Martin Edwards - The Serpent Pool

Sandra reached into her knitting bag and pulled out his most recent book, beaming like a conjuror with a rabbit. ‘I wonder, before you go, would you mind signing this to me? I must have something to write with somewhere…’

He itched to dash out and buttonhole Hannah, but good manners held him back. Sandra produced a ballpoint pen, and the chance of escape was gone. By the time he made it to the pavement outside, Hannah had disappeared into the mist.

‘There’s something special about foggy days.’ Even on the mobile, Cassie’s voice sounded warm and tempting. ‘I love it that everything is so blurry and mysterious.’

‘Like life, really,’ Marc said.

He’d been back at his mother’s house for the past hour, chewing his nails up in his room, while downstairs, her vacuum cleaner roared. Yearning for the phone to ring, hating himself for acting like a heartsick adolescent. Cassie had cut their first conversation short, saying she needed time to think. Despite the weather, she was setting off for a walk to clear her head. She’d promised to call later, but he hadn’t been sure she’d keep her word.

‘Mmmmm.’

He waited.

‘So.’ She was breathing hard. ‘Would you like to come over?’

Wanda Saffell made Hannah wait in a cubbyhole while she chatted on the phone with someone who was mixing pigments for her next book of woodcuts. From the fragments Hannah overhead, Wanda was spinning out the conversation. The buggeration factor, Les Bryant called it. For all her forty-something elegance, Wanda was a stroppy teenager at heart. Was that common streak of adolescence the bond between her and Nathan Clare? She’d go berserk if Hannah arrested her. It might be worth it, just to wipe the sneer from her face.

‘How long will this take?’ Wanda demanded when at last she hung up. ‘You see how busy I am.’

The table in the little room was piled high with vast printed sheets, ready to be folded. ‘Don’t you have anyone to help you?’ Hannah asked. ‘Nathan Clare, for instance, does he lend a hand?’

‘Why would I want help?’ Wanda asked. ‘I adore the physical act of making books. Not for one second would I go back to public relations, and all the false smiles and back-stabbing. As for Nathan, he’s a creative writer. A very different craft.’

‘But the two of you are very close.’

Wanda put her hands on her hips. Even in a thick Aran sweater and grubby chinos, her figure curved in provocation. Easy to understand why Nathan was smitten. Let alone old, priapic George.

‘Is there a law against it?’

‘Do you or he drive a small purple Micra?’

‘Nathan never learnt to drive. He hates following rules, the Highway Code would bore him rigid. My car is a BMW, you must remember when I carved you up on the way to Stuart’s party?’

‘And now Stuart is dead.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re poking your nose into that case now. Given up on Bethany Friend?’

‘Did Bethany and Stuart have a relationship?’

Wanda moved closer. Even her breath seemed to smell of ink. ‘What are you driving at?’

‘Can you answer the question, please?’

‘Who knows? I doubt it, they swam in different pools.’

‘She temped for his firm the year before her death.’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘Did you know Nathan Clare was a client of his, then?’

‘So, what? Any minute now, you’ll hint that Bethany rented a flat through George.’

‘Did she?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea. This all sounds like wild guesswork. To my knowledge, only one person links the three of them.’

‘Namely?’

Wanda smiled. ‘Marc Amos, of course. George and Stuart were his customers, Bethany…’

She let the sentence trail away, but Hannah was ready for her this time.

‘Aren’t you forgetting? You are another link.’

‘I wished George no harm. But even if I did, why should I want to kill Bethany or Stuart?’

‘And you’re suggesting Marc has a motive?’

‘That’s your department, Chief Inspector. I’m not accusing anybody of anything. Though if I were you, I’d pay attention to what your man gets up to with the hired help.’ A mischievous smile. ‘Don’t look puzzled, it might shake my faith that our police are wonderful. Haven’t you met that foxy assistant of his?’

‘Assistant?’

‘Cassie Weston. I spotted her when I called in with copies of Nathan’s book. She tried to keep out of sight, but I’d recognise that slinky figure a mile off. Tell you what, Chief Inspector, instead of hassling me, you’d be better keeping an eye on her.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning that when she worked for George, the two of them had an affair.’

Hannah dug her nails into her palm. Just as well that she’d steeled herself for this interview.

‘Cassie Weston worked for your husband?’

‘And slept with him. Not that I minded much, our relationship was fucked by the time she was. She’s trouble, always has been.’

‘When was this?’

‘Not long before he died. He made quite a fool of himself over the girl. Every Thursday lunchtime, they’d nip off for a bit of hanky-panky in a hotel. He did his best to keep it quiet; nobody knew. I only found out when he fessed up after she finished with him. He was an old goat with all the pretty girls in his office, but Cassie made a deeper impression than the rest. He was badly cut up when she said it was over. She’d teamed up again with the love of her life, and she told George what he could do with his job. To say nothing of his Thursday lunchtimes.’

‘Am I leading you astray?’ Cassie asked.

Despite the cold, and the fact that she obviously didn’t spend much on heating, she was only wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Bare arms, bare feet. And there was no mistaking that she hadn’t put on a bra. They were in her living room, a couple of half-empty flute glasses on the table between them. On the way over, Marc had stopped at an off-licence, and splashed out on a bottle of Bolly. The opened bottle was in an ice bucket in her kitchen. He wasn’t rushing it. They had all the time in the world. This wasn’t about sex. He’d been at pains not to touch her since she’d greeted him at the door with a peck on the cheek. All he wanted was to get to know her better.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Well, I have an excuse, it’s my day off. You’re a businessman, you ought to be minding the shop. Or out bidding at auction, or exhibiting at a fair.’

He settled back in his chair. ‘All work and no play, et cetera.’

‘So, I’m therapy for a stressed entrepreneur, is that it?’

‘We can all do with a bit of therapy, now and then.’

She stretched out her legs. Toenails painted pink to match her fingernails. ‘What can I do for you, then?’

‘Tell me your life story. We’ve worked alongside each other for months, but I don’t know enough about you.’

‘You wouldn’t be interested.’

‘Wrong.’ He took another sip of champagne. ‘I’m fascinated.’

‘OK, you asked for it.’

As Hannah departed the whitewashed home of Stock Ghyll Press, she checked her messages and saw that Maggie Eyre wanted her to ring as soon as she was free.

‘Any news?’ she asked.

‘We’ve found a fresh name.’ Maggie sounded as though she’d run a four-minute mile. ‘Someone whose path crossed with all three victims.’

‘Go on.’

‘She was on the list of students at the university at the time Bethany died. It was her first year, though she dropped out at the end of her second term, a few weeks after the body was found. And she had a spell with George Saffell’s firm last year. Go back eighteen months, and she temped on maternity cover for Stuart Wagg.’