Martin Edwards - The Cipher Garden

‘Gail was born here?’

‘Yes, Peter’s a foreigner. That is, his family come from Penrith. Might as well be Paraguay as far as the natives of Old Sawrey are concerned.’

‘So what do the gossips say about him and Tina?’

‘You’ll have to ask someone else, Chief Inspector,’ Roz said with a smile. ‘Me, I never listen to tittle-tattle. Personally, I’m just glad they’ve found happiness.’

A likely story. Hannah decided against pressing. Roz would reveal exactly what she wanted to reveal, no more, no less. Time to open another front.

‘I gather Warren had a high opinion of himself.’

‘Part of a man’s genetic programming, isn’t it? Chris is an honourable exception; he’s unbelievably self-effacing. I’ve never once heard him boast, far less run anyone else down. Warren was the opposite. He never worried if he trod on people’s toes.’

‘Did he make enemies?’

‘Scores, probably. “Take me as you find me”, that was his mantra. Most people decided they were better off leaving him. Other than Tina, she stuck with him through thick and thin. Talk about long-suffering.’

‘Any hint she might have been looking for an exit route?’

‘Divorce? God, no.’ Roz raised her thick eyebrows. ‘She’s not stupid, she went into that marriage with her eyes open. She knew perfectly well what she was letting herself in for.’

‘Including infidelity?’

‘Part of the package, with Warren. Then again, who knows what really goes on inside someone else’s marriage?’ Roz glanced at Hannah’s ring finger. ‘You’re single?’

‘I have a partner. You’re right, it’s impossible to be sure what makes other people’s relationships tick — but you might hazard a guess. Why would Warren Howe want to tie himself down, if he wanted to keep playing the field? As for Tina, you say she’s no fool, so why did she stay married to a serial philanderer?’

Roz stood up and shrugged. ‘Sex, presumably. That’s the usual answer, isn’t it, to most questions?’

Was there a flicker of amused contempt in the words, scorn for those who were slaves to lust? Hannah wondered if the jealousy to which Roz had confessed had faded as quickly as she claimed. Maybe it lingered, maybe she’d still hankered after Warren despite knowing his faults.

She followed Roz along the path. ‘Your husband was away from home at the time of the murder. Must have been hard, coping on your own.’

‘It was never going to be easy, whatever the circumstances. Imagine, Chief Inspector. Your husband has vanished and you come home from work one day, to find that the bloke you hired to sort out your garden has been scythed to death and deposited in a trench he excavated himself. But that’s not all. He wasn’t some boring stranger, he was an ex. Someone you got over in your teens, someone you still pass the time of day with. There’s always the tug of nostalgia, if hardly romance. How do you think that made me feel, Chief Inspector?’

Hannah didn’t have an answer. They strolled on through the wild garden, moving down the terraces towards the house. The fragrance of the roses hung in the air.

Roz broke the silence. ‘What makes you think you can solve the case, after so many years?’

‘As I said, we’ve received new information.’

‘Which you’re not prepared to disclose.’

‘Sorry, Mrs Gleave. My job is to ask, not answer. Is your husband due back soon?’

Roz consulted her wristwatch. ‘Chris is a law unto himself. I told you on the phone, he’s been recording a show for hospital radio. Could be five minutes, could be five hours. But he was in London when Warren was murdered. He can’t help you.’

‘I’ll judge that, if you don’t mind.’

Everyone had a weak spot, every recalcitrant interviewee had a topic they hated talking about. Hannah suspected that with Roz Gleave, it was her husband.

De Quincey had roused himself from his slumbers and was barking enthusiastically, no doubt angling to be taken for a walk. At Roz’s invitation, Hannah stroked his rough fur while inspecting the terracotta thermometer hanging on the outside wall. Twenty-five degrees Celsius, even at this time of day. No wonder she felt exhausted.

‘Had he disappeared before?’

‘Not for so long. Once or twice he went away for twenty-four hours. But not that length of time.’

‘What did you think had happened?’

‘If you insist, I thought he was dead. Chris is very sensitive, nobody knows that better than me. I thought the man I loved had killed himself, that marriage to me hadn’t been enough to make his life worth living.’

‘And then he turned up safe and sound?’

‘As you say.’ Roz swallowed. ‘I was wrong to doubt him. I tell him, he’s like a Herdwick sheep, he has the same homing instinct. That’s why Herdwicks don’t have to be fenced in, isn’t it? Well, Chris doesn’t need to be fenced in, either. I’d trust him with my life.’

‘So you forgave him for causing you such distress?’

‘Of course. I swore that I’d never let anything come between us again. And I never have, Chief Inspector. Never will.’

Peter Flint’s office was a brick-built extension to the house he had once shared with his wife. Kirsty presumed that the cost of buying out Gail’s share was the reason he’d never moved or separated his business premises from his home. Gail had insisted on having her pound of flesh in the divorce settlement — Tina liked to say Peter’s ex needed the money to pay for the booze she drank herself instead of selling to her customers. Just as well Flint Howe Garden Design was supposed to be thriving, though there were few obvious signs of affluence. Peter’s Renault needed a wash and a paint repair to a scrape on the bumper. In the past, Kirsty had found his lack of ostentation appealing, had been happy for her mother when she’d announced they were seeing each other. But that was before the letters had arrived.

Vertical blinds hung in the window and she could not see inside. A neat label read ‘Please ring for reception’, but the door wasn’t shut properly and Kirsty walked straight in. The walls were covered from floor to ceiling with Tina’s photographs of gorgeous gardens. Brilliant orange Chilean firebushes, elaborate mosaic paths of silver and grey, marble water features with concealed lighting and exotic steel sculptures with unexpected peepholes that resembled deformed Polo mints.

Her mother was bending over Peter Flint’s desk, handing him a note torn from a telephone pad. The floral leggings were a mistake, Kirsty thought. Their heads were almost touching. Even though they were talking business, the intimacy between them was palpable. Kirsty cringed.

‘Here is the address and phone number,’ Tina said. ‘His name is Kind. The cottage is at the far end of Brackdale, he said. Beyond the Hall.’

‘You’ve booked me in for tomorrow?’

‘I told him you were busy, but he insisted that…’ Tina spun round. ‘Kirsty! Don’t you believe in knocking? What on earth are you doing here?’

‘I wanted a word.’

‘Couldn’t it wait till I got back home?’

‘I never know when you will be home these days.’

Tina’s features hardened. No matter how she tried, she was unable to resist an argument. Perhaps marriage had done that to her, Kirsty thought, perhaps her willingness to stand up for herself had kept Dad interested.

‘Sorry, I didn’t realise I had to keep to a timetable.’

Peter scrambled to his feet and grabbed a folder from his desk. ‘Look, if you two girls fancy a chat in private, I’ll make myself scarce.’

‘No,’ Tina said. ‘I don’t have secrets from you, darling.’

That darling seemed unnecessary. Typical Mum, marking out her territory. Making clear where her loyalties lay. Perhaps they’d lain there for a long, long time.