Martin Edwards - The Serpent Pool

‘Which is why I’m surprised Louise can’t come up with any likely candidates.’

‘Wagg acted for the rich and famous, people who have skeletons in their closet. If he was caught up in criminal shenanigans, money laundering, or drug deals or something-’

‘Did he use drugs?’

‘Not to my knowledge. Louise would never touch them, and if she’d found out that Wagg was involved with drugs, she’d have run a mile. When she was sixteen, the brother of her best friend died after taking an ecstasy tablet and the tragedy left a scar. She’s never so much as ventured a quick drag on a joint.’

‘Ever heard Louise or Stuart mention the name of Bethany Friend?’

From the other side of the bar came a chorus of whistles and guffaws. It sounded more like the climax of a rugby match than a general knowledge quiz.

‘Never. Why would there be a connection between Stuart and a young woman who died of drowning?’

Hannah looked down and saw her glass was empty. ‘Can I get you another drink?’

‘Don’t you need to get back home?’

‘No rush.’

When she glanced up, she saw his gaze fixed upon her. She’d taken care to make sure that her expression gave nothing away, but he was his father’s son. Skilled at seeing through people.

‘Then I’ll have a cranberry juice.’

Waiting her turn at the bar, she decided it made a change to be looked at with any sort of curiosity. Stuck in a rut, at work and at home, she was bound to feel flattered by the attention of an attractive man. Especially one who wasn’t spoken for any longer. Miranda, the lovely narcissist, hadn’t appreciated how lucky she was. As the barmaid dragged herself away from a chat with a colleague, Hannah ventured a quick glance back at the corner booth. The shape of Daniel’s head, the jut of his chin, reminded her of Ben. If the hair had been grey instead of dark, she’d swear she was seeing a ghost.

Physical, primitive desire jolted her. Hot and shocking, as if she’d touched a live wire.

‘What would you like?’ the barmaid asked.

Hannah’s throat was dry, her knees were mushy and about to buckle. Stuttering her order, fumbling with her purse, she felt her cheeks burn, as though all her clothes had slid off, and everyone could see exactly what she was made of. The barmaid rolled her eyes, thinking she was pissed. Somewhere in the distance, the question master announced that the capital city of Senegal was Dakar.

Pull yourself together. You’re not sixteen anymore.

Deep breaths.

The moment she’d steadied herself, she ferried the drinks to their table, taking extravagant care not to spill a drop. Daniel stuffed a felt-tip pen back in his trouser pocket. He’d been doodling on a beer mat. A picture of a hangman.

‘Cheers,’ he said absently. ‘I was thinking…’

‘Yes?’

Shit, she was almost reduced to a nervous squeak.

‘They are an odd trio, aren’t they? Bethany Friend, George Saffell, Stuart Wagg? But they do have at least one thing in common.’

She stiffened. ‘And what’s that?’

A roar of delight gusted over from the other side of the bar. The fat question master had finished reading out the answers. If only every puzzle had a ready-made solution. Daniel drummed his fingers on the surface of the table.

‘All three of them loved books.’

A ludicrous connection, yet the more they tossed it around, the more she was intrigued. Millions of people still loved books, even in the electronic age, but with Bethany, George, and Stuart alike, books were a consuming passion. Bethany yearned to write books, the two men simply collected them.

‘So, what are you suggesting?’ She enjoyed playing devil’s advocate with him. ‘Three people murdered by someone who loathes the printed word?’

He grinned. ‘Maybe the opposite. The man you’re looking for might be mad about books.’

Marc? No question, her partner matched the profile. He knew each of the victims. But the idea that Marc might be responsible for three deaths made no sense. She’d lived with him, slept with him, she believed with all her heart that he was incapable of violence. No doubt he’d revelled in Bethany’s admiration. As for Saffell and Wagg, how absurd to imagine that he’d bite the hands that fed him, far less cut them off for ever.

‘What makes you think the murderer is a man?’

‘The level of cruelty, I suppose.’ Daniel ticked the names off on his fingers. ‘Bethany, tied up so that her head could be put beneath the water. George, bound so that he couldn’t escape being roasted alive. Stuart, crippled and then dumped down a well hole so that he froze to death.’

‘Women can be crueller than men, I think.’

‘When provoked?’

She gave a tight smile. ‘Men can be very provocative.’

‘It would take muscle power to lift that metal cover over the well,’ he mused. ‘Though a strong woman could do it.’

‘Your father always warned me against making assumptions based on stereotypes. Not a matter of political correctness, just good police work. You can’t presume that Stuart was murdered by a man.’

‘I stand corrected,’ he said, so meekly that she had to laugh.

‘That’s one difference between you and Ben. He never admitted he was wrong.’

‘Yeah, I remember.’

‘Not that he was often wrong. He decided early on that someone had murdered Bethany. It hurt him that he never managed to give her justice.’

‘Suppose the same person killed George and Stuart. Why the six years of inactivity? Hardly the pattern of a conventional serial crime.’

‘You’re an expert in serial crimes?’

‘Everyone is nowadays. Have you not seen the television schedules?’

‘No time for telly, but of course, you have a point. The time gap is a puzzle.’

‘There must be an explanation.’

‘The simplest being that the literature link is coincidental, and Bethany’s death has nothing to do with the other two.’

‘Is that what you think?’

He sounded like a crestfallen teenager. It took an effort of will not to squeeze his hand and reassure him that his theory was plausible. Even though she couldn’t see where it took the investigation.

‘To tell you God’s honest truth, Daniel, I’m not sure what to think.’

‘Doesn’t sound like you, ma’am.’

Out of nowhere, DS Greg Wharf had appeared at her elbow, twinkling like a genie unwilling to wait for a lamp to be rubbed. His breath smelt of beer and his expensive teeth formed a smile bright with lascivious triumph as his gaze flicked from Hannah to Daniel and back again. Anyone would think he’d caught them in flagrante.

A tidal wave of embarrassment swept through her. For a moment, she thought she was going to throw up all over his nice new lambswool jersey.

She managed a curt nod, not trusting herself to speak.

‘This your local, ma’am? First time here for me. Cosy, innit?’ Greg squatted on his haunches, relishing her discomfiture. ‘The bloke next door found out I like a good quiz and asked me along. Our team lost, the other lot had a couple of ringers — one of them was last year’s Brain of Cumbria. No worries, it’s all a bit of fun.’

He beamed at Daniel and offered his hand. ‘Greg Wharf. I’m lucky enough to be a member of DCI Scarlett’s team. First week, and so far I’m loving every minute.’

Sarky bastard . Hannah pictured him regaling the lads back at Divisional HQ with the story of how he’d chanced upon the DCI, playing away from home. He’d probably attribute it to good bobbying. Following his nose.

‘Daniel Kind.’

‘I recognised the face. Seen you on television, haven’t I?’ A wolfish grin. ‘You’re the son of the detective?’