‘Shit,’ he muttered. Too close for comfort.
The low sun half-blinded him. Squinting through the windscreen, he spotted a police car lurking in a lay-by four hundred yards ahead. A burly PC stood on the verge, lifting a speed gun with the dead-eyed menace of a latter-day Sundance Kid. Marc slammed on the brakes and the speedo pointer plummeted. As he crawled past, the sharpshooter scowled at him. Marc fixed his gaze on the road. Today of all days, he was in no mood to be caught out by the Cumbria Constabulary.
He reached the courtyard in one piece, and as he unlocked the shop, he heard the clatter of footsteps on the gravel. Turning, he saw someone in a hooded duffel coat and black boots walking towards him. A gloved hand pulled down the hood. It was Cassie Weston, her expression stony. Surprised to see her here so soon, he fixed on a smile and gave her a wave. She gave a curt nod, said nothing.
‘Bright and early, Cassie!’
‘Why not?’ she said, shrugging off the duffel coat.
‘Everything all right?’
‘Yeah, why shouldn’t it be?’
‘You look knackered, that’s all.’
‘I’m fine.’
Her eagerness of yesterday had vanished. Even her clothes looked drab. She’d put on a shapeless sweater and a grubby old pair of trousers and hadn’t bothered with the dark eyeliner, either.
He lit the fire in the inglenook. The prospect of a cosy refuge from the bitter cold might tempt some passing trade. You had to stay optimistic if you earned a living from selling old books. No blazing logs in his office; he had to make do with a noisy fan heater. He booted up his PC for the customary morning trawl through emails from customers in different time zones. An American fan of the Lake Poets was planning for retirement and wanted to know if Marc would like first refusal on his collection. In the current market, it might take years to get a decent return on the investment. There was more money to be made from breaking up the set and selling the individual titles, since the likeliest buyers would have collections of their own and wouldn’t be keen to spend on duplicates. But that game required patience, and deep pockets.
He’d left the office door ajar, and he heard Mrs Beveridge greet Cassie with a jovial complaint about the weather. The reply sounded grumpy. Why was she in such a funny mood? Stupid to become intrigued by someone who worked for you. Never mix business with pleasure.
His thoughts strayed to Bethany Friend. How long before Hannah discovered that he’d known the girl? On New Year’s Eve at the Serpent Pool, she’d looked at him sceptically when they spoke about Bethany.
He remembered his last conversation with Bethany. Her face, tarnished with dismay. What she said…
Daniel suspected that, if and when he finished
He left it until mid-morning before phoning Stuart Wagg. The man was supposed to be on holiday. If he had spent the previous day traipsing over the fells, he might be having a lie-in. There was no answer on the landline and the call to his mobile again went straight to voicemail. Daniel left a brief message, and tried Wagg’s office. The receptionist said he wasn’t expected in this week. Perhaps Wagg had instructed them to dead-bat all inquiries. Did he have reasons of his own for blipping off the radar?
‘Where is he?’ Louise demanded.
‘Nobody admits to having a clue.’
She closed her eyes. ‘God, I’d persuaded myself you were right, and I was worrying myself sick over nothing. But-’
‘Hannah Scarlett will let us know as soon as there is any news.’
Louise’s cheeks were as white as the frozen earth outside.
‘We can’t just sit around. We have to do something!’
‘For instance?’
‘Let’s ring the cleaners. Stuart hired a firm in Newby Bridge to look after the housework in Crag Gill.’
Louise found the number, and he phoned the woman who owned the business. No joy. The bug had laid low most of her staff and she said she’d left messages on the answering machine at Crag Gill, apologising for their nonarrival this week. Normal service would be resumed as soon as possible. She hadn’t spoken to Stuart Wagg in person, or received any response to her calls.
‘The gardener!’ Louise said once she’d digested this. ‘He has a key to the outbuildings.’
‘I’ll call him.’
When Marc wandered into the cafe at eleven, Mrs Beveridge made him a latte and presented him with a slice of chocolate gateau. To keep the cold out, she said. Half a dozen people were taking refuge and warming themselves up with tea or coffee, but the shop was almost deserted. Without his online business, bailiffs would be hammering at the door. He’d spent the morning preparing a new catalogue to be emailed to regular customers before he uploaded it onto the website. It was a job he enjoyed. The wonders of digital photography meant he had less need to worry about grumpy buyers complaining their books didn’t live up to the catalogue description. Usually Cassie popped in at regular intervals to ask a question or pass the time of day, but so far she’d kept her distance.
He finished his elevenses and strolled to the counter. Cassie’s eyes were locked on the computer screen as she checked the market to help her price the books piled in front of her. Her expression didn’t flicker as he approached, though she must have heard the floorboards creak.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
‘Uh-huh.’
He perched on the desk and at last she dragged her gaze from the screen. Her eyes had red rims. She fished a tissue out of her bag and blew her nose loudly.
‘Doesn’t look like it.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You haven’t picked up this bug that’s doing the rounds?’
‘I said I’m all right.’
‘Listen, if you need to take the day off-’
‘Trust me, I’m better in work.’
‘You want to talk about whatever is bothering you?’
To his surprise, she hesitated. Weighing something up.
‘Not really.’
‘I’ll leave you in peace, then.’
He heaved himself off the counter. As he turned to go, he heard her whisper, ‘Thanks, anyway.’
A breakdown in the heating system had turned Divisional HQ into an ice house. Today the bug had claimed two more members of Hannah’s depleted band. Linz Waller had rung in sick and so had the remaining admin assistant. Les’s voice sounded raspy, and Maggie blew her nose three or four times as Hannah gave a short briefing to the walking wounded. Only Greg Wharf seemed immune, wondering whether they should ask to be renamed the Sub-Zero Case Team.
Half an hour later, Maggie stuck her head round the door. The sparkle in her eyes told Hannah that she’d discovered something new.
‘Spare me a minute, ma’am?’
‘Anything to take my mind off the monthly stats is very welcome. Take a seat.’
‘No joy yet tracing Cumbes, Redfern, or Seeton, so I’ve taken a break and checked out Bethany’s career history.’ She produced a sheet of paper. ‘Want to take a look?’
Hannah swallowed. Did a spell at Amos Books feature in the list? She couldn’t put off the awkward questions for ever.
She shook her head. ‘You tell me.’
‘You’ll never guess who Bethany once worked for.’ Maggie beamed, prolonging the suspense.
She wouldn’t be so pleased with herself if she’d found a connection with Marc. ‘Surprise me.’
‘She had three months at George Saffell’s estate agency, eighteen months before her death.’
