‘Long time, no see.’ His voice sounded hoarser than he’d expected.
‘Yes.’
‘Ten years, eh? Amazing.’
‘It’s passed in the blink of an eye.’
‘I hope you don’t think … I mean, it’s good of you to help me out.’
‘And you want to help me, too.’
‘You can depend upon it.’ But determined cheerfulness sounded wrong on such a dark and desolate evening. ‘I mean, I never expected things to pan out like this, but after I came back here, it made sense to get in touch. As for the money, one or two investments have gone sour. I’m on my uppers, actually. That’s the only reason I asked …’
‘Have you forgotten our agreement?’
‘No! Of course not. It’s just that … well, you have no need to worry, honest. After tonight, you’ll never hear from me again.’
‘Promise?’
‘Scout’s honour.’ He was cross that his laughter sounded forced. ‘Not that I ever was a scout, but you know what I mean.’
‘I believe you.’
Guy rubbed his hands, not to keep warm but as a reminder that he was in control. ‘Shall we get down to brass tacks, then? You’ll have the money with you? I won’t insult you by counting it … no, please, I don’t think it’s wise to switch on your torch. We don’t want anyone to see …’
As the dark figure lifted the torch in the air, Guy suddenly realised that he could have held his breath. The light wasn’t about to be switched on.
The metal head of the torch crashed down on his head with sufficient force to knock him off balance and his legs gave way beneath him. He barely made a sound as he fell on to a pile of sopping wet, shrivelled leaves. Hurting too much even to scream, he prised his eyes open in time to see the torch swinging down towards his head once more.
Tomorrow wasn’t going to be the first day of the rest of his life, after all.
JOURNAL EXTRACT
From that day, high up on Mispickel Scar, my skin has crawled at the very thought of being watched. The spread of security cameras, not merely in our cities but even in the smallest towns, fills me with despair. Few creatures are more deserving of our contempt than the voyeur.
I say this by way of explanation, not excuse. Frankly, I had reached an age of invisibility. People would pass me in the street without a second glance. Old age does that to us In the eyes of others we become at best insignificant, at worst a burden on the young and productive. Our best days are behind us, we have nothing new to say. I find this lack of interest absurd, yet not altogether displeasing. How many youths dashing by would guess I had murdered one man, and been responsible for the death of another? Anonymity suits me. It has enabled me to survive for so long. And now my only hope is that anyone who may read these words after I am gone will reflect before dismissing the old and infirm. We too were young and passionate once, remember.
And even in old age, the passions of the moment may drive us to terrible deeds.
PART THREE
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Hannah rubbed sore eyes and switched off the computer screen. She’d been working long hours since the discovery of the bodies and when she finally got to bed each night, sleep never came easily. She diverted her phone and wandered down the corridor to the drinks machine. Her caffeine levels needed to be topped up if she were to keep from nodding off while checking the latest background reports on people linked with Emma Bestwick.
Any lingering doubt as to whether Emma was dead had been settled by the DNA match with the swab taken from Karen. Now the donkey work began. Investigating a cold case meant taking infinite pains and although Gul Khan and Linz Waller were available again, there was much to be done. She’d instructed the team to burrow deep into the lives of possible suspects. The Erskines, the Goddards, father and daughter Clough. They would talk to neighbours, shopkeepers, volunteer museum guides, clients of Emma’s reflexology clinic. This must be the way archaeologists worked, sifting through endless rubbish in the hope of chancing across a clue to the past. Although Emma might have been killed by someone who had never featured in the inquiry, you had to start somewhere. Impossible to believe that Emma had come to the Arsenic Labyrinth by chance. If she’d made an appointment, it must have been with someone she knew, or someone she had a very good reason to meet.
The second body still lacked a name. Half a dozen leads following calls from members of the public had fizzled out, though a woman in her eighties had been reunited with the brother she’d become separated from during the war. When Hannah had called to tell her he was still alive, the woman had wept with joy. A moment to savour; good things seldom came out of a murder case.
The office was as cold as Inchmore Hall and Hannah warmed her hands on the plastic coffee cup. Marc gave her a lazy grin from a photograph propped beside the PC. He’d told her Daniel Kind had returned to the bookshop, this time wanting to find out about the legend of Mispickel Scar. She shouldn’t encourage Daniel in playing the detective, but she couldn’t resist. His energy and intelligence made her spine tingle. Each time she talked to him, she recalled Ben, who was the shrewdest detective she’d ever met.
Her mobile roared the theme to Mission Impossible. She’d downloaded the ringtone in a fit of pique when overwhelmed by deadlines for completing performance development reviews for members of her team.
‘Hannah Scarlett.’
‘It’s Daniel. Is this a good time?’
She glanced at the reports stacked on her desk. Buried beneath them was a set of revised resource usage targets and an in-depth confidential briefing on the upcoming force merger. On screen, an email from Lauren had popped up, urging senior detectives to attend a training course about managing time effectively.
‘Perfect.’
‘I shouldn’t interrupt, but this is about Emma Bestwick.’
‘Marc told me you’re swotting up on Lakeland lore.’
‘I visited Alban Clough and asked about the Arsenic Labyrinth. The way he tells it, the curse is an ancient legend, its origins lost in history. After that, I talked with your friend Jeremy Erskine. As a historian, he knows his stuff.’
Hannah grunted. ‘He’ll have been desperate to impress Daniel Kind, the telly guru.’
‘He isn’t into legends, so he couldn’t help. I’ve read every page of the book Marc sold me. I’ve surfed the net and even talked to Vanessa Goddard a couple of times to see if she could cast any light. And you know what? There’s more folklore in the Lake District than you can shake a stick at — but I can’t find one passing mention of a jinx on Mispickel Scar that pre-dates the Second World War.’
‘What do you make of that?’
‘Dating any legend is next to impossible. Mythology makes historians shudder. No proper sources …’
‘You sound like a judge, turning his nose up at hearsay evidence.’ Hannah succumbed to the temptation of playing devil’s advocate. ‘Don’t tales often pass from one generation to the next without being written down? Even in Cumbria, with its literary heritage. That’s why Alban Clough is obsessed with preserving the region’s folklore before it’s forgotten, or sanitised out of recognition by the tourist industry.’
‘But if the jinx on Mispickel Scar is as ancient as Alban claims, you’d expect to find it recorded somewhere. Bickerstaff, an Edwardian expert in the field, had a weakness for dressing up trivia in lurid prose. These days, he’d have been a tabloid reporter. I can’t see him missing the chance to embellish a juicy tale about a curse.’
‘Where’s all this leading?’