Martin Edwards: The Cipher Garden

She ran her hands over the hog’s back, careless of splinters. She envied artists, people who began with a blank canvas or page or a block of marble and had the talent to create something fresh. Imagine the sense of freedom it must give. Whereas she stayed in Old Sawrey, waiting at table and yearning for something that always seemed tantalisingly out of reach. Wanting it so badly that someone who must hate her had noticed, and was tormenting her because of it.

After blundering out of the restaurant, she’d needed to get away. Driving on autopilot, she’d wound up at Grizedale Forest, and parked near the old Hall. Would they miss her if she never showed up again? Oliver, how would he react? Would he suffer a pang of regret?

She crossed the high bridge. On the other side of the water, a circle of steel glinted from the branches of a spreading copper beech. Each familiar landmark she passed calmed her, made her feel more secure. Further on, lights powered by the sun flickered in an elaborate beehive hanging high in the trees. From the river, she heard the shouts of paddling children and the conversation of their parents. Somehow she couldn’t imagine having kids of her own. Plenty of time, her mother said, but that wasn’t the point.

The track emerged from a leafy tunnel into open grassland and she subsided on to a large carved seat, allowing the sight of fields and fells to wash over her.

She glanced at her watch. Oh God, better get going.

Jumping to her feet, she felt her muscles straining. She’d need to get into shape before her next parachute jump. As for Oliver, she would not give in. She would see this through.

‘You never said if you fancied anyone as Warren’s killer,’ Hannah said.

‘That’s right, I didn’t.’

Nick was sitting at his desk in the corner of the CCR team’s room. He was entitled to an office of his own and there’d been talk of him sharing with Les Bryant, who had come out of retirement to give the team the benefit of his wisdom on the fine art of murder investigation. Whether Nick’s preference for remaining in the thick of things was down to an egalitarian impulse or a wish to escape being holed up with the dourest of Yorkshiremen, Hannah wasn’t sure. Right now her sergeant’s gaze was fixed on the computer screen. With all the ringing phones and competing conversations, his voice was so quiet that she had to bend over his shoulder to hear his reply. His aftershave had a subtle tang.

‘Any particular reason?’

‘Nobody believed it was a stranger homicide. Finding evidence to justify an arrest was a different story.’

‘You must have had your suspicions.’

He’d been scrolling through his emails, scrapping routine messages. The sight of his still-overcrowded inbox made him sigh. ‘Why do people send out so much garbage? Half the stuff I’m copied in on isn’t worth a glance. Talk about information overload.’

They often cried on each other’s shoulder about the time-wasting bureaucracy of the modern police service. But she could spot a diversionary tactic a mile off.

‘Did you have a hunch?’

‘Remember the Gospel according to Ben Kind? Theories are for losers.’

A shrewd blow, if below the belt. She hadn’t just been the late Ben Kind’s sergeant, she’d been his disciple. Ben had taught her more about police work than all the trainers in Hendon put together and, though it had taken her years to admit it, even to herself, her affection for him had teetered on the brink of something more serious. More dangerous. Not long after retiring he’d been killed in an accident, with so many things unspoken between them. She still mourned him, still thought about him now and then. She could still hear the scorn in his voice at team briefings when eager subordinates indulged in fanciful speculation. Like Nick said, theories were for losers.

‘OK, you win.’

He stabbed delete with his forefinger one last time, then turned to face her. ‘It’s not about winning. The simple truth is that we never came near to making an arrest. If you ask me, this so-called tip-off won’t take us any closer.’

‘I’m not long back from Old Sawrey.’

‘So that’s why you disappeared. Off to catch up on the village gossip?’

She shook her head. ‘I just wanted to get a feel of the place before I summoned up the energy to plough through the rest of the files. I see that Bel Jenner and her chef hold the licence of The Heights jointly.’

‘Oliver Cox fell on his feet. The previous chef left soon after old man Jenner died and soon Oliver was giving the widow something to smile about. The restaurant may not be full to bursting every evening, but Bel won’t lose sleep. Her husband left her with a few quid. The business was more like a hobby. Probably still is.’

‘I saw Warren Howe’s daughter.’

‘Last I heard, she was working there as a waitress.’

‘Kept yourself informed about what goes on in the village, then?’

He shrugged. ‘Chris Gleave and I were at school together. He was a couple of years older than me, but we got on all right. We haven’t spoken for ages but we never lost touch completely.’

‘So you knew the man who owned Keepsake Cottage?’

‘He and his wife still live there.’

‘They own a foul-tempered mongrel.’

‘Name of de Quincey.’

‘Yes, it gave the impression it was as high as a kite. What’s wrong with a nice harmless pet called Tabitha or Tom Kitten?’

Nick laughed. ‘Did de Quincey take a piece out of you, by any chance?’

‘No, but it looked as though it would love to. Tell me about Chris Gleave.’

Nick’s eyes flicked back to his screen. More messages had popped up while they had been speaking. ‘Better catch up on the backlog first. Fancy a drink later on?’

‘Sure.’

Marc was going to be late home this evening, which made things easier. He seemed jealous of her friendship with Nick. Yet they never as much as exchanged a peck on the cheek. It wasn’t that sort of relationship.

‘See you in the Shroud, then.’

Half a mile from The Heights, Kirsty stopped at a passing place when she saw a van coming towards her. As it drew near, she recognised it as belonging to Peter Flint. Oh God, there was no escaping him at present. She lowered her head, keeping her eye on the foot pedals, but predictable to a fault, he didn’t drive on past. He stopped when his car was level with hers and wound down his window.

‘Off to work?’

Silly question. She was tempted to say so, just to wipe the cheerful beam from his face. Their relationship was fraught, but she knew he was making an effort and she always found it difficult to be rude

‘That’s right.’

‘I’ve just been talking to Bel. She wants help with that little garden at the back of the restaurant. Moles have been playing havoc with the lawn and she’d like the border replanting. Oliver’s no gardener, so I said I’d ask that brother of yours to lend a hand.’

‘Best of British.’ She couldn’t think of a reply less sarcastic.

‘I know, I know.’ Peter’s sigh was theatrical. ‘Sam doesn’t like knuckling down, he doesn’t seem to understand, this is a service business. The client is king. Or queen, in Bel’s case. But I haven’t given up hope. Deep down, he has a genuine feeling for plants. Like Warren, of course.’

Kirsty gave a brusque nod and Peter seemed to realise that it wouldn’t be tactful to embark on a conversation about her father.

‘Well, must be getting on. Nice to see you. And if you speak to Sam before I catch up with him, you might mention the job for Bel.’

‘I’ll see if he can fit it in his busy schedule.’

He chuckled to show that he saw the funny side of her brother’s idleness and with a wave was gone. Turning into the car park at The Heights, Kirsty spotted Gail Flint’s sporty yellow Toyota. As usual, Gail had parked in a space reserved for the disabled; it was the type of thing the old bag did just for the hell of it.