‘Off the record, not a lot. We haven’t received the pathologist’s report yet, and there’s not much left of Emma, of course, but the clothing we’ve retrieved from the scene matches descriptions of what she was likely to have been wearing.’
He clenched his fist. ‘I knew it!’
‘You were sure that the man who rang you up wasn’t a time-waster.’
A vigorous nod. ‘Dead right.’
‘Why?’
‘Let’s just say I have a nose for bullshit.’
Not surprising, he spouted his fair share.
Aloud, she said, ‘What can you tell me about him?’
‘No more than I said last time. Around my age. Disguised his voice by whispering. Making that call can’t have been easy. But he wanted me to think he was ringing to do Karen a favour. As if.’
‘Conscience pricking?’
‘No way. If you ask me, he didn’t even sound like a murderer.’
‘And what would a murderer sound like?’
He grimaced. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘Not sure I do.’
‘He wanted me to believe it wasn’t his fault that Emma was buried beneath the Arsenic Labyrinth. As it happens, he succeeded. I don’t believe he killed her. Somehow — maybe recently, maybe ten years back — he’s found out where she was buried, and he’s decided not to keep it to himself any longer. Oh no, I don’t think your work will be done when you track him down. But perhaps he’ll lead you to whoever did murder Emma.’
‘Any theories of your own?’
For a rare moment, Tony Di Venuto seemed to be in two minds. Then he said, ‘I don’t have any evidence, Chief Inspector.’
‘But just between us?’
He leaned over the desk. The after-shave was more pungent than ever.
‘Jeremy Erskine called on her just before she vanished. Supposedly for the benefit of his bad back. But he’s vain, you only have to speak to him for five minutes to realise that. He wouldn’t be put off by the fact a woman was a lesbian if he took a shine to her. He’d regard it as a challenge. My theory is, he made a play for her, she told him to fuck off, and he decided to take revenge.’
‘He didn’t kill her there and then, did he? Bruised self-esteem might explain a heat of the moment murder, but — twenty-four hours later?’
Di Venuto shrugged. ‘I told you I don’t have any evidence. There may be more to it. But when I interviewed him, he was evasive. All he wanted was for everyone to forget about Emma. Thank God his wish has been denied.’
‘One thing I’ve been meaning to ask. What put you on to the case in the first place? I mean, most people have forgotten all about Emma.’
He folded his arms. ‘It was the upcoming anniversary, that’s all. We keep an eye on these things in the Press. Pegs to hang stories on, they matter to us.’
‘It was quite a story. Not just a rehash of old stuff. Jeremy wasn’t happy with the way you tackled it.’
‘The Post has a complaints procedure and Erskine didn’t use it.’ The smug smile was back. ‘And for good reason, Chief Inspector. All I was doing was trying to get at the truth. Erskine’s problem is, the truth hurts.’
Hannah remembered Karen’s rare outburst. This isn’t about discovering the truth. So what was it about?
She stood up. ‘When we have more from the pathologist, I’ll call another press conference.’
‘I’d appreciate a nod and a wink in advance, Chief Inspector. Given all the help I’ve provided.’
Don’t push your lucky, smarty pants. ‘I’ve already told you more than your colleagues who were at the briefing.’
‘Trust me, Chief Inspector.’ His wheedling smile suggested the dodgiest used car salesman in Cumbria. ‘Take a closer look at Erskine. He may seem like Mr Respectable, but it’s a charade. The man is one huge ego. He dumped his first wife the moment he started snuggling up to Karen. Who’s to say he wouldn’t betray her too?’
Hannah wasn’t convinced. Not least because she suspected that the journalist recognised characteristics in Jeremy that he possessed himself. Above all, she yearned to puncture his self-assurance.
‘Better be careful, then.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Only this. If Jeremy Erskine was willing to kill his sister-in-law because she turned him down, he’s a dangerous enemy. Better not let him get wind of your thinking. We don’t want to have to spirit you away into a witness protection programme, do we? It’s not a glamorous life. Cumbria Constabulary doesn’t run to swish gaffs in beach resorts. A bed-sit in a back street in Maryport is as good as it gets.’
Vanessa Goddard was crestfallen. ‘I only wish we could help, Mr Kind. But as you can see, our archive is primarily a gathering of Ruskin’s writings in different editions, together with background materials, for everyday consultation by members of the public. I feel rather guilty that we don’t have much that is unique.’
‘Don’t worry, you’ve been very helpful.’
She shut the door behind her and he followed into the office. It occupied the rear of the converted Wesleyan chapel housing the county’s Ruskin Archive, and it was full of clutter. Lever arch files were piled high on every available surface and she had to shove a couple of them on to the floor so that he could sit down on the other side of a desk. Behind her head hung a large rectangular cork board covered in staff notices and a trade union calendar. The walls were festooned with book covers and posters advertising library events. On the desk stood family photographs, all depicting a young boy: toddling across the living room carpet, struggling into a school blazer, wielding a cricket bat, dangling a fishing rod into a peaceful tarn. Daniel wondered if his father had kept any pictures of himself and Louise as kids. Or had Ben preferred to draw a line under the past once the divorce was through, and start again in his new job, in his new home, with his new girlfriend?
Vanessa cleared her throat. ‘Even if we owned rare manuscripts, we’d probably be told to sell them off to pay for a few more computers in the branches.’
‘So you can’t tell me anything about Ruskin’s relations with the owners of the arsenic works at Coniston?’
‘I’m sorry, no. Why do you ask, I wonder?’
‘I heard on the news about those bodies up by the Arsenic Labyrinth. Driving here, there seems to be a police vehicle on every street corner.’
‘It’s very sad.’
She fingered the birthmark on her face. There were dark lines under her eyes and he guessed she hadn’t slept. According to Hannah, she had been close to Emma, and part of him shied away from adding to her misery. But curiosity held him captive.
‘I read about that woman who went missing ten years ago.’ He’d combed through the old cuttings as well as recent stuff by Tony Di Venuto. ‘Perhaps she’s one of the victims.’
‘I expect we’ll know soon enough.’
‘Poor woman,’ he persisted. ‘How dreadful, to die like that.’
Her face tightened, as if tempted to scold him for gossiping out of turn. But he was Daniel Kind, the historian, he’d been on TV, for God’s sake. For once it was a blessing to be nearly famous. She had to be polite.
‘As it happens, Emma Bestwick was a good friend of mine.’ Vanessa coughed. ‘She was a lovely woman. If — if one of the bodies is hers, then it’s an utter tragedy.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ He felt a pang of genuine remorse. Had his father felt like this, intruding into private grief? Did Hannah?
She took a breath, straightened her shoulders. ‘The only consolation is that she lives on, with us. Those of us who knew her, that is. Now, can I help with anything else?’
He couldn’t let go just yet. ‘Are you familiar with the Arsenic Labyrinth?’
‘I’ve never walked up that far beyond Coppermines Valley. People say there’s not much to see. Just a few lumps of stone dotted around a cold and windswept nook in the fells.’
‘I can’t believe Ruskin approved of a poison factory in his beloved Lakeland.’