The Serpent Pool

The urge to slap his face was almost impossible to resist. No doubt, over the years, plenty of women had succumbed to the temptation. But Hannah wanted information.

‘How did the argument between you end?’

‘I promised to call her in a few days, once I’d given her time to calm down. There was no reason why we couldn’t continue to be friends.’

‘If she was terrified of rejection, she must have been upset with you. Angry?’

‘These things are never pleasant. I’m no monster, Hannah, whatever feminist prejudices you may harbour. But our relationship had run its course. She was bound to get over me, sooner or later. Probably the moment she met someone else.’

‘Did she seem irrational, did she make threats?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Hannah gave him a do-me-a-favour look.

‘She was distressed, naturally. I had arranged to take her out for a meal, at a decent little trattoria. It closed down last year, a real loss. Bethany thought we were about to discuss a romantic holiday in Umbria when I broke the news. She wasn’t irrational. Just…unhappy.’

The original investigating team had spoken to the staff on duty at the trattoria that night. Voices had been raised, and Bethany was in floods of tears. Wailing like a child, according to one of the waiters. But there was no evidence that she’d threatened any form of revenge, far less that her behaviour had driven Nathan Clare to murder.

‘You told my colleagues that she must have committed suicide.’

‘I thought she would get over the break-up, but-’

‘You think she was so depressed that she saw no reason to keep on living?’

‘What other explanation could there be for her death? Whatever her shortcomings, Bethany was an utterly inoffensive woman. How could any sane person wish to do her harm?’

Ben Kind had asked himself the same question. Perhaps, against all odds, it was a case of accidental death. One of his working theories was that Clare had invited Bethany to the Serpent Pool to indulge in some kind of sex game as a means of reviving his flagging interest. On a lousy February day, he might have been confident they would not be disturbed. Had the experiment gone terribly wrong?

‘So, she killed herself because she was heartbroken that you ended the affair?’

‘I never said that.’

‘What, then?’

‘She was too intense for happiness. This wasn’t the first time that a relationship had come to an end against her wishes.’

‘Tell me about her previous relationships.’

‘We never discussed them. Why would I be interested?’

He’d said the same during the original investigation. At least he was consistent. Or simply careful.

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously. I believe in living for the moment. All that matters is the here and now, that’s what I said to her. And I meant it.’

Something he’d said earlier stirred in her memory. At once, anxiety chilled her.

‘You mentioned that she worked in a bookshop.’

‘Correct.’

‘Waterstone’s?’

‘No, they sold second-hand books.’

Bethany Friend’s death haunted Ben Kind. Yet he couldn’t even prove it was murder, let alone get close to making an arrest. Nathan Clare was the obvious suspect. Ben disliked him, and now Hannah understood why. There was no trace of the supposed lover who dumped Bethany before she took up with Nathan. None of Bethany’s friends or work colleagues knew of anyone. Ben had wondered if the lover really existed, or was an invention of Clare’s.

Next stop was a care home near Watersedge. Time for a word with Bethany’s mother. Hannah wanted her to know she’d had the go-ahead to reopen the case. And now she needed to find out whether Bethany had ever worked for Marc.

As she stomped through the rain to her car, she thought back to those conversations with Ben. He shared with others of his generation an innate distrust of the Bramshill Flyers, those younger graduate officers who came fresh to policing with degrees in Archaeology or Classics and were fast-tracked for promotion. But he wasn’t a bigot, and he’d done everything in his power to aid her progress. Despite the age gap, there was an attraction between them. Never acknowledged in words, but palpable. Neither of them ever did anything about it. He stuck with Cheryl, for whom he’d abandoned his wife and children, and she found herself living with Marc.

One wet night, over a drink after work, Ben told her why Bethany Friend’s death meant so much to him. He’d interviewed Bethany’s mother, and been struck by the depth of her despair. She was only in her sixties, but the combination of a weak heart and a series of personal calamities had aged her. He said she might have passed for fifteen years older, and no wonder. Her husband had died long ago, followed by her son, and finally she’d lost her remaining child.

‘Sounds stupid,’ he said as they sat in the corner of a dingy pub, ‘but she made me think of my mother. When I left home, my wife wouldn’t have anything to do with me or my family, ever again. My mum never saw her grandchildren after that, even though Daniel used to write to her in secret. It made me realise…’

His voice trailed away. Hannah had wanted to take his hand and offer comfort, but she’d been afraid of where it might lead.

‘What?’

‘It made me realise what a selfish bastard I was. Mum died within a couple of years, and whatever they put on the death certificate, the truth is that her heart was broken and she lost the will to carry on.’

‘So, you want to make it up to Daphne Friend?’

‘Yes.’ He stared into his cloudy pint, embarrassed to meet her eyes. ‘Yes, yes.’

Now Ben was gone, and a cold case investigation was the last chance to discover the truth before Daphne died. This was why she’d been so determined to persuade Lauren Self to back the investment of time and resource in a seemingly hopeless cause. She owed it to Ben and Daphne to do her best.

And yet.

What if Marc had employed Bethany?

Or, even worse, if he knew what had happened to her and had kept his mouth shut because he had something to hide?

The care assistant’s name was Kasia. Like most of the staff in the home, she was Polish. Young, cheerful, and obviously overworked. The home was a double-fronted nineteenth-century house which had been much extended. A conservatory had been tacked on, affording residents a view of the fells. But nobody paid attention to the slopes beyond the rain-streaked glazing. Half a dozen elderly women and a couple of men sat around in a semicircle, but most were fast asleep. One couple were glued to a quiz programme on the television screen facing the windows. Some of the wizened faces had changed since Hannah’s last visit before Christmas, but the gentle snoring that greeted her as they walked in sounded exactly the same.

‘She is awake,’ Kasia whispered, as if they had entered a church. ‘She was unwell over the holiday, but she seems brighter today.’

Daphne Friend sat in a wheelchair, hands folded in her lap. A copy of Take a Break had slipped from her grasp and lay on the carpet in front of her, but she paid it no heed. She was barely seventy, no age at all these days, but illness and unhappiness had worn her down. Her skin was papery and she smelt of talcum powder. Her gaze rested on a framed watercolour of Buttermere on the opposite wall, but Hannah was sure she wasn’t studying the picture of the lake. Her mind was wandering back down the years, in search of those memories she managed to retain.

‘Daphne,’ the care assistant said. ‘You have a visitor.’

Hannah held out her hand. ‘Hello, Daphne. My name’s Hannah Scarlett. Do you remember me?’

Daphne Friend lifted a withered hand and brushed it against Hannah’s fingers. The smile on her lips was tentative. Was that a faint spark of recognition in the watery blue eyes? When Hannah was last here, a nurse had