The Hanging Wood

Anyway, she was on her own now, out at the back of Undercrag, the sun warming her as Marc hadn’t done since the depths of winter. They had bought the house last year, before everything fell apart and he moved out. Six weeks ago, she’d lugged the garden furniture out of the shed, but this was the first time she’d found time to laze. Meadow browns and dark-green fritillaries flitted among the shrub roses; she heard the plaintive cry of an invisible lapwing. The wildlife garden of Undercrag was turning into a wilderness, her failure to do any gardening just one more shortcoming to prick her conscience. But there was nobody around to see the evidence of her neglect. A tall holly hedge and half a dozen huge horse chestnut trees afforded complete seclusion from the neighbours’ houses. Marc was keen on the privacy; knowing him, he’d had half an eye on the potential for al fresco sex. No chance of that now, mate.

She was wearing only the T-shirt she’d slept in and a pair of shorts. Soon, she must figure out what to wear for her meeting with Marc. Dress up or dress down? Remind him of what he was missing, or impersonate a bag lady, in the hope he’d abandon interest in winning her back?

She bit into a slice of toast, telling herself not to obsess about the job. Yet police work offered escape, and when she wasn’t on duty, thinking about it helped her to dodge decisions about what to do with the rest of her life.

Better stop beating herself up about Orla Payne. The woman had been pissed, but Hannah shouldn’t have let her temper fray. Blame it on Marc; she’d been psyching herself up for the challenge of seeing him again. Yet Orla wasn’t a routine time-waster. She’d been drinking, but the muddled desperation in her voice sounded genuine.

‘He deserves justice,’ Orla said. ‘“How could you do that to your own brother? ”’

‘What do you mean?’ Hannah asked.

‘Those were Callum’s words. Our uncle was a scapegoat. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, let alone Callum. He loved us both. Why does nobody understand?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You’ll say that Callum hasn’t been seen for twenty years,’ Orla muttered. ‘But I’m only asking for justice for my brother. Is that too much to ask?’

‘Your brother’s name was Callum Hinds, and he disappeared all those years ago — is that what you’re saying, Ms Payne?’ If this was a cold case, it was slap bang in her territory — but very, very cold after a couple of decades. ‘Ms Payne, if you want my team to consider looking into a case, we must have something to work with. Can you provide new evidence? Facts not available until now?’

‘He said you would listen,’ Orla muttered.

‘I am listening.’ Teeth gritted. ‘But I’m not clear what you’re telling me.’

‘For God’s sake. How many times …?’

The woman’s voice trailed away.

‘Ms Payne?’

‘He was wrong. I should have realised. You’re not interested.’

Ever-decreasing circles. Impatience gnawed at Hannah.

‘Who was wrong?’ she demanded.

‘Daniel Kind.’

Hearing Daniel’s name out of the blue snatched Hannah’s breath away. For a moment, she could not think what to say.

‘I’m wasting my time, aren’t I?’

‘Ms Payne-’

‘Don’t you care about justice?’

The line went dead.

Leaving Hannah to wonder about Orla Payne, her brother’s disappearance, and Daniel Kind.

A grey squirrel crouched on the grass in front of her, its eyes bright and inquisitive. Hannah offered it a small piece of toast, but the squirrel took one look and scampered off up a tree trunk, leaping from one branch to another before disappearing into the thick mass of leaves. Oh well, so much for bonding with nature. When she and Marc first looked round Undercrag, he said the grounds would be lovely in the summer months, a haven of peace and quiet two miles from the traffic jams in the tourist trap of Ambleside. They mustered the purchase price and cost of renovations thanks to money Marc had inherited, yet he hadn’t set foot inside the house since early January. His fault, so why did Hannah feel a pang of remorse? That was as stupid as fretting because a boozed-up woman she’d never met accused her of not caring about justice.

After Orla’s call, Hannah asked Chantal, the team’s latest admin assistant, to dig out the file on Callum Hinds. He’d disappeared when Hannah was still at school. The name rang a bell — no doubt she’d seen it in the papers or heard it on the TV news, but she couldn’t recall any details. In her mind, his story was blurred with those of all the other teenagers who went missing, never to return.

Once she started reading, she became so absorbed that she took the buff folders home and trawled through each and every one of them, staying awake till the early hours. Callum Hinds’ parents were divorced. Niamh, his mother, had remarried a man called Kit Payne, but Callum kept the surname of his father, who ran a dairy farm near Keswick. One day, his mother raised the alarm when she discovered that he had gone missing. A search was mounted, but no trace of Callum was ever found.

Soon after the police were called in, his uncle — Philip Hinds, brother of Mike, the farmer — committed suicide. His body was found dangling from a branch of an old elm tree, a stone’s throw from the cottage where he lived.

‘He died somewhere called the Hanging Wood,’ Chantal had said, unable to resist a nervous giggle at the irony.

‘So how old was Orla Payne when Callum vanished?’

‘Seven.’

Only seven. Had life treated her roughly since then, had drink or drug addiction led her to fantasise about her brother’s fate? The call gave the team nothing to latch on to; there was no reason for Hannah to feel wounded by the jibe that she didn’t care about justice.

Gulping down the rest of her drink, she stretched out on the lounger. But the caffeine made her nerve ends tingle, and she had plenty to do. Forget Orla Payne. This was meant to be decision day, when she finally summoned up the nerve to tell Marc they were finished.

‘You’re looking fantastic,’ Marc said.

She shrugged, determined not to respond to flattery, even though she’d experienced a zing of triumph when she first pulled on her jeans. Trophy jeans, a pair she’d kept long after she’d last been able to squeeze herself into them. Over the past six months, she’d lost half a stone. Living on her own must suit her.

She closed her eyes, listening to the water crash over the weir. They were lunching out at the back of Marc’s second-hand bookshop. He’d cordoned off a space that overlooked the stream. Hannah had suggested meeting elsewhere, on neutral ground, but he’d persuaded her to come here. The bookshop was his kingdom — but not, these days, exclusively his. He’d gone into partnership with Leigh Moffat, who ran the cafeterias here and at Marc’s other shop in Sedbergh. Food and drink lured more customers than the stacked shelves of books. All over the country, second-hand bookshops were closing their doors as customers migrated to charity shops and online buying, but Marc was contrary. Besides, even people who hated reading needed to eat. Earlier in the year, when the bank manager started to make menacing noises about cash flow and overdraft limits, Marc had sold a half-share in the business to Leigh. Years back, Marc had had a fling with her sister, but he insisted this relationship was about business, nothing more. Would she care if he was lying?

‘Busy at work?’ Marc was determined to keep trying.

‘Uh-huh.’ Hannah tasted her soup. Carrot and coriander, seasoned with garlic and a touch of black pepper. Warm, sweet and spicy.

Marc smeared low-fat spread on a wholegrain roll before passing it to her. Talk about buttering her up.

‘Still flogging yourself to death, I suppose.’

‘We’re short of staff. You must have read about the row over cutbacks.’

‘Yeah, don’t the newspapers reckon that twice as many Tesco supermarkets open twenty-four/seven as police stations? But I see that congratulations are in order. Your team has been shortlisted for an award. Isn’t the ceremony tomorrow?’