Martin Edwards - The Arsenic Labyrinth

Les Bryant wiped the froth from his mouth and said, ‘Better dig out the old files.’

‘They’re already on my desk,’ Hannah said.

They were closeted in a sepulchral corner of the mahogany-panelled bar at the back of the Woollen Shroud, a pub on the outskirts of town. As usual it was deserted save for a handful of grizzled regulars who seldom spoke or even moved. For years, Hannah had met informants here, people who didn’t want it known they were talking to her. The privacy compensated for the graveyard ambience. She wondered how the landlord earned enough to live on. Probably best for a police officer not to know.

Proving that miracles do happen, Les had blown the dust off his wallet and bought the first round. His way of making up for exposing her to criticism from the ACC. He’d even promised to move heaven and earth to attend the next scheduled seminar on dignity at work. Though his snoring might distract the other attendees.

‘So you’re more interested than you let on to Di Venuto?’

‘It’s not about whether I’m interested. As it happens, I hated it when we gave up on the case. The snag is, Di Venuto has no new info for us and the files don’t hold any clues.’

‘Give me a flavour.’

She savoured the nip of her wine. ‘Emma Bestwick vanished off the face of the earth without forewarning. What happened to her, nobody knows. She lived alone and several days passed before her disappearance was reported to the police by a neighbour. We searched her home, but didn’t find any indication of where she might have gone. Wherever it was, she hadn’t taken her passport with her. She kept her credit cards in her wallet and that was missing, but they were never used.’

‘What did she do for a living?’

‘Self-employed reflexologist.’

‘Oh yeah?’

His leathery features crinkled in scorn. Les didn’t hold with touchy-feely crap like reflexology. He’d once revealed that his wife was passionate about yoga and gave the impression that one of his motives for joining the Cold Case Review Team was to avoid watching her tie herself in knots on a mat in the living room when all he wanted was to switch on the football.

The temptation to tease was irresistible. ‘Yeah, Reiki and sekhem healing, chakra colour balancing, metamorphic techniques, Indian head massage …’

‘For Chrissake,’ he said in disgust.

‘Listen, hasn’t Mrs Bryant recommended it for your sinusitis? Hopi ear candle therapy could work wonders, removing the impurities …’

‘Get on with the story, eh?’

Hannah grinned. ‘All right. Emma worked from home. A bungalow she’d bought a few months earlier, down the road from Coniston Water.’

‘Local woman?’

‘Grew up in the Eskdale Valley with a younger sister. Spent a few years working in Merseyside before coming back to Cumbria. At first she lodged with a couple called Goddard who lived in Coniston. At the time she was working at the Museum of Myth and Legend. Ever visited it?’

Even in the gloom, Les’s derision was unmistakable. On second thoughts, Hannah realised it was a silly question. The old curmudgeon would have no time for such flights of fancy. Impossible to picture him traipsing round museums and galleries, guide-book in hand, camera primed for action. His idea of interactive entertainment was sitting in the stand at Elland Road, yelling at Leeds United’s shot-shy strikers to have a crack at goal.

‘Never heard of it.’

‘The museum’s at Inchmore Hall, off the Ambleside Road. A baroque mansion, all turrets and crazy gables. Think Hogwarts. The owner was — still is, I checked — a wealthy eccentric called Alban Clough. He’s obsessed with Lakeland legends and he’s devoted his life and most of his fortune to keeping them alive. His daughter, Alexandra, manages the museum, and both of them live at Inchmore Hall. Emma helped on the counter and took visitors round. Interesting job, but poorly paid.’

When he leaned towards her, she could smell tobacco. Les was an unrepentant heavy smoker. There was probably more tar on his lungs than on the A49. He coughed, as if in confirmation.

‘Was her pay relevant?’

‘As part of the puzzle, yes. There was so much we couldn’t explain about Emma Bestwick. When she returned to the Lakes from Liverpool, she’d scarcely a penny to her name. Within a year, she was putting down a deposit on a nice little bungalow and buying herself a brand new Fiat.’

‘Lottery win?’

‘So she told her sister and Alban Clough. We checked and found she’d lied. And she didn’t always tell the same tale. She led Francis and Vanessa Goddard to believe that the money was inherited. But who from? Not a family member, otherwise Karen would have known about it.’

Les took another swig from his tankard. ‘Young woman comes into money for the first time in her life, then disappears for no apparent reason. No wonder we didn’t write her off as one more runaway.’

One thing about Les: he never forgot that all police officers were on the same side. He always talked about we and us , not them .

‘But how long can you keep banging your head against a brick wall? The file may not have been closed, but nobody was begging us to keep it open.’

‘Not even her family?’

‘There were no near relations except Karen and she seemed certain that Emma would turn up again one day.’

‘But she never did.’

‘Karen’s husband, Jeremy, went to see Emma just before she disappeared. His story was that he had back trouble and she’d offered to help.’

A sardonic chuckle. ‘Spot of massage?’

‘We found no evidence of any affair. To all appearances the Erskines were happily married.’

Les’s face made it clear that happy marriages were as common as fairies at the bottom of the garden. Come to think of it, would Mrs Bryant be content for him to stay on this side of the Pennines for another twelve months?

‘How about her friends?’

‘Vanessa Goddard seemed cut up about her disappearance, but she was Emma’s only close friend. Emma wasn’t interested in men and although she’d had an affair with Alexandra Clough while she worked at the museum, that came to an end months earlier. No hard feelings, according to Ms Clough.’

‘Did you believe her?’

‘Do me a favour. How many relationships end with no hard feelings? But there was no evidence to link Alex Clough — or anyone else — with Emma’s disappearance. Every avenue turned out to be a dead end.’

‘So over the years nobody has bothered too much about her.’

‘Until Tony Di Venuto.’

‘And then, someone rings him up and implies that Emma is dead.’

‘All he said was that Emma wouldn’t be coming back. Which leaves us no wiser.’

‘You think Di Venuto made it up?’

‘Perish the thought that a journalist might tell porkies.’ He burped and patted his belly. ‘So what was your take on the case? What did you think happened to Emma?’

Hannah sucked in her cheeks. ‘You have to remember, I was wet behind the ears.’

‘Even so.’

‘The SIO was Sid Thornicroft. Decent detective, but he was coming up for retirement and he was more focused on collecting his pension than clues. The investigation ran out of steam as soon as he decided that Emma had done a runner. I didn’t agree, but so what?’

‘You thought she was dead?’

She nodded. ‘Like Di Venuto. My hunch was that she’d been murdered. But without evidence …’

‘Lauren will want us to delve. Make sure we’re on the right side of the Press.’

‘Christ, Les, don’t tell me you’re becoming media-savvy in your old age.’

He propped his elbows on the table and cupped his chin in his hands. ‘It’s you I’m thinking of. Cold case work is a cul-de-sac, ideal for boring old farts like me. You were shunted into it after you screwed up on a trial, but soon you’ll be ready to get back in the swim. Which means giving the ACC an occasional stroke, even if you’d sooner shove her statistics up her bum.’