Martin Edwards: The Hanging Wood

At last she reached the main route through Brackdale that would take her out of Daniel’s valley and home to Ambleside. As she drove through the small settlement of Brack, her phone rang again. She hadn’t been this popular in years. Unless it was Terri, determined that, having dug herself into a hole, she would keep digging.

‘What is it?’

‘Blimey, Hannah. Not like you to sound so tetchy.’

Greg Wharf — how about that for a turn-up for the book? Surely not a call about work on a Saturday evening?

‘You still there, Hannah?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Everything all right?’

‘Yeah, yeah, of course. I’m in the car, on my way back home after a day out.’

‘OK, it’s just that … I’m in Kendal at the moment. I was planning to call in at Westmorland General, and see Mario Pinardi. I wondered if you wanted to come along too.’

Hannah tightened her grip on the steering wheel. ‘Actually, I’m less than ten minutes away.’

‘Well, then!’ Greg brightened. ‘We don’t need to stay long. I mean, visiting time finishes at eight and Alessandra is sure to be there anyway, along with all the little Pinardis. I just want him to know he’s in our thoughts.’

‘Good plan.’

‘We could have a quick drink afterwards, if you have half an hour to spare.’

‘Sure,’ Hannah said. ‘Why not?’