never likes to be reminded of — what happened. Can’t find it in my heart to blame her. She went through so much and then she raised Sam and Kirsty on her own. It’s taken her a long time to come to terms with her husband’s death. We never speak about it. God knows, the last thing she needs is for the police to start raking over old bones.’
‘She doesn’t want to come face to face with the man who murdered her husband?’ Daniel racked his brains for a suitable tabloid cliche. The only danger was that he might get carried away and blow it completely. ‘To ask him
‘That wouldn’t bring Warren back.’ Peter sighed as he struggled for a diplomatic form of words. ‘I hate to say this, but he made a habit of getting on the wrong side of people. Tina knew that as well as anyone.’
‘Yet she stuck with him.’
‘She’s an extremely loyal woman.’
‘And your partnership with him survived.’
‘Warren loved to provoke a fight, but I refused to rise to the bait. He used to say I was boring, but it preserved a sort of harmony. Not everyone who dealt with him was equally patient. Rumour had it that the police investigation was all over the place, simply because he’d antagonised so many people. The detectives didn’t know where to start.’
‘Must be tough for Tina, knowing that someone killed her husband, but not having a clue who did it.’
‘She’s a strong woman.’ Peter’s mouth twisted and for an instant Daniel saw that the friendly, intelligent man was capable of chilly scorn. ‘These fashionable notions, closure, bereavement counselling and all that, may be fine for some people. But not Tina. She’s embarked on a new life without Warren. Like I said, all she wants is to be left in peace.’
The stillness of the clearing was interrupted by a vehicle reversing down the lane. Sam Howe, back to collect his boss. Peter glanced at his watch and clucked in surprise.
‘Your wine is too seductive. I’ve outstayed my welcome. I’ll let you have a few plans soon. I’m sure we can create a garden you and Miranda will love.’ He glanced towards the lonely spikes of the monkey puzzle trees. ‘Something very different.’
They strolled towards the cottage. As they drew closer, a burly figure in a red and blue rugby shirt and fraying jeans appeared, following the grass track by the side of the building. A young man with a wish-I-wasn’t-here demeanour, mouth moving in montonous rhythm as he chewed a piece of gum. The resemblance to the photographs of Warren Howe was unmistakable.
‘Sam, meet Daniel Kind. You know, the television historian?’
From Sam’s expression, the name meant nothing to him. He offered a shovel-like paw, and grunted something unintelligible.
‘Have you time for a quick look round?’ Peter suggested. When Sam shrugged in reply, he said, ‘Ignore the brambles. Bags of potential, don’t you agree?’
Sam Howe spat out his gum and shambled off to explore the grounds without another word. His indifference to Peter bordered on contempt. Daniel wondered if he didn’t believe in kowtowing to the boss. Maybe he just didn’t like the boss sleeping with his mother. Or possibly, just possibly, Sam wondered if Peter had murdered his father and got away with it.
Bel was a mobile-phone addict. Call herself a businesswoman? Kirsty wasn’t impressed. She spent hours each day glued to her tiny Nokia, texting or gossiping with the likes of Roz Gleave and Gail Flint while everyone else sweated their guts out. All very well for a teenager, but pitiful in a woman old enough to be a grandma. Ever since she’d heard from Roz that the police were looking into the case, Bel had talked about little else. Because she took pride in considering the feelings of others, whenever she thought that Kirsty was within earshot, she changed the subject with more haste than finesse. Sometimes it was so obvious as to be embarrassing.
‘Had your visit from the police yet?’ She was chattering away to Gail. ‘Only a detective constable? My God, it’s almost a snub. After Roz got the chief inspector! One consolation, they can’t regard you as a prime suspect. Though I’m not sure whether you should be flattered. What was she quizzing you about?’
Veselka was coming down the corridor, flip-flops slapping against the vinyl floor. Kirsty bustled out of the kitchen, menu cards in hand, as Bel was putting her phone back in its leather pouch. The Croatian girl smirked at them both; it was becoming her habitual form of greeting. Kirsty ignored her, but treated her boss to a smile. Bel raised her eyebrows and Kirsty wondered if she’d been caught out. Had she come out of the kitchen too quickly and given herself away? Bel would be furious if she thought Kirsty was snooping on her, even if it served her right.
