but a cotton top that scarcely covered her modesty. Unsuitable for a woman her age, in Kirsty’s opinion, especially in front of her own son. Kirsty was careful to keep her bits covered when Sam was around, because he wasn’t above getting an eyeful, even of his own sister. But she knew that if she said anything, her mother wouldn’t be angry, she’d just turn the tables on her and mock her prudishness.
Tina was tucking into milk-drenched cornflakes, but she’d cooked bacon, sausage and eggs for her son. She wouldn’t do that for me, Kirsty thought, she’d expect me to look after myself. She’s always favoured Sam, and not thanks to anything he’s ever bothered to do for her. It’s because he’s a boy. She’s never had much time for her own sex, it’s men that matter to her.
‘You’ll need to make fresh coffee,’ Tina said. ‘We’re almost out of paper filters, by the way, you’d better pick some up from the shop. I didn’t fill the machine, it’s not like you to grace us with your presence this early.’
‘I had a bad night. Couldn’t sleep properly.’
‘It’s the heat.’ Tina indulged in an elaborate stretch. Kirsty could see the swell of her breasts straining against the thin cotton. Sam was looking up from his motorcycling magazine to take in the view as well. ‘Peter’s the same, he’s as restless as I don’t know what. Anyone would think he had a guilty conscience. That’s why I came over here last night, to get a bit of shut-eye. Best not complain about the weather, though. Any day now we’ll be soaked to the skin by a thunderstorm. Not that you’ll be sorry if it pours down, will you, Sam? He was telling me, Kirsty, when he was digging yesterday it was like trying to drill into Scafell Pike, the ground was that hard.’
Another example of how close they were. He never talked to his sister about his work, not even to grumble. Kirsty reached for the fruit bowl and picked out a banana. At this time of day, healthy eating was easy. It was nibbling at Oliver’s chocolate fudge cake during her shift that ruined every attempt at a diet.
‘Still going skydiving tomorrow, Kirsty?’
‘Yes, why do you ask?’
‘No need to bite my head off. You always complain I don’t show enough of an interest. It’s for charity, isn’t it? Peter and I thought we might come along and watch. How about you, Sam?’
Keeping his gaze on a photograph of a semi-naked blonde astride a gleaming Suzuki, he mumbled with his mouth full. ‘If I’ve nothing better to do.’
‘Don’t feel you have to turn up on my account,’ Kirsty said.
‘We’d love to,’ her mother said. ‘I said to Peter, I’ll be scared witless, watching you float through mid-air. But he told me it will be wonderful.’
Mum’s buttering me up, Kirsty thought. Trying to persuade me that Peter’s a regular guy and we can break the habit of a lifetime and become one big happy family. Perhaps the anonymous letter has brought them even closer together. For God’s sake, what if they’ve decided to get married?
She peeled the banana. There was only one way to push the worries out of her mind. Thinking about Oliver didn’t work these days; he was just one more thing to worry about. Freedom wasn’t down here on earth, you only found it up in the clear blue sky. Staring up at the ceiling, she recalled her first tandem dive.
Ten people, packed like sardines in the tiny plane. Shuffling into position at 10,000 feet and planting her backside in the lap of her partner, a complete stranger, a man who smelled of tobacco and whom she had to trust, because there was no choice. Tightening her harness and remembering a boyfriend who’d tried in vain to persuade her to get into bondage. This was the closest she’d ever come to it. Checking her goggles and hat, waiting for the magic 12,000 to hit on the altimeter.
The door opening. Putting her legs over the side, experiencing the exhilaration as she saw the sky below. Saying a silent prayer as she jumped.
Floating through a cloud, with fluffy whiteness all around. Fighting for breath and freezing cold, yet alive in a way she’d never known before. Alive with excitement and sweet, sweet fear.
Bel Jenner had said on the phone that she and Oliver would meet Hannah at The Heights, rather than in the couple’s house next door. Hannah recognised a technique for keeping the investigation at arm’s length. No doubt that by now everyone in Old Sawrey knew about the cold case review. The grapevine in a Lakeland village works faster than the latest broadband.
