Martin Edwards - The Arsenic Labyrinth

Assuming it was Emma down there. Assuming that she’d been murdered, probably by the man who had phoned Tony Di Venuto. Though Hannah didn’t have much doubt.

She moved her shoulders up and down to relieve the tension in her upper body. She was as keyed up as a callow DC on her first murder case, but to the rest of the team she needed to radiate calm authority. This was what she’d joined the police service for, the adrenaline rush of investigating serious crime. Although she’d risen fast through the ranks, promotion was a mixed blessing. It turned her into a manager when she still hankered after being a detective. For years she’d shared the view that cold case work was a cushy number, somewhere second-raters were put out to grass. But she was doing what she loved best, working in the thick of a criminal inquiry. In a live case, you had to depend on a DS to get a grip of the detail. The SIO had too much to do. Now she could take charge of the whole shooting match, and that was the way she liked it. Not out of control freakery, but because she preferred to take the rap for her own mistakes, not someone else’s.

As for mistakes, should she have met up again with Daniel Kind? Her thoughts drifted from Mispickel Scar to the Cafe d’Art. She’d stayed longer than planned; when she’d checked her watch, she’d panicked that Marc would be fretting. She needn’t have worried; when she arrived home, he was absorbed in a novel he’d bought on behalf of a mail order customer in Hexham. If he lost sleep each time she was late, he’d have succumbed to insomnia long ago. She had no reason to feel guilty and of course she told him that she’d seen Daniel for a drink. Marc’s only question was whether Daniel had found out anything fresh about John Ruskin.

She liked men who were intelligent and witty and didn’t just want to talk about themselves. Because he was Ben’s son, detective work fascinated Daniel, unlike Marc, who saw her job as an obstacle to meals on the table at regular intervals and going out to a film or a concert without fear of interruption. He’d asked endless questions about the Emma Bestwick case and his intense curiosity was flattering. He was such a very good listener; she enjoyed capturing his attention. Seeing him hadn’t been wrong, but it wasn’t something to repeat too often. Her hands were full, juggling work and her relationship with Marc. She didn’t need any further complications in her life.

Yet what could cause complications? She’d had a drink and a chat with the son of a former colleague, simple as that. Nothing secret or hole-in-corner, no spicy chat laced with innuendo. All perfectly innocent and above board.

Sarah extricated herself from a passionate embrace and said, ‘You’re in a very good humour all of a sudden.’

‘I’m always in a very good humour,’ Guy murmured, undoing the clips of her bra.

‘Not! You were pretty quiet before you went out to the shop.’

They were sprawling on the sofa, scene of several enjoyable encounters over the last few days. He’d opened a bottle of Merlot and was in celebratory mood. With a couple of drinks inside her, she’d be only too willing to help him save his job with the financial conglomerate by taking out a second mortgage on the Glimpse. It wouldn’t be a purely altruistic gesture. Naturally, he’d explain that she was looking at a fifteen per cent a year minimum return over a mere eighteen months. You could buy an awful lot of black lingerie with that. To say nothing of a brand new car and a lick of paint for the newly hocked house.

‘Oh, I was thinking how nice it would be if I could help you find the money to enjoy life to the full.’

‘I don’t want money, Rob. People are what matter.’

He pulled her to him and whispered what a wonderful woman she was. Half an hour later, when they were resting in each other’s arms, she shifted from under him and gazed into his eyes.

‘I was afraid you’d think I was only interested in you because you were a successful businessman.’

This had not occurred to him; he flattered himself that a man with his personality and looks was quite a catch for any woman, let alone a Coniston landlady who’d seen better days. But it didn’t trouble him; she’d initiated a line of conversation bursting with promise.

‘Just as well that wasn’t the reason. If I don’t set up a new deal soon, I’ll be kissing goodbye to my annual bonus as well as the job.’ He hesitated. ‘As a matter of fact … no, it doesn’t matter.’

‘Yes?’ She pulled him closer. ‘Tell me!’

He sighed. ‘I suppose it can’t do any harm. In fact, it would do you a great deal of good in the long run. But I don’t think …’

‘Darling. We mustn’t keep anything from each other, we agreed, remember? Tell me!’

He was a model of reluctance. ‘If you insist.’

‘Of course I insist.’

It took him less than five minutes to explain. He thought that no woman had ever paid him such close attention as he described the complexities of the scheme that would save his career and net her a handsome profit into the bargain. She wasn’t simply admiring his fine profile or smooth chest, she was fascinated by his mastery of high finance.

‘Oh, Rob, it sounds so marvellous. If only I could help.’

‘I do understand, it’s a lot to ask, but thank goodness there’s no risk because of the money-back guarantee. This is one scheme that is literally safer than houses. If you were willing to …’

‘No.’ Her face was the same beetroot shade as the carpet. ‘It’s not a question of willingness. I’d walk through fire if you asked me to, you know that already. It’s just the cash that I can’t manage.’

He gave her nipple a playful tweak. ‘You’d be surprised. Lenders are falling over themselves to make advances to trustworthy borrowers. Property inflation in Cumbria has shot through …’

‘Rob, listen to me.’ She dipped her head in shame. ‘It’s not as simple as that. You see, I have a confession to make.’

Clouds masked the sun, the temperature was slipping. Hannah called at the command unit, talking to Candace from the press office, fine-tuning their media strategy in anticipation of the moment when the body was lifted out of the ground. Lauren Self’s PA had been on the phone twice already, wanting to know the best time for a photo-opportunity. Emma could not be named until all the formalities of identification were complete, although after ten years in an ancient mine shaft, there wouldn’t be much to identify her by. It was wet down there, so the corpse would not be mummified. Her insides would be eaten away and there wouldn’t be much skin left covering the skeleton, though some might remain, trapped in the cuffs of her jacket. Probably her leather walking boots would still contain her feet.

Hannah gritted her teeth. The vague old lady, who had seen Emma in wet-weather gear heading in the direction of Mispickel Scar, hadn’t been making it up after all. Chances were, death had occurred within a couple of hours after that sighting. Accident or suicide remained possible, too early to rule them out, but Hannah was sure that Emma had been murdered. Why would someone with no interest in wandering the fells venture up to this grim and isolated spot on a cold and miserable February afternoon? An assignation of some kind, had to be.

She strode back towards the scaffold, trying to make sense of Emma’s last movements. In the height of summer, visiting the Arsenic Labyrinth would be easier to understand. Not much risk of Peeping Toms, and if you brought a blanket, the ruggedness of the ground wouldn’t be such a problem. Exhilarating to come here with a lover, to take your pleasure in the open under a skin-grilling sun. But Hannah’s imagination baulked at the idea of lovers indulging themselves here at the height of winter. Never mind ecstasy, you would die of exposure.