Martin Edwards - The Frozen Shroud

The slam of the front door was a thunderclap. Through the window, she heard the frantic roar of his car engine. He was revving like a drunken boy racer. Desperate to get away.

Greg shifted his weight off her stomach, but — thank God — knew better than to utter a word. Heaving herself upright on the sofa, she glared at the watercolour of Wasdale. Had Marc meant to collect his favourite picture, along with all his other stuff? Shit, why had she let him keep his key? His shock was genuine; of course, he’d never really believed she would be unfaithful to him.

As the shock wave subsided, she felt drenched with dismay, as much at her own stupidity as at Marc. Whatever his preconceptions about her, consciously or otherwise, she’d played up to them. Striving to be all things to all people. At home, the main breadwinner, at work, the single-minded career woman. When she’d had a miscarriage, she’d kept it quiet; hardly anyone knew what had happened. She was mistress of her emotions, blotting out the person she knew herself, deep down, to be. Even Marc, who knew her better than anyone alive, had been deceived.

He’d never dreamt she might succumb to a smooth-talking womaniser, or have a one-night stand with someone like Detective Sergeant Greg Wharf. Except that Greg was more than merely a smooth-talking womaniser, and this didn’t feel like a one-night stand. But what else could it be? Not therapy, for God’s sake?

‘Sorry.’ Embarrassment choked her voice. God, she sounded wretched; she daren’t imagine what she looked like.

Greg swallowed. ‘You’ve nothing to apologise for.’

Scooping up her jersey, she pulled it on in a swift, decisive movement. ‘I didn’t mean any of this to happen. Not …’

When in a hole, rule one is to stop digging. She let her voice trail away. Anything she said now would only make things worse.

‘You’re not going after him?’

She winced, said nothing. Chase after Marc? As if.

Greg coughed. ‘I’d better make myself scarce. Unless — you want some company? To be with someone, I mean. Nothing more than that, no hidden agenda. Honest.’

She shook her head. ‘Like I said, I’m sorry. None of this is your fault.’

He started buttoning his shirt, with a rueful glance at the lacy black pants visible beneath her unzipped jeans. ‘Well, some of it is.’

Following his gaze, she zipped up. ‘We’re both grown up.’

‘Yeah.’

She mustered a bleak smile. ‘Joint enterprise, then?’

‘That’s right. Joint enterprise.’

Should she add: but not to be repeated? This evening had turned into a disaster. She’d never believed in mixing work with pleasure, perhaps that was why she’d never slept with Ben Kind, though subconsciously at least she’d recognised his yearning. Greg needed to know where he stood. But if she started laying down the law at this precise moment, it would seem false and pathetic. She clamped her mouth shut.

‘You left my jacket in the hall cupboard, didn’t you? Stay where you are, I can get it myself.’

‘Uh-huh.’

If she was in the mood to argue, she might have said: Don’t treat me like an invalid. Five minutes ago, you were about to shag me. But all the fight had drained out of her. All she wanted was to close her eyes and sink into a long and dreamless sleep.

‘Can I use your phone to call a taxi? Once I’ve rung, I’ll walk down the lane, they can pick me up on the main road. No point in hanging around, I’d only be in your way. Besides, I need a breath of night air to clear my head.’

He dropped a kiss on her cheek. Very chaste; he might have been the brother she’d once longed for, and never had.

‘Listen to me, Hannah. One thing I promise. Nobody at work will hear about this, okay?’ A strained grin. ‘What happens in Undercrag, stays in Undercrag.’

‘Thanks.’ Her voice was scratchy.

He strode out of the room, still the big, confident man she’d shown in here less than an hour before. But Hannah wasn’t sure she was the same woman.

‘Wonderful to see you both!’ Oz Knight was a brash and breezy Lucifer, resplendent in red robe and bronze mask. Resting his trident against a lacquered table weighed down by bottles of Bollinger, he embraced Louise, and pumped Daniel’s hand. ‘Welcome to Ravenbank Hall!’

‘Amazing home you have,’ Louise said.

Darkness hadn’t disguised the impressive proportions of the Knights’ mansion, or the uniqueness of its site, on the crest of a gentle slope above the inky depths of Ullswater. If the setting reflected an Edwardian grandeur of vision, its interior was a no-expense-spared triumph of sleek decor and state-of-the-art technology, while dry ice filled it with more mist than you’d find on Blencathra in the depths of winter. Black-and-white movies starring Bela Lugosi as Dracula and Boris Karloff as Frankenstein flickered on vast screens in the main reception rooms, ‘Toccata and Fugue’ and ‘Carmina Burana’ played through concealed speakers, and laser light shows conjured spooky images ranging from diabolic pumpkins and scary skulls to garish reproductions of Munch’s The Scream.

‘Have some bubbly.’ He handed them each a glass. ‘Here’s to the spirits of Hallowe’en!’

‘This was your dream house, Melody told us.’

‘Too right. Dear old Francis Palladino never realised its potential. He wanted to keep it just as Charlie Hodgkinson intended, but where’s the fun in the status quo? You can’t go back in time. Throughout the time we lived in Fell View, I was itching to get my hands on the Hall. Make it into somewhere special.’

Daniel savoured the champagne. ‘You weren’t superstitious?’

A sceptical grunt. ‘I never bought the notion this was an unhappy house. Even though poor Letty Hodgkinson is buried in our grounds. Shit happens, that’s the top and bottom of it.’

‘Melody seems fascinated by the old legend.’

‘The Frozen Shroud makes a great backdrop for a party, tonight of all nights. Even if you don’t believe in ghosts.’

‘Has she convinced you that Letty Hodgkinson didn’t murder Gertrude Smith?’

‘The woman was off her head, wasn’t she?’ Oz was loud and boisterous, sounding as though he’d enjoyed plenty of bubbly. ‘Killed her husband’s mistress in a jealous rage, and then took an overdose because she couldn’t handle the guilt.’

‘Melody tells me she’d like to write about the case.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ He glanced over to his wife, an exotic devil woman in red PVC and velvet with matching wings and horns, making conversation with a couple of paunchy werewolves. ‘Melody gets these enthusiasms, but they never last. I worry that someday she’ll become bored with me too.’

He guffawed at the unlikely prospect. Daniel decided to venture onto dangerous ground.

‘What about Shenagh Moss?’

‘What about her?’ The bonhomie faded, and Daniel felt Louise tug his sleeve in warning. If only he could see their host’s expression; impossible to read anything through the eye slits of his mask.

‘Do you believe Craig Meek killed her?’

‘Obviously. He was a sicko who couldn’t take rejection.’

‘Shenagh installed herself here as Francis Palladino’s partner. Did she antagonise anyone else, besides Meek?’

‘Why would she?’

‘Surely a woman like Shenagh raised hackles in a place as tiny as Ravenbank?’

‘A woman like Shenagh?’ Oz glared. ‘She was a … delightful lady.’

‘And an outsider who stole an old man’s heart. Was it a love match, or was there another reason why a nubile woman teamed up with the man who owned this wonderful house?’

Oz picked up his trident. ‘Who’s been talking about her? Not Melody?’