‘If.’
‘He didn’t sound like a nutter. I’d guess that her death has preyed on his conscience, all these years. My story about the tenth anniversary was the last straw. He needed to tell someone, to do the right thing.’
‘You believe he murdered Emma?’
‘Not necessarily. He didn’t admit to killing her, for what that’s worth. Perhaps the culprit confided in him. Or he may have been a hired hand. Paid to murder a woman someone wanted dead.’
Did Di Venuto have a suspect in mind? Sooner or later, she’d find out who, or what, egged him on. ‘Thanks for your statement. We’ll give it careful consideration.’
‘Please tell me you won’t waste time. The man who rang me did so for the sake of Emma’s sister. Karen’s waited ten years, Chief Inspector. She doesn’t deserve to be kept waiting any longer.’
‘We’ll let you know.’
His face reddened and she could tell he was fighting to choke back a furious retort. When he fixed her with his gaze, she refused to blink. He was the first to look away.
‘Go for it,’ Lauren Self said.
‘We don’t have anything to go on other than this message to the journalist. This alleged message. It wasn’t taped.’
Lauren’s eyebrows jumped. ‘You’re surely not suggesting that Tony Di Venuto is fibbing, simply to keep the story alive?’
‘No, but …’
‘As it happens, I know his editor. We’ve had a discreet word. She speaks highly of him as an investigative reporter.’
‘Sure, but the caller may be a crank.’
‘I don’t think the editor of the Post would take kindly to the suggestion that her readers include cranks. Here we have two messages, entirely coherent if a tad cryptic. No hint of self-aggrandisement. Sounds to me as though someone’s conscience is playing him up. This is the beauty of cold case work, isn’t it? Time works in our favour.’
‘But to dig up half a hillside on the strength of an anonymous call …’
‘No need to exaggerate, Hannah.’ The ACC always said that her aim was to achieve consensus, by which she meant getting people to agree with a decision she’d already taken. Denied obedience, she was quick to bring out her claws. ‘The investigation was dead, but Di Venuto has brought it back to life. We can’t ignore what he’s told us. If it turned out that he’d given us a vital lead, but we binned it, we’d be in the firing line. And I’m not just talking about flak from the leader column and letters page in the Post.’
‘The budget may not stand a full …’
‘Leave me to worry about the budget.’
Words to die for, when spoken by an ACC to a DCI. A streak of contrariness tempted Hannah to look the gift horse in the mouth.
‘I’m really not sure …’
The ACC switched to action-woman mode. ‘Sorry, Hannah, but if you’re prepared to risk your reputation over this, I’m not. I owe it to you not to let you mess up a delicate relationship with an important branch of the media. Remember, the Post is the voice of the people we serve. We need them on our side. I think we’ve knocked around the pros and cons, don’t you? Let’s get weaving. And I don’t mean tomorrow, Hannah. Right now, please.’
‘Money no object, eh?’ Les grimaced. ‘For crying out loud, she wasn’t talking that way when we were discussing my expenses.’
Hannah swung on her chair. ‘Well, there are limits.’
‘Listen, it’s not cheap renting on this side of the Pennines. Everything round here’s a rip-off compared to back home. You need a bank loan to afford a cuppa in some of these posh tea shops. Any road, what’s the plan?’
‘We’ll start by dropping a camera down the shafts at Mispickel Scar. If that turns anything up, the next question is how to access the old workings.’ Hannah jumped up and started doodling names on the whiteboard in the corner of her room. ‘I’ll talk to the South East Cumbria Mining Trust as well as a specialist in forensic archaeology. Maggie can look into health and safety issues and talk to the Mountain Rescue people. Bob Swindell will hunt out old maps and plans to save time and cost if we make a detailed underground search.’
‘Not if,’ Les said. ‘When. You know the ACC better than I do. She won’t leave any stone unturned when it comes to keeping Mr Di Venuto happy.’
‘There are a lot of stones up on Mispickel Scar.’
‘That won’t bother the ACC. You watch, she’ll insist on being photographed wearing mountain gear and a hard hat.’
* * *
Tonight Sarah was a different woman. Her hair was done in a shaggy perm — rather 1980s, but never mind — and the jewelled tunic and black fitted trousers made her figure look svelte. The eye shadow and blusher were laid on with a trowel, but gold peep-toe shoes with kitten heels gave her feet a dainty look. Her toenails were painted a delicate pink. Relief washed through Guy as she locked the front door of the Glimpse and took his arm. This meal was a worthwhile investment — you had to speculate to accumulate — but it was a welcome bonus that she looked good on his arm.
The age difference didn’t bother him, he was ready for a mature woman after the let-down of Megan. Once he’d lavished compliments on her appearance, Sarah did most of the talking. She’d long fancied a makeover, she said, she was fed up of being a couch potato and feeling hot with embarrassment whenever she listened to style gurus on What Not to Wear. Next week she might sign up with an exercise class
She’s excited, he thought, she knows what’s going to happen. The evening air was cold and crisp, the moon high. Words from a song bobbed in his memory. Tonight’s the night, everything’s gonna be all right. As he hummed the tune, he couldn’t help congratulating himself on his decision to return to Coniston. He’d laid Emma’s ghost and soon he’d lay Sarah. If he played his cards right, he could set himself up very nicely, thank you. How wise he had been not to take things in a rush. He’d hate Sarah to think that he was interested in nothing more than a quick bunk-up, or how much money he might sponge off her before it was time to move on. This was a two-way thing, he was putting the fun back into her life.
The restaurant was owned by a chef with attitude and staffed by kohl-eyed blondes who shimmied between the tables as though on a catwalk. Guy commented on the finer points of the menu with just the right amount of savoir faire; his final touch was to order a bottle of Bolly. Sarah’s protest that champagne always went to her head he dismissed with a masterful smile.
‘The pleasure is mine,’ he said, as they clinked glasses and toasted friendship. ‘It’s so good of you to sacrifice your evening to keep a lonely businessman company.’
‘I’d only be watching EastEnders.’
When he shook his head in amiable disbelief, she said, ‘Well, actually, some nights I spend quite a lot of time on the computer, rather than watching the telly.’
‘Doing your accounts?’
‘Not really.’ She sipped the champagne. ‘To be honest, I used to go in for internet dating.’
‘My goodness.’
‘Don’t look so startled. It was a complete wash-out. The lies that people tell, you wouldn’t credit it. Strapping six foot tall company directors turn out to be fat little bald blokes with bad breath.’
He clicked his tongue at such flagrant deception. ‘You’ve given all that up?’
‘Mmmmm.’ She gulped down the rest of her drink, watched happily as he poured her some more. ‘My guilty secret these days is that I like a bit of a flutter.’
‘A bit of harmless fun.’
She fingered the rim of her glass. ‘You know something, Rob? I’ve never seen the inside of a bookies’ or a casino in my life. But betting is different online. I mean, it’s so much less threatening. After all, nothing’s certain in life, is it? Life is one big gamble, really.’