Martin Edwards - The Serpent Pool

‘Time has passed,’ Hannah said. ‘People who were reluctant to talk at the time of the original inquiry may have changed allegiances and be more willing to open up. I’ve briefed Maggie Eyre to trace people who gave statements to the original inquiry team. Some of them are still around, but others have moved on. Les here has his hands full with our existing caseload, but Greg and I will talk to some of the key witnesses.’

Lauren tutted. ‘You’ll recall our chat before Christmas? We need a few more outcomes if I’m to persuade the Police Authority to maintain your team’s funding at its present level. No guarantees, Hannah.’

Les Bryant feigned to choke on his Shredded Wheat. The ACC gave him a pitying glance before turning her attention back to Hannah.

‘Pressure on resources is growing all the time. Money is tight and next year’s allocations will come up for review soon. I need positive news to report. Otherwise…’

She shook her head, as if mourning a lost cause. So much for the cheery optimism of the start-of-year rallying call that her spin doctors had put out on the staff intranet.

‘Bethany’s mother is dying, she never understood what happened to her daughter and she deserves closure.’

‘We’re not a charity.’ Uh-oh. The public-funds card. ‘This is taxpayers’ money we are spending. At a time when government revenues have fallen off a cliff.’

Time for Hannah to play her ace. ‘I had a word with a freelance journalist who writes occasional features for the Sunday broadsheets. If we could get a result in the case, he’d run it as a major story.’

Lauren leant forward. Had she been a bitch, Hannah thought, she would have wagged her tail. Come to think of it…

‘Seriously?’

Not really. Hannah had bumped into the man at Stuart Wagg’s party. He was drunk and talkative and was keen to show off. Their conversation had lasted less than three minutes and she doubted he’d remember it if and when he sobered up.

‘Of course,’ Hannah murmured, ‘I appreciate that favourable publicity isn’t the be-all and end-all.’

‘Absolutely not,’ Lauren said. ‘However, I’ll be absolutely honest with you…’

Les shot Hannah a glance which said there’s a first time for everything …

‘Ma’am?’

‘A few columns of positive coverage in the media wouldn’t harm. The chair of the Police Authority is up for re-election in May. He’d welcome a few supportive headlines.’

‘Reviving the inquiry might be money well spent, then?’ Hannah kept her face straight.

‘I think so.’ Lauren was judicious. Weighing the pros and cons with care and objectivity before coming down on the side of self-interest. ‘We need to reach out to the wider community in a very public manner. Good media relations are integral to what we do.’

‘Of course.’

‘That’s settled, then. Keep me informed, Hannah. And bear in mind that solving a cold case doesn’t equate to admitting the force got anything wrong in the past.’

‘I printed off the attachment to my email.’ DC Maggie Eyre thrust a couple of sheets of paper into Hannah’s hand. ‘The witness details you asked for.’

‘Thanks.’ Hannah waved Maggie into a chair as her gaze travelled down the list. ‘You’ve been busy.’

‘Six years is a long time. So far I’ve traced half the people who were interviewed after Bethany’s body was discovered. Most of them still live in the area.’

‘And the people we haven’t found?’

‘Include two of her closest friends from her school days, Phyllida Lathwell and Jean Pipe. They’ve probably married and changed their names. The main evidence they contributed concerned Bethany’s crush on a teacher, the woman who died. There was a fellow student, Gillian Langeveldt, who came from South Africa, and presumably went back there. A couple of work colleagues, with the depressingly common surnames of Smith and Brown. Plus some of the people who came forward, saying they’d seen her on or around the day she died.’

Hannah considered the names. ‘Graeme Redfern?’

‘Worked for an undertaker’s in Ambleside. Reckoned he saw Bethany having sex in a shop doorway the night before Valentine’s Day. Turns out that Redfern was sacked twelve months after Bethany died, and his old boss thinks he may have gone back home to Leeds. Not a nice man, Mr Redfern. He took a ring from a corpse’s finger and tried to sell it on the Internet.’

Hannah remembered now. Ben had mentioned Redfern to her. He’d dismissed the man as a sad fantasist. People like that always cropped up on the edges of a police investigation. There were other names on Maggie’s list. A pizza delivery man, Mickey Cumbes, whose criminal record included a prison sentence for indecent assault of a teenage girl, swore he’d seen Bethany kissing another woman outside the Salutation Hotel on the morning of Valentine’s Day. A dropped-out student who claimed to have seen Bethany being manhandled into an unmarked white transit van by a burly bloke who looked like an off-duty soldier. Once again, Ben didn’t believe a word of it. Roland Seeton was a long-haired layabout with two convictions for possession of illegal drugs, who probably nurtured some sort of grudge against the army. Any investigation attracted time-wasters, and tracking them down years after the event was a pain. But they had to give it a go. One lucky break was all they needed.

‘Good, you’ve noted Nathan Clare’s phone number. I want to talk to him as soon as I can. And to call on Bethany’s mum.’

‘I spoke to the care home.’ Maggie’s face wrinkled with dismay. ‘She had flu over Christmas and they said she’s fading fast.’

Hannah sprang to her feet. ‘Better get a move on, then. For Mrs Friend’s sake.’

Sleet slanted down outside the converted mill that was home to Amos Books. From his office on the first floor, Marc gazed out at the swollen beck as it rushed over the weir. The wooden decking beneath the window had disappeared under the water. On a fine day, customers of the cafeteria downstairs sat out and admired the scenery whilst they tucked into cappuccino and cake, but no book buyers had ventured out there for months. Half two in the afternoon, and the sky was the colour of Coniston slate. He switched on the radio to check the forecast, and was greeted by an avalanche warning for Helvellyn.

‘Snow and ice are unstable at all levels of the mountain.’ The Park Authority spokeswoman raised her voice to make herself heard above the storm. ‘Together with the gales, they make any ascent dangerous. High winds are moving the snow around, so it isn’t bonding. Surfaces underfoot are treacherous — all the time, edges are breaking away. With the sudden deterioration in the weather, there is added danger from a cornice of snow.

We think it may collapse at any time.’

Someone coughed behind him.

Marc swung round. He hadn’t heard the door open. He didn’t like people invading his private space or taking him by surprise. For years he’d been accustomed to a warning creak whenever someone came in, even if they didn’t knock. It had been a mistake to oil those hinges.

In the doorway wasn’t some nosey customer in search of a Wainwright first edition, but a woman in a thick fisherman’s jersey and jeans, with shoulder-length fair hair tied into a ponytail. Steam rose from the mug of coffee in her hand. He wasn’t sure how long she had stood there. Why would she wait and watch him, without a word? His skin prickled. Her silent scrutiny was curiously exciting, as if she could see right through him.

‘Our fell-top assessor says he has rarely seen conditions as bad as this in the Lake District,’ shouted the woman on the radio. ‘The wind chill factor is severe. We urge people, however experienced they might be as mountaineers, not to venture out until the situation improves.’