Martin Edwards - The Hanging Wood

‘He stayed close to Hinds?’

‘The divorce was acrimonious. Niamh played games over Hinds’ access to the kids. Arrangements would be made, and at the last minute she’d come up with some excuse for cancelling. But Kit Payne tried to act as a peace-broker, and Callum made it clear that he was determined to stay in touch with his dad. Since the farmhouse was a stroll away, Niamh could hardly stop him.’

‘How about the prime suspect?’

‘Philip Hinds was older than his brother Mike, and they had nothing in common. He was single, and seems never to have had a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend, that we know of. He enjoyed the company of his nephew and niece, but for all anyone could prove, it seemed perfectly innocent.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah, actually. Everyone agreed he was devoted to Orla and Callum. Mike Hinds discouraged them from spending time with their uncle, but Niamh was fond of Philip, and didn’t mind the kids visiting his cottage. Hinds said it showed she was a bad mother, letting them walk through the wood on their own. His argument was that, never mind Philip, the caravan site was nearby; you couldn’t be sure who might be lurking around, on the lookout for kids.’

‘You can see his point of view.’

‘Sure, but does it do any good to wrap kids up in cotton wool?’

As she spoke, Hannah wondered if she’d ever face that dilemma as a mother. The closest she’d come to parenthood was when a miscarriage had put an end to an unplanned pregnancy. Marc had said all the right things, but he reckoned he wasn’t ready for fatherhood, and he’d hardly been able to hide his relief that a baby hadn’t complicated their relationship even further. Perhaps that was the moment she should have decided he wasn’t the right man for her.

Greg shrugged. He didn’t have kids, either. At least, none that Hannah knew of.

Aslan had the habit of coming and going as he pleased at St Herbert’s. What was the worst that could happen? The principal wasn’t made of the right stuff to sack anyone, and why get rid of a spare pair of hands, even if they belonged to someone as bolshie as Aslan?

He strode down the corridor towards the main entrance. With Orla dead, St Herbert’s’ publicity efforts were on hold. No point in twiddling his thumbs. It was time for a visit to Lane End Farm. He could not delay it any longer. Yet his stomach churned, and his skin was all gooseflesh. He would go the long way round to the farmhouse, along the meandering lanes rather than taking a short cut across the fields. He needed plenty of time to work out what to say.

‘Penny for them!’

Sham, in breezy mood. A deeply cut pink top fought a losing battle to contain her breasts. She’d made a rapid recovery from the trauma of learning that Orla was dead.

He smiled. ‘If you knew what I was thinking, you’d never believe me.’

She giggled and leant back on her chair, revealing a skirt so short that it was more like a belt. ‘You reckon?’

‘I reckon,’ he said, and strode out through the door.

‘How did Philip Hinds earn a crust, ma’am?’ Greg asked.

‘Odd jobs around the caravan park, a bit of joinery here, mending a fuse there. Bryan Madsen had little time for him, so he reported to Gareth, who by reputation is more easy-going. In the middle of the wood was a tumbledown cottage. It was built a hundred years ago and occupied by a succession of gamekeepers who worked for the Hopes family until the cash ran out and the wood was sold, along with the land for the caravan park. Philip lived there for a peppercorn rent. The deal suited both sides, though Philip’s handyman skills don’t seem to have extended to upgrading the cottage. It was in a shocking state of repair at the time of his death.’

‘Who reported Callum missing?’ Linz asked.

‘Niamh Payne. It was the start of the summer holidays. Callum had finished at school and she’d gone shopping in Keswick. Orla went with her, but Callum refused to tag along. He was fourteen, and she took the view that it was fine to leave him alone in the house.’

‘Caravan,’ Greg said.

‘Log hut, whatever. It wasn’t unusual for her to leave the boy to his own devices. Her ex-husband moaned about it, but nobody suggested there was serious neglect on Niamh’s part. She and Orla were back by half three. Callum wasn’t around. He’d muttered about calling on his uncle, and when he was still nowhere to be found at six, she went to the cottage in the wood. Take a look at the map and you’ll see the lie of the land twenty years ago.’

All eyes turned to a sketch map on the whiteboard. The Hanging Wood was in the centre, crossed by two diagonal footpaths, with a cottage close to the point where the two paths intersected. To the east lay the caravan park, occupying the greater part of the area shown, its borders shared at different points by Lane End Farm, the wood, the Mockbeggar Estate, and St Herbert’s Residential Library. A stream ran along the boundary, with the estate and St Herbert’s on the west side, and Madsen’s on the east, before veering off just before the Hanging Wood and threading its way through the caravan park towards the River Derwent.

Greg Wharf grunted. ‘Typical Lakes, eh? Orla Payne grew up at the farm, moved to the caravan site, worked at the library, and then went back to the farm to die. And you can fit them all in a small-scale map. Claustrophobic, or what?’

Hannah reached into her case, and unfolded another sketch map which she pinned on the board. ‘Compare past and present — spot the difference?’

‘The Mockbeggar Estate has been swallowed up by the caravan park!’ Linz was never afraid to state the obvious. ‘How come?’

‘Mockbeggar Hall was owned by the Hopes family. The last of the line, Fleur, married Joseph Madsen’s elder son. At the start of the nineteenth century, the Hopes owned this whole area on the map. In the late Victorian era, Sir Milo Hopes gave away a chunk of it for this private library to be built, where Orla Payne worked. Come the twentieth century, and the family fortunes plummeted. Death duties, bad investments, spending too much for the sake of appearances. The farm was sold to Mike Hinds’ grandfather. The land to the east became a caravan park, the Hanging Wood was flogged off for good measure. Fleur Hopes’ grandfather and father were useless with money, and so was her older brother Jolyon. She was last of the line, and when Jolyon died, there was nobody left to live in the Hall.’

‘Fleur, Jolyon?’ Linz frowned. ‘The names ring a bell.’

‘You’re thinking of The Forsyte Saga. Their mother was called Irene, maybe she was a Galsworthy fan. Though the father’s name was Alfred, not Soames. Fleur’s solution was to marry into the Madsens, and her husband Bryan has run the business ever since his father suffered a stroke. Jolyon Hopes was a bachelor who broke his neck fox-hunting twenty-one years ago.’

‘Serves him right,’ Linz said. ‘A sick way to pass the time, killing animals for pleasure.’

Maggie gave her a dirty look. The two of them often argued about country sports. Hannah’s worst nightmare was that one day, budget cuts would cause the ACC to insist that the Cold Case Review Team be roped into policing hunts.

‘Fleur inherited the Hall and estate, but also the Hopes debts. Jolyon lived for a decade after his accident, but his nursing fees cost a fortune. Once everything was paid off, the Madsens set about transforming the old Hall into a new centrepiece for their park. They built a new bridge over the stream to link the Hall with the business headquarters. No expense spared. The official opening is due soon, and most of Cumbria’s VIPs will be there.’

‘Funny, that,’ Les Bryant mused. ‘My invitation must have got lost in the post.’