Oliver led them into the bar area, guiding her towards one of a pair of two-seater sofas facing each other across a table with a mosaic top. The place exuded comfort and contentment. The walls were covered with Lake District scenes and in the background Perry Como crooned about magic moments. Oliver waited as his partner took a seat, deferential as a courtier. It wasn’t what Hannah expected when a couple had been together for years. What was the old joke — you start by sinking into his arms and end with your arms in his sink?
According to the file, Oliver was fifteen years younger than Bel, but he was as attentive as a man in the first flush of infatuation. To talk to her, Bel was Mrs Ordinary, yet her life had been anything but. In her time, she’d hooked a rich older husband and a sexy young lover. To say nothing of having a teenage fling with a man who was stabbed to death at the home of her oldest friend. Nor was there anything ordinary about her appearance. Posh clothes, lustrous hair and cheekbones to die for. Hannah suppressed a stirring of envy.
‘Why the Boggle Bar?’ she asked, focusing on the sign above the arch linking the bar with the restaurant.
‘After the story of the Waterside Boggle,’ Bel said. ‘At night a strange creature used to roam by the lake. Some said it resembled a calf, some a dog. Others said it was a beast akin to a donkey. It vanished whenever a passer-by approached, and the only trace of its presence was a sound like a cartload of stones being emptied into Esthwaite Water.’
‘Years ago an old man from Far Sawrey told us it wasn’t a boggle but a barghest,’ Oliver said. ‘A much scarier apparition. The sight of a barghest is supposed to foretell a death.’
Bel flashed a nervous smile and said, ‘You can see why we prefer to call this the Boggle Bar, Chief Inspector. The Barghest Bar would be rather frightening.’
Oliver stroked her hand with long, slender fingers. Charm seeped out of his every pore. And not only was he fanciable, he could cook. No man ought to be so gorgeous. Hannah consoled herself that he wasn’t her type. Good looks and good manners weren’t enough. Though she could hear her friend Terri whispering in her ear: but they’re a bloody good start.
‘Let me organise coffee,’ he said. ‘Plain filter or cappuccino, Chief Inspector?’
As he busied himself with the machine, the women exchanged pleasantries and Hannah asked how long they had been here. Bel explained that Tom Danson, her late husband, had bought The Heights a few years after their marriage. He had his own building company, but sold it on his fiftieth birthday. His first wife had died of leukaemia ten years earlier and he’d thrown himself into the business as a way of getting over it. They’d met when Bel went to work for the firm as a receptionist and he proposed within a fortnight. She wanted him to ease off and encouraged him to pursue the idle dream he’d had for years, of running a little restaurant out in the countryside.
‘By the time we took over, The Heights had become a place to eat, more than a pub. There’s more money in selling food than beer. We’d been living in Tom’s old house on the outskirts of Grasmere, but it had too many distressing memories of his wife’s illness. I’m so glad I persuaded him to make a fresh start here. We had the old cottage next door pulled down and a new home built. At least we had a little time together here before he took ill. An inoperable brain tumour.’
Guilt knifed Hannah. Life hadn’t always been kind to Bel. It was wrong to begrudge her some fun with a toy boy.
‘It must have been difficult for you.’
‘Yes, we needed help. So I brought in a chef called Jason Goddard.’
Oliver fidgeted at the mention of the name, Bel smiled and stroked his hand. Hannah kept quiet. In the background, Dusty Spingfield wailed that she just didn’t know what to do with herself.
‘Jason introduced an exotic menu. He was desperate for us to get in the Michelin Guide. A delightful young man, but he seemed to believe that to be any good, a chef has to be temperamental. His mood swung like a man on a flying trapeze. What’s more, our customers weren’t keen on the fancy cooking. I was preoccupied with Tom and shortly before he died, Jason recruited Oliver. He said he needed back-up, but there was an ulterior motive.’
‘Jason was gay,’ Oliver explained. ‘I’d grown up in Preston, but I’d come up to the Lakes after leaving college. I didn’t have any ties, or any thought of settling down. As a kid, I’d worked in McDonald’s, a country mile from haute cuisine. I wasn’t ambitious, I never wanted to be a celebrity chef. One morning I called here, looking for casual work. Nothing had been advertised, but I ran into Jason and he gave me a job after a five-minute interview. Not long after Tom died, I discovered why.’
