‘That’s right.’
‘I moved to the Lake District recently and…’
‘Yes, I heard.’
‘I met Marc when I visited his shop.’
‘He mentioned it.’
The conversation was becoming a ritual dance, the participants invisible to each other and unwilling to risk a false move. What might she look like, he wondered irrelevantly: another peaches-and-cream blonde, a younger Cheryl — or more like his mother, angular and dark?
‘I suppose you’re puzzled about why I should call you.’
‘The thought’s crossed my mind,’ she said calmly, ‘but I’m sure you’re intending to explain.’
‘You’ll be aware that we’ve bought Tarn Cottage.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Too late, he realised that he should have planned what he was going to say. He’d never give a lecture without adequate preparation and rehearsal, so why had he blundered into this without proper thought?
‘It’s just that…I’d love to talk to someone who knew my old man.’
‘You could try his wife.’
‘Been there, done that, come away with a flea in my ear. She’s moved on.’
‘I bet she has,’ Hannah Scarlett said drily.
‘She doesn’t want to be reminded of the past. Or that I was part of his life before she took over.’
After a pause she said, ‘He talked about you.’
His skin prickled with embarrassment. ‘Not tediously, I hope.’
‘Ben was never tedious,’ she said. ‘He was proud of you and of what you’d achieved. You should be proud of him.’
‘I suppose so,’ he said, ‘which is precisely why I’d love to talk to you about him. Not over the phone, but face to face. Sorry, I know it’s an imposition — but would you mind?’
Another pause. He guessed she was weighing up pros and cons. When she spoke again, her voice seemed to shrug.
‘I don’t see why not.’
He almost stammered out his thanks but something stopped him, an intuition that if he became effusive this woman would draw back into herself. Ben Kind had prized loyalty; that was why his desertion of his family had come as such a shock. Cheryl had been — well, an aberration. If Hannah Scarlett had earned his father’s trust, she must be dependable and discreet. She’d keep her emotions on a tight leash and have little time for people who lacked the same control.
‘When would suit you? Of course, I’ll fit in with your diary. My time’s my own and you must be rushed off your feet. Leigh Moffat told me that you’ve taken on a new project.’
‘Oh, she did, did she?’
He discerned a touch of scepticism. Maybe she and Leigh didn’t hit it off? None of his business, anyway. He said, ‘You’re in charge of a cold case team. It occurred to me that you might want to take a second look at the murder of Gabrielle Anders.’
‘Now why would you think that?’
No surprise at his suggestion, he noticed, just a dead-eat response, a professional refusal to give anything away. Interesting.
‘No reason, really. The party line was that Gilpin was the killer, but nothing was ever proved. So — when can I see you?’
He hated sounding like a bashful suitor, trying to fix up a date, but her reply was measured. No hint of playing hard-to-get.
‘Today I’m busy, but I have a space in my diary tomorrow. Mid-morning in Kendal?’
‘I could offer you lunch if you have time.’
‘I’m not into social lunches, but I can spare you twenty minutes. I like to get out of the office for a breath of air every now and then, maybe we can meet by the river? Say half ten on one of the benches near St George’s, overlooking Stramongate Weir?’
‘How will I recognise you?’
‘You don’t need to, Daniel.’ He noticed her use of his first name. ‘I’ve seen you on the box, remember?’
‘Fine, I’ll look forward to it.’
‘See you there.’
For a moment his skin tingled. It was almost as though they were arranging a secret tryst.
Returning to the cottage, he scribbled a conciliatory note for Miranda and propped it up on the breakfast bar. There was still no sign of her downstairs and he didn’t want to court trouble by disturbing her. Unseen, Wayne continued to slaughter the Beatles’ repertoire and was embarking upon a tuneless rendition of “Can’t Buy Me Love”.
If he wanted to clear his head, there was no better way than by climbing up to Priest Edge. He made himself a sandwich which he put with an apple and a can of Bud into his rucksack. He changed into a zip-up jacket and the pair of virgin Timberland hiking boots kept by the kitchen door. He and Miranda had been so busy with the renovations and decorating out the cottage that they’d neglected more than their writing. As he’d tidied up loose ends in Oxford, he’d pictured them spending long afternoons of exploration on the fells, but so far it hadn’t happened. Time enough for that, she said, once their home ceased to resemble a builder’s yard. When that would be, he dared not guess.
As he stepped out into the garden, a bird flew out from the rhododendrons and dipped over the tarn before vanishing into the trees. At first he assumed it was a blackbird, but a glimpse of the crescent of white at its throat persuaded him that he’d spotted a ring ouzel. Uncommon, according to his RSPB guide. He’d make a twitcher yet.
Quickening his stride, he headed for the path that wound up the hillside to the Sacrifice Stone. After seeing its dark outline against the sky so many times, he’d decided it was time for another look from close quarters, time to retrace the steps of that first trek with his father, the day he’d met Barrie Gilpin. He would return to the valley by way of the corpse road, following a circular route past the Brack Hall farmstead before branching off on to the lane that led to the disused corn mill and ultimately Tarn Cottage.
By the time he was home again, with any luck not only would Wayne have departed but Miranda should be back to her usual self. They could make up after the quarrel. Talk, maybe watch the DVD he’d picked up in Kendal at the weekend.
Her usual self. As the path climbed, he reminded himself that they’d met such a short time ago. What was her usual self? Might the Miranda he thought he knew be someone of his imagining, might he have misled himself about her true nature? Even with the sun beating down on his forehead, the question chilled him. He told himself not to be stupid, that it was absurd to allow a single quarrel to provoke such doubts.
The path was sticky with mud after the rain of recent days but even though the new boots were pinching, he made steady progress. Despite the fall-out with Miranda, he felt energy surging within him. He liked the sound of Hannah Scarlett. As he neared the top, the climb became steeper. He tripped over a twisted tree root and came to rest on a spiky clump of purple heather. When he looked up towards Priest Edge, the strange boulder was looming above him. With the ground falling away all around, it seemed like an island in the sky.
From this perspective, it seemed that a single gust might topple it over and send it tumbling down the slope, crushing him and everything in its wake. But this was an illusion: nothing could shift the Sacrifice Stone.
In his head he conjured up images of silent worshippers trooping along the hillside, bearing the young girl to be surrendered to their deity when they reached Priest Edge. In return for a death, they hoped to be granted fruitful living. Daniel could not conceive what prayers might run through the high priest’s mind as his acolytes laid the girl upon the rock and he unsheathed his knife, readying himself to slit her throat. And what of that other killer, who had mimicked the ceremony: had a current of cruel pleasure rippled through him as he brought the axe down on his unconscious victim?
Too much imagination could seriously damage your peace of mind. Time to move on. He picked himself up and five minutes later was scrambling over the last rough patch and clambering on to the summit of the fell. At last the grey bulk of the Sacrifice Stone squatted in front of him. At close quarters, the rock was smaller than in his childhood memories, but it occupied much of the narrow ridge, allowing space for no more than a couple of people to squeeze past on either side. He ran the tip of his index finger along the jagged rock. The Stone was a table resting on a base that lifted it clear of the ground. Finding temptation impossible to resist, he hauled himself up, so that he could sit on the smooth hard surface.