Martin Edwards - The Cipher Garden

Oliver was duly brought out for introductions to be performed and he insisted that the first round of drinks was on the house. Bel joined Daniel and Louise on the sofas in the lobby by the restaurant while Miranda indulged in a jokey flirtation with Oliver across the bar counter. The headache had vanished, Daniel noticed. She was back in control and soon her laughter was ringing across the room, drowing the dulcet tones of Astrud Gilberto singing Jobim classics. Louise didn’t have much to say, or perhaps she simply struggled to get a word in edgeways. Bel loved to chat and within a quarter of an hour Daniel had learned more about The Heights, Old Sawrey and the local populace than he could have picked up in a hundred Internet searches.

Hannah would be proud of me. Maybe so would Dad.

He mentioned working on the cottage garden and consulting a local firm. ‘Flint Howe Garden Design. Do you know them?’

‘Everyone knows everyone round here, Daniel. Compared to Old Sawrey, Brack is Los Angeles. Tina Howe’s daughter Kirsty works for us as a waitress. Lovely girl. You’ll meet her later, I hope. She rang an hour ago to say that she’s feeling off colour but she still hopes to come in. I told her not to worry, and make sure she gets herself right, but she absolutely insisted. A touch of the sun, I suppose, but that’s the kind of person Kirsty is, she hates to let anyone down.’

‘I met her brother through Peter Flint.’

Bel pursed her lips. ‘Yes, Sam’s a bright boy, though you wouldn’t necessarily guess it from speaking to him. As Kirsty says, he does like to pretend he’s a closer relative of the ape family than the rest of us. He made a mess of his exams and left school at the first opportunity, though if you listen to his mother, he had the brains to go to university. But working for Peter isn’t necessarily a waste of talent. You can make decent money out of gardening these days. Nearly as lucrative as plumbing if you’re any good. I know when the seal on our upstairs shower perished and the water was trickling down the…’

Unwilling to be diverted into reminiscences about rapacious tradesmen, Daniel said, ‘You’ve known the Howes a long time?’

‘As long as I can remember. Kirsty’s a super girl. Brave, too. She loves skydiving, she’s jumping for charity tomorrow, as it happens. I suppose she felt that if she wasn’t fit this evening, I might be cross if she was well enough to fling herself out of an aeroplane tomorrow afternoon. But really, I said to her, if you’re not up to working, that’s fine. Waitressing isn’t an easy job, Daniel. You need your wits about you. As well as doing the work with a smile on your face and making sure you keep your customers satisfied.’

‘I gather her father died in — terrible circumstances.’

Bel flushed. ‘Did Peter mention that?’

‘What happened?’ Louise asked.

‘He was murdered,’ Daniel said, keeping his eyes on Bel. ‘Hacked to pieces with his own scythe whilst he was working on a client’s garden.’

‘Jesus. Not the best advertisement.’

‘It was a very unhappy time.’ Bel’s head was bowed, her tone mournful and subdued, as though she were whispering during prayers. ‘You read about that sort of thing in the papers, you might expect it in cities like Leeds or Manchester, I suppose. You never imagine it happening on your own doorstep.’

‘You knew Mr Howe?’

‘We grew up together.’ She paused, for once disinclined to yield information. ‘For a while we were friendly, then we drifted apart. You know how it is.’

‘He married a local girl?’

‘Tina grew up in Hawkshead.’

She made it sound like hailing from Gomorrah. More a reflection of her opinion of Tina Howe than of the pretty little tourist trap, Daniel presumed. He went through a pantomime of working things out in his head.

‘Tina? I spoke to her when I booked the appointment. So she works in the office to this day, she’s Peter’s partner?’

‘In both senses, yes.’

‘Ah.’ Daniel wondered how to keep the conversation going, scrabbled round in his mind for a sentiment that might appeal to Bel. ‘She found happiness in the end, then?’

‘You could say that. Peter’s ex-wife might have different ideas. Poor Gail, she’s in the wine trade; we’re business colleagues as well as friends.’

‘He left her for Tina?’

‘Oh, Gail wanted a divorce once she saw the writing on the wall.’ She leaned over the table and whispered like a conspirator. ‘But I don’t believe she’s ever got over him. I keep saying, she should forget about him and find someone else. She’s a lovely-looking woman, but her confidence has been shot to pieces. It’s so sad.’

Louise finished her gin and tonic. ‘Men, eh?’

Bel looked across to the bar and Daniel’s eyes followed hers. Miranda was in full flow, telling her life story by the look of it, but Oliver’s gaze had strayed. He exchanged a glance with Bel before concentrating on Miranda again. Daniel guessed she hadn’t even realised she’d lost her audience’s attention.

‘I suppose I’m lucky.’ Bel started humming along to ‘The Girl from Ipanema’. ‘How many men can you really trust? Well, lovely to have a chat. Let me get you the menus.’

As she moved away, Louise muttered, ‘What are you playing at?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Come on, you can’t fool me. You were pumping her for information. What’s going on?’

‘Just taking an interest in the everyday lives of rural folk.’

‘Lying toad. That innocent expression may work a treat with most ladies, but I’ve seen it before, remember? You wear it to disguise your ulterior motives.’

‘Men, eh?’ he mimicked.

She laughed. ‘You bastard. For some funny reason I’m going to miss you when I go back home.’

Hannah’s dinner consisted of a takeaway Margharita pizza and a glass of Buxton water. Where was the pleasure in cooking for one? She decided against washing it down with half a bottle of wine. For several reasons, not least the need to keep a clear head. Sprawled on the sofa, dressed only in the cotton shirt she sometimes wore in bed, she flicked the television remote control, searching in vain for escape. Escape from Marc, from Nick, from crime, from everything.

She’d scarcely given Daniel a thought all day. Without knowing it, he’d become a sort of crutch; whenever she was unhappy, she let her imagination roam. In her head they conversed about his father and he listened with his customary intensity as she explained what it was like to work alongside the man who had taught her everything about detecting crime. Today, for the first time, it wasn’t enough. She needed to get to grips with reality, remind herself that he had Miranda; her man was Marc.

The television was rubbish. Celebrity mud-wrestling, a sitcom about AIDS, an hour-long documentary about babysitters from hell. Marc had bought her a DVD of a Dionne Warwick concert in Syracuse, but she wasn’t in the mood. She lifted a framed photograph from the mantelpiece, trying not to think when she’d last dusted the surface. In the picture, Marc’s arm wrapped around her as they boarded the liner at Nice. She could still feel the pressure on her shoulder; impossible to believe it was five years since that cruise round the Med. She’d loved going to sleep in one place and waking up in another. They’d lazed around the pool, wandered off on excursions to Taormina and Pompeii. In those days, she’d believed in everlasting love.

Was he up to something with Leigh Moffat? Was this meeting with the designer simply a blind? He’d slept with her sister, after all. Dale was younger and prettier, Leigh more of an enigma. Hannah had known the woman for years but still hadn’t a clue what went on inside her mind. Perhaps there was nothing personal between them, perhaps Leigh just shared Marc’s determination to keep the shop afloat. Then again…