Martin Edwards - The Hanging Wood

‘Joseph Madsen had asked him to keep an eye on Philip. Neither Kit nor Niamh were baying for the man’s blood. They didn’t want to contemplate the possibility that Callum was dead. They preferred to think he’d run off through some misguided spirit of adventure. Out of character as it seemed.’

‘Did Philip’s death change their minds?’

‘Everyone took it as an admission of guilt. It suited the Madsens to draw a line under the case fast, and Kit Payne was pragmatic. If people stopped visiting the caravan park, he would be out of a job. For Niamh, it was different. She couldn’t face losing her son. Or the suggestion that she was partly to blame, through allowing her children to visit their uncle without a chaperone.’

‘You can understand it,’ Maggie said.

‘She made a scene when the investigation was wound down. The press loved it, but once new stories cropped up, the journalists lost interest and there wasn’t much else she could do. Her husband tried to calm her down, but it took gin to do the trick. Although she was a grieving mother, the more she hit the bottle, the less credibility she had when she insisted Callum was still alive and the search for him shouldn’t be called off.’

‘When did she die?’

‘Ten years ago. She’d been ill for a long time before that, but Kit Payne did his best to look after her as well as his stepdaughter.’

‘Quite a paragon,’ Greg said with a grimace. ‘Did he have an alibi for Callum’s disappearance?’

‘Not entirely. He spent much of the day in question looking round the caravan park, supposedly checking work done by a firm of maintenance contractors whose bill was in dispute.’

‘So he could have slipped into the Hanging Wood and done something nasty to his stepson?’

‘Correct. You can see from the map, the cottage is within walking distance of the Madsens’ offices.’

‘Were the Madsens around that day?’

‘They gave statements, but they were never suspects. Will Durston was careful to keep on their right side. I never knew Will, and he died not long after he retired from the force, but I’m told he didn’t like to make waves. Joseph was away from Keswick. He was a cricket fan and spent the day watching a Test match at Headingley. Bryan had been injured a fortnight earlier, when his car came off the road at a bend on Castlerigg Hill. He broke his leg badly, and was lucky not to be killed. He’d just started going back into the office on crutches for half an hour a day, the rest of the time he was recuperating at home. His wife was out at a fashion show with brother Gareth’s wife, so there wasn’t any corroboration, but nobody could see him as a one-legged murderer. Gareth was at the caravan park, keeping an eye on things in Bryan’s absence. No solid alibis, then, but Durston was satisfied they wouldn’t have dreamt of harming the boy.’

‘What about Mike Hinds?’ Greg asked.

‘Working on the farm. Again, he was moving around, at various times of the day he was on his own. So he had the opportunity to bump into Callum, and if they argued about something, who knows? On a farm, there are countless ways to dispose of a body. But what could drive a man to murder his own son?’

‘To spite Niamh?’

‘But why Callum, who kept the Hinds name even after his mother took him to live with Kit Payne?’ Hannah asked. ‘That was why all roads led back to Philip. If he wasn’t guilty, who else could possibly want to make a fourteen-year-old lad disappear for ever?’

Begin at the beginning. The first person to see was the father of Callum Hinds. Tactful handling was vital any time, but all the more so given his latest bereavement. She rang Lane End Farm to arrange an appointment; to progress the review in line with the ACC’s timescale, she couldn’t leave the grunt work to admin staff. Hinds’ wife Deirdre listened in silence as Hannah explained she was looking into Callum Hinds’ disappearance, not his sister’s death.

‘Routine, I suppose?’ she said at last. ‘That’s what the police always say on telly, isn’t it?’

She sounded numb. Shock, more than grief, Hannah supposed. Orla was not her own flesh and blood, but the discovery of her stepdaughter’s corpse buried in grain was enough to stun the sturdiest soul. When Hannah asked for a word with Mike Hinds, his wife said he was out in the fields, too far away to be summoned to the phone.

When Hannah expressed surprise, Deirdre Hinds’ patience frayed.

‘This is a working farm, Detective Chief Inspector. Life goes on, there is no choice. We have livestock to look after. This sunshine is too precious for Mike to waste after the rotten spring we had. Anyroad, he’s not the type of man to sit inside and feel sorry for himself.’

But she agreed that her husband would make himself available at the back end of the afternoon — ‘Might as well get it over with’ — and Hannah rang off before she had time for second thoughts.

Hannah was determined to lead the key interviews herself. One compensation of being shunted into cold case work — Lauren had sidelined her after a major prosecution turned sour — was the chance to work as a proper detective again, rather than sinking forever into the quicksand of management. Whenever the chance to escape bureaucracy and desk work came her way, she grabbed it. She was so much keener on meeting witnesses than targets.

Better not take Maggie, lest old antagonisms between Hinds and Mr Eyre complicated the discussion. She’d bring Greg Wharf along. Mike Hinds might be one of those old-fashioned blokes who didn’t take women police officers seriously. Pick one maverick to deal with another.

Her next call was to Kit Payne. She made it as far as his PA, who insisted he was in conference, and couldn’t be disturbed, but booked her in for the following day — ‘Only an hour, mind. He has an important meeting with a delegation from the Bulgarian Holiday Home Association.’

In between lunch and an interview for the force blog about the previous evening’s award ceremony, she tried ringing Daniel, but his phone was on voicemail. Oh well. At least she had a date with Mario Pinardi.

‘How could you do that to your own brother?’

Orla’s voice jangled in Aslan’s brain. He’d roamed the country lanes hour after hour, losing track of time. His shoes were pinching his toes. Tomorrow, he’d have blisters, but so what? Anything to put off the moment when he came face-to-face with Michael Hinds.

Of course, he should have been kinder to Orla, but now it was too late. He’d never done regrets, and now wasn’t a good time to start. Once she’d come back to his squalid bedsit, and he’d shocked her by offering to share a joint the moment they stepped through the door. She made it clear she wanted to talk, to reminisce about her childhood with Callum, and the days leading up to his disappearance. He was sure she’d dreamt that he was Callum, come back to find her — it was her very own fairy tale. She’d detected a resemblance, something in the shape of his head, and the way he walked, not to mention the almond colour of his eyes. The line between fantasy and reality was hard to draw.

It didn’t help that she was pissed. When she took off her headscarf, he saw her bald head for the first time. Her features were pretty, but the smooth scalp turned him off. He gave her a can of beer, while he had a smoke. When he dropped a few hints about his past, she didn’t seem to take it in. He’d assumed she would be happy, but instead she was bemused. They talked for a while, but when she sat herself down on the side of his bed and asked for a cuddle — for comfort, she said, that was all — he drew away. She must have seen the distaste in his eyes, for a tear trickled down her cheek. This infuriated him, and when he’d said something cruel, her face twisted in pain. She jumped up and ran off down the stairs. Of course, he didn’t follow.