Martin Edwards - The Arsenic Labyrinth

He took his mobile out of his pocket and punched in Hannah’s number. She answered at once. Simply to hear her cool voice again gave him a lift.

‘Am I interrupting you?’

‘Of course,’ She sounded amused, not angry. ‘But don’t worry about it.’

‘You must be up to your eyes. I’ll call another time.’

‘No, please. Even a DCI on a murder case deserves a break.’

‘So you found Emma Bestwick?’

‘The forensics aren’t completed, but yes. The real mystery concerns the second body. Not exactly the bonus we expected.’

‘Any clue about ID?’

‘Beyond that he died somewhere between fifty and seventy-five years ago, we don’t have much to go on at present. There are two disused mineshafts, not far apart. It looks like the first body was shoved down one and Emma down the other.’

‘Perfect places to dispose of a corpse.’

‘Especially since the shafts are surrounded by unstable rock. Over the years, falls of rock covered the holes in the ground. The bodies would never have been discovered if we hadn’t gone in search.’

‘Were they both murdered?’

‘It’s early days, and the pathologist is bound to hedge his bets. Off the record, he’s certain. We found a bloodstained bread knife near to the older corpse and that’s a bit of a giveaway.’

‘So no connection between the two deaths?’

‘We’re keeping an open mind. Police speak for saying we haven’t got a clue … hang on, someone wants me, I’ll have to go.’

‘Sorry to interrupt.’

‘Thanks for calling.’ The briefest pause. ‘Let’s talk again when I have more time. In a day or two, maybe?’

Guy had arranged for a taxi to pick him up from outside the Black Bull at nine o’clock. By then he’d have collected his things from the Glimpse and said goodbye to Sarah. With any luck, he’d get the chance to give her cat a surreptitious kick while its owner wasn’t looking. As he closed the front door of her house, he could hear Sarah crying upstairs. Stupid woman. He’d concoct a story to make sure that she didn’t start to fret about absence of contact until he was well and truly out of reach. Not too much of a challenge to a mind so fertile. She never doubted a single word he said.

The taxi was booked under the name of Pirrip, to symbolise his hopes for the future. He’d take a one-way ride to a discreet hotel overlooking Ullswater. Four-poster luxury and monogrammed bath towels, somewhere he could get a wonderful night’s sleep at long, long last. While he watched a movie in the comfort of his own private suite, he would chew over options about where to go next.

He’d decided not to linger in the Lake District. Becoming sentimental about a place was unwise; he realised now how much better it would be to break with the past. Bad things had happened here, and not just the accident to Emma. He couldn’t even pretend his childhood had been anything other than horrible. Besides, he didn’t only want to get away from the Glimpse. Tony Di Venuto’s articles in the Post were becoming repetitive; surely other things were going on in Cumbria, apart from the police investigation? He deplored the way Emma’s passing was cheapened by being described as murder.

This was the quid pro quo he would offer, a special bonus. It wasn’t merely a matter of promising to keep his mouth shut. He was leaving the Lakes and he wouldn’t be coming back. Yes, he’d said that before, but this time he meant it. Ten years is a long time, he’d learned his lesson.

Since the fall of darkness, the cold had become bitter and the forecasters promised an overnight dusting of snow. Thank God his outdoor gear was weatherproof. He lengthened his stride.

* * *

‘Mrs Blacon?’

‘If you’re selling something, young man …’

‘My name is Daniel Kind!’ He was almost shouting.

‘It’s no good, you’ll have to speak up, I’m slightly deaf.’

Daniel grinned at the telephone. He liked slightly . He liked old people, too, almost without exception. In even the most cantankerous of them, he found something to admire and enjoy. Whatever trials they’d endured, they’d had the spirit to survive. Few crimes, other than those against defenceless children, angered him as much as the murders of Harold Shipman, the doctor who played God with the lives of ageing patients. People whose unnatural deaths went unremarked simply because they’d had a good innings, and so their passing was just one of those things. Even though it wasn’t.

After five minutes of bellowing, he’d bonded with Sylvia Blacon and arranged to pay her a visit. As he was about to ring off, she mentioned that he wasn’t the first researcher to show an interest in John Ruskin’s relations with the villagers of Coniston over the past year or so. Alban Clough and Jeremy Erskine had said the same and this time he had the sense to ask in whose footsteps he was following. Some American woman, Sylvia said. Taking a deep breath, he asked if the name Harriet Costello rang a bell. Sylvia sniffed and said it certainly did.

He put down the receiver and swore in silence. Hattie Costello, the new kid on the block. A svelte and media-savvy graduate of Harvard and the Sorbonne, she’d become the darling of History TV. Her writing was laced with sensationalism, but he admired her gift for engaging readers who otherwise found history a turn-off. Jealousy wasn’t one of his vices. But if she beat him to it with a fresh study of Ruskin’s life in Coniston, it would be years before a major publisher would be interested in another book treading similar ground. He’d have to start over again, find another subject that excited his interest, and that would take time. Not the end of the world, but Miranda would go up the wall.

‘Haven’t you changed yet? Didn’t you say you’d booked the restaurant for seven-thirty?’

He swung round and drank in the sight of her. In her latest little black dress, she would give even Hattie Costello a run for her money. She pirouetted for him and he put his arms around her.

‘We could stay in, if you like,’ he murmured into her ear. ‘Make it a Valentine’s night to remember? We can have a meal out any time. I’ll rustle something up …’

‘Joking, aren’t you?’ She wriggled out of his grasp and consulted her Rolex. ‘Get a move on, I’m famished and the cab will be here any moment.’

Well, it was worth a try. Admitting defeat, he started up the stairs.

‘Who was that on the phone, by the way?’

‘The secretary of a history society. I want to talk to her about Ruskin.’

‘Terrific, you’re getting stuck in at last. But you didn’t look too happy with what she told you. There isn’t a problem?’

From half-way up the stairs, he blew her a kiss. ‘No, there’s no problem at all.’

Guy was crossing Campbell Road when a small VW raced round the corner and sent him scurrying to the safety of the pavement on the other side. Rap music blared through the windows of the car and a teenager shouted an obscenity at him. Guy made a rude sign as the vehicle vanished out of sight. Drunken louts, he hoped they would crash into a brick wall, it was what they deserved. How ironic if he’d been killed, this night of all nights, when his life was about to change forever.

But the car hadn’t touched him. Catching his breath, he decided it was an omen. He’d given little thought to handling this conversation, but everything would be fine. His style was to relax, no point in over-preparing. So much in life was unpredictable, you had to go with the flow. He intended to be genial yet businesslike, but neither of them would want to mess around with small talk. So much water had flowed under the bridge since their last hastily arranged meeting by the pier at Monk Coniston. It made sense to ignore any temptation to reminisce.