This could explain it. After Louise had fled, Wagg must have set off for the fells. All the forecasters’ warnings about bad weather wouldn’t faze a man in a temper who needed solitude. He returned to the warmth of the kitchen and dialled Tarn Cottage. Louise snatched up the receiver on the second ring.
‘Daniel?’
‘The house is unlocked, and the power is off, but I can’t find him anywhere.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘Unfreezing my hands on the kitchen radiator.’
‘There’s no trace of blood?’
‘Why would there be? You only gave him a tiny scratch, remember?’
She ignored the jibe. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Might he have stomped off and forgotten to lock up?’
‘Not Stuart. He’s fanatical about security. The thought that anyone might nick his beloved books…’
‘Maybe he was so furious that he wasn’t acting rationally. Might have headed for the Langdale Pikes.’ He hesitated. ‘Or A amp;E.’
‘Why don’t you believe me?’ She was shouting into the phone, and he moved it away from his ear. ‘I barely grazed him.’
‘Whatever. The fact is, he isn’t at home, and anyone could walk into Crag Gill like I just did and loot the place from top to bottom.’
He heard her swearing to herself and waited.
‘There’s a spare set of keys hanging up on the inside of the door of the cupboard over the microwave. I left them there this morning. No more use for them. You’d better lock up.’
‘OK. I’ll call his office and see if they’ve heard from him. Can you give me the number?’
He found the keys and redialled. The receptionist put him through to Wagg’s PA. She couldn’t tell him anything other than that her boss didn’t like to be disturbed on holiday, unless for a real emergency. When Daniel pressed, she gave in and transferred him to another partner.
‘Raj Doshi speaking.’ Smooth and reassuring as music from pan pipes, a calm bedside manner conveyed in three little words. Louise had mentioned Doshi a couple of times. He specialised in divorce work. It was Doshi who had taken Wanda Saffell home after the contretemps on New Year’s Eve. ‘How can I help you, Mr Kind?’
‘I need to speak to Stuart Wagg.’
‘Your sister doesn’t have a problem, I hope?’
Doshi must know Wagg’s reputation with women. Did the way he used them impact on the business, or his colleagues? Or was he so important to the firm that he was untouchable, that whatever he did, they were happy to turn a blind eye?
‘Stuart and I need to talk. Soon, if you don’t mind.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Kind, but I cannot help. Stuart isn’t due back until next week, and if he’s not answering his home phone or his mobile…’
‘Does he often blip off the radar screen like this?’
‘You have met Stuart, Mr Kind?’
‘Twice.’
‘Then you will realise he is his own man.’
‘Look, my sister and I are worried. I’m at Crag Gill right now. The power lines seem to be down and he appears to have left his house unlocked.’
A discreet cough. Possibly the closest Doshi ever came to expressing shock-horror.
‘Unlocked, you say?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I…um…I tried the front door.’
Best not to admit to a solicitor that he’d spent the past hour trespassing.
‘I used my sister’s keys to lock the door and secure the house.’
Or at least he would do, the minute he walked out of this empty place.
‘That’s good of you.’
‘It doesn’t explain what has happened to Stuart Wagg.’
‘He loves walking, Mr Kind, he’s probably on his way home even as we speak.’
‘And the fact he left his house open to any Tom, Dick or Harry in the middle of a power cut?’
‘I don’t always lock my own front door, Mr Kind.’
‘So, you think there’s no cause for concern?’
‘I am sure there is a straightforward explanation. Thank you, though, for letting us know. Good afternoon.’
The phone was put down. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. Doshi wasn’t a lawyer for nothing. Not knowing what to do for the best, Daniel decided to trust to instinct.
Time to call Hannah Scarlett.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Was it significant, Wanda Saffell’s name cropping up in the Bethany Friend inquiry? In conversation with Maggie, Hannah played it down. The young DC’s enthusiasm was one of her virtues, but no sense in jumping to conclusions. Cumbria was a small world, albeit so diverse that anyone could be forgiven for forgetting. The local population was tiny, once you stripped out seasonal workers and tourists who came from all four corners of the globe. For the wife of a suspected murder victim to be interviewed in relation to the unexplained death, six years ago, of a work colleague barely registered on the Richter scale of coincidence.
But you never knew. Wanda intrigued Hannah. The sight of Arlo Denstone, drenched with red wine at the New Year party, remained as vivid in her memory as the stain on his white jacket. Wanda had a temper, and she lacked restraint. She’d had too much to drink that night, and seemed at the end of her tether. But it didn’t mean she had anything to do with Bethany’s death. The brutal shock of having a husband roasted alive was enough to drive anyone to distraction.
‘I’ll pay her a visit.’
‘She has this little business in Ambleside, can’t be more than a mile away from your new house.’ Maggie thrust a scribbled note into her hand. ‘Here’s the address.’
‘Thanks. I’m having breakfast with Fern Larter tomorrow. She can brief me on Wanda.’
‘I don’t like the sound of her.’ Maggie folded her arms as she pronounced judgement. She was a sturdy young woman, from a family who had farmed in the Lakes for five generations, and were the sort of people who believed that there was no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing. She didn’t have much time for shades of grey. Or for posh women who printed obscure volumes of poetry. For all her diligence, she’d need a more flexible mindset if she wanted to shin up the greasy pole. ‘Her witness statement is only a page long, but she comes over as heartless. And she must be in the frame for her husband’s murder.’
‘Assuming he was murdered. Let’s not run ahead of ourselves before the coroner has had his say. Let alone the CPS. Wanda is a grieving widow, we’d better not forget that.’
Maggie’s jaw was set firm. Like most of the foot soldiers in the force, she suspected the Crown Prosecution Service of devoting its time and energy to thinking up reasons not to prosecute.
‘A black widow, maybe.’
‘We’ll see.’ Hannah slapped Maggie on the shoulder, a gesture of encouragement to counterbalance her caution. ‘In the meantime, well done.’
Hannah asked the admin assistant to set up a meeting with Wanda while she attended a New Year sermon from Lauren. The ACC’s theme was that the CID had to change with the times and she went on and on like an automated phone system. Press one for inclusive policing. Press two for a critique of gender stereotyping. Her latest big idea was a weekend conference for senior detectives at ‘a top secret location’ which would turn out to be some dreary hotel in the Yorkshire Dales. The ACC droned on ad nauseam about the force’s ever-increasing number of ‘partnerships’ with assorted authorities, units, agencies and projects before introducing a shiny young woman called India Sturridge, the latest recruit to Cumbria Constabulary’s team of spin doctors. India looked barely old enough to be out of university, but she was bound to be paid more than the likes of Maggie Eyre, although she’d never be asked to put her life on the line. Having taken the precaution of wearing a very low-cut blouse, she was assured of the attention of a predominantly male audience. Hannah sensed Greg Wharf shifting in his chair as he composed his next chat-up line.