Hannah said nothing, but shifted from foot to foot. Alban Clough noticed the movement.
‘You are a busy lady, Chief Inspector. Enough of Gawain. Follow me to the Room of Spirits and I will tell you about the boggles and barghests that populate our land of lakes. Stories that go back centuries and yet have resonance in this grubby, sterile age. The eternal nature of our legends, their ageless qualities, are integral to their enduring appeal.’
Hannah shook her head. ‘Thank you, but I must go.’
He bowed his head. ‘A pity. If I may say so, Chief Inspector, I hope that you will come back to keep me company again before long.’
His wink was so roguish as to leave Hannah lost for words.
Money was tight, that was the only fly in the ointment. Guy had identified a nice little restaurant where he was going to take Sarah this evening. It would be a night to remember for her, all the more delightful because they had not yielded to temptation at the first opportunity. But he liked his wallet to bulge with high denomination notes — women always found that impressive — and as he checked his wallet while studying the menu in the window of the restaurant, he realised there would be no more treats without a further injection of funds.
Striding back towards the Glimpse under a sky the colour of lead, he told himself his lack of cash was Megan’s fault. In the days leading up to their break-up, she had become increasingly stingy, no longer so quick to whip out her credit cards when something needed paying for. Guy’s preferred lifestyle relied on his companion of the moment matching his generosity of spirit with a willingness to foot the bills. Although he’d raided Megan’s purse before leaving Llandudno — she shouldn’t begrudge him a few quid after they’d shared so much — it had yielded measly pickings.
He turned into Campbell Road. Casual inquiry about Sarah’s finances had revealed that her only substantial asset was the Glimpse. Her husband had transferred it into her name under the divorce settlement and paid off the mortgage, but he contributed a paltry sum in alimony and the money she made out of tenants was largely off-set by living costs. Shame. Guy was confident that he could persuade her to follow his expert advice and entrust a decent sum to him with a view to establishing a diversified portfolio of equities and bonds, if only she had something worthwhile to invest. This lack of ready funds explained why she hadn’t spent much on her home. Apart from a surprisingly swish PC, she didn’t seem to have much of value and the building needed maintenance. The good news was that, with property prices in the Lakes sky high, the equity must be worth a packet. He’d fallen on his feet. Sarah was worth more than she realised.
Back in her car, Hannah checked her mobile. Two messages: one from Les Bryant, the other from Daniel Kind. Which first? No contest.
‘Daniel, this is Hannah.’
‘Thanks for returning the call. Hope you don’t mind my …’
‘Of course not.’ She answered too quickly, not wanting him to think her precious. ‘Marc said he’d seen you at the bookshop.’
‘How are things?’
Last time they’d met, she’d mentioned the miscarriage. Marc and her best mate Terri were the only other people who knew. She was usually so wary about imparting confidences, she could scarcely believe she’d told him. He was still almost a stranger, and yet because he was his father’s son, it was as if they knew each other intimately.
‘Fine. And you? Marc tells me you’re researching a new project.’
‘An excuse for mooching round bookshops.’ He took a breath. ‘Hannah, it would be good to catch up with you. I was wondering if we might meet sometime.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘Then …’
She didn’t stop to think, or worry about seeming eager. ‘Do you have any free time in the next few days?’
‘Miranda’s down in London at present. My time’s my own. You’re not around tomorrow, by any chance?’
‘Do you know Cafe d’Art in Kendal?’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘If you can make it for six-thirty, we could have half an hour before I dash off home.’
‘Perfect.’
As she dialled Les Bryant’s number, she felt dizzy with elation. It took her back to schooldays and the excitement of a date. Stupid in a woman of her age, let alone a woman committed to a long-term relationship.
‘You’re going to love this.’ Les, at his dourest.
‘Don’t tell me. Lauren’s over-spent on media relations and run out of funds for the team’s competency payments?’
‘I’d put nowt past her ladyship, but actually it’s your mate, Di Venuto.’
‘No mate of mine.’
‘He’s determined to get you to review his favourite cold case. Three times he called asking for you before he condescended to speak to yours truly.’
‘What’s he want?’
‘To share his latest scoop. He reckons he knows where we can find her.’
‘On the check-out at Asda, where Elvis Presley stacks the shelves?’ She wasn’t usually facetious, but talking to Daniel had left her on a high.
‘Not exactly. According to Di Venuto, she’s buried beneath the Arsenic Labyrinth.’
‘The what?’
‘The Arsenic Labyrinth. It’s only a mile or two from where Emma lived. So Di Venuto’s like a dog with two dicks. Even if he is barking up the wrong tree. He wants to see you today.’
‘Yeah, right. I’ll see if I’ve got a window in my busy schedule.’
‘Something you ought to know. He happened to mention that his editor is vice-chair of Cumbrian Women in the Professions.’
Hannah groaned. Lauren had recently been elected to the committee of CWIP. Her networking skills were legendary.
‘Hear that creaking noise? The window just opened.’
* * *
Hannah put down her teacup and said, ‘So tell me about the Arsenic Labyrinth.’
Tony Di Venuto stretched out in his chair and lifted his legs. For a moment Hannah thought he was going to put his feet on the meeting room table, but he caught the look in her eye and decided against. She was determined not to let him get above himself.
‘Never heard of it? Well, no disgrace in that. Neither had I and I’ve lived in the Lakes for twenty years since my parents moved down from Glasgow. After taking the call last night, I did some research. There are Arsenic Labyrinths dotted around the country, mainly in the south-east, but only one in Cumbria. Up in the Coniston fells.’
This was a man who liked listeners hanging on his every word. He paused to allow her to press him for details. When Hannah zipped her mouth, he was too pleased with himself not to carry on talking.
‘Back in the nineteenth century, Coniston had its very own arsenic works. Imagine — a poison-making business, hidden in the hills.’
‘In demand, was it, by Victorian gentlemen who fancied disposing of their wives?’
‘Or wives who wanted rid of their husbands, who knows? The works were tucked away up on Mispickel Scar.’
Despite herself, Hannah leaned forward. ‘And the labyrinth?’
‘A zig-zagging flue that drew the arsenic off in saleable quantities. But the project flopped, maybe there weren’t enough wannabe spouse-killers in Cumbria. By the time the arsenic works closed down, it had bled the main business of cash. The buildings were pulled down, along with the chimney. All that remains are a few stone footings from the Arsenic Labyrinth.’
‘And your caller claims that Emma is buried beneath it?’
‘The labyrinth was on ground level, but there are shafts and tunnels from the mines winding around the length and breadth of the Scar.’
‘So the body might be anywhere?’
He stifled a yawn. ‘Forgive me, Chief Inspector, I don’t mean to be rude. I spent most of the night trawling for information on the net, and by seven this morning I’d arrived in Coniston. It’s a tricky walk to Mispickel Scar in icy conditions and I have gashes on my knees to prove it. But the labyrinth doesn’t cover a large area. If the man who phoned me is telling the truth, you won’t have too far to search for Emma’s remains.’