friends and I rowed out there. The plan was to stay overnight in a tent.’
‘I never knew you liked life under canvas.’
‘Once was enough. We’d had too much to drink, and the tent collapsed an hour after we landed. Before we could put it back up again, there was a violent storm, with thunder and lightning. We were scared to death as well as soaked to the skin. These days, people camp on the island for corporate team-building events. I hope they have more joy than the three of us — we were barely speaking to each other by the time we made it back to dry land. St Herbert could keep his island hermitage, as far as I was concerned. I’ve never even explored the library they named after him. Next week, I’ll put that right when I have a chat with Aslan Sheikh. Or Michael Hinds’ son, if that really is the truth of it.’
‘Purdey Madsen seemed confident of her facts. Mind you, none of the Madsens are lacking in confidence.’
‘That’s how they got to be filthy rich. I guess dinner at Mockbeggar Hall was a memorable experience?’
‘You bet. The Madsens never do things by halves, and Purdey Madsen is no exception. As if it wasn’t enough to be dragged out of the closet in front of her nearest and dearest, she dropped her bombshell about Aslan Sheikh, and made Sham spit with jealousy for good measure.’
‘Can we rewind a few weeks, to when you befriended Orla Payne?’
‘She was pleasant, rather naive, without a trace of ego or self-consciousness. Even though she wore a scarf to cover her baldness, she didn’t mind talking about her alopecia. Her enthusiasm for history, like her love of fairy tales, wasn’t sophisticated. Much of the time, she lived in a dreamworld. After she told me about her childhood, I understood why.’
‘She talked about her parents?’
‘Yes, she was close to her mother. Overawed by her father. One day when she did something to annoy him, he threw a rag doll of hers on the fire in the inglenook. Once the marriage collapsed, she stayed in her mother’s camp. The two of them had a lot in common, including the taste for booze and the mood swings. When she took Kit Payne’s name, her father was furious. I suppose he felt betrayed and let down, but she just saw the red face and heard the raised voice.’
‘He hasn’t mellowed, trust me.’
‘A dangerous man to cross — that’s how she described her own father.’
‘Sad.’ Hannah pictured the farmer’s fist, clutching the scythe. ‘Yet she was right.’
‘Callum was closer to Hinds. Not that he wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps. He wasn’t cut out for farming. But he had plenty in common with his dad. Orla implied that her brother had inherited that nasty streak.’
‘Was she in awe of Callum, too?’
‘I’d say so. She made him sound smug and superior. A clever boy who exploited the age gap between them, and treated her as a lackey. Literature was the only bond between them. They both read voraciously, and their tastes ran to fantasy. Callum was into C.S. Lewis and Tolkien, she was hooked on the fairy tales.’
Hannah trailed her hand in the water. Her fingers were slim, with nails cut short and not painted. She wore no rings. ‘What did Orla tell you about Philip Hinds?’
‘She was fond of him, they both were. Callum loved to escape from home and explore the Hanging Wood, and she often went along with him. For two kids with vivid imaginations, it was the perfect playground. Especially for Callum. Orla found it spooky, she didn’t like to go in on her own. Of course, she was only a child.’
‘Spooky is right, believe me. I went with my sergeant for a reconnaissance yesterday.’
‘Yes, I heard.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Did the Madsens gripe about it?’
He grinned. ‘Bryan did mutter something about public servants with nothing better to do with their time. Question is, did you learn anything?’
‘We weren’t hoping for forensic evidence twenty years on. Perhaps it was an indulgence, but I wanted to see for myself the place where Philip was supposed to have killed Callum. Your father taught me the importance of thinking yourself into the minds of the people you wanted to investigate, and part of it involves understanding their environment. Where they work and live and play. The snag with cold cases is the passage of time. But sometimes, the distance of the years helps you see more clearly.’
‘And how do you see the case against Philip Hinds?’
‘Purely circumstantial. Doesn’t mean he didn’t kill the boy, of course.’
‘But you believe he was innocent?’
‘I’d say he loved the Hanging Wood, it was the one place he felt at home. To me it felt like a dank and dismal prison, but I’m sure he’d hate to desecrate it. But that’s guesswork. Police officers work on the basis of evidence, not gut feel.’
‘Is that really what my father believed?’
She smiled. ‘That sceptical glint in your eyes reminds me of him.’
He was conscious of the sun scorching his cheeks. What had she felt for Ben? Liking, of course; respect, certainly. Anything more?
Her gaze settled on Derwent Isle again. They had rowed round in a circle, as he followed a course back to the shore.
‘Orla must always have hoped that a fresh explanation for Callum’s disappearance would emerge. Something that exonerated her uncle.’
‘Wishful thinking?’
‘She was keen on happy endings. If her hopes were dashed, that could have sent her into a tailspin. There must be a reason why she committed suicide.’
‘I suppose there is no doubt that she killed herself?’
‘Very little. Hypothetically, if she came across evidence suggesting someone other than Philip murdered Callum, that someone had a motive to get rid of her. But what evidence, which someone, and above all why? It’s speculation piled on speculation, and I don’t suppose historians approve of speculation any more than the Crown Prosecution Service does.’
‘True, but we all speculate sometimes.’
He eased off on the oars and leant back to take in the view of the forbidding bulk of Skiddaw to the north of the town. Hannah followed his gaze, the breeze ruffling her hair. He was seized by an urge to stroke and smooth it, to feel its silky texture and the warmth of her skin. Bad idea. He needed to be patient. The moment was too precious to spoil.
Aslan crushed the phone against his hand.
‘You killed Callum.’
Silence.
‘And then you killed Orla.’
‘Not true.’
Aslan laughed, incredulous. ‘You expect me to believe you?’
‘Believe what you want. She jumped.’
‘I believe you murdered both of them.’
‘I don’t have to listen to this.’
‘Do you want the police to listen, instead? I’ll ring them now, if you want.’
‘They will think you are mad.’
‘I’m angry, actually, not insane. You killed my half-brother, and then my half-sister.’
‘Why on earth would I want to do that?’
Aslan paused. This was his weak spot. He hadn’t filled all the gaps in his knowledge, there were things he didn’t fully understand.
‘I know about Castor and Pollux.’
A long silence. Surely a killer would not hang up?
‘What do you want?’
Aslan felt a wave of relief wash through him. He had won.
‘I called in at Marc’s shop last weekend,’ Daniel said. ‘Bought a set of Wainwrights, much to Louise’s disgust. She says I ought to throw out at least two books for every one I buy. I had new bookshelves put up in the cottage
