The Hanging Wood

bloody stupid wife, when she told me you’d not bother me for more than ten minutes. Come on, I’ve answered your questions fair and square. Time’s up.’

He waved beefy hands at them, indicating the way back out of the farm. He might have been shooing animals through a gate.

‘Had Orla discovered something about Callum?’ Hannah asked. ‘Did she mention it to you the last time you were together?’

‘I said all I’ve got to say about my daughter yesterday.’

‘Finding her like that must have been a terrible experience, Mr Hinds. We only want-’

‘Didn’t you hear me?’ he yelled.

‘Take it easy, eh?’ Greg said.

For answer, Hinds bent and lifted up the scythe. ‘Get off my fucking land.’

‘Mr Hinds.’ Hannah’s voice sounded thin in the silence. ‘You have been cooperative so far. Please don’t do anything you will regret.’

The farmer’s face had blackened with fury. With the scythe in his right hand, he advanced towards them. He’d come to within two or three strides of Greg. Five yards further back, Hannah froze.

Stomach churning, she exchanged glances with her DS. He gave her the faintest nod and mouthed: Run for it.

No way was she abandoning him. She shook her head.

Sunlight flashed on the curve of the blade. Hannah fought the instinct to retch with fear. The wrong move now …

‘All right, Mr Hinds.’ Greg must be wetting himself, though you’d never guess from his relaxed tone. The scythe was within striking distance of his neck. ‘Thanks for speaking to us.’

‘You should never have come here,’ Hinds muttered.

Hannah heard the door of the farmhouse open. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Deirdre Hinds. She stood on the doorstep, shaking with fear. Not knowing what her husband might do.

He took another pace towards Greg, who raised his hands to shoulder height. Whether to calm the man down or for self-protection, Hannah couldn’t tell.

‘Mike!’ Deirdre screamed. ‘Put it down!’

‘Piss off back inside,’ he shouted back. ‘This is nothing to do with you.’

‘Mike, this won’t solve anything! What do you think Orla would have said, if she’d seen you like this?’

The farmer stopped in his tracks. In a swift and smooth movement, Greg jumped forward, seized the man’s wrist, and twisted it. Hinds let out a cry of pain and dropped the scythe. Greg kicked it over the cobbles, out of reach.

Hinds spat at Greg. The DS wiped his face, gave Hinds’ wrist a final jerk, and dropped it. Turning on his heel, he strode back to join Hannah and they both hurried off towards the drive.

‘You shouldn’t have done that, you scumbag,’ Hinds roared. ‘Next time, I’ll be ready for you.’

They strode past the farmhouse. Deirdre stood motionless on the doorstep, hands clasped as if in prayer.

‘I’d get him to a doctor double quick, love, if I were you,’ Greg muttered over his shoulder. ‘A psychiatrist is what he needs. I’ve heard of people with anger management issues, but your old man’s a powder keg, waiting to explode.’

‘Do you really think I don’t know what he’s like?’ she hissed.

Hannah glanced back at the cobbled yard. Mike Hinds winced as he rubbed his injured wrist. Shit. If Greg had fractured it, they had a problem on their hands. Next stop, the IPCC.

‘If you need help, dial 999. We can have backup here in minutes. Support is available, trust me.’

‘Trust you?’ Bitterness made Deirdre Hinds’ voice grate. ‘Ask the police for help? Don’t you think you’ve helped enough for one fucking day?’

And she ran towards her husband.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The door to the Old Library creaked open, and Daniel glanced down from his eyrie as Fleur Madsen walked in. Short rapid strides, this woman knew what she wanted. Cool and chic in white shirt and trousers, designer sunglasses dangling from a small hand with orange fingernails, she didn’t look as though she’d turned up for an hour or two of quiet scholastic research.

Daniel watched her scan the ground floor. Today he’d faced no competition for his favourite corner table. The sunshine was tempting, but his book wouldn’t write itself. No climate control system cooled St Herbert’s, and although the mullioned window behind him fitted its frame imperfectly, there wasn’t enough breeze to make the pages of his typescript flutter. The reek of leather and calfskin filled his sinuses. Readers came and went, only the books stayed for ever.

Looking up to the gallery, Fleur caught sight of him. She signalled with the sunglasses, and hastened towards the spiral staircase. Stiletto heels clicked on the metal treads as she climbed, cracking the silence like warning shots. What did she want?

Fleur arrived at his side, and bent her head. He caught a strong whiff of Chanel as she whispered in his ear.

‘Sorry, I know you’re working. Please tell me to go away if I’m a nuisance.’

She said it as though no man in his right mind would ever tell her to go away.

‘Great to see you again.’

‘Difficult to work in this heat, isn’t it?’

He smiled, said nothing.

‘Could you spare me five minutes? We could have a word outside in the garden if that suited you?’

He shut down his laptop and followed her down the staircase. Her figure was gym-toned, her movements lithe. She was in her fifties, but you’d never guess. An intelligent well-bred woman who had married a millionaire, Fleur Madsen had it all. So how come he detected a restlessness in her that hinted at discontent?

On the ground floor, she swept past the catalogues and the desk where the librarian sat, through folded-back double doors into the rear of the building. Daniel had bumped into Orla here, the last time he’d seen her, and they’d agreed to grab a bite together. She should have been working, but he sensed she’d lost interest in her job and preferred to browse through collections of old papers. Here the De Quincey correspondence was stored, along with Sir Milo Hopes’ extensive archives; thousands more volumes were packed into towering book presses.

‘I told Micah to put more warning signs on the presses,’ she murmured. ‘If you were crushed between them, you’d end up as flat as a dust jacket.’

Done to death by books? There were worse ways to go, even if you weren’t a bibliophile. Like suffocating in a mountain of grain.

Beyond the last book press lay a steep flight of stairs and a door marked Private. Fleur fished a key from her trouser pocket and, with the gentlest touch on his shoulder, guided Daniel through the door. Grey blinds masked the windows, and even on such a bright day, she had to switch on the lights. Gilt-framed portraits of solemn dignitaries, along with a scattering of landscapes, covered each of the oak-panelled walls. A dozen chairs were grouped around a mahogany table. There were no bookshelves, but a drinks cabinet squatted in one corner. Daniel’s throat felt dry and dusty. In the heat of the afternoon, the darkness of the wood and paintings was claustrophobic.

‘The trustees meet here. Even the principal is allowed to enter only by invitation.’ Fleur indicated the largest painting. ‘That formidable old chap with mutton chop whiskers is Sir Milo Hopes, founder of St Herbert’s and first chairman of the trustees. That is the house I was born in — and there you see the Hanging Wood in autumn.’

Two landscapes faced them. In fading light, Mockbeggar Hall was all flaking stonework and shuttered windows, a study in grandeur tainted by decay. But his attention was seized by the other painting, captioned The Hanging Wood. So this was where Orla’s brother was last seen alive, and their uncle committed suicide. At first glance, the woodland scene, with dense foliage glimpsed through morning mist, seemed