Kirsty distributed the menu cards and wrote up the specials in chalk on the blackboard next to the bar. Her script was large and extravagant, a stark contrast to Bel’s neat calligraphy. Bel, Bel, Bel, the bloody woman haunted her. Behind that eternal smile lay the calculating mind of an Olympic gold medallist in the sport of getting her own way. Look at how she’d given Oliver a stake in her business to tie him to her apron strings. Suppose she’d guessed about Kirsty’s feelings for him, suppose she feared that, deep down, he felt the same? She was like a Persian cat, gorgeous and pampered. Threaten her, and she’d unsheathe her claws.
Oliver seemed tense and distracted and who could blame him? Falling for the daughter of a murder victim was one thing, falling for the daughter of a woman who had killed her husband was quite another. The anonymous letters might have been designed to wreck Kirsty’s chances with him. Bel was agog at the revived inquiry into the murder. What if she’d instigated it, as a means of hurting Kirsty and her family? Perhaps it suited her plan for Kirsty to overhear endless conversations about the police’s investigations. Psychological warfare.
Yes, if Bel had written the anonymous letters, the two of them were at war. And Kirsty had nothing to lose. She would fight to the death.
Hannah waved Linz Waller and Les Bryant into vacant chairs around the table in her office. Everyone else in the team was out. Nick was up in Cockermouth all day. Hannah guessed he was glad of the excuse to make himself scarce. She ought to stop worrying about him, but she still felt tense and on edge and she didn’t think it was just down to the heat. Better submerge herself in the Warren Howe case.
‘So tell us about Gail Flint.’
‘Attractive lady,’ Linz said, ‘at least ten or fifteen years ago, she must have been.’
‘Miaow,’ Les Bryant said.
‘Yeah, probably more your type than mine, Les. Bottle blonde, trim figure. CD collection packed with Abba, Neil Diamond and Barry Manilow. You could make sweet music together, I think.’
‘Sounds like a follow-up interview is called for. Conducted by a more mature officer.’
‘Mature’s the word, is it?’ Linz asked sweetly. ‘Not semi-retired?’
Les yawned. Thirty years as a cop had given him a hide that any rhino would envy. He’d made it to detective superintendent, acting as SIO for the Whitby caravan shootings and the Beast of Leyburn case along the way. After opting for pipe, slippers and pension, he’d discovered that he missed the job; or maybe Mrs Bryant didn’t care to have him under her feet so much. Lauren Self had hired him on a short-term contract for the Review Team. They called it Dream Policing, this combination of gurus and young Turks, but managing the generation gap was, Hannah found, occasionally a bit of a nightmare.
‘What does Gail say about her affair with Warren Howe?’ she asked.
‘Her story is that they were just good friends who happened to go to bed with each other a few times.’
‘Being married to other people wasn’t an obstacle?’
‘Obviously there isn’t much else to do in Old Sawrey than sleep around. Tell you what, the village has a pretty efficient grapevine. She let it slip that she knew you’d interviewed Roz Gleave, ma’am. I think she was miffed that she only rated a lowly DC.’
That wouldn’t have gone down well with Linz, whose ego was as well nourished as Les Bryant’s. Sometimes Hannah wondered if this was where she went wrong. Fast though she’d climbed the ladder, status had never mattered much to her. She cared about meeting her own standards, not other people’s.
‘Do I get the impression the two of you didn’t exactly hit it off?’
Linz made a face. ‘She’s in the wrong business, if you ask me. The wine trade isn’t healthy for someone with a drink problem. She offered me a drink the minute I walked through the door. I said no, but it didn’t stop her pouring herself a large one.’
‘She’s taken the divorce hard?’
‘She says it was her decision to split up, but there doesn’t seem to be another man around. The booze keeps her company, I’d guess. She did her best to come over as nice as pie, but beneath the pleasantries, she’s a cold-
