‘He doesn’t have a choice.’ Hannah rapped the table’s metal surface to make her point. It made her feel better, even if her knuckles stung. ‘If he has information that would help our enquiries, he has a duty to share it. He’s not at risk, and even if he were, we could look after him. If he’d rather speak to someone other than me, fine. No way can he put his head below the parapet now.’
‘It’s just that-’
‘Listen, Terri, I’m not pissing about. If he tries to melt away into the landscape, we’ll dig him out. If he keeps his mouth shut, there’s every chance he’ll finish up in a cell, looking at a one-way ticket home. He needs to cooperate, and tell us whatever he knows.’
Terri stared as if Hannah had stepped out of an alien spacecraft. ‘All these years we’ve been friends, you’ve never talked to me like a detective chief inspector before.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m not in the mood for games.’ Hannah didn’t often raise her voice, but she was past caring about making a scene. ‘Mario Pinardi found a body dripping in slurry on Saturday night. He won’t forget the stink of death and shit in a hurry. As for Orla Payne, I spoke to her less than forty-eight hours before she died of suffocation. Two people, laid out on mortuary slabs long before their time, do you wonder I’m not prepared to let this bloke wimp out?’
Terri put up her hands, like a boxer on the ropes warding off a flurry of punches. ‘All right, all right, I’m only trying to help.’
‘Give me the phone.’ Stefan stretched out a beefy arm tattooed with a picture of a mermaid with bee-stung lips, and breasts the size of beach balls. ‘I will talk to him.’
‘I’d be grateful,’ Hannah said, as Terri slid the mobile across the table to him.
Stefan was a man of few words, many of them heavily accented and hard to interpret, but that didn’t faze Terri, who talked enough for two. He seemed to be a man of simple pleasures, content to gaze with quiet approval at Terri’s cleavage, even if it wasn’t quite a match for the mermaid’s.
He redialled and spoke with quick-fire fury in Polish to his friend. Whatever he said left no room for argument. Inside a minute, he rang off and thrust the mobile into his trouser pocket as though he never wanted to see it again.
‘He changes his mind, he will come soon.’
‘Thanks, Stefan,’ Hannah said.
It crossed her mind that it would be a mistake to underestimate Stefan. For all his taciturnity, he seemed strong in temperament as well as in physique. Not in the same league as Mike Hinds, no doubt, but cross him, and sparks would fly. Did Terri know what she was getting into? A question for another day.
‘Perhaps you can spare me five minutes in my office, Daniel?’
Fleur Madsen set a brisk pace across the floor of the Old Library, not waiting for an answer. Shaken she might be, but she had a nervous energy that the heat hadn’t sapped, and she took it for granted that Daniel would follow her lead. Her pallor made a striking contrast with the black trouser suit; she resembled an exquisitely tailored ghost. She’d made it clear she wanted to speak to Daniel in private, and Micah Bridge needed no encouragement to make himself scarce; he seemed to find her very presence intimidating.
As she made a few noises about the awfulness of Aslan’s death, and the insensitivity of so many journalists, she took him to the back staircase. It led to her office, but so did the main staircase, up from the corridor by the reception desk, and it would have been quicker to go that way. He suspected Fleur didn’t want Sham to know they were having a conversation. And he was beginning to think that he could guess why.
Reaching the first floor, Daniel found himself looking down a narrow passageway that ran the length of the building. Halfway along he saw the landing of the main staircase. Doors spaced at irregular intervals opened off the left-hand side of the passage; on the right, windows looked out on to the drive and car park; beneath them were bookshelves crammed with modern first editions. Fleur pointed out a complete run of Graham Swift first editions as she took out a key for the door marked Chair of Trustees. For a few moments, it rattled clumsily in the lock; her hands were shaking, but at last the door opened and she waved him inside.
The room was spacious, with a dedicated workspace, plus a large leather sofa and occasional table for informal one-to-ones. Everything was predictably neat and well organised; Fleur didn’t strike him as a woman who could bear clutter. Was that why she’d never bothered to complicate her life with kids? Her desk was immaculate, with pens, paper clips and rubber bands stored in the compartments of a bronze tidy, and a sleek wireless laptop. A solitary photograph showed her and her husband shaking hands with Margaret Thatcher. The shot must have been taken long ago; Bryan’s hair was still dark and plentiful. Yet Fleur’s appearance had scarcely changed. She looked steely-eyed enough to have been the Iron Lady’s daughter.
As he took a seat at one end of the sofa, she indicated a door set in the side wall. ‘I even have my own bedroom. A bit of a waste, frankly. My predecessor lived in Whitehaven, and often stayed over. But Bryan and I live so close to the Residential Library, I never need to stay the night. I could walk home, if I was in the mood, but that would mean schlepping through the Hanging Wood, unless I made a twenty-minute detour. So I bring the car, and try not to worry about my carbon footprint.’
You’re talking too much. The torrent of small talk must be down to nerves; she was unfamiliar with not being in control of events, and unsure how to cope with a sense of helplessness.
‘So — you wanted a word?’
‘Yes, um, that’s right.’ She turned round the chair at the desk, and straddled it. ‘The librarian tells me you and your sister were researching my family’s records. I wondered-’
‘Orla Payne said something to Aslan about Castor and Pollux. I think he checked Sir Milo’s memoir and found those were the names of two dogs, buried in the grounds of Mockbeggar Hall. They were painted by Millais, in thanks for the hospitality he’d received.’
‘That’s right.’ Fleur swallowed. ‘The painting is a family heirloom.’
‘I believe it usually hangs in the dining room at the Hall.’
She nodded. ‘We moved it during the renovations. It needs to be sent away for cleaning.’
‘So, not moved simply in order that I shouldn’t see it?’ Her jaw dropped, as much at his insolence as in denial that the Madsens might be so Machiavellian. ‘Doesn’t matter. I reckon Orla discovered, or guessed, that her brother Callum was buried along with the dogs.’
A rictus grin. ‘You can’t be serious?’
‘Sorry, Fleur, but I am.’
‘And your friend, DCI Scarlett, I presume you’ve discussed your theory with her?’ He inclined his head. This was why Fleur had asked him up here, he felt sure. To get an understanding of what he’d shared with Hannah. ‘So what does she think?’
‘She’d like to take a look at the pet graveyard.’
‘The Hall estate is private property,’ Fleur said. ‘We have only opened up a part of it to the holiday park’s residents. Dead animals deserve a dignified resting place, as much as dead people. I doubt Bryan would be willing to allow the police to dig up the grounds on a wild fancy.’
‘Much more than a wild fancy, to be fair. At first, Aslan was unclear how Orla had learnt about Castor and Pollux. After all, it wasn’t long ago that she thought he was really Callum. Because she’d locked the door to her room here, he shinned up the outside drainpipe to break in via the window. Hardly any of them shut perfectly, as you know.’