Martin Edwards - The Arsenic Labyrinth

‘I’ll find it.’

‘If you can make it for six-thirty, we could have half an hour before I dash off home.’

‘Perfect.’

As she dialled Les Bryant’s number, she felt dizzy with elation. It took her back to schooldays and the excitement of a date. Stupid in a woman of her age, let alone a woman committed to a long-term relationship.

‘You’re going to love this.’ Les, at his dourest.

‘Don’t tell me. Lauren’s over-spent on media relations and run out of funds for the team’s competency payments?’

‘I’d put nowt past her ladyship, but actually it’s your mate, Di Venuto.’

‘No mate of mine.’

‘He’s determined to get you to review his favourite cold case. Three times he called asking for you before he condescended to speak to yours truly.’

‘What’s he want?’

‘To share his latest scoop. He reckons he knows where we can find her.’

‘On the check-out at Asda, where Elvis Presley stacks the shelves?’ She wasn’t usually facetious, but talking to Daniel had left her on a high.

‘Not exactly. According to Di Venuto, she’s buried beneath the Arsenic Labyrinth.’

‘The what?’

‘The Arsenic Labyrinth. It’s only a mile or two from where Emma lived. So Di Venuto’s like a dog with two dicks. Even if he is barking up the wrong tree. He wants to see you today.’

‘Yeah, right. I’ll see if I’ve got a window in my busy schedule.’

‘Something you ought to know. He happened to mention that his editor is vice-chair of Cumbrian Women in the Professions.’

Hannah groaned. Lauren had recently been elected to the committee of CWIP. Her networking skills were legendary.

‘Hear that creaking noise? The window just opened.’

* * *

Hannah put down her teacup and said, ‘So tell me about the Arsenic Labyrinth.’

Tony Di Venuto stretched out in his chair and lifted his legs. For a moment Hannah thought he was going to put his feet on the meeting room table, but he caught the look in her eye and decided against. She was determined not to let him get above himself.

‘Never heard of it? Well, no disgrace in that. Neither had I and I’ve lived in the Lakes for twenty years since my parents moved down from Glasgow. After taking the call last night, I did some research. There are Arsenic Labyrinths dotted around the country, mainly in the south-east, but only one in Cumbria. Up in the Coniston fells.’

This was a man who liked listeners hanging on his every word. He paused to allow her to press him for details. When Hannah zipped her mouth, he was too pleased with himself not to carry on talking.

‘Back in the nineteenth century, Coniston had its very own arsenic works. Imagine — a poison-making business, hidden in the hills.’

‘In demand, was it, by Victorian gentlemen who fancied disposing of their wives?’

‘Or wives who wanted rid of their husbands, who knows? The works were tucked away up on Mispickel Scar.’

Despite herself, Hannah leaned forward. ‘And the labyrinth?’

‘A zig-zagging flue that drew the arsenic off in saleable quantities. But the project flopped, maybe there weren’t enough wannabe spouse-killers in Cumbria. By the time the arsenic works closed down, it had bled the main business of cash. The buildings were pulled down, along with the chimney. All that remains are a few stone footings from the Arsenic Labyrinth.’

‘And your caller claims that Emma is buried beneath it?’

‘The labyrinth was on ground level, but there are shafts and tunnels from the mines winding around the length and breadth of the Scar.’

‘So the body might be anywhere?’

He stifled a yawn. ‘Forgive me, Chief Inspector, I don’t mean to be rude. I spent most of the night trawling for information on the net, and by seven this morning I’d arrived in Coniston. It’s a tricky walk to Mispickel Scar in icy conditions and I have gashes on my knees to prove it. But the labyrinth doesn’t cover a large area. If the man who phoned me is telling the truth, you won’t have too far to search for Emma’s remains.’

‘If.’

‘He didn’t sound like a nutter. I’d guess that her death has preyed on his conscience, all these years. My story about the tenth anniversary was the last straw. He needed to tell someone, to do the right thing.’

‘You believe he murdered Emma?’

‘Not necessarily. He didn’t admit to killing her, for what that’s worth. Perhaps the culprit confided in him. Or he may have been a hired hand. Paid to murder a woman someone wanted dead.’

Did Di Venuto have a suspect in mind? Sooner or later, she’d find out who, or what, egged him on. ‘Thanks for your statement. We’ll give it careful consideration.’

‘Please tell me you won’t waste time. The man who rang me did so for the sake of Emma’s sister. Karen’s waited ten years, Chief Inspector. She doesn’t deserve to be kept waiting any longer.’

‘We’ll let you know.’

His face reddened and she could tell he was fighting to choke back a furious retort. When he fixed her with his gaze, she refused to blink. He was the first to look away.

‘Go for it,’ Lauren Self said.

‘We don’t have anything to go on other than this message to the journalist. This alleged message. It wasn’t taped.’

Lauren’s eyebrows jumped. ‘You’re surely not suggesting that Tony Di Venuto is fibbing, simply to keep the story alive?’

‘No, but …’

‘As it happens, I know his editor. We’ve had a discreet word. She speaks highly of him as an investigative reporter.’

‘Sure, but the caller may be a crank.’

‘I don’t think the editor of the Post would take kindly to the suggestion that her readers include cranks. Here we have two messages, entirely coherent if a tad cryptic. No hint of self-aggrandisement. Sounds to me as though someone’s conscience is playing him up. This is the beauty of cold case work, isn’t it? Time works in our favour.’

‘But to dig up half a hillside on the strength of an anonymous call …’

‘No need to exaggerate, Hannah.’ The ACC always said that her aim was to achieve consensus, by which she meant getting people to agree with a decision she’d already taken. Denied obedience, she was quick to bring out her claws. ‘The investigation was dead, but Di Venuto has brought it back to life. We can’t ignore what he’s told us. If it turned out that he’d given us a vital lead, but we binned it, we’d be in the firing line. And I’m not just talking about flak from the leader column and letters page in the Post .’

‘The budget may not stand a full …’

‘Leave me to worry about the budget.’

Words to die for, when spoken by an ACC to a DCI. A streak of contrariness tempted Hannah to look the gift horse in the mouth.

‘I’m really not sure …’

The ACC switched to action-woman mode. ‘Sorry, Hannah, but if you’re prepared to risk your reputation over this, I’m not. I owe it to you not to let you mess up a delicate relationship with an important branch of the media. Remember, the Post is the voice of the people we serve. We need them on our side. I think we’ve knocked around the pros and cons, don’t you? Let’s get weaving. And I don’t mean tomorrow, Hannah. Right now, please.’

‘Money no object, eh?’ Les grimaced. ‘For crying out loud, she wasn’t talking that way when we were discussing my expenses.’

Hannah swung on her chair. ‘Well, there are limits.’

‘Listen, it’s not cheap renting on this side of the Pennines. Everything round here’s a rip-off compared to back home. You need a bank loan to afford a cuppa in some of these posh tea shops. Any road, what’s the plan?’