‘So when Roz Gleave told Kirsty that she was wasting her time with you because you were family, your sister had nothing more to live for.’
‘It wasn’t my fault! Not that she killed herself. That was the last thing I wanted.’
‘And why did she kill herself? Not just the heartbreak, is my guess. She realised that you must have confronted Warren Howe.’
‘What if I did?’
‘Was it like this?’ Hannah watched the muscles of Oliver’s cheeks fluttering beneath the flesh. ‘You approached your father, but he didn’t want to know. He’d spent the years in between believing you were dead, and that suited him fine.’
‘I didn’t need him,’ Oliver whispered.
‘But you did need Bel. The catastrophe came when Warren told you he wanted her, was determined to have her again, come what may. If you didn’t back off, he’d make sure she knew who you were. The shame of what she’d done would destroy her. That’s why you murdered him, isn’t it? Not because your father rejected you, but to save the woman you loved?’
‘Guesswork.’ Oliver was backing away, but he was backing himself into a corner too, in between Hannah and the fence that barred access to the garden from the open countryside. ‘This isn’t detective work. It’s pure imagination. Your colleagues investigated thoroughly. There’s never been any suggestion of evidence linking me with the scene of the crime.’
‘They didn’t know you were Warren’s son, or that Bel was your mother.’
‘Even if they did, nothing could be proved.’
The shaking hands belied the confident words. And yet he was right, wasn’t he? The Crown Prosecutors would demand clear evidence of guilt before authorising a trial. Hannah felt a splash of wet on her cheek, then another on her hair. Rain, at long last rain. As she watched Oliver Cox, unmoving as the raindrops fell faster, she felt overwhelmed by a tidal wave of sadness. Kirsty was dead and soon the lives of Oliver and Bel would be wrecked forever.
A thunderous voice ruptured the silence.
‘Listening to you is all the proof I need.’
Hannah heard footsteps from behind the willow screen. She didn’t need to look to know who was coming.
Oliver’s eyes widened in terror. Hannah clenched her fists and looked round. Approaching them was Sam Howe. He must have been working in the restaurant garden, behind the willow screen. Chances were, he’d heard everything. In his hand was a garden fork. Its prongs were pointing at Oliver’s heart.
‘Put it down,’ Hannah said.
‘He killed my father. You know what he fucking did? Threw lilies over the body and a strip of sacking. Murder wasn’t enough, he had to bury him as well.’
Play for time, play for time. The rain was falling faster, Hannah needed to blink it out of his eyes.
‘You loved your father?’
‘He killed my sister too.’
‘Did you bother much with her?’
‘He’s not part of my family.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ Already the rain had soaked Hannah’s shirt, she might have been back in her bathroom, standing under the shower jet. ‘And you know something? I’d say he’s even inherited his share of the Howes’ ruthlessness. Perhaps that’s why he killed your dad.’
‘You’d better go.’
‘I’m staying.’
‘You’ll get hurt.’
‘I don’t want anyone to get hurt.’
Oliver cried out, ‘For Christ’s sake, what are you going to do — gore me in cold blood?’
‘That’s what you did to him, isn’t it?
‘It wasn’t meant to happen!’
‘Confessing, now?’ Sam showed his teeth. ‘Well, well, you heard that, Mrs Policewoman?’
‘I heard, Sam. Now, why don’t you put that fork down and we can-’
‘Forget it.’ Water was dripping off him, but he didn’t seem aware of it. There was only one thing on his mind. ‘They’ll never prosecute the bastard. That’s what this country has come to. The guilty walk free while decent people live in fear.’
Hannah took a stride towards him, keeping her arm outstretched. ‘Give me the fork.’
‘Think you’re a heroine, do you? Fuck off.’
‘Please, Sam.’
With a swift, fluid movement, Sam Howe twisted the fork upside down and swung the metal handle. It smashed against Hannah’s body. She keeled over on the wet stones, slumping heavily to the ground.
Sam was within two paces of Oliver. The chef had fallen to his knees. His eyes were closed, hands put together as if in prayer.
Sam hissed, ‘What’s that you’re saying?
Hannah cried out:
‘
Sam gave a roar like a wild creature and, as Oliver looked up, thrust the steel prongs into his neck.
Chapter Twenty
Daniel stood by the window, listening to the drumbeat of rain on the roof of the cottage. Puddles had formed on the stone slabs, flowers leaned under the weight of water, clouds merged into a vast grey tarpaulin. Hard to believe that the sodden cipher garden had ever possessed a secret meaning. A foul-tempered wind was howling through the valley, making the trees dance to its angry tune. The tarn looked swollen, the summit of the fell was wrapped in mist. He thought about Alice Quiller and John, about Oliver Cox and Bel Jenner. Some passions defied all wisdom, sometimes devotion justified any sin.
‘I should have kept my nose out.’
‘You said it, darling.’ Miranda ran her fingertips down his cheek. ‘Never mind. It’ll make a marvellous story.’
He flinched, as if at a wasp sting. ‘You’re not going to write about what happened?’
‘Why not? I may have changed my mind about tracing my birth mother, but everything is copy. Grist to the mill.’
‘You can’t, it’s too close. Too personal.’
‘Like telling our bedroom secrets?’ She laughed. ‘If you could only see your face! Come on, darling, lighten up.’
‘Sam got his just deserts,’ Marc said.
Rain had streaked Sam Howe’s face as he stared down at his half-brother’s body. Impossible for Hannah to imagine what was running through his mind. No need to make sure Oliver was dead; the fork buried in his windpipe left no room for doubt. She huddled on the ground, breath knocked out of her, body throbbing with pain. Not making a sound, not daring to move. Would she be next?
Sam spat on the ground and turned on his heel. Hannah closed her eyes, heard Sam pounding down the path. The van door banged, the engine growled, tyres screeched.
Scarcely the perfect getaway. Sam always drove too fast, it turned out that he was famous for it. Half a mile down a lane greasy from the downpour, he’d skidded round a bend at sixty and crashed into an oncoming tractor. The farmhand escaped with shock and whiplash, but Sam hadn’t bothered with his seatbelt. He was hurled through the windshield, smack into the oncoming cab. Dead on arrival at A amp;E.
‘Saved the need for a trial, I guess.’
‘And a lot of embarrassing questions.’
