Martin Edwards - The Cipher Garden

‘Jesus, what murderer in his right mind would risk that?’

‘Nostalgic, or what? Those were the days.’

‘Actually, I yearn for chance to gather suspects in the library. No worries about reading them their rights. At least in those books you can count on finding out the solution if you battle through the last page.’

He hugged her close. She often forgot how sinewy his arms were. Each time they held her, she was happy to remember.

‘Tough day at work?’

‘We have a new cold case. A landscape gardener, murdered with his own scythe. Grisly.’

‘As it happens, I was talking about gardens in the shop today with your friend Daniel Kind.’

‘Oh yes?’ Mention of Daniel quickened her pulse, but she mustn’t seem too interested. The last thing she wanted was for Marc to get the wrong idea, as he had done about her relationship with Ben. ‘More of an acquaintance, really. I’ve not been in touch with him since the Brackdale file was closed.’

‘You’ve been watching his TV shows. I noticed the DVD in the rack.’ For a moment she thought he was going to make an issue of it, but thankfully tonight his good humour was unshakeable. ‘His latest passion is the history of his own cottage garden. Maybe you should call him in as a consultant on your murder case. Make the most of having an expert in detecting the past on your doorstep.’

Hannah laughed and flicked through an aged copy of Busman’s Honeymoon , wrinkling her nose at the title page description, ‘A love story with detective interruptions.’ One of the chapters was headed ‘When You Know How, You Know Who.’ A wildly optimistic assertion, not one you’d find in the ACPO manual. Yet so often the key to solving a murder lay in victimology, finding out how a person behaved to find out why they died.

Put it another way. When you know Howe, you’ll know who.

Kirsty Howe’s bottom lip trembled as she studied the torn scraps of paper. She’d fished them out of the bin-liner and, forgetting that she’d been about to put out the rubbish, she was hunched over the breakfast bar, piecing together the bits like completing a jigsaw.

The roar of the washing machine made it hard to think. She switched it off and focused on her task. The envelope was addressed to Sam. She’d recognised the writing at once — the same horrid stencilled style of the note which had destroyed her day.

He’d screwed up the pieces, making tight little balls, but she smoothed them out with care. Soon the message was staring up at her.

Why did you hate your father? Jealousy?

She’d hardly seen Sam all day. He always left early for work and she mostly came back after he’d gone to bed. This evening was an exception, for he was staying out later than usual. Their mother reckoned he had a girl over in Broughton, but he’d not mentioned anything to Kirsty. His life revolved around football and beer and motorbikes and women. Throughout her teens, she’d entertained the romantic hope that tragedy would bring them closer together. For all his laziness at school, he was brighter than he liked to make out and she hoped that, once out of his father’s shadow, he would reveal a sensitive side. After all these years, she was still waiting. Worse, he was smart enough to have picked up on her liking for Oliver and he never lost a chance to sneer.

As she taped the fragments of the message together, she heard the thundering of a motorbike for a few moments before the engine died. The smell of alcohol wafted as he strode through the back door, helmet in hand. His eyes might be tired but his skin was glowing. She’d seen that look on the face of a couple of boys from Hawkshead whom she’d slept with. A look of bleary triumph. Her lovers reminded her of Lakeland twitchers excited by the sighting of a rare bird, or trainspotters at Oxenholme who’d ticked a rare number off their list. All they wanted was to bask in their conquest until they targeted a new trophy.

‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘I found this.’

She waved the anonymous message at him. He made as if to snatch the note from her, but she was too quick for him and, evading his lunge, skipped off her stool and stood in the doorway, daring him to hit her. He’d never gone so far as to strike her, at least not since he was a boy and he used to poke her in the ribs or twist her arm behind her back.

He moved forward, the soles of his trainers scraping on the tiled kitchen floor. His mouth was inches from hers. It wasn’t only the stale beer that stank, but the Pot Noodle on his breath. No wonder he hardly ever ate at The Heights, even though he and Peter had been doing some work for Bel in the garden lately. His idea of gourmet dining was curry and chips.

‘Hand it over.’

‘Why? You didn’t want it, obviously. I found it in with the rubbish.’

‘Who do you think you are, some kind of detective, sticking all the bits together again so you can have a good laugh?’

‘Sam!’ Even through the haze of drink, she hoped he might realise he was being unfair. ‘I was upset for you. The fact that someone has written something so nasty to you.’

‘Who cares about shit like that?’

‘I care! Nobody ought to say that about my brother! Do you think we ought to tell the police?’

‘What?’ He blinked. ‘You must be joking, didn’t we see enough of them to last a lifetime when…?’

‘When Dad was murdered.’

‘Well, yeah.’

‘I know, but it isn’t acceptable, Sam. Who can possibly be doing this?’

‘Some interfering scumbag with nothing better to do.’

‘I didn’t know you had any enemies.’

He scowled. ‘You never know what some people might do after a couple of pints.’

‘So you think a man sent this?’

‘No idea.’

‘I thought it might be a woman.’

‘Someone I’ve screwed, you mean? Some bitch trying to get her own back?’

She winced. ‘Surely it’s someone who knows something about Dad. It’s so strange, after all this time.’

He shrugged. ‘I’ve got better things to do than lose sleep over it.’

‘You mean you’re going to let them get away with this?’

She thought she’d landed a shrewd blow. Turning the other cheek wasn’t Sam’s style. Again, she watched his fuddled expression while his brain cranked into gear. In the end, he took the easy option. Typical.

‘I’ll think about it tomorrow. It’s been a long day, and I’ve put my back out. You know what, I’ve been digging all afternoon, it’s a terrible slog.’

Whatever form of exercise had put out his back, Kirsty doubted that it was gardening, but she bit back a waspish retort. They needed to be on the same side over this. Someone wanted to hurt both of them.

‘We can’t brush this under the carpet. Who could bear such a grudge against us?’

Her brother spread his arms. He didn’t have an answer, so much was clear.

‘It’s me they’re getting at, not you.’ She didn’t speak and he frowned. It was almost possible to watch the jumble of thoughts clattering around inside his brain. ‘Hey, did you get one?’

‘One what?’

‘You know what I mean.’ He waved vaguely at the note. ‘A creepy thing like this. Poisoned pen letter or whatever you call it.’

‘All right.’ She put her hands on her hips, wanting to face him down. ‘What if one was sent to me?’

A coarse smile. ‘How could anyone write anything unkind about sweet little Kirsty? What did it say?’

‘It doesn’t matter, it was nonsense. A pack of lies.’

‘Come on. You shouldn’t…’ — he was groping for the simplest words — ‘you don’t want to blush if you’re trying to hide something from me.’

He reached out and clamped his hand on her shoulder. She screamed in disgust at his foetid breath, she couldn’t stop herself shoving him away with all her might. He lost his balance and finished up on the floor. When he looked into her eyes, he didn’t seem to like what he saw. Perhaps it was revulsion; she couldn’t disguise how she felt.