mouth shut about that day, if you know what’s good for you.’
Her arm stung and she could feel tears pricking her eyes. He’d never hurt her like that before. What if he became seriously angry, what if he lost it altogether? Maybe next time he tried to kill her, he’d make a proper job of it.
Chapter Ten
Peter Flint struck Daniel as an easy man to like. Intelligent, affable, articulate. He loved talking about his work, a quality which Daniel always found appealing. And he was honest enough to admit that, although he’d glanced at Daniel’s television series, he hadn’t watched the programmes all the way through. History was all very well, but he preferred to look forward, not back. What turned him on was creating something fresh for the future.
‘I did wonder if you were the BBC man when I heard about the appointment,’ he said. ‘It’s an uncommon name. But I had no idea you owned a second home up here.’
They were sipping home-made elderflower wine beside the tarn. On the table in front of them were fanned out half a dozen pencil sketches by which Peter had illustrated ideas for redesigning the garden.
‘This is our one and only home. It’s not an investment property, it’s where Miranda and I live.’
She’d taken Louise off to the gym in Kendal, leaving him free to see how much he could find out about the fate of Warren Howe without appearing to do so. He was playing a game, and he was sure Hannah would disapprove. Miranda and Louise too, for that matter. But he couldn’t resist.
‘You’ve settled here for good?’
‘Where better than the Lakes? You come from Beatrix Potter country, don’t you?’
‘A mile up the road from Near Sawrey, yes. Another lovely spot. Be warned, though, it takes a long time to become accepted by the natives. I’m still seen as an off-comer and I moved to the village from Penrith more years ago than I care to remember. But there’s more to the Lakes than the Blessed Beatrix and all those poets. The gardens, for a start. This area is so green — thanks to all our rain.’
‘I’ve almost forgotten what rain is like.’ Since the cloudburst greeting Louise’s arrival, each day had been hotter than the last. A hosepipe ban was in force and the lawns of Brackdale were starting to yellow.
‘You’ll remember soon enough,’ Peter promised.
Ideas poured out of him like spray from a geyser. How about building a new glass gazebo, connected by a tunnel of hazelnut trees to the water’s edge? A garden was like a house, it needed to be split into a series of rooms. The key to success was retaining the element of surprise. You could only get so far with CDs that promised to turn you into a virtual Capability Brown. Even the most sophisticated software lacked creative imagination. You needed vision to see how a drab landscape might be set ablaze with colour. Or, with Tarn Cottage, to see how an unkempt jungle might become a secret paradise.
Vision was Peter Flint’s speciality. He drew pictures in the air with his hands, his words tumbling over each other in his enthusiasm. Walkways conjured out of a medley of surfaces — grey slabs, white brick, crazy paving — twisting and turning to reveal new vistas round every bend. Drainpipes cut and stood on end to form containers of culinary herbs and fragrant jonquils. Logs forming stepping stones to lead towards the tarn through sanctuary planting: hawthorn, meadowsweet venusta and loosestrife. For the stretches up to the lower slopes of Tarn Fell, how about ox-eye daisy, meadow cranesbill, cowslip, and quaking grass?
Yet the garden puzzled him as it did Daniel.
‘Doesn’t make sense,’ he said with a frown. ‘The choice of planting is odd in itself. Mandrake, hellebore, the monkey puzzle trees. And why lay a path that meanders so aimlessly? Failing to take advantage of a setting like this is almost criminal, frankly. An act of sabotage.’
‘Someone, sometime, must have meant it to be like this.’
‘Agreed. And a long time ago, I’d guess.’
‘The cottage is over a century old.’
‘Who knows, the same might be true of this garden? Looks like there have been attempts to keep it up in the past thirty or forty years, but not to much effect. Of course, there are plenty of eccentric English gardens. Think of China and Switzerland captured in miniature at Biddulph Grange, think of the erotic symbolism at West Wycombe Park. Mellor’s Garden in Cheshire tells the story of Christian’s trials in
‘Intriguing, though.’
Peter Flint’s brow wrinkled. ‘Trust me, Daniel, it isn’t a recreation of the past you need here. It’s a new beginning.’
When Daniel asked about Flint Howe’s business, Peter was happy to talk. His partner, Tina, organised the admin; she was the computer wizard, every firm should have one. Her son Sam, the young fellow who had dropped him off in Tarn Fold before taking the van to size up another job, undertook the heavy labouring along with a couple of contract workers. A taciturn lad, Sam, happier astride a motorbike than a sit-down mower, but possessed of a flair for discovering the perfect place for every plant, and that was a gift that couldn’t be taught. It was in the genes. Lucky Sam, he’d inherited it from his late father.
‘His dad was a gardener, too?’
‘We were partners. He was a true plantsman.’
Peter finished his drink and didn’t object when Daniel filled the large glass again to the brim. The elderflower wine was an experiment. Miranda had never made it before and it was rather strong. So much the better for loosening tongues, Daniel reckoned, and he was spared qualms of conscience, given that Peter wasn’t driving.
‘You were in partnership for how long?’
‘Ten years. People said we were chalk and cheese, Warren and me. Quite right, but neither of us cared. We didn’t socialise, we led separate lives, but we made a damn good team.’
‘You must miss him.’
Of course Warren was a sad loss, Peter said. Tina had taken an age to get over his death, perhaps you never get over that sort of thing altogether. But everyone has to move on. While Warren was alive, she worked on the purchase ledger in a Dickensian office in Ulverston, but she’d inherited his stake in the business. Peter had persuaded her that, rather than sell out her interest, or sit back and enjoy the fruits of others’ work as a sleeping partner, the best way of capitalising on her investment was to help him grow the firm. As for Sam, if he lacked Warren’s work ethic, never mind. He was young, there was time yet.
Savouring the wine, Daniel asked, ‘Was it a long illness?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Your partner, Warren. Cancer, was it? Or heart?’
Peter wiped his mouth. When he spoke again, his voice was pitched lower, as though out of respect for the dead. ‘To tell you the truth, Daniel, he didn’t die of natural causes. He was murdered.’
Daniel deployed the shocked yet intrigued expression he’d once reserved for financial negotiations with his publisher. Within five minutes he’d gleaned as much as he’d learned from Hannah and his researches in the old newspapers and online.
‘So the killer is still walking the streets?’
‘Well.’ Peter ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I suppose you could look at it like that. Unless the person is dead or in prison for some other crime.’
‘It sounds premeditated. Which argues that the culprit knew Warren personally, had a particular motive for murder. Random killings are different. Homicidal maniacs don’t explore back gardens in search of their victims.’
‘True.’ Peter’s grin revealed crooked teeth. ‘Stupid of me. I forgot that you have a professional interest in detective techniques.’
‘Presumably Tina lives in hope that one day the police will catch up with the man who killed her husband. Perhaps if they come across a fresh lead…’
Peter coughed. ‘I honestly believe that all she wants is to put the whole dreadful experience behind her. She
