Martin Edwards - The Coffin Trail

A sporty yellow Alfa 156 was parked opposite the entrance to the shop, a garish contrast to the rusting Fiestas and mud-splashed 4x4s on either side, and as unlikely a sight in a Cumbrian hamlet as a lumbering Hackney cab. Tasker’s was a double-fronted Aladdin’s cave, with narrow aisles leading between overflowing shelves that reached up to the ceiling. If you couldn’t find it in Tasker’s, the odds were you wouldn’t find it anywhere north of Manchester and south of Carlisle. Behind the main shop counter were rows of chunky toffee jars, the kind that Daniel had seldom seen since childhood. A girl was serving a small boy with liquorice and blackcurrant chews and it took an effort of will for Daniel to tear himself away from the sweet aroma and join the queue stretching back from the post office grill.

Half a dozen people were ahead of him. At the front, a shrivelled pensioner in a vast brown overcoat smelling of mothballs was arguing with a baffled teenage assistant. Daniel took his place behind a tall woman with blonde hair falling on to the shoulders of her wax cotton Barbour. After window-shopping at a pricy country-wear shop in Kendal the other day, he recognised her walking boots as top-of-range Le Chameau. She was clutching a packet of headache tablets. Turning, she smiled at him and towards the cantankerous old man.

‘I hope you’re not in a hurry to send that parcel. If you are, please do go before me. I’m not rushing off anywhere.’

She wasn’t wearing make-up and didn’t need to. Her lightly tanned skin was close to flawless, her cheekbones high, almost Slavic. Although he didn’t recognise her subtle fragrance, he had no doubt that it was expensive. No prizes for guessing that she owned the sporty Alfa outside.

‘Thanks, but I’ve all the time in the world.’

‘You may need it,’ she said. ‘Once Derek gets a bee in his bonnet…’

The old man raised his voice, blaming the assistant’s youth for her incompetence. Tiring of the wait, a couple of women in the post office queue drifted away to pick up milk and provisions. A burly man in shirtsleeves, presumably Mr Tasker, appeared behind the counter and joined in the debate with his dissatisfied customer.

Daniel grinned. ‘Regular occurrence, is it?’

‘It’s uncanny,’ she said. ‘Whatever time I call in, he always seems to be in front of me, making some sort of complaint.’

‘You live locally?’

‘Not far away. You?’

‘We’ve just moved here.’

‘I thought we hadn’t met. Do you live in Brack?’

‘Further down the valley. A little place called Tarn Cottage.’

Her eyebrows lifted. Whenever the cottage was mentioned, people seemed to take a step back. Everyone in the valley associated it with the Gilpins, which was natural enough after so many years, but they regarded it as inextricably linked to the murder of Gabrielle Anders.

‘How lovely. So we’re more or less neighbours. My husband and I live on the way out to your new home.’

‘Brack Hall?’

She laughed. ‘How did you guess? On second thoughts, don’t answer that. Maybe it’s better if I don’t know. Anyway, my name’s Tash Dumelow. Tash as in short for Natasha. Pleased to meet you…’

‘Daniel Kind,’ he said as they shook.

‘Kind?’ She frowned. ‘The name rings a bell.’

This kept happening, thanks to the television series. He’d never quite realised until the first programme was broadcast how many people spent their time with eyes glued to the screen. His ratings had scarcely rivalled the soaps, but people kept recognising his face or name. He decided not to enlighten her and instead said something anodyne about the pleasures of country living. She gave a vigorous nod of agreement.

‘You’re absolutely right. I was a city girl, but now I’d never want to live anywhere else. As Wordsworth nearly said, this is the loveliest spot that woman hath ever found.’

When Daniel explained that he’d moved up from Oxford and Miranda from London, Tash said, ‘So you don’t know people in this part of the world?’

‘Not unless you count the fact that in the last few weeks we’ve had half the tradesmen in Cumbria helping us renovate the cottage.’

She smiled. ‘Will you let me give you a tip, as one off-comer to another?’

‘Please.’

She lowered her voice, one conspirator briefing another. ‘If you ever hope of being accepted by the locals, you’ll need to get the details right. People like the Taskers don’t talk about Cumbria. That’s an administrative creation. Dating back to the Seventies, admittedly, but in a place like this, that’s only yesterday. The powers-that-be patched together Cumberland, Westmoreland, and a bit of Lancashire. If you’re a native, you talk about the Lakes. Or the Lake District.’

He grinned. ‘Thanks, I’ll try to remember.’

She patted him on the back. Her hand felt warm. ‘Now, you must come for dinner. My husband will be delighted to meet you both. We’ll be four off-comers together. Simon is a property developer from Skipton and I was born in Moscow, would you believe?’

‘I’d never have guessed.’

‘Oh, I moved to England in my teens and I like to pretend I’m a native. Anyway, we’ve lived at the Hall for ten years and people are only now starting to believe that — oh, I don’t know, that Simon really isn’t about to concrete over Kentmere or build a shopping arcade or multi-storey car park in Longsleddale. That’s one thing you’ll soon discover, Daniel. They are a suspicious lot round here.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ he promised. ‘And thanks for the invitation. We’d love to come sometime.’

‘Let’s make a date now,’ she said. ‘Would Saturday evening be too soon?’

By the evening, as he lazed outside with Miranda and a glass of Sancerre, listening to the soft sounds in the trees and watching the fading amber of the sun colour the fell-side, he’d started having second thoughts about dining out at Brack Hall.

‘We could make an excuse. Remember, we did come up here to get away from it all.’

‘We ought to get to know our neighbours,’ she said, waving a cloud of midges from her face. ‘This is our home now. Besides, I’m intrigued. Last time I was in the shop, I overheard Mrs Tasker chatting about the Dumelows.’

‘Don’t tell me. She’s a trophy wife. He’s a rich businessman who’s away a lot.’

Miranda chortled. ‘Mrs Tasker, a trophy wife? She must be size eighteen at the very least.’

He feigned to cuff her ear. ‘I suppose she’s torn between a Brackdale native’s instinctive loathing of excessively rich off-comers and fervent gratitude for their continuing custom. It’ll take a long time for us to gain acceptance in a place like this.’

‘You’re telling me. I asked at the shop if there was a gym in the valley and Mrs Tasker looked at me as though I wanted to celebrate a black Mass. In the end, she admitted there were a few places. Apparently Tash works out at a fitness centre in Kendal.’

‘I suppose she’s bored out of her skull, that’s why she was so quick to invite us around.’

‘She paints watercolours, she gives time and money to good causes. Does her best to fit into the community. But her husband’s away a lot — a tenant farmer looks after the estate.’

‘So let’s hear the gossip. Tales of wild debauchery up at the Hall?’

‘No mention of orgies, sorry. You’ll have to make do with me. The Dumelows seem popular enough. Mrs Tasker said they’d agreed to sponsor an arts festival in the village hall and to throw their grounds open for charity in the summer. But she and her friend were badmouthing the farmer. He’s not popular, even though his family have lived in Brackdale for generations. Apparently, he has a vile temper, and last week he blacked his wife’s eye after a row. They were both wondering why she puts up with it.’