told her that Bethany’s mother showed signs of memory loss and problems with concentration. The symptoms had worsened since a minor stroke in November. Yet Hannah had caught her on a good day, and Daphne had spoken wistfully about her lost daughter. After talking to her, Hannah was all the more determined to discover the truth about Bethany’s death.
‘You were in Bethany’s class at school.’
It could have been worse: she might have forgotten their conversation altogether. Or was she simply guessing, like a deaf person trying to keep up when they haven’t heard properly what was said? The care assistant wheeled Daphne back to her room, a tiny box with barely enough space for a bed, two chairs, a wardrobe, chest of drawers and a small bookcase in which battered Catherine Cooksons stood side by side with novels by Pat Barker and AS Byatt.
‘I will leave you together,’ Kasia said. ‘Many things to do. Ring if you need me, OK?’
Hannah sat on a chair next to the old lady.
‘I’m a police officer, and we’re trying to find out what happened to Bethany. When I came before, I promised I’d do my best to help, and now my boss has agreed, we can get down to work.’
Daphne’s eyes began to fill with tears. ‘She was such a lovely girl.’
Hannah touched the age-spotted hand. The wedding ring was loose, her fingers were skin and bone. Ben Kind had been struck by a resemblance between this woman and his own mother. Another old lady whose life was ruined by loss and loneliness.
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘She deserved better, she never had much luck.’
‘I wanted to ask you about her friends.’
‘She worked hard at school. There was a girl called Phyllida in her class. She went to America and married a doctor. Or was it an architect?’
‘What about later on? The people she was close to in those last few years.’
A tear trickled down Daphne Friend’s cheek. ‘Oh, I’m not sure. It’s so long ago. Sometimes, I get muddled.’
‘About Bethany’s boyfriends, did you meet many of them?’
Daphne frowned. ‘She was secretive. You know what young people are like. It wasn’t that I wanted to pry.’
‘You were just interested,’ Hannah suggested.
‘Yes, it’s only natural. When she was a little girl, she used to tell me everything.’ Daphne strayed into reminiscence until Hannah gently brought her back to Bethany’s later years. ‘She didn’t settle with anyone. Such a shame. I always thought it would be so nice to be a grandma.’
‘Was there anyone special at all?’
Daphne shook her head. Her white hair was sparse, the pink scalp showing through.
‘She never said.’
It wasn’t surprising that Bethany kept her private life away from her mother. Daphne Friend was a conventional woman, no doubt disapproving of sex before marriage. Bethany probably told her as much as she needed to know, and nothing more.
‘Tell me about her jobs, Daphne. She loved writing, didn’t she?’
Daphne’s eyes widened suddenly as she smiled. Even though she hadn’t put her false teeth in, Hannah had a momentary glimpse of what had attracted the late Mr Friend half a century ago.
‘She did that. The teachers always gave her top marks for English, you know. She studied it at university. Even as a tot, she always said she wanted to be a writer when she grew up. Though I told her she needed to have a proper job as well.’
Good advice, Hannah supposed, if Nathan Clare was anything to go by.
‘What sort of proper job?’
‘I wanted her to teach.’ Daphne drifted into a reverie about the attractions of working in a school. ‘A respectable job, with long holidays, and a decent pension at the end of it all. But she said she wasn’t patient enough.’
‘So, what did she do?’
Daphne frowned. ‘Something-and-nothing jobs. At least it was better than the dole, but she could have made more of herself. Working behind bars, or shop counters, that’s no life for a girl with an English degree.’
‘She had a job in a bookshop, didn’t she?’
‘She worked in several shops,’ Daphne said. ‘When she was at Lakeland, she bought a lot of lovely jerseys at a discount.’
Questioning people with erratic memories demanded endless patience. Police work was something else that wouldn’t have suited Bethany Friend.
‘And the bookshop?’
‘Yes, I remember. A nice place.’
‘Did you ever go to see her there?’
‘Once, dear. The shop was in an old mill. They opened a cafeteria. You could sit outside on a nice day with a cup of tea and a bun, and look at the stream as it went over the whatsit.’
‘The weir,’ Hannah said automatically. Her heart was pounding.
‘That’s right, the weir.’ Daphne’s pallid cheeks coloured as something occurred to her. ‘I’m so sorry, dear, your name’s just slipped my mind.’
After leaving the care home, Hannah wandered around the village, not yet ready to return to Divisional HQ. With a certain amount of well-concealed malicious glee, she had given Greg Wharf the task of checking into current wisdom on knotting techniques, to see if more light could be cast on the manner of Bethany’s death. Maggie was phoning round, in search of the people on her list who remained untraced.
Pausing by the edge of the lake, she gazed at the grey expanse of water while swans flapped their wings as if trying to dry themselves in the drizzle. She’d quizzed Daphne without success about Bethany’s spell in the bookshop. It must have been during the early days of Hannah’s relationship with Marc. They’d both been working long hours; she was building her career, while Marc devoted himself to getting the business off the ground. They had so little time to spare for each other. Her job meant so much to her; disappointment had yet to set in. As for Marc, books were his obsession, his life. He’d dreamt of owning a bookshop the way other kids dreamt of running a sweet shop. She’d been content to let him get on with it.
Hannah remembered the photograph that had caught Greg Wharf’s attention. A young woman who was quietly intriguing. A challenge. Like Hannah herself, perhaps. There was a type of woman who appealed to Marc. Bethany fitted the profile.
As she followed a circuit around Ambleside, anorak capital of the western world, shop windows proclaimed unbeatable reductions on walking boots, and outdoor gear for sale at not-to-be-repeated prices. But she was in no mood for bargain-hunting.
When she arrived home that evening, the lights were on, and Marc emerged from the kitchen with a spring in his step. He planted a kiss on her cheek and patted her bum. He was in such a good mood, she supposed he’d sold a first edition. Or bought one on the cheap.
‘Busy day?’ she asked.
‘Flogged a signed copy of
As his lips brushed hers, she told herself this wasn’t the time to interrogate him about Bethany Friend. Moments of harmony were precious. He would hate questions, would demand to be told whether she was checking up on him. In her head, she heard his outraged innocence.
‘For God’s sake, Hannah, what’s got into you? Don’t you trust me anymore? I mean — you’re not jealous of a dead woman, are you?’
So she squeezed his hand and said, ‘That’s fine.’
