A rabbit ran across the road and she slammed on her brakes at the last moment to avoid squashing it. An SUV following too close behind did an emergency stop and finished a couple of inches short of her back bumper. The driver took out his anger by hitting his horn. He’d have thought better of it if he’d realised she was a cop, but Hannah didn’t want to make a scene. As the rabbit disappeared into the hedgerow, she set off again, and the SUV overtook at the first opportunity, horn blaring again in disgust as it disappeared into the night.
She needed to concentrate on the road. Driving in the dark was never easy on the Lakes’ narrow byways, and she shouldn’t allow herself to become distracted. Most of the men Hannah knew were skilled at compartmentalising — how else had Marc indulged himself with Cassie Weston while setting about building a new life with her after the move to Ambleside? She’d never been much good at filing her emotions in neatly separated folders, but she wished she could learn the knack.
‘Our Day Will Come’, Jamie was promising, as she pulled up outside Undercrag. Better hope he was right. At least Marc didn’t seem to be lurking around the house again like a ghost. Her mobile chirruped as she was climbing out of the car. Terri again. She’d seen a couple of missed calls from her, made during her stop at Tarn Cottage. Before setting out, Hannah had called Terri and made the mistake of telling her she was going to see Daniel Kind. Obviously her friend was agog for an update.
Ignoring her wouldn’t work; Terri never took no for an answer, and if she was determined to talk, there would be another call, and then another. Hannah checked her watch. Must have been about this time last night that a desperate murderer hit Aslan Sheikh on the head and threw him into the slurry tank. She pressed answer and said, ‘Hi, kid.’
‘Been trying to get hold of you all evening.’ Terri sounded breathless. ‘Are you still … with Daniel?’
‘No, I’m back home.’
‘You’ll have to tell me about it some other time.’ This might just be the most unexpected thing Hannah had heard Terri say. ‘Hey, listen, I need to talk to you.’
She gripped the phone in her palm. ‘What is it?’
‘This bloke who was murdered at the farm near Keswick?’
‘Yes?’
‘I was talking to Stefan this evening. He told me about this mate of his, who works at the farm.’
‘One of the Polish labourers?’
‘Yeah, really fit bloke, name of Zygmunt. He’s a witness; you need to talk to him.’
‘My colleagues at Keswick have spoken to people at the farm. I can’t just muscle in on their patch.’
‘Listen, Zygmunt has decided he’s not going back to the farm, he’s a free agent now. These two deaths have spooked him, and no wonder. A woman suffocated in grain, and a man chucked into a slurry tank? You couldn’t make it up. Anyway, he told Stefan he saw something the other day, when that woman jumped into the grain tower.’
Hannah felt as though an icy finger had traced a pattern down her spine. ‘What did he see?’
‘Someone was watching her. Even followed her towards the grain tower.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Zygmunt swears it’s the truth. I’ve met the feller, he isn’t a liar.’
‘Why didn’t he speak up before?’
‘Everyone reckoned the girl killed herself. And he didn’t want to get anyone into trouble. Or draw too much attention to himself. It’s not easy for migrant workers, you know; they worry that if they are in the spotlight, they might risk being asked to leave Britain. We’re not such a welcoming country as we used to be, Hannah.’
‘OK, point taken, but is he willing to talk now?’
‘Only to you.’
‘Hang on a moment-’
‘No arguments, sweetie. I’ve explained that you’re completely trustworthy. How are you fixed tomorrow morning?’
Shit, this was becoming complicated. But how could she say no?
‘All right. I’ll call you first thing.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It was sweltering inside St Herbert’s, the atmosphere sauna-like and oppressive. All the windows in the Old Library were open, but it made no difference. Daniel could almost feel the pounds dripping off him in sweat. Much more of this, and he’d look like a wraith. But a change was on its way; the Radio Cumbria weathergirl had warned of a build-up of pressure, and thunder and lightning were forecast for late morning and the afternoon. Everyone Daniel saw seemed heavy-legged and sluggish, as if the humidity had drained their last drops of energy. The Old Library was deserted apart from the librarian, whose footsteps sounded squeaky and unnaturally loud as she trudged to and fro between her desk and the catalogues. Casual readers and residents alike had fled, as though fearing the epidemic of death among members of staff might prove contagious. Even the journalists had abandoned St Herbert’s; Daniel suspected they were circling Lane End Farm like vultures, but at a safe distance, in case Mike Hinds lost it once and for all with his scythe or his gun.
For the first time in their acquaintance, even Professor Micah Bridge had loosened his tie. There was a moist glistening in the deep furrows of his high forehead, and he leant against a bookcase for support. His breathing was an unhealthy rasp; he sounded like a candidate for an imminent stroke. The deaths of Orla and Aslan had diminished him; he seemed to have shrunk, and become infirm before his time. How much more could the principal take?
‘Jolyon Hopes?’ The high scratchy voice echoed in the silence. ‘He was a reckless rider, by all accounts. I heard he took a chance too many with a young and nervous horse.’
‘On the estate?’
‘Goodness me, no. The accident occurred in Cheshire, I believe.’
‘So he was away from home at the time?’
‘He loved horses. The Hopes were renowned as a family of animal lovers, although that did not stop them hunting foxes. I gather he went hunting all over the north of England. His father was devastated by the calamity, of course. Not least because it ruled out any chance of the Hopes name continuing into the next generation.’
‘Was Fleur with him at the hunt?’
‘No, if memory serves, she was on holiday with her husband on a cruise in the West Indies at the time. She flew back to be at her brother’s bedside. In the end, he pulled through, although his vertebrae were smashed beyond repair. He was never able to look after himself again.’
‘Fleur was out of the country at the time of the accident?’ Another theory shot down in flames. Hannah was right to be sceptical.
‘Indeed.’ Micah Bridge pursed his papery lips. ‘Dare I enquire as to the reason for your curiosity?’
Daniel contrived an enigmatic smile. ‘I’m fascinated by stories about families. Like the Hinds and the Paynes. Or the Hopes and the Madsens.’
‘Ah, a true historian of England; those families’ stories concern the perennial struggle between land and trade.’ The principal’s moist eyes locked on him; could he really be as other-worldly as he seemed? ‘Alas, we both know that trade always wins. But your current researches are much more targeted. This book of yours about the history of murder. You are not by any chance suggesting-?’
The double doors leading to the corridor swung open behind them. Daniel did not need to turn round to know who was there. The fragrance was unmistakable.
‘Daniel!’ Fleur Madsen’s voice had an uncharacteristic tremble. ‘I saw your car outside, and guessed you were here. Can we talk?’
‘Sorry, Hannah.’ For once in her life, Terri sounded uncomfortable as she placed the mobile down on the table. Her tan was tinged pink with embarrassment. ‘Zygmunt has changed his mind; he’s wetting himself at the prospect of getting involved.’
Hannah swore under her breath, her shoulders stiffening with anger and frustration. They were sitting opposite Stefan at a table on the pavement outside the Windermere pub where he worked. The stop-start of noisy car engines as the traffic snaked past them, heading lakeside, was making her temples pound, and in the sticky atmosphere the stench of petrol made her throat constrict with nausea. The farm labourer had been due to arrive three-quarters of an hour ago, but he’d failed to show. Stefan finally tracked him down on his mobile, but when Terri took the phone and spoke to the man, the conversation didn’t go to plan, and within a minute, he’d cut her off.