Oliver was gay. All chefs were, in his book. Oliver had flowing locks, down almost to his shoulders, high cheekbones and manicured hands; very different from close-cropped, grubby-nailed Sam. But Oliver wasn’t gay, she was sure of that.
He came into reception and put the box down. When his eyes met Bel’s, the intensity of his gaze made Kirsty shiver with cold despair. It was as if the woman were a hypnotist, as if at a snap of her fingers, he would satisfy her every whim. Kirsty imagined Oliver as wild and passionate. Dangerous, even. Yet Bel had tamed him, made sure he did her bidding. Lucky, lucky woman to have that lithe body wrapped around her in bed every night.
‘Where shall I put these glasses?’
Bel reached out and ruffled his hair. ‘Let me show you.’
Her tone was flirtatious, her eyes sparkling with promise, like a teenage coquette. She led him by the hand to the kitchen. For a quick grope, presumably; the woman just couldn’t keep her hands off him.
Gail leaned forward and whispered, ‘Much as I love Bel, I can’t help a twinge of jealousy. How about you?’
It was as if she got a kick out of twisting the knife. Kirsty coughed, scouring her brain for an excuse to get away.
‘She tells me Oliver’s very sensitive to her needs. All he cares about is giving her pleasure. I mean, I’m bound to be jealous, aren’t I? The younger men I’ve known, it’s always wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.’’
Oh God, too much information. ‘I’d better be getting on with my work.’
Gail smirked. ‘Don’t let me keep you, sweetheart.’
Bel and Oliver were coming back already. His hair was messed up and Kirsty yearned to smooth it back into place, it was like a physical ache. But she had to choke her instincts. She dared not touch him.
Time to take refuge in the bar. Oliver didn’t even spare her a glance as she scuttled out. Her throat was dry and she poured herself a glass of water, downing it in a couple of gulps.
Through the thin wall, Kirsty heard Gail squawk with laughter. Did she detest Gail more than Bel, or the other way round? And was it because they had both screwed her father? She didn’t think so. Roz Gleave was another member of that not very exclusive club, and Kirsty liked her. But Gail was a first-class bitch. Tina Howe reckoned that Gail was all fur coat and no knickers, though while Gail was married to Peter Flint, no one doubted who wore the trousers. Tina said it was a wonder he’d stuck with her so long. Gail loved talking about girl power and making out that she and Kirsty were bosom pals, but if you stripped away the chatter, underneath she was as hard as nails. She was like Dad in one respect; they both thought only of themselves. As for Bel, she’d been a kid when she’d slept with him. According to Sam, Dad had always fancied her, kept pestering her even when she was safely married to a wealthy man, even when that man was dying, even when he was still warm in his grave. In different circumstances, Kirsty might have felt sorry for Bel. But Bel had Oliver in thrall, and that was reason enough to hate her.
Hate, hate, hate. It was a cancer, eating away at her insides. She could feel it spreading through her, insidious and irresistible.
A couple of times lately, she’d even fantasised about catching Bel alone in the restaurant and bashing her on the head until the life seeped out of her. She could pretend the killing took place in the course of a burglary gone wrong. Of course, she’d never do it. It wasn’t lack of nerve; the truth was she didn’t have a violent bone in her body. But her dreams were becoming desperate. Even on a summer day, they made her cold with fear.
Marc Amos’s bookshop flirted with the senses. If the whiff of old books and background Debussy were insufficiently seductive, the casual visitor would be lured from the craft shops in the courtyard by the rich aromas wafting from the cafeteria. It shared the ground floor of the old mill building with a maze of ceiling-to-floor shelves. Leigh Moffat’s succulent home-baked desserts had found fame beyond this corner of the South Lakes and as many people gorged on her lemon cake and Death by Chocolate as on the tens of thousands of books in the store.
