her for embarrassing anecdotes from his childhood. He was content to be the butt of their humour until it was time to sidle off to the kitchen to cook dinner for three.
Later, as they relaxed in the living room, Miranda mentioned Barrie Gilpin and Daniel found himself having to explain the part he’d played in one of Hannah Scarlett’s cases, the murder of the woman found on the Sacrifice Stone.
‘As a boy, he could never resist a mystery,’ Louise told Miranda. ‘That’s why he loves unravelling the past. So this police officer was Dad’s old sidekick? Or more than that? Was there something between them?’
‘She isn’t like that.’ Before he could stop himself, he added, ‘Neither was he.’
Louise’s eyebrows arched. ‘Surely you haven’t forgotten, he had form. Look at the way he left us in the lurch for a young woman on the make.’
Miranda saw his brow clouding and quickly changed the subject to the tribulations of dealing with tradesmen. But the mellow mood had been spoiled and he finished his drink in silence. The slur angered him. He was angry for his father, even more so for Hannah.
‘A good haul?’ Hannah asked.
‘Fantastic.’ Marc was sitting cross-legged on the rug in the dining room, marooned in a sea of old books. ‘The chap was a connoisseur. I mean, there he was living in this ordinary semi in Ravenglass and up in the spare bedroom he’d assembled this treasure trove. His sister couldn’t care less, she had no idea of what he’d collected over the years.’
‘I hope you paid a fair price.’
‘Of course.’ He was all injured innocence. ‘You know me.’
Well, yes. When it came to business, he was like every dealer she’d met. Books, antiques, whatever, they were all the same, they took as much pleasure from contriving a little extra profit on the negotiation than from contemplating the rarities they’d bought.
She joined him on the rug and picked up a couple of thin books in gaudy wrappers. She liked to take an interest in his business, just as she was happy to talk when he asked about her latest case. With police work, some things had to remain confidential, but her instinct was to be open. There were too many secrets in the world. He’d kept one or two himself, not least the affair with Leigh’s sister that he’d briefly resumed years back, in the early days of their own relationship.
‘You’re like a pig in muck this evening.’
He beamed. ‘I know you worry about this idea of murder for pleasure, but there’s wonderful escapism here. Red harvest, green for danger, five red herrings, nine tailors, murder in Mesopotamia and on the Orient Express. See these Inspector French books? Written by a railway engineer whose culprits concocted alibis based on the assumption that trains ran precisely to timetable.’
‘Jesus, what murderer in his right mind would risk that?’
‘Nostalgic, or what? Those were the days.’
‘Actually, I yearn for chance to gather suspects in the library. No worries about reading them their rights. At least in those books you can count on finding out the solution if you battle through the last page.’
He hugged her close. She often forgot how sinewy his arms were. Each time they held her, she was happy to remember.
‘Tough day at work?’
‘We have a new cold case. A landscape gardener, murdered with his own scythe. Grisly.’
‘As it happens, I was talking about gardens in the shop today with your friend Daniel Kind.’
‘Oh yes?’ Mention of Daniel quickened her pulse, but she mustn’t seem too interested. The last thing she wanted was for Marc to get the wrong idea, as he had done about her relationship with Ben. ‘More of an acquaintance, really. I’ve not been in touch with him since the Brackdale file was closed.’
‘You’ve been watching his TV shows. I noticed the DVD in the rack.’ For a moment she thought he was going to make an issue of it, but thankfully tonight his good humour was unshakeable. ‘His latest passion is the history of his own cottage garden. Maybe you should call him in as a consultant on your murder case. Make the most of having an expert in detecting the past on your doorstep.’
Hannah laughed and flicked through an aged copy of
Put it another way. When you know Howe, you’ll know who.
Kirsty Howe’s bottom lip trembled as she studied the torn scraps of paper. She’d fished them out of the bin- liner and, forgetting that she’d been about to put out the rubbish, she was hunched over the breakfast bar, piecing together the bits like completing a jigsaw.
The roar of the washing machine made it hard to think. She switched it off and focused on her task. The envelope was addressed to Sam. She’d recognised the writing at once — the same horrid stencilled style of the note which had destroyed her day.
He’d screwed up the pieces, making tight little balls, but she smoothed them out with care. Soon the message was staring up at her.
She’d hardly seen Sam all day. He always left early for work and she mostly came back after he’d gone to bed. This evening was an exception, for he was staying out later than usual. Their mother reckoned he had a girl over in Broughton, but he’d not mentioned anything to Kirsty. His life revolved around football and beer and motorbikes and women. Throughout her teens, she’d entertained the romantic hope that tragedy would bring them closer together. For all his laziness at school, he was brighter than he liked to make out and she hoped that, once out of his father’s shadow, he would reveal a sensitive side. After all these years, she was still waiting. Worse, he was smart enough to have picked up on her liking for Oliver and he never lost a chance to sneer.
As she taped the fragments of the message together, she heard the thundering of a motorbike for a few moments before the engine died. The smell of alcohol wafted as he strode through the back door, helmet in hand. His eyes might be tired but his skin was glowing. She’d seen that look on the face of a couple of boys from Hawkshead whom she’d slept with. A look of bleary triumph. Her lovers reminded her of Lakeland twitchers excited by the sighting of a rare bird, or trainspotters at Oxenholme who’d ticked a rare number off their list. All they wanted was to bask in their conquest until they targeted a new trophy.
‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘I found this.’
She waved the anonymous message at him. He made as if to snatch the note from her, but she was too quick for him and, evading his lunge, skipped off her stool and stood in the doorway, daring him to hit her. He’d never gone so far as to strike her, at least not since he was a boy and he used to poke her in the ribs or twist her arm behind her back.
He moved forward, the soles of his trainers scraping on the tiled kitchen floor. His mouth was inches from hers. It wasn’t only the stale beer that stank, but the Pot Noodle on his breath. No wonder he hardly ever ate at The Heights, even though he and Peter had been doing some work for Bel in the garden lately. His idea of gourmet dining was curry and chips.
‘Hand it over.’
‘Why? You didn’t want it, obviously. I found it in with the rubbish.’
‘Who do you think you are, some kind of detective, sticking all the bits together again so you can have a good laugh?’
‘Sam!’ Even through the haze of drink, she hoped he might realise he was being unfair. ‘I was upset for you. The fact that someone has written something so nasty to you.’
‘Who cares about shit like that?’
‘I care! Nobody ought to say that about my brother! Do you think we ought to tell the police?’
‘What?’ He blinked. ‘You must be joking, didn’t we see enough of them to last a lifetime when…?’
‘When Dad was murdered.’
‘Well, yeah.’
‘I know, but it isn’t acceptable, Sam. Who can possibly be doing this?’
