Martin Edwards - The Coffin Trail

‘Diversionary tactic?’ Nick asked as they strapped themselves back into the Mondeo. ‘The stuff about Dumelow, I mean.’

‘What else? The first time Dowling told me about his ulcer, I wasn’t convinced. Second time around, it sounds more convenient than ever.’

Nick looked over his shoulder as he eased the car out of its parking space and into the road. ‘Do you reckon he killed her?’

‘Part of me wishes he had. I’d love to read him his rights, see that sly little grin wiped off his face.’

‘And Simon Dumelow?’

‘The first question is whether Dowling has any reason to hold a grudge against him. Besides, what was he saying? Not that she took her friend’s husband up to her room. Simply that she let him buy her a few drinks one night when Natasha was under the weather.’

‘Any evidence that Dumelow fancied Gabrielle? Or vice versa?’

‘Nothing that I recall. He struck me as pretty uxorious.’

‘Sorry? You forget I’ve not swallowed as many dictionaries as you.’

‘A man who loved his wife,’ she said with exaggerated patience.

‘Blimey,’ Nick said. ‘We don’t come across many of them, do we?’

‘Except for you.’

When he didn’t come straight back with a smart rejoinder she was disconcerted. Maybe she’d been tactless, perhaps for once he and Becky had quarrelled. Better carry on talking.

‘After Gabrielle turned up on their doorstep, the three of them spent time together, but whenever Simon was working, Natasha took her touring around the Lakes. She had no family here and probably not too many real friends. She said she was thrilled to see Gabrielle again. At one time they’d been inseparable.’

‘Gabrielle didn’t have any close ties either, as far as I can tell from the file.’

‘No. During her time in the States, she’d had plenty of boyfriends, but nobody even semi-permanent. She wasn’t the type to settle down, according to Natasha, she liked to drift from one place to another. At the funeral, the saddest thing for me was that there wasn’t anyone to mourn her, really mourn her, other than Natasha.’

‘The two of them were very close?’

‘No suggestion they had a lesbian affair, if that’s what you mean. But while they were in Leeds, they’d fought together to make headway in a tough business. Not that either of them achieved much success. Pretty faces and blonde hair aren’t everything, even in that game.’

‘What do we know about their time as models?’

‘Not a lot, that’s why I asked Les Bryant to make enquiries via his own contacts in West Yorkshire Police. See if we can pick up anything in Gabrielle’s past that might have a bearing. Natasha admitted that they saw the seamy side of life while they were struggling to make ends meet.’

‘Modelling was a euphemism for prostitution, then?’

‘The way Natasha put it, they preferred the company of generous men. She implied that Gabrielle may have gone the extra mile, but where do you draw the line between being nice to a rich bloke and screwing for money? In the end, they both decided to get out.’

‘And lucky old Natasha found herself a cushy billet with a millionaire property dealer.’

‘Maybe Gabrielle had the same idea. Let’s face it, there are plenty of potential sugar daddies in the big villas overlooking Windermere. Whatever the truth, I’d bet the key that unlocks this case is here in the Lakes.’

‘It may have been buried with Barrie Gilpin,’ Nick said.

‘Unless our mystery caller has it.’

‘Jean Allardyce is Dowling’s cousin. Possibly she has something on him, something she’s ready to share with us.’

‘Or on her husband.’

‘What if their marriage has just gone pear-shaped?’ Nick suggested. ‘She might be more willing to talk to us this time.’

‘We’ll find out soon enough.’

They turned into a narrow lane marked with a worn board proclaiming Brack Hall Farm only: no public right of way. As their route meandered through well-kept fields in the direction of the farmhouse, Hannah wrinkled her nose. No matter how long she lived in the countryside, she would never learn to love the smell of manure.

The sound of the car engine set a dog barking. From behind one of the out-buildings, a collie appeared, in belligerent mood. More evidence, she reflected, that animals reflect the personalities of their owners. As they neared the farmhouse, they could see Tom Allardyce, in waterproof jacket and gumboots, washing his Land Rover in the cobbled yard. When he caught sight of them, he spat on the ground.

Nick pulled up alongside the Land Rover and they both jumped out. The air was rank with the smells of sheep and dogs and disinfectant. Allardyce put down his bucket of dirty, foaming water and nailed them with a long hard stare.

‘You’re early.’

‘Sorry, Mr Allardyce,’ Nick said. ‘We’ll sit and wait, if you’re busy. Or perhaps it would be convenient to have a word with your wife?’

‘What do you want to speak to her for?’

‘Oh, you know. Background.’

‘Hard luck,’ Allardyce said sourly. ‘You’ll have to try another day.’

‘Isn’t she around?’

Allardyce shook his head and started buffing the nearside front door.

‘We can wait, if she won’t be long. When will she be back?’

‘No idea.’

‘Has she gone far?’

‘Dunno.’

Hannah said urgently, ‘Can you tell us where your wife is, Mr Allardyce?’

He didn’t even face her as he said in a negligent tone, ‘Search me.’

‘No, I’m not searching you. I’m asking you. Where is she?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. I’m not her keeper. She’s gone away.’

‘Gone away? Don’t you know more than that?’ Hannah stepped forward to eyeball him. ‘What sort of a husband do you call yourself?’

He gave her a crooked grin and said, ‘Long-suffering?’

After parting from Hannah Scarlett, Daniel had a sandwich lunch at a cafe in the Master’s House before returning to the library. This time he was searching out archive materials about Lakeland corpse roads that might provide background for the article he’d suggested to the editor of Contemporary Historian . For the best part of three hours, he lost himself in research. He hadn’t brought his laptop: a conscious decision. It had remained locked in its case and hidden under a pile of magazines at the bottom of a cupboard ever since his arrival at Tarn Cottage. Instead of tapping details into his computer in the manner that had become second nature, he jotted longhand notes in a school exercise book he’d picked up at the branch of WH Smith just down the road, much as he had when revising for his A Levels. It was a nostalgic indulgence, but when he checked his watch and realised that he’d spent longer than he’d intended, it dawned on him how much he’d enjoyed his afternoon’s work. Enjoyment. He’d yearned for it during his sabbatical and been disappointed. In Oxford it had eluded him but here, in a modest provincial library possessing a fraction of the resources available in the Bod, he’d rediscovered the pleasure of historical research for its own sake. At last he wasn’t racing against a deadline for a script or a book, or trying to find a new way of presenting old facts for a tutorial or seminar. He felt as though by chance he’d bumped into a childhood sweetheart and found that she was as much fun to be with as when they were both seventeen and first in love.

The sun made a belated appearance as he started back to the cottage. His mood was light and he followed a roundabout route along leafy back lanes, catching glimpses of Windermere every now and then, and of the chain-guided car ferry chugging across from Bowness to Sawrey. Low branches kept caressing the roof of his Audi. Whenever a vehicle approached from the other direction, one or other of them had to reverse as far as the nearest passing place. But the peacefulness of the Lakes amply compensated for any trivial inconveniences. He could understand why his father had fallen in love with this place, just as he could understand why the old man had liked Hannah so much. He liked her too; he felt sure he could trust her. With a little prompting, she would help him to get a handle on his father’s life after leaving home and to understand at last what had made the man tick.