Martin Edwards - The Hanging Wood

‘Someone was watching her. Even followed her towards the grain tower.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Zygmunt swears it’s the truth. I’ve met the feller, he isn’t a liar.’

‘Why didn’t he speak up before?’

‘Everyone reckoned the girl killed herself. And he didn’t want to get anyone into trouble. Or draw too much attention to himself. It’s not easy for migrant workers, you know; they worry that if they are in the spotlight, they might risk being asked to leave Britain. We’re not such a welcoming country as we used to be, Hannah.’

‘OK, point taken, but is he willing to talk now?’

‘Only to you.’

‘Hang on a moment-’

‘No arguments, sweetie. I’ve explained that you’re completely trustworthy. How are you fixed tomorrow morning?’

Shit, this was becoming complicated. But how could she say no?

‘All right. I’ll call you first thing.’

It was sweltering inside St Herbert’s, the atmosphere sauna-like and oppressive. All the windows in the Old Library were open, but it made no difference. Daniel could almost feel the pounds dripping off him in sweat. Much more of this, and he’d look like a wraith. But a change was on its way; the Radio Cumbria weathergirl had warned of a build-up of pressure, and thunder and lightning were forecast for late morning and the afternoon. Everyone Daniel saw seemed heavy-legged and sluggish, as if the humidity had drained their last drops of energy. The Old Library was deserted apart from the librarian, whose footsteps sounded squeaky and unnaturally loud as she trudged to and fro between her desk and the catalogues. Casual readers and residents alike had fled, as though fearing the epidemic of death among members of staff might prove contagious. Even the journalists had abandoned St Herbert’s; Daniel suspected they were circling Lane End Farm like vultures, but at a safe distance, in case Mike Hinds lost it once and for all with his scythe or his gun.

For the first time in their acquaintance, even Professor Micah Bridge had loosened his tie. There was a moist glistening in the deep furrows of his high forehead, and he leant against a bookcase for support. His breathing was an unhealthy rasp; he sounded like a candidate for an imminent stroke. The deaths of Orla and Aslan had diminished him; he seemed to have shrunk, and become infirm before his time. How much more could the principal take?

‘Jolyon Hopes?’ The high scratchy voice echoed in the silence. ‘He was a reckless rider, by all accounts. I heard he took a chance too many with a young and nervous horse.’

‘On the estate?’

‘Goodness me, no. The accident occurred in Cheshire, I believe.’

‘So he was away from home at the time?’

‘He loved horses. The Hopes were renowned as a family of animal lovers, although that did not stop them hunting foxes. I gather he went hunting all over the north of England. His father was devastated by the calamity, of course. Not least because it ruled out any chance of the Hopes name continuing into the next generation.’

‘Was Fleur with him at the hunt?’

‘No, if memory serves, she was on holiday with her husband on a cruise in the West Indies at the time. She flew back to be at her brother’s bedside. In the end, he pulled through, although his vertebrae were smashed beyond repair. He was never able to look after himself again.’

‘Fleur was out of the country at the time of the accident?’ Another theory shot down in flames. Hannah was right to be sceptical.

‘Indeed.’ Micah Bridge pursed his papery lips. ‘Dare I enquire as to the reason for your curiosity?’

Daniel contrived an enigmatic smile. ‘I’m fascinated by stories about families. Like the Hinds and the Paynes. Or the Hopes and the Madsens.’

‘Ah, a true historian of England; those families’ stories concern the perennial struggle between land and trade.’ The principal’s moist eyes locked on him; could he really be as other-worldly as he seemed? ‘Alas, we both know that trade always wins. But your current researches are much more targeted. This book of yours about the history of murder. You are not by any chance suggesting-?’

The double doors leading to the corridor swung open behind them. Daniel did not need to turn round to know who was there. The fragrance was unmistakable.

‘Daniel!’ Fleur Madsen’s voice had an uncharacteristic tremble. ‘I saw your car outside, and guessed you were here. Can we talk?’

‘Sorry, Hannah.’ For once in her life, Terri sounded uncomfortable as she placed the mobile down on the table. Her tan was tinged pink with embarrassment. ‘Zygmunt has changed his mind; he’s wetting himself at the prospect of getting involved.’

Hannah swore under her breath, her shoulders stiffening with anger and frustration. They were sitting opposite Stefan at a table on the pavement outside the Windermere pub where he worked. The stop-start of noisy car engines as the traffic snaked past them, heading lakeside, was making her temples pound, and in the sticky atmosphere the stench of petrol made her throat constrict with nausea. The farm labourer had been due to arrive three-quarters of an hour ago, but he’d failed to show. Stefan finally tracked him down on his mobile, but when Terri took the phone and spoke to the man, the conversation didn’t go to plan, and within a minute, he’d cut her off.

‘He doesn’t have a choice.’ Hannah rapped the table’s metal surface to make her point. It made her feel better, even if her knuckles stung. ‘If he has information that would help our enquiries, he has a duty to share it. He’s not at risk, and even if he were, we could look after him. If he’d rather speak to someone other than me, fine. No way can he put his head below the parapet now.’

‘It’s just that-’

‘Listen, Terri, I’m not pissing about. If he tries to melt away into the landscape, we’ll dig him out. If he keeps his mouth shut, there’s every chance he’ll finish up in a cell, looking at a one-way ticket home. He needs to cooperate, and tell us whatever he knows.’

Terri stared as if Hannah had stepped out of an alien spacecraft. ‘All these years we’ve been friends, you’ve never talked to me like a detective chief inspector before.’

‘Yeah, well, I’m not in the mood for games.’ Hannah didn’t often raise her voice, but she was past caring about making a scene. ‘Mario Pinardi found a body dripping in slurry on Saturday night. He won’t forget the stink of death and shit in a hurry. As for Orla Payne, I spoke to her less than forty-eight hours before she died of suffocation. Two people, laid out on mortuary slabs long before their time, do you wonder I’m not prepared to let this bloke wimp out?’

Terri put up her hands, like a boxer on the ropes warding off a flurry of punches. ‘All right, all right, I’m only trying to help.’

‘Give me the phone.’ Stefan stretched out a beefy arm tattooed with a picture of a mermaid with bee-stung lips, and breasts the size of beach balls. ‘I will talk to him.’

‘I’d be grateful,’ Hannah said, as Terri slid the mobile across the table to him.

Stefan was a man of few words, many of them heavily accented and hard to interpret, but that didn’t faze Terri, who talked enough for two. He seemed to be a man of simple pleasures, content to gaze with quiet approval at Terri’s cleavage, even if it wasn’t quite a match for the mermaid’s.

He redialled and spoke with quick-fire fury in Polish to his friend. Whatever he said left no room for argument. Inside a minute, he rang off and thrust the mobile into his trouser pocket as though he never wanted to see it again.

‘He changes his mind, he will come soon.’