for a gap in the traffic, but tonight both lanes were deserted, as if everyone had already fled home.
Six o’clock. Time for the local headlines.
‘The body of a man has been discovered in the grounds of a house near Bowness,’ the announcer said. ‘Police have refused to confirm reports that the deceased is prominent local solicitor Stuart Wagg. Mr Wagg is believed to have been missing for the past twenty-four hours. Meanwhile, as weather conditions deteriorate across the county…’
‘Shit!’
Marc came within inches of steering the car into a road sign at a fork. They juddered to a halt. Neither of them spoke as their breath misted the windscreen.
‘It’s…’ He found himself lost for words.
‘Unbelievable?’ she murmured.
‘It must be a mistake.’
‘It’s no mistake.’
He peered at her through the darkness. ‘What makes you so certain?’
‘Elementary, my dear Amos. The media wouldn’t mention the name if they weren’t sure of his identity. Imagine the outrage if they’d got it wrong.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘Don’t take my word for it. Your partner’s a detective, she’s bound to be in the know. Why don’t you ask her?’
He’d forgotten that Cassie had once met Hannah. At the time, he’d felt a pinprick of irritation about her visit to the shop: she didn’t take any interest in the business usually, and he suspected her of wanting to size up his latest recruit. Still, it was as well that Cassie knew he was in a relationship. That way there could be no misunderstanding. No recriminations.
‘She’s in charge of the Cold Cases team. Investigating crimes from the past, not in the here and now.’
‘Yes, but she’ll have the inside track. She knew Stuart, you told me you were taking her to his party on New Year’s Eve.’
‘He was in good form that night.’ Marc gazed out into the night. There was no moon; they might be anywhere. Just the two of them, alone in the dark. ‘What in God’s name has happened to him? They said the body was discovered out of doors.’
‘It must have been an accident.’
He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Like George Saffell?’
‘Hey there.’ She might have been a mother soothing a fractious child. ‘They were customers, not your best friends.’
‘George Saffell was murdered, it’s a stone-cold certainty.’ He was almost talking to himself, struggling to get his head round what had happened to his clients. ‘For all we know, so was Wagg. The same person may have killed them both.’
‘Or else it’s a spooky coincidence.’
‘The police don’t believe in coincidences. That’s one thing I’ve learnt from Hannah.’
‘Don’t say you’re worried they will treat you as a suspect?’
‘Christ knows.’
‘Hannah will look after you.’
He didn’t answer.
‘I mean, you’re the last person who would have wanted them dead. Two rich book collectors?’
‘Of course, it’s madness. But I’ve learnt from Hannah how the police work when they are in a jam. If they find a convenient fall guy…’
‘Don’t sound so anxious.’ Her fingers brushed against his cheek, then scuttled away, as though embarrassed at their presumption. ‘You feel like a cold case too, Marc Amos.’
His body tensed, his heart was beating faster…
‘You need that whisky more than I do,’ she murmured.
He cleared his throat. ‘Won’t you change your mind about having a drink with me?’
‘In that wretched pub? Are you joking? I’ve visited more cheerful mausoleums. Or do I mean mausolea?’ She hesitated. ‘Tell you what, if you have a few minutes to spare, come up to the flat and I’ll make you a mug of Irish coffee. Special recipe, with double cream to soak up the alcohol.’
‘Sounds tempting.’ He paused, as if deliberating over pros and cons. ‘OK, it’s a deal.’
‘Fine.’ As he turned on the ignition, she settled back in the passenger seat and shut her eyes. ‘How good to have a chauffeur. Wake me up when we get home, will you?’
He listened to her soft, rhythmic breathing as he drove, unsure if she was asleep or dreaming. This felt different from the last time he’d taken her home. They were growing closer to each other, but he meant to be careful. Go so far, but no further.
When they arrived at her place, he nudged her awake and then, without a word, followed her up a narrow flight of stairs to a tiny landing on the first floor. There was a door with her name next to the bell.
‘Welcome,’ she said, shrugging off coat and scarf and waving him into a small sitting room. ‘Sorry, it’s not exactly Crag Gill.’
Stuart Wagg again. For a few minutes he’d banished the man’s suspected death from his mind.
‘It’s incredible. Within a few weeks, my two best customers…’
The gas fire roared into life, and she lit a trio of candles before switching off the main light. In one corner stood an old-fashioned Japanese hi-fi unit; she pulled a Neil Young CD out of a rack and put it on. The room reminded him of a student house. Furnished on the cheap, but she had an eye for casual chic. Indian wall hangings, throws over the armchairs and sofa, and a warm red and brown kilim spread over the carpet tiles. On every available surface were incense burners decorated with Chinese dragons, exotically carved wooden boxes and trinket pots. Even the paperbacks in the bookcase by the window seemed chosen to fit the colour scheme; although every spine was creased with reading.
‘Maybe someone has got it in for you.’
The ironic grin made him blush. It was a knack she had, of constantly pushing him onto the back foot.
‘Sorry, did I sound very self-absorbed?’
‘No need to look shamefaced. You run a business, and times aren’t easy. The likes of Stuart and George pay the bills. And my wages, I’m not forgetting. I hope this won’t cause you any grief.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll get by.’
‘Phew, that’s a relief. I’ve had more jobs already than some people have in a lifetime. I’d be sad if you chucked me out on the street.’
‘No danger of that, Cassie.’
‘Let me fix that Irish coffee while you take the weight off your feet.’
She vanished into a tiny kitchen, leaving him to sprawl across the sofa. Neil Young was singing ‘Tonight’s the Night’. It excited him, to be invited up here, but he was determined not to succumb to his old weakness of allowing himself to get carried away. He didn’t want Cassie to misunderstand him. Not that he was confident that he entirely understood himself.
He closed his eyes. How easy to drift away. What if she invited him to smoke a joint, or share a line of cocaine? He found it impossible to predict her; there was no knowing how far she might go. Suppose the invitation to coffee was a ruse? He’d made himself vulnerable, he wasn’t in control. What might she be stirring into his drink, what pills or potion might the whisky and cream disguise?
As he opened his eyes, she walked through the door, carrying a tray. She cleared a space on the bamboo table by the sofa and set the drinks down.
‘Here.’ She passed him one of the mugs and sat down in the chair facing him. ‘Take a sip. See how you like it.’
He tried the coffee. She’d made it very strong.
Cassie’s lips were parted as she waited for his reaction.
They exchanged smiles. Yes, he was taking a risk, but the weird thing was, he didn’t care.
He took another taste.
