‘Tina destroyed it before she mentioned it to me. Quite right, too. Wicked nonsense.’
Brakes screeched outside. Peter winced and through the window Hannah saw a white van pulling up. A burly figure clambered out and for a shocking instant she thought it was Warren Howe. The shape of the head and the dark tousled hair resembled the old photograph in the file. But of course this must be his son Sam. The dead never came back to life.
Chapter Thirteen
The crowds at Hill Top gave Miranda a headache. Beatrix Potter had stipulated in her will that the old farmhouse should be maintained in its original state, and entry was restricted by a timed ticket system. They waited for an hour to get into the shrine, but within five minutes Miranda declared that she’d seen enough and wandered off to seek refuge from the worshipping sight-seers amongst the whitewashed cottages of Near Sawrey.
Louise lingered in silence over the old bound volumes in the library while Daniel leafed through a pamphlet about the author’s life. She’d had an unexpected fondness for mystification, he discovered. It had taken years to crack the secret code in her private journal. He liked the story about her dressing up in sackcloth and being mistaken by a tramp for a fellow traveller. And for all her tales about dear little creatures, Beatrix could be clinical as well as cute. Skinning a rabbit, boiling the bones and then reassembling the skeleton with an autopsy technician’s attention to detail, questing for authenticity, determined to give her pencil drawings a cutting edge.
The shaded room offered shelter from the heat and noise. Something was troubling his sister, he could tell; each time the room cleared, she seemed about to speak, but then more visitors came in and the moment passed. Only when they made their way out into the cottage garden did she reveal what was on her mind.
‘I’m outstaying my welcome, aren’t I?’
‘She’s tired, that’s all.’ He screwed up his eyes in the glare of the afternoon sun and reached into his pocket for his dark glasses. ‘This weather doesn’t suit her.’
‘It’s not about the weather, Daniel.’
‘Don’t take it personally. Miranda will be fine.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Louise exhaled. ‘I’ll check train times.’
‘Don’t be silly. There’s no need. Listen, I enjoy having you here. I don’t want you to leave.’
She brushed his cheek with her lips. ‘Thanks, Daniel. The break’s done me good. But I don’t want to come between you and Miranda.’
‘Anyone would think you’re an old mistress, returning to haunt us. You’re reading too much into a few grumpy remarks.’
‘She wants you to herself.’
She rested her backside on a low stone wall and he perched beside her, out of the way of people taking pictures of each other, gleefully snapping and posing in Mr Macgregor’s flower-filled back yard.
‘I want you to be happy together.’
‘We are.’
‘I’m not just talking about the sex, Daniel.’ A rueful smile. ‘That sounds pretty good.’
Early that morning, Miranda had woken him up and hauled her warm naked body on top of his. As they made love, she’d cried out in delight. Even with the thick stone walls of Tarn Cottage, it would have been a miracle if Louise in the next-door room had slept through.
He groaned. ‘Christ, Louise, I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. All I’m saying is that you need more than fun at bedtime to keep you together. Trust me, Rodney was surprisingly good in that department, but in the long run it wasn’t enough.’
‘Hey,’ he said, determined not to think about Rodney with his sister, ‘you and I aren’t the only people who’ve had a rough time. Before we met, Miranda had an affair with a married man that didn’t work out. Plus a lesbian boss who made a pass and then victimised her when she didn’t say yes. She’s been badly bruised. Healing takes time.’
‘Don’t I know it? But that’s the point, Daniel. The two of you need space, a chance to see if you can make this mad idea of running away from the rat race work out for you both.’
‘Is it such a mad idea?’
‘Not for you,’ she said. ‘But for Miranda? A different story, I guess.’
‘I wouldn’t be here if it she hadn’t persuaded me we should buy the cottage.’
‘Even so.’
‘Don’t you like her?’
‘I do, actually. I’m just not sure she’s right for you.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because I know you.’ She hesitated. ‘And I can tell that deep down you’re not sure either.’
‘You specialise in mind-reading now?’
She tapped him on the shoulder. ‘You and me, we’ve spent too many years together to be able to fool each other. Don’t let me bother you. After all, you never did when you were younger. I want this to work out for both of you, Daniel, honestly I do. I just think you may have a better chance if I’m not here, getting in the way.’
‘You’re not getting in the way,’ he said stubbornly.
Louise slipped off the wall and disappeared into the throng of camera-toting, ice-cream-licking tourists and National Trust volunteers. He closed his eyes and felt the sun burning his unprotected cheeks. He took in a breath of hot air and then headed out of the garden and in search of Miranda.
Hannah arrived back in Kendal shortly after five. Chris Gleave had presented her with a CD of his songs and she’d been playing it in the car. His voice and guitar-playing were pleasant but unexceptional, his words and music much the same. If he’d ever hoped to earn fame and fortune as a latter-day Paul Simon, he’d been deceiving himself. He might entertain an undemanding audience here or in Keswick, but no singer so bland would ever fill Central Park.
As the town baked, tempers frayed. Drivers tooted at pedestrians who took a chance dodging through slothful traffic, mothers yelled at infants and made them wail. Hannah’s eyes were dry and sore and her abdomen hurt. She called at a chemist’s and a bookshop and then hurried back to the station.
At the water cooler, she bumped into Nick Lowther. They complained to each other about the temperature and he brought her up to speed with progress in the Cockermouth case. The good news was that they’d identified a likely culprit, the bad news was that he’d suffered a severe stroke a year back and would never speak or walk again. No one seemed to know whether the stats for the review team would record this as a success or a failure.
Nick glanced up and down the corridor and lowered his voice. ‘Can we have a word sometime?’
‘Of course.’
‘I mean, in private. Not here. It’s…personal.’
‘No problem.’
‘One thing, though, Hannah. This has to be strictly off the record.’
A young woman constable passed them in the corridor and they exchanged a word. As her footsteps receded, Hannah scanned Nick’s face. He was an attractive man; she could have fancied him if he wasn’t a colleague, but over the past few days he’d aged. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, his complexion pasty and untouched by the sun.
‘OK.’
‘Thanks.’ He swallowed. ‘I promise I won’t compromise you.’
‘No worries, Nick.’ Should she say this? Not long ago she wouldn’t have thought twice. ‘I trust you.’
‘Thanks,’ he said in a tone that told her she’d said the right thing. ‘And I trust you. Which is why I need to talk.’
‘When?’
