Martin Edwards: The Cipher Garden

The picture featured in a brochure extolling Flint Howe Garden Design and a dog-eared copy had been kept in the file. A footnote credited the photographer, Tina Howe. She’d also been responsible for the shot of her husband’s partner. Bespectacled, with a fuzz of greying hair, high forehead and long nose, Peter Flint looked as though he’d be more at home in a college library than getting his hands dirty in the great outdoors.

Family snaps spilled out of a buff folder. The Howes, parents and children, lifting celebratory glasses at a table in a restaurant. ‘In happier times’, as the gossip columns might say. A painting of a crimson sunset above shadowy heights hung behind them; Hannah guessed at nightfall over the Langdale Pikes. A card propped up next to an empty bottle of Bollinger depicted popping corks and proclaimed Have a Wonderful Anniversary!

Tina Howe’s equine appearance lived up to its advance billing, but her bone structure had a subtle elegance. Hannah understood why Nick had seen past the horsy jaw and tombstone teeth, and discerned a formidable spirit. Plenty of men would be attracted to such a woman, and not merely because her black top displayed a dramatic cleavage. Few would be a match for her.

Sam was a more obviously handsome version of his father. His sister had laid a hand on his arm, as though trying to protect him from committing some faux pas. A mass of auburn hair tumbled on to her shoulders, and her features were unmistakably those of a Howe. She must have been about sixteen and her demure cocktail dress hinted at a figure that might one day rival her mother’s, but Hannah thought the smile was misleading. Everyone else was enjoying themselves, but Kirsty Howe had anxious eyes.

Nick came in and glanced at the file. ‘Taken at the restaurant in the village, a couple of weeks before the murder. Warren and Tina’s china wedding anniversary.’

‘China?’

‘Twentieth.’

‘You know everything.’

‘I wish. Finished the file yet?’

‘Halfway through. Seems the team never got near to making an arrest.’

‘Spotted the name of the SIO?’

‘Clueless Charlie deceased? Yeah, explains a lot. The criminals of Cumbria were heartbroken when he suffered that coronary.’

‘It wasn’t brought on by overwork. He could have scuppered the force’s spidergram single-handed if he was still around. Charlie certainly lived up to his nickname during the Howe case. The inquiry was all over the place, we seemed to do nothing but thrash around in the dark. One thing about Charlie, he gave good PR, and the Press loved him for it. Did you ever work with him?’

‘No, but I gather I missed a treat.’

‘He was a throwback to the Fifties, Fabian of the Yard plus handlebar moustache. Rumours swirled that he might even dust off his old trilby for the cameras. Anything to divert attention from lack of progress to report. Before it came to that, the trail got cold and the media lost interest. So did Charlie. One more unsolved crime. You and I owe him a vote of thanks. For cold case work, he was a one-man job creation scheme.’

Hannah laughed. ‘So he never came close to an arrest?’

‘I actually once heard him say cherchez la femme . At least I think that’s what he said. With a Geordie accent that strong, it’s not easy to tell. He liked women almost as much as food, did Charlie, but the female psyche baffled him in a way shepherd’s pie and chips never did. When Roz Gleave confounded him with her alibi, he turned his attention to her mate Bel Jenner. Personally, I suspected it was an excuse to ogle her while sampling three courses of home cooking in her restaurant.’

‘And did you fancy Bel Jenner?’

‘A beautiful woman,’ Nick said carefully, ‘none the worse for being a wealthy widow still on the right side of forty. Her husband was much older and he’d died a couple of months earlier and the new young chef was drooling over her. For all we knew, they’d been having an affair while the husband was on his deathbed. Oliver, the chef ’s name was, Oliver Cox. The little boy who kept coming back for more, Charlie called him.’

‘Oh yeah? Tell me about the husband’s death.’

‘Don’t get too excited, it was natural causes. Brain tumour. As far as Bel Jenner was concerned, Charlie was pissing in the wind. She had no motive, and it was the same with Roz. Suppose Warren Howe tried it on with one of them, so what? Bel and Roz had grown up with him, they were ex-girlfriends with no illusions about the great charmer. If they were in the market for a quick shag, fine, but they’d have known there wasn’t any more to it than that. You ask me, he was content to stay married to Tina.’

‘Why did she put up with him?’

‘Why do so many women put up with unsatisfactory men?’

Hannah shrugged. Good question.

‘Christ knows how long the marriage would have lasted once their children left home. Why resort to murder? Charlie wondered about Kirsty Howe, before he decided that his prime suspect wasn’t female at all, but her brother Sam. As far as most of us were concerned, that as good as ruled the boy out of contention. Poor old Charlie, he had a reverse Midas touch.’

Legend had it that Clueless Charlie’s final promotion to the heady rank of detective superintendent was intended to keep him out of harm’s way, far from the sharp end of detective work carried out by the humble foot-soldiers. By a bitter irony, he hadn’t been smart enough to draw the fat pension earned by dint of fabled incompetence. He’d made the ultimate bad career move in succumbing to the charms of a voluptuous civilian worker from police HQ. Her voracious sexual demands had taxed his portly frame once too often. Result: a massive coronary and a funeral where his widow wept for more than one reason.

‘How about Sam as a father-killer?’

‘If every kid who ever had a set-to with his dad turned to murder, the world would soon be an empty place. In any case, I told you that Sam’s sister and mother alibied him. That trip up the Hardknott was convenient for all three of them.’

‘Too convenient?’

‘I was reluctant to believe it. Sam was supposed to have been helping his father in Roz Gleave’s garden, but he cried off at the last minute. Our difficulty was, they had their story and they stuck to it. Word perfect.’

‘Suspicious in itself, then.’

‘Yes, but who was covering up for whom?’ The careful grammar struck Hannah as a clue to Nick’s character. His instinct was always to obey the rules. ‘Tina may have been guilty, but we never found any buttons to press that would have prompted Kirsty or Sam to grass up their mum. To lose one parent is a misfortune, as Lady Bracknell said; to lose two…’

‘You know what statistics tell us. Most murder victims know their killers.’

‘And most of the killers are lovers or partners, past or present. But that didn’t narrow the field of suspects much in this particular case.’

‘So we’re wasting our time if we follow up the tip-off?’

‘You’re the boss.’

‘I’m asking your opinion.’

‘You said yourself, the likelihood is that someone’s trying to settle a score with Tina. This note doesn’t offer any corroborative evidence. Not a sliver.’

Hannah glanced again at the photograph of Warren Howe, taken by the woman accused of slashing him to pieces. Despite the smile, his blue eyes were watchful and she saw a challenge in the bared teeth. He was daring her to solve the mystery of his death.

‘Once I’ve read through the file, I might drive out to Old Sawrey, get the feel of the place. I’ve never been further than Hill Top.’

Nick took a breath. ‘If we start turning over stones, who knows what we’ll find? Plenty of worms, but maybe nothing to do with the crimes we’re investigating.’