‘Speaking.’
The Scottish accent didn’t match the name. Guy pictured a hawk-eyed newshound, bristling with ambition. Dreaming of the scoop that would carry him into Fleet Street, or Wapping or wherever the modern Press congregated.
‘You wrote the piece about Emma Bestwick.’
‘Who is this?’
Guy’s heart was beating faster. Why was he doing this? A question he often had cause to ask himself. Not all his instincts were sound. He was apt to act on a whim, he made too many mistakes.
‘Are you still there?’ Tony Di Venuto asked.
Grinding his teeth so hard they might crack, Guy forced himself to focus on the here and now. This clammy kiosk with steamed-up windows, heavy with the reek of chips and battered fish, disfigured by graffiti extolling the sexual tastes of Bazzer and Kylie. He dared not let his mind roam.
‘Don’t hang up.’
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Guy counted silently, fighting for calm.
‘Who — who are you?’
Guy breathed out. Di Venuto deserved a crumb. Something to pass on to the sister. It was the least he could do. Where was the harm, where the risk?
‘Jeremy Erskine is right,’ he hissed, ‘Emma Bestwick won’t be coming back.’
‘How do you know?’
Guy slammed down the phone. He knew better than to give away too many secrets.
CHAPTER TWO
Daniel Kind pushed the oak door of Tarn Cottage and it swung open in silence on newly oiled hinges. In the hall stood his partner Miranda, dressed for a journey in new Barbour coat and Timberland boots. She was smiling at her reflection in the mirror. Another dab of lipstick? No, it’s just right. At the sound of his footsteps, she spun to face him. Holding up her hand like a traffic cop, so that he stopped in his tracks. The smile vanished, her mouth compressed into a thin red line.
‘Before you say a word, I don’t have time now. I need to catch my train.’
‘Relax, it doesn’t leave Oxenholme for another hour. Even if it’s on time.’
‘I daren’t think what will happen if I’m late arriving at Euston. Ethan called while you were out. He wants to meet over dinner this evening.’
‘Let me drive you to the station, it’s no trouble. We can talk on the way and there’ll be time to spare for a cup of tea in the buffet.’
‘Too late, I’ve ordered a taxi.’
‘Ring up and cancel.’
‘No, I hate unpicking arrangements, don’t you think it’s inconsiderate? Besides, you have work to do. That book proposal, is it ready to send to your agent?’
‘Not even close,’ he said, risking a sheepish grin.
‘Oh, for God’s sake! It’s not good, Daniel, you can’t afford to lose your edge. This is the twenty-first century. The Lake District may potter along in the slow lane, but the rest of the world won’t wait for it to catch up.’
‘Don’t you want to talk about last night?’
For reply, Miranda raced off up the stairs, those posh new boots crashing on the wooden treads like drum beats. Next to the doorway, her suitcase bulged complacently. By the look of it, she’d packed for a fortnight. He realised she hadn’t said when she was due back. A question slunk into his head.
What if she doesn’t come back?
Don’t be stupid, he told himself.
Would it matter if she didn’t?
For God’s sake. A single quarrel couldn’t destroy everything that bound them together. It was Miranda who had wanted them to escape to this closed-off valley, shoe-horned between the fells. It was Miranda who’d persuaded him to give up teaching history at Oxford and abandon a career that had taken him onto TV screens on both sides of the Atlantic. Fame meant nothing to him and he didn’t regard it as a sacrifice; it thrilled him to think they could start afresh, make everything new. When he’d brought her to the Lakes last spring, she’d fallen in love with Tarn Cottage and they’d snapped it up on the spur of the moment. He’d resigned his college fellowship and sold his old house. But Miranda wrote a column for a glossy magazine and the time never seemed quite right to give up her flat in London. Now she was setting off for an editorial conference at Canary Wharf. These dark winter days, she got away from it all by heading for the bright lights.
She came back down the stairs, clutching her Gucci bag like a favourite child. Her hips swung like a samba dancer’s and his heart lurched with desire.
‘The car will be here any minute.’
‘What you said last night …’
‘Forget it, Daniel. I should never have opened that second bottle last night. I was pissed, no way should I have ranted like that. I mean, yes, the Lakes are quiet. But of course Brackdale’s not a graveyard. I can’t believe I said that! And I don’t feel trapped, I’m not really lonely. How could I be, in such a gorgeous spot?’
‘So you still want to live here?’
‘’Course I do.’ She pecked him on the cheek. ‘And with you. In case you were wondering.’
At least she was ready to kiss and make up. One thing he loved about Miranda, her bad moods sped past like scurrying clouds. Last night they’d shouted at each other; a watershed, not soon to be forgotten, their first fierce row. No plates thrown, but she’d locked the bedroom door on him. The scrape of the turning key echoed in his brain for hours. He didn’t undress, spent all night lying on the bed in the spare room.
Through the small hours, the downpour battered the new roof tiles. Miranda hated winter, she hated the cold and above all she hated rain. She’d scoured for statistics to prove that Tarn Fold was the wettest place in England. Daniel didn’t believe it, if only because Seathwaite over in Borrowdale was deluged by 120 inches a year. Brackdale probably got no more than 119. But what did that matter? Close the door, stoke the fire, and everything was fine. Miranda said her London flat was a bolt-hole, nothing more. But wasn’t that the point of Tarn Cottage?
He’d breakfasted early. The coffee tasted bitter and he didn’t finish his toast. The bedroom was still a no-go area and she didn’t answer when he rapped on the door and called that he was leaving for Kendal. He was giving a talk at Abbot Halclass="underline" Victorian Eco-Warrior — John Ruskin and Climate Change. Ruskin’s green campaigning was the first history he’d researched since his last lecture at Oxford and the applause proved he hadn’t lost his touch. But his mind was elsewhere as people pumped his hand and he barely glanced at the praise on the feedback forms. He’d driven too fast all the way home and scraped his wing mirror against a tree as he swung into Tarn Fold.
‘I’ll call you tonight.’
‘No need,’ she said hastily. ‘I expect I’ll be out late with Ethan.’
Ethan, bloody Ethan.
‘OK.’
‘Don’t look like a wet Wednesday in Wasdale, huh? I’ll catch up with you as soon as I’ve got a minute, all right?’
A horn tooted outside and she’d gone before he could utter a word.
‘Now will you take this seriously?’ Tony Di Venuto demanded.
Hannah Scarlett squeezed her fingers tight around the phone. Did strangling a troublesome journalist count as justifiable homicide? ‘Trust me, we always take our work seriously.’
‘In that case, how will you respond to this amazing development?’
‘You’ve not given us much to go on. An unknown person calls you, presumably because of the article …’
‘He mentioned it specifically.’
‘… and tells you Emma Bestwick won’t be coming back. He doesn’t even say she is dead. How do we know he isn’t a time-waster? You haven’t even got his name.’
‘For God’s sake, he rang off before I could question him.’ The tightness of his voice told her that the rebuke stung. ‘Hey, this wasn’t some boozed-up teenager having a laugh at my expense. It was quite clear what he meant. She is dead.’
Hannah’s gaze flicked to her computer screen as an email from Lauren Self jumped into her inbox. The ACC was moaning because Les had skived off the diversity training workshop. The fact that he was on a fixed term contract was not an excuse. The need to implement good practice applied to everyone, no exceptions. Yawn.