‘Any reason there why she would want to end it all?’ Hannah persisted. ‘Or why someone else would have a reason to kill her?’
‘I can’t imagine anyone wishing to murder Bethany. She was a sweet girl, it’s inexplicable. Her death saddened me, but it’s not my business to solve the mystery.’ Hannah felt like chewing the table. The woman was holding back on her. And there was an air of superiority about Wanda Saffell this afternoon, a suppressed self- satisfaction that irritated and puzzled her. Anyone would think she had an ace up her sleeve, but couldn’t be bothered to play it.
‘Did she talk about why she split up with Nathan Clare?’
‘She didn’t need to. There are people who dump and others who get dumped. Nathan fell into the former category, and Bethany into the latter. It was inevitable that he would tire of her, as he has tired of a long list of other women.’
‘Nothing personal, then?’
‘Sarcasm is unworthy of you, Chief Inspector. Nathan is an artist. He lives on his own terms.’
‘Like so many men?’
‘Don’t scoff, Chief Inspector, it doesn’t suit you. Believe me, I’m as much a feminist as any woman.’
‘You were making a feminist statement when you threw wine over Arlo Denstone at Stuart Wagg’s party?’
‘I was drunk and depressed, that’s all.’
‘What had Denstone done to deserve it?’
‘He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, if you like.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘We’d met before George died. He’s an attractive man, in a gaunt sort of way. He seemed interested in me, obviously I read too much into it. There’s no point in denying that I propositioned him. He said no thanks, but it was the disgust in his eyes that seemed so cruel. As if I were ugly and desperate. That’s why I was so angry with him, and at the party I wanted him to apologise. But when I sobered up on New Year’s Day, I realised I should have left it. All I did was make myself look sad.’
‘Your solicitor took you home from the party.’
Wanda Saffell looked wary. ‘You know I consulted Raj Doshi for matrimonial advice?’
Hannah nodded.
‘I didn’t take it any further. Not in terms of splitting up with George, that is.’
‘What, then?’ An idea struck Hannah. ‘Have you been seeing Doshi?’
Wanda’s face darkened. ‘He’s married, Chief Inspector. And my private life is none of your business.’
‘Must have been difficult for you, after your husband was murdered.’
‘As you well know, the inquest has been adjourned. The coroner hasn’t delivered a verdict.’
‘Do you doubt that he was murdered?’
‘Since you ask, no.’
‘Any idea why anyone would want to kill your husband in such a cruel fashion?’
‘None whatsoever. But you didn’t come here to discuss what happened to George, I hope. In the military jargon, that surely is mission creep.’
‘Let me be the judge of that, Mrs Saffell.’
‘Another officer is in charge of the investigation into my husband’s death.’
‘DCI Larter knows I am speaking to you.’
‘Doubling up? Not a very good use of resources, Chief Inspector.’
Stung, Hannah gave in to temptation. ‘You must admit, it’s a coincidence. Two people, apparently murdered in mysterious circumstances and for no obvious reason. Two people whom you knew.’
Wanda flushed, and Hannah felt like shouting in exultation. At last, she’d registered a hit.
‘You can’t be suggesting a connection between the deaths of Bethany and George?’
‘Do you believe there is a connection?’
‘Don’t be absurd. I knew them both, but that’s neither here nor there. You might as well-’
‘What?’
A question too far, although she didn’t realise.
Wanda’s expression became a blend of contempt and savage triumph.
‘You might as well investigate someone much closer to home. After all, George spent a fortune with Amos Books — where Bethany worked before moving to the university. She fancied Marc like crazy. Whether they slept together, I never inquired. As I said, I don’t pry into other people’s lives. But of course, he will have told you the full story, Chief Inspector Scarlett. Won’t he?’
Hannah had never been kicked in the stomach by a donkey, but it must feel like this. At least if you were coshed by some thug, it wasn’t accompanied by this sickening sense of betrayal by someone you trusted not to hurt you.
In the course of a year, up to a dozen casual workers worked at the shop, helping out at busy times and in the holiday season. The Lake District was full of young people passing through, gap year students, migrants and assorted drifters, who took a job for a while, then left for something else. Marc couldn’t be expected to remember every single person. But he’d remembered Bethany Friend. You wouldn’t forget someone who died in such mysterious circumstances; the story had been all over the local papers for a couple of weeks. Especially if they’d been infatuated with you.
She found herself taking the track that followed Stock Ghyll. Swelled by the rain of the last few days, the ghyll squeezed through narrow channels in the cliff on its way down to Ambleside. Where the path forked, she continued right, climbing steps of rock and oak root before reaching a fence with iron arches. Beyond was a railed viewpoint, overlooking the stream, but she ploughed on, along more rough steps until she reached the footbridge at the top. The paths were thick with mud; her shoes would be ruined, but she didn’t care. At last she stopped, and closed her eyes, listening to the roar of the white water below.
This was Stock Ghyll Force. The waterfall threw up clouds of spray, and Hannah felt drops of water on her skin. A rib of rock showed through the foam; it split the falls like a dorsal fin before the waters converged again, meeting in mid-air to form a raging torrent. If you shut your eyes, you might believe a dam had burst.
Or that all hell had been let loose.
During the original investigation into Bethany Friend’s death, a member of Ben’s team had produced a rough curriculum vitae summarising her work experience. She’d moved around so much, the document was bound to be incomplete. It wasn’t too surprising that there was no mention of a spell at Amos Books. Probably the job amounted to nothing more than a few weekends, paid cash in hand while she worked somewhere else Monday to Friday, and served behind a bar at night.
Marc should have come clean. Wanda Saffell hinted that he and Bethany had been lovers. Mischief-making, but that didn’t mean she was wrong. Even after Hannah had started seeing Marc, he’d dallied with Leigh Moffatt. If an affair with an employee turned sour, maybe she’d become difficult. Threatened a sexual harassment claim or something.
Cold and hungry, with tears pricking her eyes, Hannah leant on the railing and glared down at the cascade. A couple in their seventies walked past, and looked at her with undisguised anxiety. But she wasn’t contemplating a leap into the abyss. Just facing up to the question she could no longer dodge.
Was the man she’d loved for years capable of tying up Bethany Friend and leaving her to drown in the Serpent Pool?
On her way back to the car, she called at a shop that was holding a sale and bought herself new shoes. Three pairs. Retail therapy was her best chance of de-stressing — she didn’t expect to break open a bottle of wine with Marc any time soon. The old, mud-caked shoes she stuffed into a litter bin. If only you could ditch everything wrong in your life so easily.
Within two minutes of her arrival at HQ, she found herself bellowing at a temp who had messed up some photocopying. As the girl’s face crumpled, she apologised, and cursed herself inwardly. Wrong to vent her ill humour on subordinates, however lazy and incompetent — wrong, wrong, wrong.
Fern wasn’t around, which was a relief. She didn’t want to feed back on her conversation with Wanda until she’d had a chance to confront Marc. But she’d barely stomped into her office and slammed the door to discourage