Amos Books wasn’t on Daniel’s route to collect his sister from the station, but he calculated he could get away with an hour’s diversion. It was an indulgence, and not only of his incurable bibliomania. The last time he’d met Hannah, he’d told her about Aimee’s suicide — something he seldom spoke of — but although she’d hinted that she and Marc were having difficulties, she hadn’t confided in him about her private life. Impossible not to be curious. He liked Marc as well as Hannah. The complication was that he’d felt a strong stirring of attraction to her, unexpected, unwanted, yet unmistakable. A couple of times it had kept him from sleeping. He and Hannah were both in relationships, and he didn’t want to wreck things for either of them. But she’d known his father, been close to him, there was so much that she could explain about him; helping Daniel to fill in the blanks. He couldn’t simply forget her. They could still make a friendship work.
‘Hello, Daniel, long time no see,’ Leigh Moffat said as he moved along the counter, ignoring the fudge cake and millionaire’s shortbread with an effort of will little short of heroic. ‘What can I tempt you with?’
Their last encounter had been a fiasco. She’d visited Tarn Cottage, distressed by his interest in the killing on the Sacrifice Stone, and left infuriated by his refusal to let go of the past. He guessed it was rare for Leigh to lose her poise. This afternoon she looked cool and elegant in her neat uniform, though if she sampled much of her own baking, she must have needed a pact with Beelzebub to preserve that slim figure.
‘Thanks, I’ll have a double latte. How are you?’
‘Fine. Is the cottage renovation progressing?’
They chatted idly before he sat down with his drink at a table near the till. After scanning the ground floor for a couple of minutes he caught sight of Marc Amos, emerging from the office at the back of the building where he dealt with the mail-order side of the business. Marc was heading towards the cafe and he tossed a broad grin at Leigh before spotting Daniel a moment later. Sidling past a couple of backpackers clutching Ordnance Survey maps, he took a seat opposite Daniel and indicated the emptiness of the table to Leigh.
‘Couldn’t you persuade him to sample the cake?’
‘Some people obviously like to take the moral high ground.’
Marc turned back to Daniel. ‘I was worrying that you’d forgotten us. Hunting for anything in particular?’
‘The history of Brackdale? There’s a family, the Quillers, I’m interested in. Jacob Quiller was a cousin of the Skeldings of Brack Hall. He built Tarn Cottage.’
Marc pushed a hand through a thicket of fair hair. Good-looking, Daniel thought. He had a youthful carelessness and energy that lots of women must find attractive.
‘The name Quiller doesn’t ring a bell, but Brackdale rates a couple of pages in most books about the South Lakes. Let’s have a look.’
Daniel finished his drink and clattered after Marc up the rickety stairs to an airy room overlooking the weir at the back of the converted mill. Marc climbed a library stool and plucked a few sunned tomes from a high shelf.
‘Doubt if there’s much in either of these. Borrow them if you like. No obligation.’
‘You’ll never get rich that way.’
‘If I wanted to get rich, I wouldn’t have opened this shop in the first place. Be my guest.’
Through the door Daniel saw the first floor crammed with people of different nationalities, cameras slung around their necks. ‘Business is brisk?’
‘I like it best when they buy instead of simply admiring the stock,’ Marc grinned. ‘Hannah and Leigh moan that I devote too much time to acquiring books, not enough to getting rid of them. I’m off to Ravenglass in ten minutes. An executor’s looking to flog her uncle’s collection. He was an aficionado of detective fiction; there may be a few gems amongst the ex-library dross. I’ll email you with details of anything worthwhile. You like a mystery, Hannah told me. The detective thing must run in the family.’
Daniel gave a cautious nod. ‘And how is Hannah?’
‘Still trawling the cold case files.’ Marc glanced skywards. ‘It frustrates her, not being in the thick of the action all the time. But I tell her not everyone can make it to chief constable. And given that the people at the top have to spend all their time toadying to politicians, who would want to be? Your dad was content to stop climbing the greasy pole and I don’t blame him.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Daniel glanced at the books in his hand. ‘You’re too generous. I’ll happily buy these. And — give Hannah my regards.’
‘What are we going to do?’ Kirsty Howe asked.
At long last she and Oliver were alone in the restaurant. While she finished laying the tables for dinner, he’d
