by picking a table where Daniel had to sit beneath a picture of James Stewart from
‘So is it the way you remember?’ she asked as they studied the menu chalked up over the counter.
‘It’s doesn’t seem as busy and the air’s not as thick with smoke. Maybe it’s less of a pub, more of a restaurant than it used to be. The bar was always packed to the rafters with locals and fell-walkers. Louise and I were kept awake every night by the drinkers downstairs in the bar. She complained endlessly about the raucous laughter and the stink of beer. But I liked the twisting staircases and tucked-away alcoves. We whiled away time by telling each other the legends of Lakeland.’
He ordered their food from a young woman whose carelessly buttoned cheesecloth shirt revealed more than it concealed, then moved along the counter to buy the drinks. The landlord had a perma-tan and highlights, along with a receding hairline and a designer shirt that had been the height of fashion a few years back. His pinched, quizzical face reminded Daniel of a fox, but of a fox with an especially high opinion of himself. As he pulled a pint, he introduced himself as Joe Dowling. When he learned that Daniel and Miranda were the new owners of Tarn Cottage, his eyebrows wiggled.
‘So you’re the television star, then?’
‘Never a star, I’m afraid. Anyway, I’ve given all that up.’
Dowling stashed his money in the till and said, ‘So what brought you to Brackdale? Most people drive straight past on their way to the Lakes. They don’t even know the valley exists. Thank God for that, I say, even though a bit more passing trade would put a smile on my bank manager’s face.’
‘I stayed here on holiday as a boy. We had a room in this pub, matter of fact.’
‘You’re kidding! In the days of old Dick Hubbard?’
‘My sister and I used to call his wife Old Mother Hubbard. Predictable to a fault. I didn’t expect they’d still be around. They both looked about one hundred even then.’
‘Dick passed on seven years back, and Millie followed soon after.’
‘I see you still advertise bed and breakfast.’
‘You wouldn’t recognise the rooms if you haven’t been here for twenty years. En-suite, tea and coffee making facilities, Corby trouser press, you name it. I know three star hotels in Windermere with less to offer. The wife and I built on at the back as well as refurbishing. Ex-wife, I should say. Glenda and I split up a while ago.’ The landlord cast a proprietorial glance at the milky white cleavage of the young woman taking food orders. As if trying to recapture his youth, he pulled his stomach in. ‘Lynsey and I are tying the knot in the summer.’
‘So that’s what you call it?’ said a man standing next to Daniel. ‘Now if you’ve finished bragging about your love life, mine’s a pint of Best.’
‘You’ll have to excuse my friend,’ the landlord said. ‘Very uncouth, but I suppose if you’ve settled in the valley, I’d better introduce you. This is Tom Allardyce. Tom, meet Daniel Kind. He and his other half have just bought the cottage up in Tarn Fold.’
Allardyce nodded, but his expression was as welcoming as a shower of sleet. His brown hair was cropped to the scalp, his complexion weathered by years out of doors. His hands were callused, the nails short and dirty. The sleeves of his ancient Black Sabbath T-shirt were rolled up to the elbows. On each hairy forearm, dragons breathed fire.
‘I’ve heard your name.’
‘News travels fast round here,’ Daniel said. ‘You live in the valley too?’
‘I’m the tenant of Brack Hall Farm. Mr Dumelow may be a property tycoon, but I look after his own land.’
‘If you ask me,’ Joe Dowling said, ‘the man’s more interested in the tax losses. Tom’s family has looked after that farm for generations, Mr Kind. He’s forgotten more about farming than Simon Dumelow will ever learn.’
‘No skin off my nose, as long as his lordship leaves me to it. It’s when he starts interfering that I get hot under the collar.’
‘And does he interfere?’ Daniel asked.
Allardyce snorted. ‘Just a bit. We had a few sheep get out a while back. Sort of thing that’s always happened, always will, but he went apeshit because the fence was broken. Just as well my lease is watertight, or he’d have me out on my arse. Though her ladyship might have something to say about that. She and the wife are as thick as thieves.’
‘Your wife helps on the farm as well?’
‘Jean takes care of the Hall, she’s head cook and bottle-washer. She’s already got her orders for your dinner at the weekend. The lovely Tash doesn’t like to dirty her pretty hands with cooking or cleaning. It might interfere with pretending to be an artist.’
‘She’s a bonny-looking woman.’ Joe Dowling smacked his lips in a parody of lust.
‘Out of your league, my friend,’ Allardyce said. ‘So, Mr Kind, you’ve bought Cissie Gilpin’s cottage?’
‘It was a stroke of luck,’ Daniel said. ‘Miranda and I were taking a break up here and we saw that Tarn Cottage was up for sale. I remembered it from my first visit, on holiday twenty years back. That was when I met Barrie Gilpin.’
‘You knew Barrie?’ The landlord seemed taken aback. ‘Bloody hell, it’s a small world.’
‘We bumped to each other on my first day here and became friends,’ Daniel said. ‘Most days, we played together.’
‘That must have been a first,’ Allardyce said. ‘He never had any friends as I can remember. Not right in the head. That was the excuse they always gave for him being such a bad-mannered bastard. You’d be in the middle of a conversation with him and he’d walk away, just like that, for no reason.’
‘Asperger’s Syndrome, they call it,’ Joe Dowling said.
‘Is that right?’ Allardyce scoffed. ‘They’ve got a name for everything these days.’
His derision provoked Daniel. ‘I liked him a lot.’
‘Then you won’t know what happened?’ Joe Dowling said.
‘I know he’s supposed to have murdered a tourist.’
‘No suppose about it,’ Allardyce muttered. ‘He battered her face and cut her throat so she was as good as beheaded.’
‘Stripped her naked,’ Joe Dowling added. The prurient gleam in his eyes made Daniel’s flesh creep.
‘Then he laid her out on the Sacrifice Stone, high above your own little cottage. So much for your boyhood pal, Mr Kind. Not that likeable after all, eh?’
‘He was never charged with a crime, let alone tried and convicted.’
‘You can’t prosecute a corpse.’
Daniel took a sip of beer. ‘Maybe his death was convenient for someone.’
Allardyce scowled. ‘And who might that be?’
‘Whoever really killed Gabrielle Anders.’
‘You serious?’ Allardyce demanded. As his voice rose, the bar area fell quiet. People turned to look, then quickly turned away again. Daniel guessed that locals didn’t fancy making eye contact with the farmer when he was in a temper.
‘That girl’s death caused a lot of upset round here,’ Joe Dowling said quickly.
‘Everyone agrees, Barrie Gilpin was as guilty as hell.’
Daniel glanced over his shoulder and caught Miranda’s eye. She gave a pointed glance at the glass of white wine he’d bought her, then mimicked downing it in a single gulp.
‘What if everyone was wrong?’ he asked. ‘Suppose Barrie was innocent, that in more ways than one, he was the fall guy.’
