Martin Edwards: The Cipher Garden

‘What do you reckon, ma’am?’

‘The perfect tip-off. Clear, concise, no sitting on the fence. Only trouble is, there may not be a shred of truth in it.’

‘No signature, ma’am, no contact details. Obviously we have to view a message like this with a huge amount of suspicion.’

Linz shook her mane, initial enthusiasm fading fast. She always took her cue from senior officers. Hannah wanted her to risk backing her own judgement more often, but Linz must have studied the methods that had taken Lauren Self to the giddy heights of ACC. Play the percentages. Never go out on a limb.

‘Chances are, it’s the work of someone with a grudge against this Tina Howe and it won’t take us anywhere in detecting the crime. But that doesn’t mean we should discount it. Especially since the ACC wants the Cold Case Review Project to keep on rolling.’

‘Cool!’

Linz showed a lot of white, hungry teeth. No hint of irony. Hannah felt a spasm of guilt for her own mixed feelings. She had a good team, loyal and cohesive. Not too clannish or inward-looking, like some police units, not too many monster egos. Nick worked tirelessly at keeping colleagues enthused. A natural gift; he’d never read a motivational handbook in his life. Perhaps that was his secret.

‘So in cases where we don’t have anything more than an anonymous tip-off, you might consider a detailed inquiry?’ Nick asked.

‘If it seems justified and we have the capacity to take it on.’

‘We can’t investigate every lead on every case from the past twenty years.’

‘We have to prioritise, but if this message takes us along an interesting road, let’s not turn back at the first bend. When did the message arrive, Linz?’

‘In the morning post, ma’am. The envelope’s on my desk. Same style of writing, addressed to the Cold Case Review Team. Local postmark, no fingerprints. Presumably whoever sent the message wore latex gloves. Should I arrange for the old files to be brought out of archive?’

‘Please. If we decide to investigate in-depth, we can have a full team briefing when everyone’s around. In the meantime, let’s go back to my office for ten minutes. DS Lowther can give us a quick overview of the case from his own recollection.’ She turned to Nick. ‘Did the original inquiry ever put anyone in the frame?’

His face might have been sculpted from the stone of Scafell. ‘One thing stands out in my mind about the murder. When we looked for whoever wanted Warren Howe dead, we only had one problem. We were spoiled for choice.’

‘Daniel, this is Louise.’

‘Louise?’

She’d caught him off guard, otherwise he wouldn’t have repeated her name into the handset in that baffled way, as if uttering a mysterious foreign term for the first time. Of course, being Louise, she allowed a pause long enough for the realisation of his stupidity to sink in. A familiar feeling, as if he were eleven years old again. His shoulders tensed. Never mind garden nettles; the sting of her sarcasm couldn’t be rubbed away with a dock leaf.

‘Yes, Louise. For Heaven’s sake, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten who I am?’

‘Sorry.’ He could hardly say: I’ve been hoping for a call from someone else. Especially not with Miranda draped over the rug a yard away. The moment she heard Louise’s name, she spread herself out in a pastiche of a Modiglani model, mischievously hoping to distract him into a further gaffe. She’d never met his sister, but from what he’d said about her, she guessed the two of them would never be soulmates. He dragged his eyes away from her and tried to focus on appeasement. ‘Louise, long time no speak. How are things?’

‘All right.’ She didn’t sound it. ‘And you? Settled into your leafy idyll?’

‘We can finally move from room to room without choking on dust or gagging at the smell of paint. I love walking the Brackdale Horseshoe and I’ve never felt fitter. At least I hadn’t until I started trying to civilise the garden. I’m not sure my back will ever forgive me.’

‘I would never have thought it of you.’

‘You sound like a priest scolding a choirboy for nicking the silver collection.’

Louise sighed, a low gust of disappointment echoing down the line. In her teens, she’d specialised in sighs the way impressionists specialise in funny voices. Tragic sighs, frustrated sighs, patronising sighs; her stock was inexhaustible. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean. Ever since you were a child, you always had your nose buried in a book. You were so desperate to make it to Oxford. I never imagined that you’d leave of your own free will.’

‘Things change, Louise. Run their course.’

‘True.’ She spoke so softly that Daniel wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. Louise agreeing with him? Amazing. She’d be voting in favour of closer European integration next. ‘Mind you, I’m glad that Mum isn’t alive to hear you say that. Honestly, Daniel, I bet she’s turning in her grave. She was so proud when you started publishing. Let alone when you signed up with the BBC. She insisted on recording all your television programmes, you know.’

Daniel held his tongue. When Louise talked about their mother, it was usually the prelude to a dig about their father. She’d never forgiven the old man after he’d abandoned them for a blonde floosie. Their mother had made them promise never to speak to him again and Louise had kept her word, although many years later Daniel had talked to him on the phone. Like his sister, he’d been hurt by the betrayal, but he didn’t want to be soured by bitterness. He’d been sure his father loved them and he’d yearned to know Ben Kind’s side of the story. But he’d never heard it.

‘Are you still there?’

‘Uh-huh.’

Miranda continued to distract him. She’d become bored with giving him a show and was hunting around for the bra that she’d dropped somewhere three-quarters of an hour ago.

‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve called like this. Out of the blue.’

He groaned inwardly. Surely I remembered your birthday? What else can I have done wrong?

‘It’s good to hear from you.’ As soon as he said the words he realised, almost to his surprise, that he meant them. ‘We ought to keep in closer touch now I’m up here in Brackdale. The Lake District’s much nearer to Cheshire than Oxford. Straight up the M6; you could be here in no time.’

Miranda paused in the act of slipping on her thong as she heard him extend the invitation. She raised her eyebrows and mouthed: is that such a good idea?

‘Kind of you,’ Louise said.

She sniffed loudly. For a moment Daniel thought she might have a cold before realising to his horror that she must be trying to suppress tears.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes, yes, I am. Well…no, not really.’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘No, it’s nothing. I feel so pathetic. Me, a grown woman, behaving like a soppy teenager.’

One thing about Louise, she’d never been a soppy teenager. After their father’s disappearance, she’d grown up fast. Mum had leaned on her and she never had the time for self-indulgence.

‘Rodney and I have split up.’

He had to restrain himself from punching the air. Rodney was an up-and-coming associate in a large firm of solicitors, a specialist in mergers and acquisitions, aiming to make partner in the next couple of years. Louise was a lecturer in law and they’d met at a seminar, proving that romance can blossom even over a chat about minority shareholders’ rights. Rodney had acquired Louise, it seemed to Daniel, in much the same spirit as he’d picked up the PG Wodehouse first editions that he kept in a display cabinet. He didn’t do a lot of reading; he didn’t have the time, and frankly he didn’t have much of a sense of humour. But a client had told him that Wodehouse was a sound investment.