Martin Edwards - The Hanging Wood

‘You’ll be amazed what people will do when the self-preservation instinct kicks in. Besides, he might be able to salve his conscience on the basis that there was no evidence to prove Philip’s guilt, and that the storm would soon blow over.’

‘It was Kit who found Philip’s body.’

Hannah nodded. ‘I hadn’t forgotten.’

‘If that’s how it happened, it may never be possible to prove Kit’s guilt.’

‘No.’ Hannah fiddled with her teaspoon. ‘Unless — something else happens.’

‘Such as?’

‘If we finally find Callum’s remains.’

Taking risks didn’t faze Aslan. How else could you make something special out of your life? The mistake he’d made so far in his life was that the risks he’d taken had never earned a proper reward.

The butterfly knife lay on his bedside table. He traced a finger along the blade, so gently that the skin did not break. He liked danger, that was the truth of it. It turned him on more than any woman.

Looking through his window, he spotted distant walkers, tiny dots of colour on the grey slopes. His eyesight was keen, his body muscular and strong; he needed to make more of his life before he grew lazy and old. Since arriving in the Lakes, he’d spent time climbing. Once, he’d nearly found himself stranded on Helvellyn when the mists closed in. He was alone, and nobody knew where he was. He’d got away with it, suffering nothing more than bruises as he scrambled down the scree as if his life depended on it. Perhaps it had. He was accustomed to getting away with things; some days he could persuade himself he was invulnerable, and like a denizen of Shangri-La, he would live for ever.

The sun was high, tonight his star would be in the ascendant. His life was going to change, no question. He wasn’t a planner — he was too disorganised a thinker to bother with tactics or strategy. Sometimes you just had to play a card, and see where it fell. In returning to the Lakes, he hadn’t worked out a plan of action. Curiosity had pulled him back. Mum had talked of the Lakes for years after she left Turkey. When he was older, he’d asked about his father, but she hadn’t told him much. Perhaps there wasn’t much to tell. She’d spent a couple of years in England on a student visa, earning a few quid behind a bar to help fund her studies. Mike Hinds came in for a pint one night, and swept her off her feet; almost literally, she told her son. He was a farmer, big and strong as well as intelligent. Enough virtues for her not to mind too much about his temper. For a few weeks, she was in seventh heaven, until a fellow barmaid told her he was married, and forty-eight hours later a pregnancy test came out positive. She plucked up the courage to tell Hinds, fearing a volcanic outpouring of rage. But all he wanted was to solve a problem, and he gave her the money for an abortion, along with plenty of cash to pay for the plane home.

Thank God she was determined to keep me .

Mum stayed in England until after he was born. It seemed strange that she’d given him the name of the man who had let her down, but she said that, in the hospital crib, his newborn face was the image of his father’s.

He was half-English, and Mum remained a passionate Anglophile until the day she died. She’d deserved so much more than the hand-to-mouth existence she’d led. She kept in touch with news from Britain, and she knew all about Callum’s disappearance. It made the national newspapers, and she said she’d thought about contacting Mike Hinds, and letting him know that he still had one son, but she was afraid her child would be rejected, as she had been.

He was intrigued by Callum’s disappearance and wondered if his half-sister knew more about it than had been made public, but he’d never returned to the land of his birth until this year. It wasn’t a conscious avoidance, it was just how it happened. You had to trust to fate. In the States, he almost came a cropper when he sold some drugs to a pretty customer who turned out to be a female cop. A quick getaway saved him, but he was ready for a change of scene. And, for a man who never did things by halves, why not a change of ID as well?

So Aslan Sheikh was born.

The small room was stuffy, even with the window thrown open. He kicked off his shoes and padded off to stand under a cold shower, relishing the jets of water as they smacked against his chest, buttocks and legs.

It was almost a metaphor. Washing away the wrongs of the past. Shutting his eyes, he pictured his mother’s face, and saw a slow smile creep across it.

‘How are you spending the rest of today?’ Daniel asked, as they leafed through the pamphlets in the theatre shop.

‘Praying for an excuse to put off mowing the lawn,’ Hannah said. ‘Occasionally, I remember Marc did have his uses.’

‘Why don’t we take a walk around the lake? Not enough time for a full circuit, obviously, but we can catch the launch back from one of the jetties.’

‘Don’t you have a book to write?’

‘I’m in search of inspiration.’

‘You’re writing about the history of murder, aren’t you; De Quincey and all that? I’m not sure I’m flattered.’

He laughed. ‘While I’m at it, why don’t we come back here for dinner this evening and then watch the play, if they have a couple of tickets left? What the Butler Saw , it’s my favourite by Orton. It’s the one where a character says, We must tell the truth! To which she is told that’s a thoroughly defeatist attitude.’

‘Sounds like a lot of defence lawyers I’ve met.’

‘Can I take that as a yes, then?’

‘So why did you want to meet here?’ Aslan asked. ‘A bit risky, I thought.’

His companion’s eyes settled on the farm buildings. The day was over, and the roaring tractors had fallen silent. Aslan had arrived in good time before his appointment, and he’d caught sight of the farm labourers clambering into the van that would take them to their accommodation in the town. In the old farmhouse, a light shone behind a curtained window.

‘There’s a very good reason, believe me.’

‘Want to share it with me?’

Aslan leant against the side of the slurry tank, as if he’d paused for a casual chat. Not for the first time in his life, he was finding it hard not to sound cocky. So far, so brilliant. The bag at his feet bulged with banknotes. This was a highly professional transaction. A pleasure to do business.

‘Don’t you want to count the money?’

Aslan smiled. ‘Shouldn’t I trust you?’

A shrug. ‘It’s up to you.’

‘Oh well, you’re right. It’s sensible to take precautions.’

Aslan grinned. Crushed in his hand was his tiny mobile. Any messing, and he’d dial 999. And the butterfly knife was sticking out of his jeans pocket, backup if he needed it.

As he bent down, he heard the knife fall to the ground and before he could pick it up, he felt a searing pain in the side of his head. He fumbled frantically with his phone, but the agony was unbearable, and he couldn’t think straight.

His last conscious thought took him back all those years to when he used to watch the cruise ships sailing away from Warnemunde. Sailing beyond the lighthouse and into the unknown.

‘It’s years since I’ve seen an Orton play,’ Hannah said, as they joined the crowd streaming out of the theatre. ‘The last one was Loot . I seem to remember it features a bungling police inspector.’

Daniel cleared his throat. ‘I’m innocent till I’m proved guilty. This is a free country. The law is impartial . To which Inspector Truscott replies, Who’s been filling your head with that rubbish ?’

She laughed and mimed applause. ‘Do you have an encyclopaedic recall of loads of British literature?’