Martin Edwards - The Hanging Wood

‘Thanks, Stefan,’ Hannah said.

It crossed her mind that it would be a mistake to underestimate Stefan. For all his taciturnity, he seemed strong in temperament as well as in physique. Not in the same league as Mike Hinds, no doubt, but cross him, and sparks would fly. Did Terri know what she was getting into? A question for another day.

‘Perhaps you can spare me five minutes in my office, Daniel?’

Fleur Madsen set a brisk pace across the floor of the Old Library, not waiting for an answer. Shaken she might be, but she had a nervous energy that the heat hadn’t sapped, and she took it for granted that Daniel would follow her lead. Her pallor made a striking contrast with the black trouser suit; she resembled an exquisitely tailored ghost. She’d made it clear she wanted to speak to Daniel in private, and Micah Bridge needed no encouragement to make himself scarce; he seemed to find her very presence intimidating.

As she made a few noises about the awfulness of Aslan’s death, and the insensitivity of so many journalists, she took him to the back staircase. It led to her office, but so did the main staircase, up from the corridor by the reception desk, and it would have been quicker to go that way. He suspected Fleur didn’t want Sham to know they were having a conversation. And he was beginning to think that he could guess why.

Reaching the first floor, Daniel found himself looking down a narrow passageway that ran the length of the building. Halfway along he saw the landing of the main staircase. Doors spaced at irregular intervals opened off the left-hand side of the passage; on the right, windows looked out on to the drive and car park; beneath them were bookshelves crammed with modern first editions. Fleur pointed out a complete run of Graham Swift first editions as she took out a key for the door marked Chair of Trustees . For a few moments, it rattled clumsily in the lock; her hands were shaking, but at last the door opened and she waved him inside.

The room was spacious, with a dedicated workspace, plus a large leather sofa and occasional table for informal one-to-ones. Everything was predictably neat and well organised; Fleur didn’t strike him as a woman who could bear clutter. Was that why she’d never bothered to complicate her life with kids? Her desk was immaculate, with pens, paper clips and rubber bands stored in the compartments of a bronze tidy, and a sleek wireless laptop. A solitary photograph showed her and her husband shaking hands with Margaret Thatcher. The shot must have been taken long ago; Bryan’s hair was still dark and plentiful. Yet Fleur’s appearance had scarcely changed. She looked steely-eyed enough to have been the Iron Lady’s daughter.

As he took a seat at one end of the sofa, she indicated a door set in the side wall. ‘I even have my own bedroom. A bit of a waste, frankly. My predecessor lived in Whitehaven, and often stayed over. But Bryan and I live so close to the Residential Library, I never need to stay the night. I could walk home, if I was in the mood, but that would mean schlepping through the Hanging Wood, unless I made a twenty-minute detour. So I bring the car, and try not to worry about my carbon footprint.’

You’re talking too much . The torrent of small talk must be down to nerves; she was unfamiliar with not being in control of events, and unsure how to cope with a sense of helplessness.

‘So — you wanted a word?’

‘Yes, um, that’s right.’ She turned round the chair at the desk, and straddled it. ‘The librarian tells me you and your sister were researching my family’s records. I wondered-’

‘Orla Payne said something to Aslan about Castor and Pollux. I think he checked Sir Milo’s memoir and found those were the names of two dogs, buried in the grounds of Mockbeggar Hall. They were painted by Millais, in thanks for the hospitality he’d received.’

‘That’s right.’ Fleur swallowed. ‘The painting is a family heirloom.’

‘I believe it usually hangs in the dining room at the Hall.’

She nodded. ‘We moved it during the renovations. It needs to be sent away for cleaning.’

‘So, not moved simply in order that I shouldn’t see it?’ Her jaw dropped, as much at his insolence as in denial that the Madsens might be so Machiavellian. ‘Doesn’t matter. I reckon Orla discovered, or guessed, that her brother Callum was buried along with the dogs.’

A rictus grin. ‘You can’t be serious?’

‘Sorry, Fleur, but I am.’

‘And your friend, DCI Scarlett, I presume you’ve discussed your theory with her?’ He inclined his head. This was why Fleur had asked him up here, he felt sure. To get an understanding of what he’d shared with Hannah. ‘So what does she think?’

‘She’d like to take a look at the pet graveyard.’

‘The Hall estate is private property,’ Fleur said. ‘We have only opened up a part of it to the holiday park’s residents. Dead animals deserve a dignified resting place, as much as dead people. I doubt Bryan would be willing to allow the police to dig up the grounds on a wild fancy.’

‘Much more than a wild fancy, to be fair. At first, Aslan was unclear how Orla had learnt about Castor and Pollux. After all, it wasn’t long ago that she thought he was really Callum. Because she’d locked the door to her room here, he shinned up the outside drainpipe to break in via the window. Hardly any of them shut perfectly, as you know.’

Fleur stared. ‘Aslan did?’

‘I saw him with my own eyes. He pretended to me he’d simply climbed up on to the parapet on a whim. It took him a while to figure out how Orla might have learnt the truth about Callum. As it did me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Orla and Callum had plenty in common.’ He exhaled. ‘Just as Callum was a voyeur, so Orla was an eavesdropper. She heard enough to work out the rest.’

‘Heard from whom?’

He smiled, even though he felt genuine sorrow. ‘From you, Fleur, or from someone you were entertaining here.’

‘Is this some kind of macabre joke, Daniel? If so, I have to say it’s in very poor taste.’

‘No joke,’ he said. ‘A summer’s day, and with your window and hers next door both open, she must have listened to your conversation. My bet is that she heard enough to be sure that she knew not only that Callum was buried in the dogs’ grave, but also who put him there.’

Zygmunt proved to be one of the labourers Hannah had seen when she and Greg Wharf visited Lane End Farm. He’d seemed keen to avoid them, but within five minutes of his arrival in Windermere, he’d relaxed sufficiently for her to start asking questions. Stefan had poured him a pint of bitter, which he downed in a few gulps, and it helped loosen his tongue.

‘You’re sure this was on the day Orla climbed up the grain tower?’

‘Uh-huh.’ He wiped the froth from his mouth. ‘But I didn’t see her. Not then.’

Terri said, ‘Ziggy was with Hinds the farmer when they found Orla Payne’s body. A horrible experience — you must have had nightmares ever since.’

‘It was not good.’

Hannah said, ‘Was this in the morning or the afternoon?’

‘Two o’clock, maybe half past.’

‘And you saw someone around the farm, someone who didn’t work there?’

‘Uh-huh.’

Hannah leant forward. Now for it .

‘Can you give me a description?’

Dark clouds were gathering as Fleur and Daniel pushed through thick clumps of nettles in the wilderness beyond the formal gardens of St Herbert’s. They were heading for the Mockbeggar Estate. Sweat stuck Daniel’s shirt to his chest. He kept mopping his brow with a handkerchief, but only a storm could freshen things up. The weather was about to break, and he’d be soaked to the skin long before he regained the sanctuary of St Herbert’s. But Fleur had promised to take him to see the pet graveyard, an offer he was far too curious to refuse.