Martin Edwards - The Cipher Garden

‘Hello, Daniel, long time no see,’ Leigh Moffat said as he moved along the counter, ignoring the fudge cake and millionaire’s shortbread with an effort of will little short of heroic. ‘What can I tempt you with?’

Their last encounter had been a fiasco. She’d visited Tarn Cottage, distressed by his interest in the killing on the Sacrifice Stone, and left infuriated by his refusal to let go of the past. He guessed it was rare for Leigh to lose her poise. This afternoon she looked cool and elegant in her neat uniform, though if she sampled much of her own baking, she must have needed a pact with Beelzebub to preserve that slim figure.

‘Thanks, I’ll have a double latte. How are you?’

‘Fine. Is the cottage renovation progressing?’

They chatted idly before he sat down with his drink at a table near the till. After scanning the ground floor for a couple of minutes he caught sight of Marc Amos, emerging from the office at the back of the building where he dealt with the mail-order side of the business. Marc was heading towards the cafe and he tossed a broad grin at Leigh before spotting Daniel a moment later. Sidling past a couple of backpackers clutching Ordnance Survey maps, he took a seat opposite Daniel and indicated the emptiness of the table to Leigh.

‘Couldn’t you persuade him to sample the cake?’

‘Some people obviously like to take the moral high ground.’

Marc turned back to Daniel. ‘I was worrying that you’d forgotten us. Hunting for anything in particular?’

‘The history of Brackdale? There’s a family, the Quillers, I’m interested in. Jacob Quiller was a cousin of the Skeldings of Brack Hall. He built Tarn Cottage.’

Marc pushed a hand through a thicket of fair hair. Good-looking, Daniel thought. He had a youthful carelessness and energy that lots of women must find attractive.

‘The name Quiller doesn’t ring a bell, but Brackdale rates a couple of pages in most books about the South Lakes. Let’s have a look.’

Daniel finished his drink and clattered after Marc up the rickety stairs to an airy room overlooking the weir at the back of the converted mill. Marc climbed a library stool and plucked a few sunned tomes from a high shelf.

‘Doubt if there’s much in either of these. Borrow them if you like. No obligation.’

‘You’ll never get rich that way.’

‘If I wanted to get rich, I wouldn’t have opened this shop in the first place. Be my guest.’

Through the door Daniel saw the first floor crammed with people of different nationalities, cameras slung around their necks. ‘Business is brisk?’

‘I like it best when they buy instead of simply admiring the stock,’ Marc grinned. ‘Hannah and Leigh moan that I devote too much time to acquiring books, not enough to getting rid of them. I’m off to Ravenglass in ten minutes. An executor’s looking to flog her uncle’s collection. He was an aficionado of detective fiction; there may be a few gems amongst the ex-library dross. I’ll email you with details of anything worthwhile. You like a mystery, Hannah told me. The detective thing must run in the family.’

Daniel gave a cautious nod. ‘And how is Hannah?’

‘Still trawling the cold case files.’ Marc glanced skywards. ‘It frustrates her, not being in the thick of the action all the time. But I tell her not everyone can make it to chief constable. And given that the people at the top have to spend all their time toadying to politicians, who would want to be? Your dad was content to stop climbing the greasy pole and I don’t blame him.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Daniel glanced at the books in his hand. ‘You’re too generous. I’ll happily buy these. And — give Hannah my regards.’

‘What are we going to do?’ Kirsty Howe asked.

At long last she and Oliver were alone in the restaurant. While she finished laying the tables for dinner, he’d made them both a pot of Earl Grey and put on Bel’s CD of Andy Williams’ greatest hits. Music to soothe girls by. They were sitting next to the window that looked out towards the lake, but neither of them spared it a glance. They had twenty minutes before Bel returned from the shop in Hawkshead, but Arthur and the Croatian girls might show up at any moment.

‘Nothing.’

‘We can’t do nothing!’

She pulled a piece of screwed-up paper out of the waistband of her skirt and laid it on the table and smoothed it out again. Her face was as crumpled as the sheet bearing the stark stencilled words.

Keep your paws off that chef, you dirty little whore.

She stifled a sob. ‘When I showed it to you this afternoon, you thought it was funny.’

Reading the note he’d laughed wildly, as if shocked beyond reason that anyone could take such an accusation seriously. Thank God Bel and the other staff hadn’t been around. Anger would have been fine, anxiety reasonable. But amazement bordering on disbelief — that cut her to the bone. No wonder she’d wept as she ran out of the restaurant.

‘I’m sorry, Kirsty. I was — well, shocked, I suppose. It seemed…’

‘Ridiculous?’ she asked in a muffled voice.

‘Don’t cry, Kirsty. It’s horrid for you. For both of us. But we mustn’t let it knock us off balance.’

‘You think it is ridiculous.’

‘It’s ridiculous to call you…cruel names.’

‘You think I’m still just a silly kid, don’t you?’

‘No, no. We’ve always been good friends, Kirsty, haven’t we?’ He leaned forward and rested a palm on her shoulder. His cologne smelled of sandalwood. ‘True friends. Friends who care about each other.’

She mopped her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. ‘I suppose so.’

‘You know so. And I hate seeing you upset.’

The directness of his gaze lifted her spirits. When he concentrated his attention on you, it was as if the rest of the world ceased to exist. Was this how Bel felt, when he looked straight at her? ‘So what are we going to do? Tell the police?’

He snatched his hand away as if he’d touched a live wire. ‘For goodness’ sake! How can they do anything? You’ve thrown away the envelope, we’ve both handled the message. Even if whoever wrote this left any fingerprints, which I doubt, they will have disappeared by now.’

Her tea had a tang of lemon. She preferred to take milk with it, but Oliver said that ruined the flavour and he was the expert. The song playing in the background was ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’, one of Bel’s favourite schmaltzy tracks, yet Oliver had put it on for her. How long would it take to break the spell by which Bel had entranced him? Three times in the past year, he’d kissed her on the cheek by way of greeting or farewell. The kisses were chaste, but each one set her pulse racing.

‘I was wondering…there was this programme on Channel 4 the other day, about investigating crime. What about DNA tests?’

‘This isn’t a hunt for a sniper or a serial killer. The police won’t be interested, Kirsty. Trust me.’

Of course she wanted to trust him, but his reaction baffled her. ‘You’re suggesting we let this…this creature get away with it?’

‘With what? Whoever sent that message wants to upset you. Don’t give him the satisfaction, Kirsty. The best thing you can do — we can do — is to behave as though nothing’s happened. Why should we let some sad person with nothing better to do get under our skin? Let them spin their lies about someone else if they want to spark a reaction.’

She stared at him. ‘As simple as that?’

‘Of course.’ He was breathing hard, as if this meant a lot to him. ‘After all, we know there isn’t a shred of truth in this note, don’t we? You’ve never laid a finger on me, nor me on you. We’re just very good friends — and I swear, we always will be.’