Martin Edwards - The Frozen Shroud

He arrived at the converted mill occupied by Amos Books in time to search for books about the Faceless Woman before Melody arrived. He loved the shop, with its sloping floor and narrow aisles threaded between rows of crammed shelves, loved the mustiness of the old tomes even more than the seductive smell of coffee and cakes wafting from the cafeteria. Hidden away in his office, Marc kept his computer, and even an e-reader, but the shop remained a temple for worshippers of the printed word. This afternoon, it was quiet except for a group of voluble German walkers examining a set of signed Wainwrights, and the usual stream of people wanting food and drink rather than books. He was leafing through a dusty volume called Ullswater Lore and Legends when a hand clapped him on the back.

‘Daniel! How are things?’

Marc Amos sounded glad to see him. They enjoyed each other’s company, and even though Hannah had confided that her former partner was always jealous of her friendships with other men, he seemed to make an exception in Daniel’s case.

‘Good, thanks. How’s business?’

Marc pushed a hand through his thick fair hair. ‘Keeping the wolf from the door. Footfall is steady, and revenue from the cafeteria is on the up. When you see what’s happening to retail in this country, let alone to second-hand bookshops, we’ve got plenty to be thankful for.’

‘Glad to hear it. I can’t be the only person who still loves wandering around a bookshop.’

A woman in a blue uniform waved hello as she walked past the far end of the book stacks. Leigh Moffat, brisk and businesslike, was in charge of catering. She and Marc had gone into partnership, and Hannah reckoned that one fine day, the two of them would move in together.

‘I should have joined forces with Leigh years ago,’ Marc said. ‘I used to be a control freak, thought I’d only be happy if I stayed in charge of everything. But Leigh’s far better at the business side than me. Not just the finances, but negotiations with the landlords, marketing, all the crap I hate. She actually enjoys it. Thanks to her, I can focus on scouting out rare books, and tracking down collectors who might want to pay good money for them.’ He grinned. ‘It’s like marrying a pristine first edition with a fine dust jacket from a second impression copy. The two are worth more together than apart. Now, what do you have there?’

Daniel flourished the book. ‘Someone told me about the legend of the Frozen Shroud. And do you have any books dealing with the real-life murders at Ravenbank? Not just the killing of Gertrude Smith, but the Shenagh Moss case too?’

‘Check out the true crime section. We’re more likely to have something about the old case. Shenagh was the Australian woman, wasn’t she? Your best bet is the newspaper archives. I remember Hannah talking about the investigation, though she wasn’t involved directly. Fern Larter was on the team, but she wasn’t the SIO.’

Daniel nodded. Hannah had introduced him to Fern, a friend as well as colleague. ‘I gather the killer died in a car crash.’

‘Well, if you accept that the obvious solution is almost always right. The man’s name was Meek, I remember. What sticks in my mind is that Fern wasn’t happy about the case.’

‘Why was that?’

‘She didn’t care for the SIO, said he was idle and far too quick to close the file. You’ve met Fern, haven’t you? Once encountered, never forgotten. And never afraid to say what’s on her mind. She had a row with her boss, and finished up with her wrists slapped, and forced to toe the line.’

Daniel leant forward. ‘Didn’t she believe Meek was guilty?’

‘They were presented with a story that was too neat. Her theory was that someone took advantage of the old legend to settle a score with the woman who died, and used Meek as a scapegoat. Unfortunately, she had no evidence, she was relying on gut feel.’

‘And what did Hannah think?’

Marc sighed. ‘You know Hannah.’

‘She agreed with Fern?’

‘She trusts her instinct. They both hated the idea that someone might just have got away with murder.’

One coincidence about the two murders in Ravenbank had already struck Daniel. In each case, the prime suspect died within a day of the victim. Case closed. Neat and tidy, and convenient for everyone.

A woman whose appearance and demeanour reminded him of the trout who wanted to swallow Jeremy Fisher accosted Marc. She demanded to know where she might find a biography of Beatrix Potter costing no more than two pounds. The answer was the biography shelves, but Marc dressed it up with such tact and charm that by the time she strutted off, she’d morphed into a beaming Mrs Tiggy-Winkle.

Daniel grinned. ‘Ten out of ten for customer care.’

‘You think that’s a daft question? Trust me, it’s high-level compared to some. People constantly ask for books whose titles they can’t recall, written by authors whose names they have forgotten, about subjects they are rather vague about. Not to worry, they are our lifeblood. Mind you, we’d never survive if I only sold books to people who call in looking for a bargain. I have clients all over the world. Collectors based in countries whose currency rates make the price of rare books from England a snip. To say nothing of women recently divorced from millionaire husbands, who want to invest their alimony in something more interesting than stocks and shares.’

‘Or toy boys?’

‘Hey, you don’t have to worry about your age or your looks when you curl up with a rare first edition. And books cause you less hassle and heartache in the long run.’ Marc frowned, his thoughts wandering elsewhere as the pair of them strolled through the topography section. ‘Seen Hannah lately?’

Daniel shook his head. ‘You?’

‘She’s seeing someone else, did you know?’

‘We haven’t spoken for more than a month.’

Marc was watching for a reaction, and he kept his expression neutral, although the news made him want to bang his head against the wall. He’d been so sure she wanted time to herself before even thinking about a new relationship. Louise’s words echoed in his brain. For a smart guy, you’re really not that smart.

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously. Last time we were in touch, she was worried about cutbacks. She sounded overwhelmed with work.’

‘In more ways than one,’ Marc said softly. ‘The bloke she’s seeing is her DS. That guy Wharf.’

‘Greg Wharf?’ This time Daniel wasn’t able to hide his surprise. Hannah was professional; why had she let herself get mixed up with a subordinate?

‘You’d think she’d have more sense, wouldn’t you?’

Daniel wasn’t feeling too sensible himself. He didn’t answer, and Marc luxuriated in a long sigh.

‘I’m disappointed, to be honest with you, Daniel. I’ve heard the two of them go out drinking together.’

Two colleagues going for a drink? Maybe there was nothing in it, and Marc was jumping to jealousy-fuelled conclusions. Before Daniel could say another word, someone called to him.

‘There you are, Daniel! And Marc too. Lovely to see you both!’

Melody Knight waved at them. Daniel returned her smile, his gaze lingering on the slanted eyes and high cheekbones. With a stab of surprise, he realised that he’d hardly ever seen anyone in this shop who wasn’t white. Nor any more beautiful. Wrapped up against the cold in a white coat, multicoloured woollen scarf and matching hat, Melody looked exotic and out of place, like a rare orchid in an overgrown garden.

‘How long have you two known each other?’ Marc asked as they shook hands.

‘We met on Saturday, at a conference Oz organised,’ Melody said. ‘Daniel gave this wonderful talk on De Quincey and murder, and he agreed to be interviewed about his new book, to help my career as a budding journo. He and his sister are coming to our Hallowe’en party, by the way.’