Martin Edwards - The Hanging Wood

‘Nothing for me, thanks.’

‘Please, I insist. You sat with the patience of Job through all our speeches.’ An appraising smile. ‘Surely even a senior police officer can let her hair down once in a while?’

Hannah wondered what he was after. ‘An orange juice, please.’

‘Thanks, Purdey.’ As the girl melted into the chattering crowd, he said, ‘Lovely kid, took a degree in psychology last year; such an asset in her father’s team, marketing our holiday homes. I absolutely dote on her.’

And get her to fetch and carry for you. ‘She’s your niece?’

‘That’s right. Gareth and Sally have two daughters; it was a great sadness to my wife and myself that we never … Anyway, past history, long gone, forget it. Do you have a brood of your own, Hannah?’ When she shook her head, he said, ‘Never mind, you’re only young. Plenty of time yet.’

Hannah was saved from the need to reply by Lauren Self, timing her arrival to perfection for once in her life. The ACC was enjoying her second champagne, or possibly her third, to judge by the flush on those taut cheeks. Body-swerving through the crowd like a footballer followed a man she’d seen chatting to Lauren during the dinner. Unmistakably a Madsen, but younger than Bryan and with an athletic build; this must be Gareth. Not even a hint of grey at the temples, but if his light-brown hair had been coloured, he got away with it. He moved with the self-confident swagger of a man accustomed to getting away with things.

As the ACC and Bryan effected introductions, Gareth Madsen glanced at Hannah. In an odd moment of complicity, his lips twitched with suppressed amusement, though she wasn’t sure what he found funny, his brother’s self-importance or Lauren’s photo-opportunity smile. Both, she hoped.

All of a sudden, the ACC was her best friend. ‘Gareth was fascinated by your work on cold cases.’

‘I did vote for your team, cross my heart and hope to die.’ He gave a cheeky grin that tested Hannah’s own irony-detector. ‘Bryan let me down, to his eternal shame. I mean, binning litter is extremely worthy and all that, but your department puts away serious criminals. As good as something off the telly. Finding DNA matches to help you solve old crimes! Bringing people to justice years after they thought they’d got off scot-free!’

‘I’m afraid DNA testing is horrendously expensive,’ Lauren said. ‘The current funding crisis means the generosity of partners like Madsen’s Holiday Home Park is more important than ever.’

‘Our commitment to giving something back to our local community is a core aspect of our mission statement.’ Bryan might have been reading an autocue. The legacy of too many speeches, no doubt. ‘We hope the constabulary thinks of us as a friend in need. Delighted to do as much as we can to help.’

Hannah could imagine. The rules allowed every police force in the country to garner up to one per cent of its annual budget from sponsorships and other business ventures. It was supposed to offer a good way of funding equipment that the government was too tight-fisted to provide. The bait for private businesses was a higher media profile, a chance to brag about their commitment to corporate social responsibility. Nobody ever hinted that the quid pro quo for funding might be a blind eye turned to questionable business practices. That was forbidden. Any suggestion of dodgy dealing would be met with outrage and threats of legal action. Naturally.

‘I’m guessing you’re not a poker player?’ Gareth whispered in Hannah’s ear, as Lauren engaged Bryan in a cosy chat about shared values. ‘Your face is a picture.’

‘Never said a word,’ she murmured.

‘You don’t need to, Hannah — may I call you Hannah? Obviously you don’t approve of the forces of Mammon currying favour with the forces of law and order.’ He narrowed his eyes, mimicking a stage villain. ‘Pity, I hoped our largesse would get me off with a slap on the wrist next time I’m caught speeding.’

‘Forget it, the fines are an even more important source of revenue.’ She placed her empty glass on the window sill. ‘So, do you play poker … Gareth?’

‘I’m an entrepreneur, that’s what entrepreneurs do. To do well, you have to gamble. Business is all about taking risks. As I keep telling my esteemed chairman.’

‘I hear you used to be a racing driver.’

He grinned. ‘Your sources are impeccable, as I’d expect of Cumbria’s finest. I’m afraid I never made Formula One. In my youth I totalled a Porsche and a Ferrari in quick succession and walked away without a scratch, but that kind of luck doesn’t last for ever. Ask Bryan, he never drove so much as an open-top sports car, but when he drove into a tree years back, he nearly died. Can you wonder that we settled for life as businessmen? Not so much fun as racing cars, but you live to draw your pension.’

Purdey arrived bearing drinks. Despite the crush at the bar, she’d managed to get served in record time; no doubt she’d inherited her father’s savoir faire. With her snub nose and long chin, she might not be a raving beauty, but her skin was fresh and her legs slim, and what was that line of Greg Wharf’s — there’s no such thing as an ugly heiress?

Gareth helped himself to the champagne. ‘I think your uncle had better go easy, don’t you?’

‘Cheeky whippersnapper,’ Bryan brayed.

Purdey’s eyes misted over. ‘I can’t believe it, really.’

‘What’s that, sweetheart?’ her father asked.

‘Here we are, out enjoying ourselves, and yet poor Orla …’

Bryan said, ‘Orla’s death is an utter tragedy, but quite frankly, she inherited her mother’s weakness. The poor girl couldn’t hold her liquor, that’s the top and bottom of it.’ He turned to Hannah. ‘Lauren tells me that you’ve heard about this dreadful business?’

Hannah nodded. She’d briefed the ACC about Orla’s calls to the Cold Case Review Team, and her family connection with Madsen’s. It was the last thing Lauren wanted to hear, as a prelude to schmoozing wealthy captains of industry, but she found a crumb of comfort in Gaby Malcolm’s confidence that the IPCC wouldn’t be looking askance at the handling of the phone calls.

‘She rang me two days ago,’ Hannah said. ‘While I was out yesterday, she tried to contact me again.’

Bryan stiffened. ‘Good Lord. Not wanting you to reopen enquiries into her brother’s disappearance, for goodness’ sake?’

‘Had she discussed what happened to Callum with you?’

Before Bryan could reply, a jovial fat man from Commerce in Cumbria slapped him on the back and asked how the hell he was doing. As Bryan disengaged himself, Gareth checked his watch.

‘Come on, we’ve done our duty here. Why don’t we say cheerio to the mayor and then nip round to Mancini’s? It will be quieter, and there will be more oxygen.’

‘Good plan.’ Bryan was in avuncular mode. ‘If you like, Lauren, we could talk some more about whether we can find a way to contribute to these DNA-testing costs.’

Hannah opened her mouth, about to make her excuses, but Lauren was having none of it. ‘We’d love to join you, wouldn’t we, Hannah?’

The ACC smiled at Bryan, and he beamed back at her. Hannah cringed inwardly. Easy to guess what was going through Lauren’s mind.

Don’t get your hopes up, chum. It’s not your body she’s after, it’s your wallet.

Mancini’s was tucked away in a courtyard off Kirkland. It called itself a jazz bar, and a lonely saxophone wailed from hidden speakers. The walls were adorned with moody photographs from films noirs, and Gareth Madsen made straight for a table beneath a shot of Lana Turner making eyes at John Garfield in The Postman Always Rings Twice. Hannah recalled watching it on a movie channel late one night with Marc. Realising that the two of them would never see another film together gave her an unexpected pang of regret. Lauren seated herself between the two men, arranging her rather short skirt with care; when it came to ruthless pursuit of her objectives, the ACC could give Cora Smith a run for her money. As for Bryan Madsen, he was much smarter than Frank Chambers. Presumably.