that someone always knew more than they should about someone else’s business. Just as Wanda Saffell knew about Bethany and Marc.
As she rounded the last bend, Undercrag stood in front of her. There were no lights on, other than the security lamp that came on as the car came within range of the front door.
He hadn’t warned her that he would be late. What was he up to?
‘Comfortable?’ Cassie asked.
Marc stretched his legs and stifled a yawn. Not that he was bored, just weary. She hadn’t poisoned him with the Irish coffee, though she’d gone overboard with the whisky, and he had to hope that tonight was too cold for the traffic cops to be out with their breathalysers.
‘Perfect.’
‘I’m glad.’
On top of the bookshelves was a clock fashioned from a seven-inch vinyl single by the Beatles. ‘Please, Please Me.’ Quarter to seven. She’d perched on the edge of the sofa, but he couldn’t tell if she was waiting for him to go, or hoping he would stay.
‘More coffee?’
‘I’d love to, but no. I’d not be fit to get behind the wheel if I had any more.’
‘My fault,’ she said. ‘I have this terrible habit of going overboard.’
‘Is that so terrible?’
She leant closer to him. ‘Believe me, Marc.’
His throat was dry. He wasn’t sure where this would lead, but he had a good idea.
A mobile ringtone chirruped. Another snatch of the Beatles: ‘Lady Madonna’.
She stood up and moved towards the kitchen. ‘Saved by the bell, huh?’
She left the door ajar and he strained to eavesdrop. But she was whispering, and he couldn’t make out the words. Within a moment she was back in the sitting room, clutching the phone as tightly as though it were a grenade. Breathing hard.
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘No.’ Her eyes were fixed on the patterns of the kilim, avoiding his scrutiny. ‘Well, in truth, yes. But it doesn’t matter.’
‘You look unhappy all of a sudden.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘The boyfriend?’
‘Ex-boyfriend.’ She coloured. ‘He’s so persistent.’
‘Can’t blame him for that.’
She looked at the mobile screen. ‘Oh God, he’s just sent a text.’
He craned his neck to read the message.
‘He’s stalking you?’
‘It’s my problem, not yours.’
‘Can I help?’
‘I’ll sort it.’
‘What are you going to do?’
She thought for a moment and mustered a sardonic grin. ‘Let you get back home to your chief inspector.’
‘Is that what you want?’
She took a stride towards him and dropped a kiss on his cheek. Her lips were chilly, but for a moment he felt her slim, hard body press against him, before she withdrew.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Thanks for the lift, I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Showdown time.
Hannah was checking her lipstick in front of the hall mirror as Marc banged the door shut. She was due to see Daniel in half an hour, and she didn’t want to keep him waiting. But she didn’t mean to delay questioning Marc until she arrived back from The Tickled Trout.
‘I didn’t expect you to be this late.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t realise I needed to seek permission.’
She groaned inwardly. Sounded like he’d had a bad day at the bookshop. Maybe he’d heard about Stuart Wagg. He couldn’t afford to lose too many good customers.
‘There’s food in the kitchen.’
‘Thanks.’ He eyed her suspiciously. ‘Going out?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t realise I needed to seek permission.’
‘Ouch.’ For an instant, she glimpsed the grin that had attracted her so much the first time they met, all those years ago. But it faded as fast as the gold and silver cascades of fire they’d watched at Crag Gill, and was replaced by an expression both watchful and sardonic. ‘Meeting a source?’
‘Not exactly.’ She was about to tell him she would be seeing Daniel Kind, but something stopped her. Maybe she just didn’t want the conversation to digress. ‘You know Stuart Wagg is dead?’
‘Uh-huh.’ He sighed. ‘So, two people I know have died in mysterious circumstances.’
He’d gifted her with an open goal. ‘Three people, surely?’
‘Three?’
‘There’s Bethany Friend as well.’
‘What makes you think I know Bethany?’
‘Do you deny it?’
‘Deny what?’
‘Deny knowing Bethany?’
She recognised his expression: she’d seen it a thousand times on the faces of politicians playing for time while they groped for a form of words that avoided the lie direct.
‘No, I never have denied it.’
‘You never said she worked for you. Not at the time of her death, not even when we discussed her on New Year’s Eve, when we walked to the Serpent Pool. Are you telling me it slipped your mind?’
‘I was sad about what happened to her, it depressed me. She was a nice girl. I preferred to remember her as she was, not dwell on her death.’
‘For God’s sake, Marc! I’m reinvestigating her death, and it was asking too much to expect you to tell me what you knew about her?’
‘Nothing to tell.’
‘She fancied you.’
He gritted his teeth. ‘You have been doing your homework.’
‘Did you shag her?’
‘No!’
They stared at each other. His gaze didn’t waver. She decided that probably he was telling the truth.
‘OK. So what did you make of her?’
‘What else do you want to know? She was a sweet girl and I don’t have a clue either why she might commit suicide or why someone might kill her. Satisfied?’
‘Why weren’t you straight with me?’
He wagged a forefinger at her. ‘Don’t push your luck. Everyone has secrets, even you.’
Her spine chilled. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Where are you off to this evening? You never wear lipstick to office briefings. Anybody would think you were scuttling off for a tryst with some man.’
Hannah strangled a cry of anger and snatched her jacket from the stand near the door. The zip stuck, and as she fumbled, it broke. Bloody typical. Everything was falling apart.
She took in a gulp of air. ‘I’m meeting Daniel Kind, if you want to know. It’s no secret. He and his sister found Stuart Wagg’s body.’
‘Don’t try to tell me you’re investigating Stuart’s death.’
