Martin Edwards - The Arsenic Labyrinth

I’m a detective, how could I not agree?

‘For three years, I’d loathed Karen Bestwick, and I’d never even set eyes on her. I didn’t have a clue whether she was blonde or brunette. In my mind I christened her Miss Piggy. Nothing personal, she was skinny as a stick-insect, according to Emma. I don’t mind admitting, I’d have resented anyone that Jeremy went off with. And now I’d stumbled across someone who knew her intimately — and who didn’t think the sun shone out of her backside. Far from it. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I loved hearing what a selfish, superficial woman Karen was.’

Hannah risked another sip of coffee, but she’d ignored it for too long and it was cold. Before coming out here, she’d refreshed her memory from the old statements. Out of the blue, Jeremy had walked out on his marriage to Vanessa to go and live with Karen, a secretary at the school where he taught. Vanessa’s morale must have been at rock bottom when she learned Karen was pregnant, but within weeks of the decree nisi landing on her doormat, she met Francis Goddard while running a reading group for patients at the hospital where he worked. Three years later, she was married to a man apparently besotted with her and living with their new baby in a lovely home near Coniston Water. Talk about falling on your feet. Hannah couldn’t find it in her heart to blame her if she got a kick from learning the faults of her ex’s new wife.

‘Why didn’t the sisters get on?’

Vanessa shrugged. ‘All they had in common was their genes. If you ask me, the idea that blood is thicker than water is rubbish. Emma was quieter, more serious. Karen’s main interests were men and make-up. She was looking for someone to take care of her, shower her with flowers and chocolates.’

‘Was Emma jealous of her?’

‘Nothing to be jealous of.’

‘Had she ever had a boyfriend?’

‘You’d need to ask Karen.’ Vanessa stroked her husband’s hand. ‘In case you’re wondering, I didn’t feel I was taking a risk if ever I left her alone in the house with Francis.’

Hannah turned to him. ‘You and she were on good terms, though?’

Francis Goddard gave her a wry smile. ‘Certainly. And as I said last time we met, it went no further than that. You put me through the mincer ten years ago, Chief Inspector. I’m sure you suspected that Emma and I were lovers.’

Oh God. She felt herself colouring. Ten years ago, she’d lacked experience as a detective, but she’d never realised she’d been so transparent.

‘I had to ask.’

‘Only doing your job? I understand. I’m sure if I’d had something to hide, you’d have unearthed it. Sorry to disappoint you in this cynical day and age. But I only ever had eyes for Vanessa. There was no affair between Emma and me.’

A thought leapt into Hannah’s mind. How about between Emma and your wife? Ten years back, the possibility hadn’t even occurred to her. Vanessa was wrapped up in her new baby and the idea of her embarking on a covert lesbian relationship during pregnancy would have seemed absurd. Probably it still was. Chances were, friendship flowered between Emma and Vanessa due to nothing more than mutual convenience. It provided Emma with a roof over her head. And Vanessa with the reassurance that Jeremy Erskine had betrayed her for a Muppet.

If Emma had been murdered, Hannah reflected as she drove, there was no evidence as to when she might have died, so alibis were pretty much irrelevant. Chances were, it was a sex crime. If so, the killer was probably someone previously unknown to her. The likeliest exception was Tom Inchmore, the Cloughs’ handyman. His family had once owned the biggest mine-works on the Coniston fells, as well as the mansion that housed the museum, before falling on hard times. But that inadequate underachiever had maintained his innocence even in the face of questioning from a DC later kicked off the force for beating up a teenager in Millom under the gaze of a CCTV camera.

By the time she arrived home, Hannah had resolved to give the revived inquiry no more than a week. Much as she wanted to understand Emma’s fate, not every file could be tidied into the ‘case closed’ cabinet. It was too easy to chuck resources into a bottomless pit. The Post wouldn’t keep the story on the front page for long. She’d speak to the Cloughs, and to Emma’s sister and brother-in-law, then review progress.

Marc had beaten her home and switched on the oven. He wasn’t a bad cook and she enjoyed being waited on. His good humour was explained by the fact that a customer from Tokyo had paid a small fortune for a book he’d picked up for a song in a house clearance and first advertised on the internet forty-eight hours ago.

‘And a friend of yours dropped in. Daniel Kind.’

‘What was he after?’ Her voice sounded ridiculously gruff.

‘Researching John Ruskin. He asked after you and I told him how glad you were of his help over that business in Old Sawrey.’ He shut the fridge door and reached out to stroke her hair. ‘So, how was your day?’

Did he really want to know? She murmured something indistinct and that seemed enough. He was at her side now, caressing her neck whilst he kept his eyes fixed on the oven’s temperature dial.

‘Time to relax,’ he whispered.

His hand strayed, as if by chance, to her breast. She closed her eyes as his lips brushed her cheek. To her dismay, a picture sprang into her mind. Not Marc but Daniel Kind, leaning close to her, his expression intent. She felt a tightness in her stomach, as if she were hungering for his touch.

Guy slipped out of the Glimpse and set off for the call box. It was after five o’clock and Tony Di Venuto had left, but he got through to a colleague and soon wheedled the journalist’s mobile number out of her. All it took was a little persuasion, and Guy was very good at persuasion.

‘Is that Tony Di Venuto?’

‘Who is this?’

Idiotic question. Di Venuto must have recognised Guy’s spectral whisper from the previous call. He ought to give Guy credit and not take him for a fool.

‘We spoke yesterday. About Emma Bestwick.’

‘You told me she wouldn’t be coming back. Is she dead? Look, why don’t we get together for half an hour? Over a coffee, how about it? You could …’

‘No coffee,’ Guy interrupted. ‘All I want to do is to tell you something.’

‘Who are you?’ Di Venuto’s voice rose. If he was trying to contain his excitement, he was failing.

‘You don’t need to know.’

‘Why have you called me?’

‘For Karen’s sake,’ Guy said.

Christ, he might have been a cheesy cabaret singer dedicating ‘The Lady in Red’ to his latest squeeze. But he meant it, he was doing this for her.

‘ Karen? ’

‘Yes, she needs closure.’

The journalist sounded mystified. ‘Did you kill Emma?’

‘That’s disgusting. I swear to you, she was alive the last time I saw her.’

It was true, that was the wicked irony.

‘Then how can you be sure she’s dead?’

‘I know where the body is buried.’

All at once, Guy was sweaty and shaking, as if stricken by fever. He fought to compose himself, gulping in the stale call box air. I’m not a murderer, I’m not a murderer, I’m not a murderer. It was all a terrible mistake, though nobody would believe it. But he’d come this far. He couldn’t slam the phone down yet.

‘Where?’ Tony Di Venuto said in a hoarse whisper.

‘Below the Arsenic Labyrinth.’

Over breakfast the next morning, Guy felt a calm that not even Mariah Carey warbling from the transistor radio could disturb. Calling the journalist had been tough, but courage had brought him peace of mind. He’d slept without dreaming and done justice to a full English breakfast guaranteed to fur the arteries. Sarah had cooked mushrooms, as a little treat. With a conspiratorial wink she indicated that this was to celebrate the departure of the German couple. They’d been up at the crack of dawn, feasting on toast and marmalade before setting off back to Heidelberg.