else, knew that half of his calls came from a much more extensive network, comprising past and present girlfriends.
When her audience had settled, Linz talked them through her note of the call about the Brackdale murder. ‘To my mind, she was fibbing. This crap about making a mistake, I don’t buy it. She was scared stiff. Age, mid-thirties, maybe older. Local accent.’
‘You’d go along with that, Maggie?’ Hannah asked.
‘Uh-huh. Same woman, must be.’
‘Just because she’s scared,’ Les Bryant said, chewing his gum, ‘that doesn’t mean she has any evidence to give us that’s worth tuppence.’
‘How do you mean?’ Maggie asked. She never disguised her enthusiasm for learning from the guru, but Hannah couldn’t decide whether Les was flattered or irritated by her attention.
‘She might just have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. What if she was full of sympathy for Gilpin and couldn’t believe he was guilty? If the man she suspected has got wind of it, he may not be best pleased. He may even have threatened her. Doesn’t mean he did for Gabrielle.’
Bob Swindell murmured assent and Hannah made a mental note that he and Les were chumming up. Better keep an eye on them to make sure that knee-jerk cynicism didn’t become corrosive and start to demoralise the whole team.
‘Good point, Les. We won’t know, of course, until we catch up with her. Are we any further forward on identifying who she is?’
‘Even if we only look at the people interviewed at the time of the murder, there are several candidates,’ Nick Lowther said. ‘I’ve prepared a simple profile of our caller.’
Les Bryant grunted. He rated psychological profilers on a par with old ladies who pronounced on their friends’ fortunes after reading patterns in their tea leaves. She wondered if Nick had used the phrase deliberately to wind him up.
‘We’re looking at a Brackdale resident or visitor,’ Nick continued, ‘probably a woman born and bred in the valley. Someone who knew Barrie Gilpin and had come across Gabrielle Anders while she was staying at the pub. Possibly connected with someone who featured in the original inquiry, maybe as an early suspect before the spotlight fell exclusively on Gilpin.’
‘And what are you doing now you’ve drawn up this…’ — Les Bryant couldn’t even bring himself to utter the word — ‘what d’you call it?’
‘I’ve prioritised three women who were spoken to during the original investigation for re-interview.’ When Les cleared his throat loudly, Nick added, ‘Obviously, the list isn’t cast in stone. We have to start somewhere, but remember that our caller may be someone who’s never blipped on to the radar screen.’
‘And the three are?’ Bob Swindell asked.
‘Jean Allardyce, wife of Tom. We spoke about him before. She gave her husband an alibi for the murder.’
‘Maybe it wasn’t kosher?’
‘Maybe. Even so, we can’t rule out the Moffat sisters, Dale and Leigh. The DCI and I are proposing to see Allardyce this afternoon, after we’ve talked to Dowling. Bob and Linz, can you make arrangements to interview the Moffats?’
‘For those of you who don’t know,’ Hannah said, ‘Dale Moffat worked at the pub at the time of the murder and so did her sister. Dale was a cleaner, Leigh looked after the kitchen. Nowadays Leigh runs the cafe in my partner’s bookshop. He’s known both of them since way back. That doesn’t affect in any way how you two conduct your inquiries. No soft-pedalling because of it, okay? I simply wanted you to be aware.’
‘What about the lady of Brack Hall, Natasha Dumelow?’ Les Bryant asked. ‘Doesn’t she fit the — profile?’
‘She’s an off-comer. As far off as Moscow. She’s lived in England a long time, she speaks the language fluently, but you wouldn’t say she has a local accent. A long shot, at best.’
‘All the same, I wouldn’t mind interviewing her,’ Bob said with a lascivious grin. ‘I remember seeing a photograph of her in the
‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ Hannah said, ‘but the bad news is, DS Lowther and I are scheduled to interview the Dumelows tomorrow. The husband’s not available today, doing some deal to make himself even richer, I suppose. The good news is, the Moffats are both attractive ladies. See how much we look after your welfare, Bob?’
‘I owe you one, ma’am.’ Bob treated Gul to a wink. He’d been playing the field ever since coming home early from a shift because of a migraine and finding his wife in bed with her best friend’s husband.
‘Happy with all that, Les?’ Nick wasn’t above having a dig at the team’s guru and Hannah made a note of something else she would have to watch. The team couldn’t afford to splinter into two camps, believers and sceptics.
Les Bryant scratched himself under the armpit. ‘Police work’s all about making choices. Only snag is, the choices need to be right. Bear in mind, if our mystery caller is frightened for a reason, she may be at risk herself — even if Gilpin did kill Anders.’
The room fell silent. Already, people had acquired the habit of listening to what Les Bryant said with close attention. He seemed to take it for granted.
‘Most of all,’ he muttered, ‘We don’t want another body turning up, do we? Whether or not it’s draped over some ancient monument.’
In the car on the way to Brackdale, Nick asked, ‘You think he could be right?’
Hannah exhaled. ‘If the woman was telling the truth the first time she called, the answer’s bound to be yes. Talking out of turn may have alerted the man she suspects. If he’s violent…’
‘Allardyce, in other words?’
‘Let’s keep an open mind.’ How many times had she heard Ben Kind say that? And how many times had she thought about him since his son had introduced himself on the phone? ‘Don’t forget that Joe Dowling has a record.’
‘Thumping a lad who’d broken into the pub he used to run in Penrith, ten years back? Plus a not guilty verdict on a charge of fiddling his VAT? It’s not quite the same.’
A thin drizzle was falling as they rounded the bend between the fells and followed the road into the valley. Brackdale was lush, although Hannah knew that the farmers would start worrying at the first hint of a dry spell. Yellow poppies bloomed on the grassy verge. Ahead lay the whitewashed cottages that marked the outskirts of the village. Easy to see why Marc loved Brackdale, but she’d never wanted to spend time here since the death of Gabrielle Anders. By day it was peaceful enough, but in her memories it remained a crime scene sheeted in darkness. Try as she might, she’d never been able to rid her own mind of the glare of the arc lights, cutting through the night to illuminate the bloody corpse on the Sacrifice Stone.
As the wipers thrashed across the windscreen, she said, ‘I remember taking Dowling’s statement. Another thing I remember is that I didn’t take a shine to him. He fancied himself, but he had a face like a fox. I can still picture it, fixed in a permanent leer as he studied my boobs.’
‘It’s just the effect you have on red-blooded Englishmen, ma’am.’
She shot him a sidelong glance. ‘Very funny. Don’t forget, he was a red-blooded Englishman who had this gorgeous young tourist staying under the same roof. When he said he’d barely noticed Gabrielle since her arrival, I wanted to smack him, just for insulting my intelligence.’
‘He admitted talking to her. The landlord and the guest, he was doing the hospitality bit to perfection. You can’t criticise him for it.’
Hannah said stubbornly, ‘I wouldn’t like to be a chicken caught by that particular fox. Like Allardyce, he’s someone we’d have looked at more closely, if it hadn’t been for the hue and cry over Barrie Gilpin.’
‘Is that why you want to talk to them both yourself?’
She stretched in the passenger seat, as if flexing her muscles. ‘You disapprove?’
His gaze was fastened to the road. ‘Course not. But you must admit, this is a tad unorthodox.’
‘So what? The way I see it, this is a lucky break.’
‘Best to make the most of it, then.’
‘Too right. How often in this job do we get a second chance?’
‘She was a sweet girl.’ Joe Dowling’s eyes kept darting between Hannah and Nick. He might have been a
