Martin Edwards - The Hanging Wood

‘I bet the Madsens shat themselves when they heard Callum was missing,’ Greg said. ‘Lucky for them that Philip was so quick to top himself.’

‘You don’t suppose they gave him a helping hand?’

‘Hanged him and staged it as a suicide scenario, you mean?’ Greg sucked in his cheeks. ‘Difficult to achieve, easy to foul up. Too much of a risk.’

‘Gareth Madsen is a risk-taker, even if his brother isn’t. It says in the file that not only was he once a racing driver, he also had a spell working in a casino in Las Vegas.’

‘Nah, why would he chance it? Philip Hinds’ death was investigated through a microscope. Having a suspect hang himself the day after you’ve given him the third degree is never easy to explain away. The inquest verdict was suicide. If there was any evidence of murder, surely the truth would have come out.’

Hannah put her foot on the brake and brought the car to a standstill. A small brass plate on a wall, as discreet as the Madsens’ signage was garish, announced that they had reached St Herbert’s Residential Library.

‘So that’s where Orla worked.’

‘Yeah, how long before the Madsens turn it into a pleasure palace, with rides and interactive fun days?’

‘They don’t own it, thank God. Milo Hopes set it up as a charity.’

‘Fleur Madsen is Chair of the trustees, isn’t she? That’s how people like that operate. They call themselves networkers. I call them control freaks.’

‘The rich are different, didn’t someone say?’

‘Yeah, like someone else said, they’ve got more money.’

Hannah squinted through the trees, trying to make out the library building. ‘This is so close to where Orla grew up. It must have felt like coming back home.’

‘Why would you want to come back, if home was Lane End Farm?’

‘She never found happiness anywhere else, so why not?’

Greg shook his head. ‘That’s what baffles me about the countryside. All these open spaces, yet it’s as claustrophobic as a broom cupboard. So many lives intertwined, it’s worse than a soap opera. No wonder The Archers has kept going so long.’

‘I like it,’ Hannah said.

‘What, The Archers ?’

‘When do I get the time to listen to the radio? No, the countryside.’

‘Come on. It may look pretty, but the beauty’s only skin-deep. There’s more poverty in Cumbria than in most urban areas. And fewer places to shelter from the rain. What’s so good about it?’

‘The sense of community, for a start. That’s what brought Orla Payne back, I guess. She was sick of being alone in the city.’

‘Her father and stepdad had both remarried and moved on. Coming back to the country killed her.’

Hannah pressed the accelerator. ‘Let’s take a look at where she left her car. It’s only half a mile away as the crow flies.’

‘Not expecting to find clues, are you, ma’am?’

‘I want to get into her mind. Try to figure out what drew her to that tower of grain.’

The lane wandered past the grounds of St Herbert’s, and the edge of the old Mockbeggar Estate, before Hannah dived off on a short cut along a narrow track, with barely room enough for a single vehicle, no passing places, and half a dozen bends. To her relief, they reached Mockbeggar Lane without a close encounter with a tractor coming the other way.

Mario Pinardi had shown them photographs of Orla’s car, prior to its removal, and they soon identified the flattened grass where she had parked. Hannah jumped out of the Lexus and walked up to the fence, Greg following behind.

‘She wasn’t keen for her father to see her,’ Hannah said. ‘Otherwise she’d have taken the same route we did, to Lane End, and approached the grain tower from the other side.’

‘So she did mean to jump into the grain.’

‘Must have done.’

Hannah swore to herself. She moved towards the electrified fence. Putting herself in the shoes of the young woman, who threw away her mobile phone, and contact with the outside world, followed by the scarf she’d worn to disguise the loss of her hair. Orla had given up. In her mind, life had nothing more to offer her; the abortive phone call to Linz Waller was the last straw. Not Linz’s fault, but the accumulated failures had become too much. For everyone else, Callum was history. Nobody would listen.

In the distance, she spotted movement. A brown bird with pointed wings, hovering fifteen feet above the ground. A kestrel, with a field mouse, grasshopper or vole in its sights. As it swooped for the kill, she heard a rustling noise as Greg Wharf approached. She had a sudden awareness of his physical presence behind her. For a moment, she thought he was about to wrap his arms around her body.

‘Are you all right, ma’am?’

There was a concern in his voice that she hadn’t heard before. No trace of the laddish cynicism that she regarded as his default tone. And thank God, he didn’t lay a finger on her.

She didn’t turn straight away, needing to compose herself into the customary competent Hannah. She saw the kestrel rising, some small mammal caught in its beak. It whirled in triumph, as if expecting applause, before dashing for the trees to devour its prey.

‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

‘Hot, isn’t it?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘My throat’s parched; I’m not used to so much sunshine in the Lakes. I don’t suppose you’ve got time for a drink before you get back to Ambleside?’

She hesitated, aware that he was studying her. Weighing up his options, or simply waiting for the boss to make a simple decision?

‘Thanks, but I’d better drop you off soon. I’m seeing a friend this evening.’

‘Right.’

She guessed from his tone that he assumed the friend was a man. Tempting to let him think so, it was better to make it clear she wasn’t available. Just in case he might be wondering. Mixing work and pleasure was never a good idea, no matter what the temptation. She’d never succumbed with Ben, whatever private thoughts had whirled around her mind, and any fool could see it would be a colossal mistake to get too close to Greg Wharf. Verging on the unthinkable.

However.

‘She’s my oldest mate, we were at school together. As a matter of fact, she met Mario Pinardi years ago, and ever since she’s been a member of his fan club.’

Greg smiled an enigmatic smile.

‘Aren’t we all, ma’am?’

‘Daniel!’

He turned to see Aslan Sheikh walking towards him across the car park from the main entrance to St Herbert’s. Aslan’s shoulders were hunched, making it look like he’d lost a couple of inches in height. Mud covered his shoes, as if he’d returned from a marathon yomp through the countryside. His face looked pale beneath the tan.

‘Horrible news about Orla,’ Daniel said.

‘I never dreamt she would do such a thing. What could have possessed her?’

‘You knew her better than I did,’ Daniel said. ‘But who can tell what goes through another person’s mind?’

‘When we talked yesterday, I didn’t mean to put her down, please believe me.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Was Aslan feeling guilty, or just trying to redeem himself in Daniel’s eyes?

‘She was just … hard work. I had no idea she was desperate enough to do something so terrible. If she’d given me a clue of what was going through her head, it might have been-’

‘Might-have-beens are a waste of time,’ Daniel said. ‘You said it yourself, you were just colleagues who went out together a few times.’ Aslan chewed his lower lip. ‘You’re right. I mean, we absolutely never slept together or anything.’

Too much information. Daniel flicked his key fob to unlock the door of his car.

‘I haven’t been able to concentrate.’ Aslan moved closer, reluctant to let him go. ‘I went for a long walk, trying to get my head straight. I finished up at the farm. From the lane, I saw the silo where she died. Imagine, Daniel, deprived of your breath by the sheer weight of the grain.’