Scarlett. She can tell me about him.’
‘But what do you want to know?’
‘What he was like.’
Arms folded, she said, ‘He’s dead, Daniel. I hate to say it, but you need to move on. Start writing again, we can’t live on fresh air.’
He swallowed hard. ‘You’re right. But first I want to talk to someone who knew him well. All I want to do is to fill in a few of the blanks…’
‘Don’t even try,’ she said. ‘Some mysteries aren’t meant to be neatly solved, some questions don’t have any answers. Leave them be.’
‘I can’t.’
She snorted with exasperation. ‘I give up. There’s no reasoning with you. All right, but don’t blame me if you end up hurt. He did walk out on you, remember.’
‘I remember.’
‘A man who’s capable of that is capable of anything.’
There was a knock and Wayne put his face around the kitchen door. As usual, he made it obvious that he was drinking in the sight of Miranda. In her clinging Levis, she always looked good, for all the blotchiness of her complexion and the rings around her eyes. Trying not to smirk — but not trying too hard — Wayne couldn’t keep the schadenfreude out of his voice.
‘All right, folks? Any chance of a cuppa, if you’re not too busy?’
‘Hannah Scarlett.’
Her voice was low and cautious, as though he was calling to sell uPVC windows or a time share in Spain. As he’d waited to be put through, he’d wondered if she would instruct a minion to fob him off. He watched the sun play on the surface of the tarn as he pressed the mobile to his ear. Miranda had retreated to the bedroom with a headache but that hadn’t stopped Wayne humming “Yellow Submarine”. Daniel didn’t have a game plan, other than to hope that curiosity would get the better of her when she was given his name. So far, so good.
‘We’ve never met, but you worked with my father, Ben Kind.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I moved to the Lake District recently and…’
‘Yes, I heard.’
‘I met Marc when I visited his shop.’
‘He mentioned it.’
The conversation was becoming a ritual dance, the participants invisible to each other and unwilling to risk a false move. What might she look like, he wondered irrelevantly: another peaches-and-cream blonde, a younger Cheryl — or more like his mother, angular and dark?
‘I suppose you’re puzzled about why I should call you.’
‘The thought’s crossed my mind,’ she said calmly, ‘but I’m sure you’re intending to explain.’
‘You’ll be aware that we’ve bought Tarn Cottage.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Too late, he realised that he should have planned what he was going to say. He’d never give a lecture without adequate preparation and rehearsal, so why had he blundered into this without proper thought?
‘It’s just that…I’d love to talk to someone who knew my old man.’
‘You could try his wife.’
‘Been there, done that, come away with a flea in my ear. She’s moved on.’
‘I bet she has,’ Hannah Scarlett said drily.
‘She doesn’t want to be reminded of the past. Or that I was part of his life before she took over.’
After a pause she said, ‘He talked about you.’
His skin prickled with embarrassment. ‘Not tediously, I hope.’
‘Ben was never tedious,’ she said. ‘He was proud of you and of what you’d achieved. You should be proud of him.’
‘I suppose so,’ he said, ‘which is precisely why I’d love to talk to you about him. Not over the phone, but face to face. Sorry, I know it’s an imposition — but would you mind?’
Another pause. He guessed she was weighing up pros and cons. When she spoke again, her voice seemed to shrug.
‘I don’t see why not.’
He almost stammered out his thanks but something stopped him, an intuition that if he became effusive this woman would draw back into herself. Ben Kind had prized loyalty; that was why his desertion of his family had come as such a shock. Cheryl had been — well, an aberration. If Hannah Scarlett had earned his father’s trust, she must be dependable and discreet. She’d keep her emotions on a tight leash and have little time for people who lacked the same control.
‘When would suit you? Of course, I’ll fit in with your diary. My time’s my own and you must be rushed off your feet. Leigh Moffat told me that you’ve taken on a new project.’
‘Oh, she did, did she?’
He discerned a touch of scepticism. Maybe she and Leigh didn’t hit it off? None of his business, anyway. He said, ‘You’re in charge of a cold case team. It occurred to me that you might want to take a second look at the murder of Gabrielle Anders.’
‘Now why would you think that?’
No surprise at his suggestion, he noticed, just a dead-eat response, a professional refusal to give anything away. Interesting.
‘No reason, really. The party line was that Gilpin was the killer, but nothing was ever proved. So — when can I see you?’
He hated sounding like a bashful suitor, trying to fix up a date, but her reply was measured. No hint of playing hard-to-get.
‘Today I’m busy, but I have a space in my diary tomorrow. Mid-morning in Kendal?’
‘I could offer you lunch if you have time.’
‘I’m not into social lunches, but I can spare you twenty minutes. I like to get out of the office for a breath of air every now and then, maybe we can meet by the river? Say half ten on one of the benches near St George’s, overlooking Stramongate Weir?’
‘How will I recognise you?’
‘You don’t need to, Daniel.’ He noticed her use of his first name. ‘I’ve seen you on the box, remember?’
‘Fine, I’ll look forward to it.’
‘See you there.’
For a moment his skin tingled. It was almost as though they were arranging a secret tryst.
Returning to the cottage, he scribbled a conciliatory note for Miranda and propped it up on the breakfast bar. There was still no sign of her downstairs and he didn’t want to court trouble by disturbing her. Unseen, Wayne continued to slaughter the Beatles’ repertoire and was embarking upon a tuneless rendition of “Can’t Buy Me Love”.
If he wanted to clear his head, there was no better way than by climbing up to Priest Edge. He made himself a sandwich which he put with an apple and a can of Bud into his rucksack. He changed into a zip-up jacket and the pair of virgin Timberland hiking boots kept by the kitchen door. He and Miranda had been so busy with the renovations and decorating out the cottage that they’d neglected more than their writing. As he’d tidied up loose ends in Oxford, he’d pictured them spending long afternoons of exploration on the fells, but so far it hadn’t happened. Time enough for that, she said, once their home ceased to resemble a builder’s yard. When that would be, he dared not guess.
As he stepped out into the garden, a bird flew out from the rhododendrons and dipped over the tarn before vanishing into the trees. At first he assumed it was a blackbird, but a glimpse of the crescent of white at its throat persuaded him that he’d spotted a ring ouzel. Uncommon, according to his RSPB guide. He’d make a twitcher yet.
Quickening his stride, he headed for the path that wound up the hillside to the Sacrifice Stone. After seeing its dark outline against the sky so many times, he’d decided it was time for another look from close quarters, time
