Martin Edwards - The Hanging Wood

Back in her room, Hannah told herself Gaby was right. She needed to lighten up. The clock never stopped ticking, no time to waste in wondering what might go wrong. Time to make the most of life.

Which led, inevitably, to Daniel Kind. He’d encouraged Orla to call Hannah about her brother’s disappearance. He ought to be told what had happened.

Hannah’s hand hovered over the telephone on her desk. She didn’t need to double-check the number of his mobile. By a bizarre trick of memory, it had lodged itself in her mind.

Just do it.

The phone rang out for twenty seconds and then Daniel’s disembodied voice asked her to leave a message.

But what could she say? ‘Sorry, the friend you put in touch with me is dead’?

The phone bleeped and for a split second she thought Daniel must have been blessed with ESP.

No such luck. Lauren Self’s name flashed up on the screen.

‘Ma’am.’

‘You haven’t forgotten that we need to arrive in very good time for the drinks reception, I hope?’

‘Certainly not, ma’am.’

This evening’s awards dinner, down the road at the Brewery Arts Centre, was the last thing she needed. She’d toyed with the possibility of wimping out of it, but the only viable substitutes were Les Bryant, who had come out of retirement to provide his expertise to the team on a short-term contract, and Greg Wharf, a Jack-the-Lad sergeant transferred from Vice after taking one chance too many. Cynicism was embedded in their DNA, and they regarded the team’s recognition in the award judges’ rankings as cause for hilarity rather than celebration. Lauren couldn’t bear either of them.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve changed yet?’

Hannah checked her watch. ‘Not yet, ma’am.’

‘That makes me feel better, at any rate. Suppose we meet in reception in an hour’s time?’

‘Certainly, ma’am.’

She banged down the receiver. Lauren’s face smirked at her from the rogues’ gallery that bordered the Cumbria Constabulary year planner, along with advertisements from ‘carefully chosen partner organisations’. Immaculate coiffeur, glistening lips, perfect cheekbones. The camera loved her. Mind you, the camera didn’t have to work for her.

Hannah stuck her tongue out at her boss’s pretty, unblinking image. The childishness of her small act of rebellion supplied an instant pick-me-up. She intended to do something.

Without a second thought, she dialled Daniel’s number. His voice message greeted her, asking her to leave her number, saying he’d call back as soon as he could.

Should she just ring off?

Sod it, no.

‘Daniel, this is Hannah. I’d like to speak to you about Orla Payne, if you don’t mind. I’m out this evening, but hope to hear from you soon. Bye.’

She leant back in her chair. OK, then, Daniel Kind would have to wait. Never mind.

What mattered was doing Orla justice.

As bad luck would have it, Hannah bumped into Greg Wharf the moment she’d changed into her glad rags. The DS had spent the afternoon giving evidence in court, and as he bustled through the double doors that led from reception, his expression was pensive. Gruelling cross-examination, Hannah supposed. But at the sight of her, he broke into a smile.

‘Well, good evening, ma’am.’

‘Greg.’

Predictable to a fault, his gaze locked on her cleavage. She’d agonised about the lowish cut of this dress in the shop last Saturday, but she’d decided to hell with it, she was going to take the risk. The plan was never for Greg to get an eyeful. A poster on the wall advertised a Federation talk about The Surveillance Society ; Hannah felt like a target of it.

‘You’re gonna wow them, ma’am, no question.’

Hannah ground her teeth. Greg had this talent for catching her off balance.

‘It’ll be a miracle if I stay awake.’

‘Too many late nights?’ He treated her to an all-innocence smile that, she knew instantly, he’d bestowed on a hundred women before. ‘Believe me, I’m devastated that I can’t be there. VIPs only, of course, it’s to be expected. No room for the humble spear carriers.’

Sarky bugger. ‘Don’t pretend you’re heartbroken. Especially after what you and Les said when we found out we were on the shortlist.’

‘Churlish of us, ma’am, on reflection. It was no mean achievement; now I see it all.’ He allowed himself another peek down the top of her dress. ‘Obviously, I’m not suggesting for a moment that Les is a bad influence, but the truth is, I’ve recognised the error of my ways. I reckon I could have found this a very enjoyable evening.’

‘Oh yeah?’ She made a move to go, but it was difficult to stride past him in the corridor without brushing against him.

‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, ma’am,’ he said, and with a last lingering leer, he stepped aside.

As she shoved open the double doors, it struck her that his banter no longer annoyed her as it once had. Crazy, really. Greg Wharf was a sexual harassment claim waiting to happen, the sort of officer she’d loathed from the earliest days of her career. But she’d also come to realise that beneath the bravado was a very good detective who didn’t mind putting in extra hours when they were short-handed. To her astonishment, she felt almost sorry she wouldn’t be able to chat to him at the dinner.

‘Congratulations, Detective Chief Inspector.’

Bryan Madsen had limped through the hubbub to join her the moment the final award was presented, the final words of gratitude gushed. The Malt Room buzzed with a hundred voices, the conversations lubricated by generous quantities of alcohol served throughout the five-course dinner. Bryan struck Hannah as strong and vigorous, even if his paunch and florid complexion suggested overindulgence in fine food and wine. Tall, with expensively cut steel-grey hair, he might have passed for a brigadier, or a leading man in a 1950s British black-and-white movie, sporting a stiff upper lip and a gammy leg caused by a shrapnel wound. You wouldn’t cast him as a bloke who had spent a lifetime trading static caravans. During the longueurs of the presentations, Hannah had kept awake by studying Lauren Self’s companions on the top table, and she’d recognised the Madsen brothers from newspaper photographs. They were accompanied by good-looking and expensively attired wives. Bryan often featured in the local press, though never in stories that held the slightest interest for Hannah. A businessman with a taste for politics? She’d stereotyped him in her mind as a boring old fart.

‘It’s an honour to have been in the mix.’

Scary, how the lie sprang to her lips, but she was bound to get away with it. How many captains of industry with a passion for politicking had a built-in irony detector?

‘Your cold case team ran the winners desperately close, I can assure you. Your people did a first-rate job with that dreadful business up at Ambleside last January.’ He mopped his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief, and fiddled with the window to let in a breath of air. ‘Boiling in here, isn’t it? As for the judging process, I suppose what tipped the balance is that your profile in the community only rises every now and then, while the Clean Cumbria Campaign is never off the advertising billboards.’

‘They deserved it.’ She resisted the temptation to simper — better not go completely over the top. Though she couldn’t resist adding, ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness.’

‘Absolutely right.’ He snapped his fingers and a young woman in a short glittery dress materialised by his side. Her sinuous and silent movements reminded Hannah of a magician’s assistant, her smile was cool and enigmatic. ‘Purdey, another glass of Bolly, if you don’t mind. This is Detective Chief Inspector Scarlett — Purdey Madsen. Now I promise I’m not driving, Chief Inspector! But what will you have?’