Martin Edwards - The Hanging Wood

‘Spooky is right, believe me. I went with my sergeant for a reconnaissance yesterday.’

‘Yes, I heard.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Did the Madsens gripe about it?’

He grinned. ‘Bryan did mutter something about public servants with nothing better to do with their time. Question is, did you learn anything?’

‘We weren’t hoping for forensic evidence twenty years on. Perhaps it was an indulgence, but I wanted to see for myself the place where Philip was supposed to have killed Callum. Your father taught me the importance of thinking yourself into the minds of the people you wanted to investigate, and part of it involves understanding their environment. Where they work and live and play. The snag with cold cases is the passage of time. But sometimes, the distance of the years helps you see more clearly.’

‘And how do you see the case against Philip Hinds?’

‘Purely circumstantial. Doesn’t mean he didn’t kill the boy, of course.’

‘But you believe he was innocent?’

‘I’d say he loved the Hanging Wood, it was the one place he felt at home. To me it felt like a dank and dismal prison, but I’m sure he’d hate to desecrate it. But that’s guesswork. Police officers work on the basis of evidence, not gut feel.’

‘Is that really what my father believed?’

She smiled. ‘That sceptical glint in your eyes reminds me of him.’

He was conscious of the sun scorching his cheeks. What had she felt for Ben? Liking, of course; respect, certainly. Anything more?

Her gaze settled on Derwent Isle again. They had rowed round in a circle, as he followed a course back to the shore.

‘Orla must always have hoped that a fresh explanation for Callum’s disappearance would emerge. Something that exonerated her uncle.’

‘Wishful thinking?’

‘She was keen on happy endings. If her hopes were dashed, that could have sent her into a tailspin. There must be a reason why she committed suicide.’

‘I suppose there is no doubt that she killed herself?’

‘Very little. Hypothetically, if she came across evidence suggesting someone other than Philip murdered Callum, that someone had a motive to get rid of her. But what evidence, which someone, and above all why? It’s speculation piled on speculation, and I don’t suppose historians approve of speculation any more than the Crown Prosecution Service does.’

‘True, but we all speculate sometimes.’

He eased off on the oars and leant back to take in the view of the forbidding bulk of Skiddaw to the north of the town. Hannah followed his gaze, the breeze ruffling her hair. He was seized by an urge to stroke and smooth it, to feel its silky texture and the warmth of her skin. Bad idea. He needed to be patient. The moment was too precious to spoil.

Aslan crushed the phone against his hand.

‘You killed Callum.’

Silence.

‘And then you killed Orla.’

‘Not true.’

Aslan laughed, incredulous. ‘You expect me to believe you?’

‘Believe what you want. She jumped.’

‘I believe you murdered both of them.’

‘I don’t have to listen to this.’

‘Do you want the police to listen, instead? I’ll ring them now, if you want.’

‘They will think you are mad.’

‘I’m angry, actually, not insane. You killed my half-brother, and then my half-sister.’

‘Why on earth would I want to do that?’

Aslan paused. This was his weak spot. He hadn’t filled all the gaps in his knowledge, there were things he didn’t fully understand.

‘I know about Castor and Pollux.’

A long silence. Surely a killer would not hang up?

‘What do you want?’

Aslan felt a wave of relief wash through him. He had won.

‘I called in at Marc’s shop last weekend,’ Daniel said. ‘Bought a set of Wainwrights, much to Louise’s disgust. She says I ought to throw out at least two books for every one I buy. I had new bookshelves put up in the cottage after moving in, but already the to-be-read pile is mounting on the floor of the spare room.’

‘Marc and I had the same conversation a dozen times,’ Hannah said, ‘but I never made any headway. Once a bibliomaniac, always a bibliomaniac.’

Lunch in the light and airy cafeteria at the Theatre by the Lake. Hannah savoured a mouthful of her open sandwich: smoked Borrowdale trout with lemon-and-dill dressing. Until now, they’d steered clear of personal stuff, which suited her fine, but Daniel knew Marc had moved out back in January, and was bound to be curious.

‘Marc told me you and he were due to meet up this week,’ he said.

So Marc had talked about her to Daniel, even though he’d been jealous of their relationship. Another sign that he might be growing up; pity it was too late.

‘He wants us to get back together again, but I don’t think it will work.’

‘Perhaps you both need more time.’

‘We’ve had six months.’

‘It may take longer.’

‘I’ve had long enough to get used to living on my own. It’s sort of liberating.’

‘I know what you mean. The endless compromises when you share with someone are hard work. Ask my sister.’

He showed his white teeth in a grin. A good-looking man; strong features, clear brown eyes, she couldn’t be blamed for finding him attractive. Plenty of women would, even if he’d never appeared on television. But what drew him to her was that she was sure she could trust him absolutely — as she had his father.

‘And how are things with Louise?’ Grabbing the chance to change the subject.

‘She’s good. That bastard who gave her such a rough time is a fading memory, thank God. Now she’s looking round for a place of her own up here. Not that I’m pushing her out; she’s someone else who likes to have her own space. At least the sparks don’t fly between us the way they did when we were teenagers.’

‘Sibling rivalries, eh?’ She swallowed the last morsel of trout. ‘There’s no escaping them in this case. The Hinds brothers, the Madsen sisters, Callum and Orla. Perhaps it’s just as well my sister emigrated years back.’

‘Speaking of siblings, there’s a question about Castor and Pollux.’

He gave her the gist of what Aslan had told him. ‘Let’s suppose Orla resorted to playing the detective. She’d fantasised that Aslan Sheikh was Callum, larger than life. When he disillusioned her, she was forced to accept that her brother was dead after all. But she was sure Philip was incapable of murder — so she tried to fathom what did happen to Callum.’

‘If she decided that he was killed by someone she cared for, that could have driven her to suicide.’

‘Kit Payne? He’d done his best for her, as he did for her mother.’

‘And we do know that Callum didn’t hit it off with Kit.’

‘Did she talk to you about Kit?’

‘Not much, but she seemed to like him.’

Hannah savoured her camomile tea. ‘After so many years, she is hardly likely to have found any evidence that Kit was responsible for Callum’s death. But if she confronted him …’

‘Would he admit his guilt to her, do you think?’

‘Only if she caught him off guard. He’s a streetwise businessman, don’t forget. I’d expect him to deny it. Perhaps prey on her fears, say that she needed psychiatric help. Which might explain why she jumped into the grain.’

‘I’ve never met him, but even hard-nosed executives aren’t always natural-born killers. Do you think he’s capable of murdering a young boy?’

‘Depends on the provocation. If they had a fight, and Callum died by accident, Kit might have panicked and hidden the body. Once he’d done that, he was trapped. No going back.’

‘So he sat back and watched an innocent man persecuted for a crime he didn’t commit?’