‘You don’t tape incoming calls?’
‘Not routinely.’
She punched delete and Lauren’s message vanished. The tiny act of defiance cheered her. ‘So what can you tell me about him?’
‘Man of my age, or thereabouts. Local accent, but he only said a few words.’
‘Was he calm?’
‘Curt, perhaps a bit flustered.’
‘You’ve interviewed people close to Emma in connection with your story. This wasn’t a man you’ve spoken to before? Jeremy Erskine, for instance?’
His laughter had a mocking edge. ‘No way.’
‘Before she bought her own house, Emma lodged with a couple called Francis and Vanessa Goddard. They became good friends. Might your caller have been Francis Goddard?’
‘I spoke briefly with Mr Goddard on the phone when I was researching my article. It wasn’t him. Or her old boss, Alban Clough.’
‘Who, then?’
‘Not a former boyfriend, that’s for sure.’
‘Stranger things have happened, Mr Di Venuto.’
‘Forget it, Chief Inspector. Emma wasn’t interested in men, everyone knew that.’
A thought tiptoed into Hannah’s head. ‘Did you know her?’
After thirty seconds of silence he muttered, ‘We never met. Why do you ask?’
‘Just wondered. You’re taking such a close interest in one old case. There’s not a shred of proof Emma didn’t leave the Lakes of her own free will. But if you had some personal involvement with her …’
‘Aren’t you listening, Chief Inspector? I said I never set eyes on her. It’s not so surprising the Post should revive the investigation. We covered her disappearance in depth ten years ago. Look at our files if you don’t believe me.’
‘And Mr Erskine?’
‘What about him?’ Sharp, defensive.
‘Reading between the lines, you don’t care for the way he’s writing off Emma’s disappearance as old news.’
‘She was his sister-in-law. He ought to be concerned.’
‘Presumably his loyalty is to his wife. That’s why he wants her to move on.’
‘Very commendable.’ Sarky sod.
‘But you’ve never met him before?’
‘Not until I talked to him a week ago. Listen, Chief Inspector. I’m not the story here. This is all about Emma Bestwick, nobody else.’
‘Of course,’ Hannah said.
But she didn’t believe him.
* * *
Daniel closed down his computer and slung on a fleece before wandering outside for a breath of Lakeland air. This corner of Brackdale was as peaceful as anywhere in England, but it was never entirely silent. Stop and listen and you could hear faint rustlings in the undergrowth, the distant cough of an invisible raven. He’d fallen for the Lakes as he had for Miranda, swept away on a tide of passion. Now he couldn’t contemplate living anywhere else. The beauty entranced him, and the history too. The only thing he knew for sure about his next book was that it would be rooted in the Lakes. Historians needed to soak up the spirit of the places they studied. Sitting in a library wasn’t enough.
As he wandered by the tarn, a pale light filtered through the dripping trees, spreading patterns on the dark water. Mist curtained the upper reaches of the hillside; dusk was gathering and he could barely make out Priest Edge and the grim bulk of the Sacrifice Stone. He could not guess how many men, women and children had met their death on the Stone in pagan times. Lives given up in the hope of buying salvation.
Few people came to Tarn Fold, but it was never as still as Miranda said. A fox rustled through the undergrowth, in search of food. The air smelled of damp earth and fallen leaves. His path twisted this way and that before arriving at an inexplicable dead end. The garden of Tarn Cottage had tantalised him for months until he discovered its melancholy secret.
He hadn’t seen Hannah Scarlett since the end of summer, when they’d both been caught up in the violent climax to one of her inquiries. In its stunned aftermath, they reached an unspoken understanding that they needed time apart. Daniel’s late father, Ben Kind, had been Hannah’s boss for years and she reckoned he’d taught her all she knew about detecting crime. A bond had formed between her and Ben’s son. But they were both in relationships and it was unwise to grow too close. Once or twice during the past six months, Daniel had picked up his mobile, wanting to hear her cool voice again. He’d deleted her number from the quick dial menu, but the digits had lodged in his brain, like squatters determined to stick it out. So far he’d never made the call.
Safer to take refuge in history. At auction last October, he’d bought a yellowing set of letters, in which an acquaintance debated Ruskin’s dread of industry encroaching on the glory of the Lakes. That horror of the smoke-belching steelworks of Barrow-in-Furness became the starting point for the Kendal lecture. But Daniel didn’t have enough fresh material to justify a full-length book, and much as he loathed the treadmill of contracts and deadlines, he could use the cash. Since leaving Oxford, he’d lived off royalties from the TV series he’d presented, while the profit from selling his old home was swallowed by the cost of renovating Tarn Cottage. Following the death of his partner Aimee, he’d needed to break from the past, even just writing about the past. But Miranda was right: a sabbatical was one thing, opting out altogether quite another.
There is no wealth but life, Ruskin said. True, but you still had to pay your grocery bills.
Daniel retraced his steps and sat down on a bench looking over towards the lower slopes of Tarn Fell. Fishing his mobile out of his pocket, he punched in a familiar number.
‘Amos Books.’
He recognised the girl’s smoky voice. ‘Trecilla? This is Daniel Kind … Fine thanks, how are you? Is Marc around?’
‘He’s scouting for new premises in Sedbergh.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re moving?’
‘No, they’re talking about opening another branch. Can I help?’
‘I’m interested in finding out more about John Ruskin’s life in the Lake District. His battles with local industrialists, that sort of thing.’
‘You’d be best speaking to Marc. I’m afraid I’ve never got into Ruskin, but Marc’s a fan. He’s back in tomorrow.’
‘I’ll drop in, see if I catch him.’
Why not? It couldn’t do any harm. Ruskin had made his home in the Lakes for thirty years, there was always the outside chance that some rare treasure might lurk on a dusty shelf in Marc’s rambling emporium, casting fresh light on Ruskin’s life and work. Yet as he ambled back towards the cottage, Daniel admitted to himself that this wasn’t really about research. Marc Amos lived with Hannah and tomorrow he’d have the chance to ask after her. Out of curiosity, nothing more.
Les Bryant wiped the froth from his mouth and said, ‘Better dig out the old files.’
‘They’re already on my desk,’ Hannah said.
They were closeted in a sepulchral corner of the mahogany-panelled bar at the back of the Woollen Shroud, a pub on the outskirts of town. As usual it was deserted save for a handful of grizzled regulars who seldom spoke or even moved. For years, Hannah had met informants here, people who didn’t want it known they were talking to her. The privacy compensated for the graveyard ambience. She wondered how the landlord earned enough to live on. Probably best for a police officer not to know.
Proving that miracles do happen, Les had blown the dust off his wallet and bought the first round. His way of making up for exposing her to criticism from the ACC. He’d even promised to move heaven and earth to attend the next scheduled seminar on dignity at work. Though his snoring might distract the other attendees.
‘So you’re more interested than you let on to Di Venuto?’
‘It’s not about whether I’m interested. As it happens, I hated it when we gave up on the case. The snag is, Di Venuto has no new info for us and the files don’t hold any clues.’