and the South of France. Except maybe ten degrees Celsius.
‘Yeah, that’s the snag. I can picture Lauren’s face if I say we need a warrant. And hear all her arguments against. Jean Allardyce is a grown woman, she has every right to up and leave at a moment’s notice, blah, blah, blah.’
‘It’s true, we don’t have any evidence that her husband wished to harm her.’
‘Even so, I’m worried.’
‘Maybe you worry too much,’ he said gently. ‘Everything all right?’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘You look shattered. Didn’t you get any sleep last night?’
She brushed a stray hair out of her eyes. ‘That bad, eh?’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘It’s nothing, I’ll be fine. Things are complicated, that’s all.’ She hesitated, debating whether to say more. They were driving into the village, close to The Moon under Water, where her partner had betrayed her in a squalid upstairs room. ‘Dale Moffat is Marc’s ex.’
‘Ah.’ He was looking at the road ahead, braking to allow an old woman with a wicker shopping basket, heedless of the zebra crossing thirty yards away, to make arthritic progress across the market square. She seemed oblivious to danger, as if the motor car had never been invented.
‘No big deal,’ she said. ‘It was all a very long time ago. Water under the bridge.’
‘Fine.’
She cursed inwardly for having protested too much. ‘I thought you could talk to her, get more info about this money she saw in Gabrielle’s room. Tomorrow?’
‘No problem.’
‘Thanks.’
The old woman gained the pavement outside Tasker’s and acknowledged their presence with a toothless grin. Nick winked in response. That was what Hannah liked about him. No impatient revving of the engine, no fuss, no hassle.
‘This Daniel Kind,’ he said, as they started up again. ‘You talked to him again last night?’
The question disconcerted her. ‘Yes, that’s when he told me about meeting Jean, and what Tash Dumelow had said.’
‘You think it’s coincidence that soon after Ben Kind’s son shows up, we take the anonymous call and Jean Allardyce disappears and we start to find out all sorts of things about the case?’
She thought this over. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘Because he’s poked his nose into the case?’
‘Once the snowball starts to roll, it develops its own momentum. That’s the nature of cold case work. It’s what we hope for, isn’t it?’
Nick wouldn’t be distracted. ‘Is Daniel a wannabe detective?’
‘What makes you say that?’
Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, Nick ticked points off on the fingers of the other hand. ‘Well, he was estranged from his old man and may be trying to make some sort of connection with him. I caught one of his television programmes. He likes to draw comparisons between historical research and detective work. Already he’s had a couple of conversations with his dad’s old sergeant.’
‘Not so much of the old, thank you. Daniel’s doing his best to help, that’s all.’
‘Maybe he ought to take care.’
‘What do you mean?’
Whenever Marc or Nick spoke about Daniel, she felt defensive. Silly, because there was no need, she didn’t have any skeletons in her cupboard. It wasn’t as if she and Daniel had a thing going.
‘Hey, don’t bite my head off,’ he said calmly. In the distance they could see the pele tower of Brack Hall and the signpost pointing towards the farm. ‘Let’s assume Barrie didn’t murder the girl and the real culprit is still around. How will he react to the man who’s stirring trouble for him? Perhaps you ought to have a quiet word.’
‘Warn him off?’
‘Yeah, his idea of a fate worse than death is probably poor TV ratings. Maybe he needs reminding that a murder case isn’t an intellectual exercise.’ Nick’s voice tightened. ‘Picture in your mind what the killer did to Gabrielle.’
‘And she hasn’t been in touch at all?’ Hannah asked.
They were back in the Allardyces’ kitchen. A mound of unwashed crockery rose from the sink, the floor had become caked with mud and the air was thick with the smell of burnt bacon. In the space of twenty four hours, the ideal home had transformed into a greasy bachelor pad.
Allardyce shrugged. ‘Not a dickey bird.’
‘She’s never done this before, has she?’ Nick asked. ‘I mean, it’s completely out of character.’
‘You know what women are like.’ Allardyce gave him a hard stare. ‘Or maybe you don’t, eh?’
To Hannah’s surprise, Nick coloured at the cheap dig. He wasn’t often so easily nudged off his stride. She said, ‘We’re not talking about any woman, Mr Allardyce, we’re talking about your wife. You’ve been married a long time. She’s vanished without any explanation and you’re unconcerned. It seems strange.’
‘Aye, well,’ he grunted. ‘There’s plenty around here that you might find strange.’
‘So you don’t care what may have happened to her?’
Now it was Allardyce’s turn to flush. Rising to the bait, he said, ‘You’re talking bollocks. She might be anywhere. With her stupid sister in Carlisle…’
‘Have you called her?’
‘I did ring up,’ he said grudgingly. ‘No answer. Typical.’
‘Can we have the number?’
He nodded at a pine notice board on the opposite wall. ‘It’s pinned up over there.’
‘What about her cousin, does he know anything?’
Allardyce shook his head. ‘They’ve never been close, but I did ask. Joe hasn’t a clue where she might be.’
While Nick made a note, Hannah said, ‘So you are worried?’
Allardyce plucked at one of the thick hairs sprouting from his nostril. ‘No need for you lot to interfere. I’ll deal with this in my own way.’
‘By giving her a good slapping once she turns up?’ Nick asked. ‘Just to show her who’s boss?’
Fists balled, Allardyce took two swift paces towards him. The men were eyeball to eyeball. Hannah’s stomach lurched. The farmer was a man on the edge, she thought. Unpredictable and dangerous. She didn’t want to see Nick hurt.
‘I don’t recommend you to vent your temper on DS Lowther, Mr Allardyce. You’ll finish up spending the night in jail. Maybe quite a few nights.’
Both men were breathing hard. Allardyce raised a grimy finger and wagged it in Nick’s face. ‘Next time you try to be a smartarse, I’ll make you regret it.’
‘Mr Allardyce…’ Hannah began.
He turned on her. His face had reddened with fury. ‘Now you listen to me, missus. I don’t know what’s happened to Jean, but it’s my business, no one fucking else’s. You leave me to sort it out. All right?’
‘So you’ve been checking up on me, Detective Sergeant?’ Simon Dumelow said.
Nick stretched his arms in a semblance of a yawn. He’d regained his composure after the brush with Tom Allardyce and, like Hannah, had made himself comfortable in one of the vast armchairs in the drawing room of Brack Hall. Meanwhile Tash Dumelow was busying herself in her studio, sorting out pictures to be displayed in a forthcoming exhibition.
Simon hadn’t seemed troubled when they’d asked if he’d been drinking with Gabrielle in the pub the night before her death. According to him, Tash had complained of flu symptoms and had insisted that he keep her friend company in the pub while she got an early night. Simple as that. No question of Tash being kept in the dark, or being jealous. She had nothing to worry about: Gabrielle couldn’t hold a candle to her. Nor was he fazed by mention of Eldine Webber’s name. He just shrugged and claimed it meant nothing to him.
‘Purely routine, sir.’ Nick didn’t disguise the relish in his voice; he always loved mimicking Dixon of Dock
