The rain had paused for breath, and patches of lightness softened the sky. In a field beyond the hedge stood a spiky, wind-blown oak tree, back bent by a century of gales roaring through the narrow valley. A quartet of Herdwick sheep surveyed the activity of the emergency services with bemused fatalism. In the distance, mist cloaked the corrugated ridges of the fell tops that made up the Kentmere Horseshoe. The air was filled by the hum of the recovery wagon, as it hauled the Mercedes out of the ditch.
Louise waited on a sodden verge of grass and mud. For a woman who had made such a frightened phone call and then come within kissing distance of death minutes later, her apparent calm was surreal. Daniel’s knees felt as though they might give way with sheer relief. She was charming a tubby middle-aged constable in an attempt to convince him that this sort of accident could happen to anyone in treacherous weather conditions, and that it would be absurd to contemplate a charge of driving without due care and attention. From the constable’s sympathetic nods and failure to get in a word edgeways, Daniel suspected she might just get away with it.
‘So, your sister lives with you here in Brackdale?’ O’Brien asked.
It struck Daniel that he and Louise had never lived together, just the two of them, with nobody else in the house. How would it work? Even after Ben deserted them, their mother was always around.
‘Um…yes.’
‘You seem more shocked than she is.’ O’Brien rubbed his hands with theatrical vigour, as though an anorak and chunky sweater weren’t enough to keep him warm. ‘Tell me, do I know your face from somewhere?’
At least it was better than: ‘Didn’t you used to be Daniel Kind?’ Daniel’s instinct was to brush away questions about his years as a media tart. He’d come to the Lakes to escape from that stuff. But he didn’t want to be rude. All things considered, O’Brien was a model of Christian forgiveness. Daniel guessed that he prided himself on remaining calm in a crisis.
‘I’ve done a bit of television.’
‘History!’ O’Brien beamed in triumph at his feat of memory. ‘Thought as much. I never forget a face. I’ve always been interested in the Second World War, myself. The Dunkirk spirit, we could do with more of that these days.’
Daniel made polite conversation as the car was towed away. He supposed Louise regretted that, in the first moments of shock after the crash, she’d begged O’Brien to send for him. She always liked to be in charge. But she needed a lift to Tarn Fold. That squashed Mercedes was destined for the crusher.
By the time she was ready to go, the chime of the clock in Brack village marked one o’clock. The police constable decided not to add to Cumbria’s crime statistics, the paramedics departed to tend to someone less fortunate, and Louise lavished thanks upon the Irish couple and made sure they had her insurance company’s details. With handshakes, waves and a cheerful toot of the horn, the O’Briens resumed their journey home.
When they were finally alone, Louise breathed out. She stared towards the horizon, as if trying to pinpoint an invisible hill, not yet trusting herself to look into her brother’s eyes.
‘Another fine mess I got myself into, huh?’
‘Could have been worse.’
‘You know something? I’m sure you must be right, but at this precise moment, I don’t see how things could be any fucking worse.’
She’d kept her composure for long enough. Suddenly she was vulnerable and scared, and that cool facade crumpled like the front of her sports car. Daniel wrapped his arms around her and felt her shudder as she surrendered to loud, racking sobs.
Back at Tarn Cottage, Daniel made himself a sandwich, but all Louise wanted was brandy, insisting that if she had anything to eat, she’d throw up. As she curled up in an armchair in the living room, and dozed, Daniel warmed his hands in front of the fire, waiting for her to come round so that he could find out what had gone wrong.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked when she stirred and opened her eyes. ‘Headache, muscle pain?’
‘Stop fussing.’
‘You could have broken your neck. When I saw your car in that ditch…’
‘I know,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll be all right, promise.’
He stretched out his legs. ‘You want to rest, or talk?’
She gazed at a hairline crack that ran across the whitewashed ceiling, and didn’t utter a word. Her eyelids were heavy. No wonder after a night without rest, never mind the brandy.
‘What happened at Crag Gill, Louise?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
He shook his head. ‘Tell me.’
In a muffled voice, she said, ‘Shall I tell you what’s so funny? When I fell for Stuart, I actually thought this was the real thing. Him and me. Can you believe it?’
He waited.
‘I’ve not fallen head over heels for a man since… God knows when. I was nineteen or something. I thought I was armour-plated against infatuation. But Stuart knocked me sideways.’
She stared at her nails. Today they were deep purple, a vivid contrast to the white of her thin, delicate fingers. Daniel kept his mouth shut. Let her take this at her own pace.
‘I thought he was so amazing, you know? I so like successful men.’ She was talking to herself. ‘Stuart was different from your average small-town lawyer. A City slicker, but his love of the Lakes persuaded me he was special. The look in his eye when he spoke about clambering over the crags and along the coffin trails. He liked to wander-’
‘Lonely as a cloud?’
A feeble attempt at humour. Louise groaned.
‘You hated him, didn’t you?’
‘I hardly know him.’
‘Ever the diplomat, Daniel.’
‘One of us needs to be.’
‘Stuart is the most selfish man I’ve ever met.’
He breathed out. ‘That’s saying something.’
‘Given my track record in choosing lousy lovers? No need to rub it in.’ Her voice rose. ‘I’m quite capable of flagellating myself, thanks. Besides, it’s not simply his selfishness. He’s cruel.’
Daniel leant forward. ‘Cruel?’
‘He has no conscience. You should hear the way he talks about people, as though they were only put on Earth for his convenience. When they aren’t useful to him any longer, they might as well be dead, for all he cares. Like Wanda Saffell.’
‘What about her?’
‘They had something going at one time.’
‘While she was married to George?’
‘Don’t sound so shocked. Stuart couldn’t care less. For him, women are like books, though he prefers books, because they don’t answer back.’ She was talking rapidly now, fired up by the alcohol, determined to make him understand. ‘But books or women, they’re trophies, to be collected and then stashed away. It’s not just the thrill of the chase, for him it’s about having something that looks good. Along with the private pleasure of possession. He savours it, you’ve no idea. I doubt he reads one in ten of the books that he buys. Spends a fortune on them, then locks them away. He told me ninety per cent of the value of a rare book is in the condition of the dust jacket. Can you imagine? Nothing to do with what’s inside. They have to be kept out of the bright light. It wouldn’t do for the spines of those lovely jackets to catch the sun. So he keeps them hidden away; as long as he knows they are his, that’s all that matters. It turns him on to have something that someone else yearns for. Now it’s a book, now it’s another man’s wife. Same difference, as far as Stuart Wagg is concerned.’
Tirade over, she slumped back in her chair. Daniel gave her a minute before he spoke again.
Tears welled in her eyes again as she said, ‘It’s my fault, nobody else’s. How could I have been so daft?’