Martin Edwards - The Hanging Wood

The sunset was glorious, a soft reddish-orange glow above the silhouetted fells. Once they’d drained their cups of camomile tea, Daniel asked Hannah if she’d like a stroll around the garden before the drive home. As they walked, they talked about a hundred and one things while Louise, tactful for once in her life, disappeared on dishwasher-loading duty.

‘Your dad would have been thrilled,’ Hannah said, ducking beneath a low oak branch, ‘to imagine talking to you about a case. It grieved him that he missed out on your growing up. His choice, Louise would say, but it cost him dear. I suppose you don’t remember much from the days when he was still at home?’

‘I have more memories than you might imagine. Vivid, too. The big cases, when he was out all night, the stuff that got in the newspapers. It excited me, his detective work, I was proud to be his son. Even if he didn’t know it, even though the job screwed him up. He cared too much; he was often stressed to the eyeballs.’

‘That never changed, till the day he retired. It’s the nature of police work, you can’t be left untouched by it. If dealing with crime and catastrophe doesn’t stress you out from time to time, you aren’t paying attention.’

She caught her foot on a tree root, and stumbled. He grabbed her arm to prevent her falling to the ground. Her flesh was firm and warm. As she steadied herself, he released his grip and she halted by an old yew tree, resting her back against the trunk.

‘Thanks. I ought to look where I’m going.’ She smiled and said lightly, ‘It’s so easy to trip up and make a fool of yourself, when you least expect it.’

‘I can’t imagine you making a fool of yourself.’

She put her head to one side, considering him. ‘We all do it sometimes, don’t we?’

He cleared his throat. ‘I like it, that you tell me about your work. Reminds me of life with Dad. He offloaded occasionally, perhaps not as much as he should have done. But I realise there’s plenty of stuff you can’t discuss.’

‘You’re helping a lot. The tip about the dogs’ graveyard is terrific, a real breakthrough. We’ll take a look there tomorrow. See how Bryan and Fleur react when we announce that the missing boy may not have been gobbled up by that much-maligned pig after all, but could have lain in their own backyard for the past two decades.’

Daniel winced. ‘Wear your body armour. The reopening of the Hall may need to be put on hold and Bryan will hate that.’

‘My heart bleeds. It won’t leave the Madsens destitute. The lovely Fleur will still be able to spend more on one pair of shoes than the budget for my entire wardrobe.’

His eyes travelled over her. ‘I’d say you’re doing fine.’

It wasn’t soft soap; give him the natural look any day. Fleur’s glamour was too self-conscious, too expensively contrived. Micah Bridge’s words sneaked back into his mind. She married for money, rather than love . No doubt the match suited both husband and wife. Bryan acquired an attractive woman to take his arm at business and social gatherings, Fleur was free to spend as though there were no tomorrow.

A pink tinge coloured Hannah’s cheeks. ‘It helps, talking things through. I’ve never-’

‘Yes?’

‘Sorry, I was about to say that, even though I talked to Marc about the cases I was working on, it wasn’t quite the same. You have first-hand experience of life in the police, and that removes a barrier.’

‘How are things with Marc?’

‘You mean, between Marc and me?’ She cracked a twig in her fist. ‘Last week, I’d have said it was over and done with. And yet … one or two doubts are creeping in. Or at least, I can’t quite make the break. Too soft, you see. Ben would have been cross with me; he had no time for dithering.’

‘Give it time.’

‘I dunno, maybe I’m not suited to living with someone else. Since January, I’ve never once been bored with my own company. All the same, it’s good to have someone to discuss stuff with.’ She grinned. ‘You make an excellent sounding board. Most detectives need someone on the outside to lend an ear, every now and then. A spouse, a partner, someone discreet they can trust to keep stuff confidential.’

‘Don’t worry, I know how to keep my mouth shut.’

‘Of course you will. You and Louise were a detective’s kids. It’s almost like talking to family.’

His turn to blush. Hannah didn’t give her trust lightly, he was bound to feel flattered. To cover his embarrassment, he said, ‘I have a confession to make.’

She laughed. ‘Oh yes, Daniel?’

‘I’ve been wondering about Callum. As you said, there isn’t much hard information, just a few clues, scattered around like crumbs. Looking at the photo of the Millais painting made me think of Giovanni Morelli.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Morelli was an art historian who argued that you can recognise the hand of an artist from tiny details in their work better than from a signature. The way the folds of a background character’s ears are painted is more distinctive than the theme of the picture or the stuff that’s more obvious and likely to be imitated.’

‘The importance of unconsidered trifles, huh?’

‘Exactly. And the Morelli technique isn’t confined to attributing works of art correctly. Sigmund Freud took a similar line with scientific method, finding hidden meaning in small details. Freud admired the detective work of Sherlock Holmes, who believed that inconspicuous bits of apparent trivia helped you find the truth, if only you interpreted them correctly. So if we apply that to what we know about Callum Hinds …’

‘Yes?’

If he ever talked like this to Louise, she groaned and urged him to get on with it. Hannah was different; fascinated for some reason by how his mind worked. She leant closer to him, more like a first-term student than a seasoned cop. The wind blew a strand of her hair against his cheek. It was like being stroked with silk. He was seized by the urge to put his arm around her, and draw her to him. Here they were out of sight of the cottage, and masked by the trees from people walking up on Priest Ridge. For once in his well-ordered life, he was in danger of losing control, and finding himself swept away like a stick in a stream.

He stepped backwards, creating a space between them, and ticked the points off on his fingers. ‘One, even Orla said that Callum was sly. He’d listen behind doors to rows between their parents, and boast about it to his sister. Two, he was a peeping Tom who spied on a girl in a bikini who was staying at the caravan park, and on his father making out with his new lady friend. Three, he enjoyed nursing secret knowledge, it gave him a sense of power. Little scraps of information, but they help us see a picture of Callum. So what do we make of a kid like that, half-eavesdropper and half-voyeur?’

‘Go on.’

‘Suppose he heard something he wasn’t meant to hear, saw something he wasn’t meant to see.’

‘Such as?’

‘Quite; that’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question. Answer it, and I’d guess you have the answer to everything.’

She nodded. ‘Makes sense. Callum caught somebody doing something they shouldn’t, and he dropped hints to his kid sister, but held back the full story?’

‘Yes, but my guess is that recently, she stumbled across the truth, or part of it. That’s why she wanted to talk to you. Only by then, she was too drunk and depressed to make any sense.’

‘She made it clear she wanted justice for Callum,’ Hannah muttered. ‘I owe it to her not to let them down.’

‘Don’t beat yourself up about her call,’ he said sharply. ‘I know what she was like. You couldn’t have saved her.’