Martin Edwards - The Hanging Wood

She shook her car key out of her bag. Her heart was beating faster, but her overriding emotion was relief, rather than excitement. In a strange way, it was as if Greg had passed a test by not trying it on. He’d treated her as a trusted colleague, not another potential notch on his belt.

And tomorrow, she’d see Daniel again. Things were looking up.

Orla’s name wasn’t mentioned until halfway through the dessert course, yet Daniel had become conscious of her presence the moment he and Louise walked through the imposing front doors of Mockbeggar Hall. She was the ghost at the feast.

It was Sally Madsen who brought Orla into the conversation — no surprise there. You only had to be in the company of Gareth’s wife for ten minutes to hear her saying the first thing that sprang into her head, relying on her good looks and charm to compensate for any offence caused. Tall, tanned and tactless, she wore a short magenta evening dress meant for a woman half her age; yet somehow she got away with it. After they were introduced over pre-dinner drinks, Louise had whispered something disobliging about hair extensions and silicone implants, but whatever Sally’s style secrets, they worked. For a man, anyway.

Daniel was intrigued by the contrast between the Madsen brothers, and between their wives. What did their different choices say about them? Gareth had married a woman who might otherwise have decorated the arm of a football player. Bryan had gone for the local squire’s daughter. Sally’s voice grew louder each time she gulped down a mouthful of wine. Fleur watched her with an indulgent smile that gave nothing away. She’d covered her wine glass with her hand the last time the waitress came round, and was now confining herself to Bowland Spring Water.

‘So when is poor Orla’s inquest, Kit?’ Sally asked.

She’d seized a moment when Glenys Payne paused in a lengthy account of young Nathan’s trip to Africa to swallow a truffle. Kit cast an anxious glance at his wife’s reddened face. She must hate to be reminded that her husband had a life before she arrived in it. A life including an alcoholic wife with a suicidal daughter, and a son who was missing, presumed murdered. You could hardly blame her for wanting Nathan to be the main topic of conversation.

‘I’m told it will be opened when the coroner returns from holiday next week, but she will adjourn it for twelve weeks to allow time for post-mortem reports. In a case like this, there have to be toxicology tests, and God knows what else.’

‘They don’t think she was under the influence of drugs when she jumped, do they?’ Sally was agog; in another age, she’d have been a tricoteuse. ‘It would explain things, I suppose. Such a terrible way to go.’

‘Alcohol was her drug of choice,’ Kit said. ‘The sad thing is, people can say anything about her now, and she can’t defend herself. What happened is traumatic enough, frankly, and it doesn’t help to have the cold case people noseying around.’

‘Pity they can’t let Callum rest in his grave,’ Sally said.

‘That’s rather the point, sweetheart,’ Gareth told his wife, with exaggerated patience. ‘The kid never got a proper grave, did he?’

‘You’d think the police would have better things to do, with the crime figures sky-high,’ Glenys complained. ‘Two senior officers, Kit told me, going for a ramble around the Hanging Wood! Hard to beat that for a ridiculous waste of time. And they make such a fuss about being short of resources; any excuse for not putting enough bobbies back on the beat!’

‘I suppose they need to justify their existence,’ Kit said.

‘That’s the public sector for you.’ Bryan fixed his gaze on the waitress as she topped up his glass yet again. ‘Thank you very much, my dear. Yes, the police force is far too politically correct these days. Scared stiff of litigation, so they waste time and effort on trivia, for fear of someone complaining. That’s the trouble with this country, if you ask me.’

‘What did you make of DCI Scarlett?’ Gareth asked.

Kit’s brow furrowed. ‘She didn’t give much away.’

‘She does realise she’s on a wild goose chase?’

‘Never going to admit it, is she?’ Bryan demanded.

Daniel saw Fleur exchange looks with her brother-in-law. Presumably Fleur had spent her married life listening to Bryan pontificating, when he wasn’t leering at attractive young women. Over an aperitif, Bryan had recounted his plucky attempt to stand for Parliament in an unwinnable seat; no doubt Fleur was relieved not to have spent the past twenty years small-talking with the constituency hoi polloi.

‘Nobody can seriously believe that Philip didn’t murder Callum,’ she murmured. ‘It’s an absurd notion.’

‘There’s no proof about what happened,’ Purdey said. ‘We can’t be certain.’

‘For Christ’s sake, don’t you start.’ Gareth usually left the tetchiness to his elder brother. ‘Bad enough that Orla made her own life a misery, imagining Callum might still be alive and kicking. None of this rumour and innuendo is good for the business. If the bloody media get hold of it, my job will become ten times more difficult.’

‘Just saying.’ His daughter’s voice was plaintive, though a gleam in her eye suggested she was more than capable of standing up to her father.

‘Sorry, love, didn’t mean to snap.’ He gave Purdey’s bare shoulder an affectionate squeeze. The gift of a daddy’s girl, Daniel thought, that knack of twisting him around her little finger.

‘Orla was a dreamer,’ Sham pronounced in a voice loud enough to indicate that she’d overindulged in the wine. Whenever Purdey said something, Daniel had noticed, her sister butted in a few moments later. Purdey’s cool contrasted with Sham’s stridency, just as her little black dress only showed off her long legs, whilst Sham’s lacked any subtlety. ‘No wonder she was crazy about fairy tales. Let’s face it, she lived in a fantasy world.’

‘She wasn’t off her head,’ Purdey said.

Damning with faint praise, Daniel thought.

‘Orla was bloody hard work, you must admit,’ Sham said. ‘You’re not telling me you were a member of her fan club?’

‘She could be a pain, but I did feel sorry for her,’ Purdey said.

If Kit Payne was troubled at the talk about his dead stepdaughter, he contrived not to show it. One advantage of possessing such unlovely features was that they masked his emotions. A useful asset for a man who depended on the Madsen family for his living. When he’d talked about grievance and employment tribunals, was that a reminder not to push him too far?

‘At least she is at peace now,’ Kit said.

If he intended this as a conversational full stop, Sham didn’t take the hint. ‘What I don’t get is — why? I didn’t have a clue what was going on in her head. She must have been disappointed that Aslan didn’t take her seriously, but even so …’

‘Who didn’t take her seriously?’ Gareth asked.

‘Aslan Sheikh, you know, from St Herbert’s. Orla had the hots for him. But he wasn’t interested.’

‘She wasn’t the only one who fancied him, was she?’ Purdey smirked.

Sham, determined not to rise to the bait, turned towards Daniel. ‘So, did you manage to track him down in the end?’

‘Yes, we spoke on the phone before Louise and I left home.’

‘You were looking for Aslan?’ Fleur asked.

‘He left me a message, wanting a word about something, but when I caught up with him on the phone, he said not to worry, it wasn’t important.’

‘He’s an oddball.’ Fleur frowned. ‘I don’t expect Micah Bridge will keep him on when his contract comes up for renewal.’

‘But he’s not costing St Herbert’s a penny!’ Sham protested.