‘I had to ask.’
‘Only doing your job? I understand. I’m sure if I’d had something to hide, you’d have unearthed it. Sorry to disappoint you in this cynical day and age. But I only ever had eyes for Vanessa. There was no affair between Emma and me.’
A thought leapt into Hannah’s mind. How about between Emma and your wife? Ten years back, the possibility hadn’t even occurred to her. Vanessa was wrapped up in her new baby and the idea of her embarking on a covert lesbian relationship during pregnancy would have seemed absurd. Probably it still was. Chances were, friendship flowered between Emma and Vanessa due to nothing more than mutual convenience. It provided Emma with a roof over her head. And Vanessa with the reassurance that Jeremy Erskine had betrayed her for a Muppet.
If Emma had been murdered, Hannah reflected as she drove, there was no evidence as to when she might have died, so alibis were pretty much irrelevant. Chances were, it was a sex crime. If so, the killer was probably someone previously unknown to her. The likeliest exception was Tom Inchmore, the Cloughs’ handyman. His family had once owned the biggest mine-works on the Coniston fells, as well as the mansion that housed the museum, before falling on hard times. But that inadequate underachiever had maintained his innocence even in the face of questioning from a DC later kicked off the force for beating up a teenager in Millom under the gaze of a CCTV camera.
By the time she arrived home, Hannah had resolved to give the revived inquiry no more than a week. Much as she wanted to understand Emma’s fate, not every file could be tidied into the ‘case closed’ cabinet. It was too easy to chuck resources into a bottomless pit. The Post wouldn’t keep the story on the front page for long. She’d speak to the Cloughs, and to Emma’s sister and brother-in-law, then review progress.
Marc had beaten her home and switched on the oven. He wasn’t a bad cook and she enjoyed being waited on. His good humour was explained by the fact that a customer from Tokyo had paid a small fortune for a book he’d picked up for a song in a house clearance and first advertised on the internet forty-eight hours ago.
‘And a friend of yours dropped in. Daniel Kind.’
‘What was he after?’ Her voice sounded ridiculously gruff.
‘Researching John Ruskin. He asked after you and I told him how glad you were of his help over that business in Old Sawrey.’ He shut the fridge door and reached out to stroke her hair. ‘So, how was your day?’
Did he really want to know? She murmured something indistinct and that seemed enough. He was at her side now, caressing her neck whilst he kept his eyes fixed on the oven’s temperature dial.
‘Time to relax,’ he whispered.
His hand strayed, as if by chance, to her breast. She closed her eyes as his lips brushed her cheek. To her dismay, a picture sprang into her mind. Not Marc but Daniel Kind, leaning close to her, his expression intent. She felt a tightness in her stomach, as if she were hungering for his touch.
Guy slipped out of the Glimpse and set off for the call box. It was after five o’clock and Tony Di Venuto had left, but he got through to a colleague and soon wheedled the journalist’s mobile number out of her. All it took was a little persuasion, and Guy was very good at persuasion.
‘Is that Tony Di Venuto?’
‘Who is this?’
Idiotic question. Di Venuto must have recognised Guy’s spectral whisper from the previous call. He ought to give Guy credit and not take him for a fool.
‘We spoke yesterday. About Emma Bestwick.’
‘You told me she wouldn’t be coming back. Is she dead? Look, why don’t we get together for half an hour? Over a coffee, how about it? You could …’
‘No coffee,’ Guy interrupted. ‘All I want to do is to tell you something.’
‘Who are you?’ Di Venuto’s voice rose. If he was trying to contain his excitement, he was failing.
‘You don’t need to know.’
‘Why have you called me?’
‘For Karen’s sake,’ Guy said.
Christ, he might have been a cheesy cabaret singer dedicating ‘The Lady in Red’ to his latest squeeze. But he meant it, he was doing this for her.
‘Karen?’
‘Yes, she needs closure.’
The journalist sounded mystified. ‘Did you kill Emma?’
‘That’s disgusting. I swear to you, she was alive the last time I saw her.’
It was true, that was the wicked irony.
‘Then how can you be sure she’s dead?’
‘I know where the body is buried.’
All at once, Guy was sweaty and shaking, as if stricken by fever. He fought to compose himself, gulping in the stale call box air. I’m not a murderer, I’m not a murderer, I’m not a murderer. It was all a terrible mistake, though nobody would believe it. But he’d come this far. He couldn’t slam the phone down yet.
‘Where?’ Tony Di Venuto said in a hoarse whisper.
‘Below the Arsenic Labyrinth.’
CHAPTER SIX
Over breakfast the next morning, Guy felt a calm that not even Mariah Carey warbling from the transistor radio could disturb. Calling the journalist had been tough, but courage had brought him peace of mind. He’d slept without dreaming and done justice to a full English breakfast guaranteed to fur the arteries. Sarah had cooked mushrooms, as a little treat. With a conspiratorial wink she indicated that this was to celebrate the departure of the German couple. They’d been up at the crack of dawn, feasting on toast and marmalade before setting off back to Heidelberg.
‘I’m not sure I’ll advertise vacancies until it’s time for you to leave. It’s been non-stop for the past fortnight and I fancy putting my feet up for a few days.’
‘You deserve a break.’ He considered the bags under her eyes. ‘You look tired, you must be working too hard.’
She shook her head. ‘My own fault. I spend too much time upstairs on the computer.’
He tutted. ‘All work and no play? You need to grab a bit of enjoyment as well as looking after your guests. Mind, you’d better be careful. You may not get rid of me as easily as all that. I’ve made myself so comfortable here that I was wondering …’
‘Yes?’
She leaned across the table and he caught a fragrance that revived memories of a happy few months in Paris three years back. Chanel Number Five. So she was making a special effort. He could scarcely resist the urge to preen.
‘I might like to stick around for a while. If it’s not too much trouble.’
‘Trouble? Nothing of the kind, it’s an absolute pleasure. How long would you like to stay?’
‘Depends on arrangements with my associates in Geneva.’ He sighed, a fast-moving executive at the mercy of tedious colleagues. ‘You’ll have to promise to kick me out the moment you want a bit of peace and quiet!’
‘No danger of that.’ As she reached over for the teapot, her hand grazed his. ‘Two’s company, as they say.’
He allowed her to pour him a second cup. In time you could acclimatise to anything, even Co-op tea bags. He was a man at ease with himself, as relaxed as though he’d been luxuriating in a jacuzzi. As it happened, the water heater in the basement was on the blink, but never mind. His luck was on the turn. Maybe tonight he’d be bathing upstairs, together with Sarah.
Guy recalled Megan, head lifted as she announced her ultimatum. If he wanted any more of her cash, things would have to change. They would get engaged, start behaving like a normal couple. If he didn’t like it, he could lump it. And repay what she’d lent him. And, and, and … well, he’d stopped listening. At last he saw Megan for what she was, a self-righteous young woman with a scrawny neck. For a fleeting moment he’d been tempted to put his hands around the pale pink flesh. It would be so easy to squeeze the breath out of her.
If she could see him now. Sarah was much more accommodating, in every sense. He deserved a bit of good fortune. As a boy in the Home, he’d imagined himself as a prince, immensely popular and possessed of untold wealth, yet condemned to penury and loneliness through a spell cast by a jealous wizard. The fantasy stayed with him for years, but when at last he was granted the freedom and riches he’d yearned for, all too soon he’d frittered them away.