‘The original investigation never picked up anything. But Wanda isn’t short of charisma, and Bethany was pretty and impressionable. She’d had a crush on a teacher when she was at school, and she liked older lovers. Nathan Clare, for instance. Maybe she and Wanda fancied an experiment.’
A furrow appeared in Maggie Eyre’s forehead. She wasn’t the quickest thinker in the room, but she gnawed at problems as if they were chicken legs.
‘If we put Wanda in the frame, doesn’t the connection between the cases break down? The relationships ended in different ways. If Stuart dumped Wanda, revenge might be a motive for her to murder him. But Bethany was dumped by her lover, we were told. Not the other way around. Just like she was dumped by Nathan Clare.’
‘We don’t know for sure there was a relationship between Wanda and Bethany,’ Fern said. ‘But DCI Scarlett and I agree about the importance of close liaison. Assuming a link between the cold and current cases, we’re not going to be territorial about this. Maggie and Liam will cross-check the lists of people who had a connection with Bethany against those associated with Saffell and Wagg. Meanwhile, DCI Scarlett will question both Nathan Clare and Wanda Saffell again.’
‘Pissing in the dark, aren’t we?’
Greg Wharf’s murmur was so audible, he must have meant everyone to hear. His hands were behind his head. For the past half hour, he’d been leaning so far back in his plastic chair as to be in imminent danger of tipping over onto his backside. No such luck, but that was Greg for you. Never quite as unbalanced as he seemed. He’d kept so quiet, Hannah wondered if he was sickening for something. But he’d just been biding his time, waiting for the chance to make waves.
‘All right, Greg,’ Fern said. ‘Let’s have the benefit of your wisdom, eh?’
‘So, Bethany knew Wanda, George and Stuart through work, so what? This is the Lake District. The most incestuous bloody place in Britain, if you ask me. Leave out the tourists and itinerants, and everybody knows everybody else. Sometimes seems like everybody shags everybody else, too; it’s the only thing to do in this bloody place during the long, cold nights of winter.’
Maggie Eyre, fiercely loyal to her home turf, turned crimson with outrage. She shot him an angry look, but it would take more than that to bother Greg Wharf.
‘We need to face facts. If every dodgy relationship led to murder, the streets of Windermere would be as deserted as Wasdale.’
Fern intercepted the glance he tossed at Hannah.
‘Hang on, Greg. Touch of exaggeration there, don’t you think? Grasmere isn’t exactly Gomorrah.’
He shrugged. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘Sure, but you know rejection can be painful. It breeds resentment, might even be a motive for murder. Though I guess you’re lucky, and nobody’s ever turned you down.’
Donna sniggered, and Roz raised her neat eyebrows, but Fern’s sarcasm bounced off Greg Wharf like slingshot fire off armour-plating.
‘These people live in each others’ pockets. If someone knows one of the murder victims — assuming they were all murdered — chances are, they will know the others. The question isn’t whether Wanda was one of Wagg’s fancy women, never mind Bethany’s. What we really want to know is this…’ He allowed himself a rhetorical pause, a performer skilled at holding an audience in the palm of his hand. ‘A woman drowned, a man burnt to a cinder, another buried alive. So brutal — but why?’
Fern frowned. ‘And your answer?’
‘Sorry, don’t have one. That’s why I’m still a DS.’
He leant back even further in his chair, testing gravity to the limit. Drawing everyone’s eyes to him. A sly smile crept across his face, and Hannah saw how much he loved to be the centre of attention.
‘One thing is for sure. The motive has to be powerful. Overwhelming, I’d say. Never mind profilers, we need to ask what could drive someone to such extremes? Find that out, and we’ll find our murderer.’
On her way out of Divisional HQ, Hannah looked in on Fern’s office. Both of them were pleased with the briefing, except for the last few minutes.
‘Bloody Greg Wharf,’ Fern said. ‘Complete pain in the arse.’
‘I’ll have a word with him after I’ve seen Clare and Saffell.’ Hannah hesitated. ‘There is just one thing.’ Fern gave her a curious look. ‘What?’
‘Has Greg worked this patch before?’
‘Don’t think so. Spent most of his career in Newcastle, hasn’t he?’
‘Can you check if he ever had a secondment on this side of the Pennines? Keep it low-key, I’m just ticking a box.’
Fern was suspicious. ‘So, what box do you want to tick?’
‘Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m sure there’s nothing in it.’
‘Come on.’
‘Well, he arrived in the county a month before Saffell was killed. If he was around six years ago…’ Fern laughed. ‘You can’t seriously believe he had anything to do with those three deaths?’
‘No, but…’
A wicked glint came into Fern’s eyes. ‘Yeah, but I catch your drift. Won’t do any harm to rattle his cage, will it?’
‘I’ve moved out,’ Marc said.
Cassie took a long time to answer. He began to worry that she’d hang up. For the past hour, he’d kept wandering the streets; now he was perched on a low wall near the library. This was the third time he’d called her. Until now, her phone had been switched to voicemail. He’d left two messages, but she hadn’t called back. Busy, or simply playing hard to get?
‘You’ve left home?’ Her voice was small and wondering, like a child’s at Christmas. ‘I never expected-’
‘Things are…difficult.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. Hannah’s seeing someone else.’
‘What makes you think so?’
‘I know so. The man is Daniel Kind, the television historian. They’ve been meeting in secret. She used to have a soft spot for his father. Daniel’s better looking and more successful than his old man; no wonder she’s acting like a star-struck teenager.’
‘She’ll get over it. And come back to you.’
He took a breath. ‘I’m not sure either of us want that.’
Was that true? He didn’t know, he wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
‘Really?’
He didn’t answer.
‘So, where are you?’
‘Staying with Mum in Grange. For a day or two, while I make plans.’
Another pause. What was Cassie thinking?
‘And what plans do you have in mind, exactly?’ she asked.
‘Hate to disappoint you, Hannah, my dear, but not only don’t I own a car, I never even learnt to drive. My contribution to saving the planet, you know. Sorry I can’t be of more assistance.’
If Nathan Clare experienced even a twinge of dismay at his inability to help, he hid it with an insolent leer. Payback for Hannah’s temerity in interrupting his day.
They were sipping allegedly hot, but actually tepid, chocolate in a draughty cafeteria on the Staveley campus of the University of South Lakeland. There wasn’t a student in sight: term hadn’t started yet, and in any event, Hannah guessed the first thing they learnt here was the inadequacy of the catering. Clare had been summoned to a meeting of external lecturers, and at first he’d insisted he didn’t have time to fit her into his busy schedule. When she offered an alternative of an interview at Busher Walk, he grudgingly agreed to spare her ten minutes. No more, he was a busy man.
‘How do you get around?’
‘Some of us possess genuine green credentials.’ He tutted in mock rebuke. ‘I’m a passionate believer in public transport. If only the people who run the trains and buses shared my faith, all would be well. As it is, I do a lot of
