Martin Edwards - The Coffin Trail

She dialled the mobile number again.

‘This is Hannah Scarlett.’ A long pause. ‘Have I called at a bad time?’

‘No, no,’ Daniel said hastily. ‘It’s fine, absolutely fine.’

‘I felt guilty about rushing off this morning, after I’d dragged you over to Kendal.’

‘No need.’

‘I really didn’t give you much of an insight into Ben as I knew him. I’m sorry if you thought it was a wasted journey.’

‘Of course not.’ He didn’t want her to hang up without agreeing to talk to him again. ‘If sometime you could spare…’

‘Tell you what. I’m not far away at the moment. Are you busy this evening?’

‘No.’ He groaned inwardly: why keep saying no? ‘I’m just taking a walk in Tarn Fold, that’s all.’

‘Do you know The Slow and Easy?’

‘On the road into Whitmell?’

‘That’s it. If you’d like to drive over, I can meet you in the lounge bar for a chat. Not for more than half an hour, mind. I mustn’t get back home too late.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Sorry,’ she said abruptly. ‘You’re breaking up. I’ll see you there in twenty minutes.’

The Slow and Easy was an old coaching inn by the side of the road connecting Brackdale with the neighbouring valley. A blackboard outside bore the legend: I wandered lonely as a cloud and then I thought — sod it, I fancy a pint. The lounge boasted slate tiles and an inglenook with a smoky fire and there wasn’t a jukebox or pinball machine in sight. According to a magnificently bearded old man leaning on the bar, the carved oak bar had been made from a four-poster bed. Hannah wanted a tonic water and he opted for half a pint of Jennings’ Sneck Lifter as a treat to celebrate her unexpected call. On the way here he’d speculated what lay behind it. He wasn’t naive enough to believe that a senior police officer would indulge in spur of the moment socialising with someone she’d only met once. Presumably her sudden enthusiasm for an early second meeting was linked to the interviews that Leigh Moffat had complained about. He was glad to see her, whatever the ulterior motive.

‘It was good of you to phone,’ he said, handing her the glass. ‘So — you were working late?’

‘I’m off duty now,’ she said carefully. ‘As you may have deduced from the change of outfit.’

In sweatshirt and jeans, she looked even slimmer than when they’d met in the morning. Smaller, too. Almost fragile. He pulled his eyes away from her and took a draught of beer.

‘Since we spoke this morning, I’ve heard I’m not the only one making waves. Your detectives have been quizzing Leigh Moffat and her sister.’

Cradling her chin in her hand, she smiled and said, ‘I told you, news travels fast in these parts. So you’re already plugged into the Brackdale grapevine?’

‘Not exactly. In fact, I suspect I’m in danger of becoming persona non grata the length and breadth of the valley. Leigh came round to the cottage specially to rebuke me for making a song and dance over my Barrie-Gilpin-is-innocent campaign.’

‘Did she now? I suppose you wouldn’t like to tell me more?’

He made a show of weighing up her request, but could see no good reason to refuse. ‘Why not? It’s not as if we spoke under the seal of the confessional.’

‘Fire away, then.’

As he recounted the conversation with Leigh, her face remained a mask. When he’d finished, she just said, ‘Interesting.’

‘Why do you think she’s so worked up?’ he asked.

‘Oh, women are strange creatures,’ she said with a faint smile.

‘Thanks, but I already knew that.’ He finished his drink. ‘I presume you’re not going to take me into your confidence?’

‘Nothing to tell.’

‘That I doubt, somehow.’

‘Can I buy you another drink?’

He glanced at his watch. ‘You said you don’t have long.’

She gave a lazy shrug and picked up their glasses. ‘Half of bitter, was it?’

‘I’ll settle for an orange juice this time. I’ll need all my wits about me if you’re going to interrogate me any further.’

She laughed. ‘I hope you don’t feel I’ve lured you out here on false pretences.’

Settling back in his chair, he said, ‘Am I complaining?’

Unexpectedly, she blushed. ‘I will talk to you more about your father. If not tonight, then soon. Promise.’

He watched her thread her way through a crowd of burly young men in hiking gear. If she was aware of their admiring glances, she gave no sign of it. The bearded Methuselah at the bar leered at her shamelessly but she took no notice. She moved with a purpose; he guessed that everything she did, everything she said, had a particular direction in mind. Many bosses might feel threatened by a subordinate with drive, especially a woman subordinate with drive, but he was sure his father would have encouraged her. He’d have been a good mentor. Might even have been a good father, given the chance.

When Hannah returned with the drinks, she asked how he was acclimatising to life in the Lakes. ‘Missing the dreaming spires yet?’

‘Not me. These days they dream too much about tuition fees and graduate debt. This place suits me fine, even if I have ruffled a few feathers.’

‘How about your partner? Miranda, did you say?’

‘Yes, Miranda.’ He took a taste of his drink. Fresh orange, not the carbonated crap he’d become accustomed to at his local in Oxford. ‘Funny thing is, if it weren’t for her, we wouldn’t have moved here. She was passionate about it. But it’s not been easy for her, living in a lonely cottage surrounded by nothing but trees and water and building materials. Very different from Islington. Less happening, fewer people to talk to. She’s not as anti-social as me.’

‘I can’t believe you’re anti-social.’

‘Seldom happier than when I’m on my own, lost in a book. Miranda loves company. Apart from a not totally successful dinner at Brack Hall, we haven’t mixed much.’

‘But you’ve become friendly with the Dumelows?’

‘I bumped into Tash in the village and she invited us over to the Hall. I blotted my copybook by arguing Barrie’s case. Miranda wasn’t best pleased. I guess she’s hankering after the social whirl.’

‘The other man’s grass?’

‘Something like that.’ A bawdy joke caused the hikers to erupt in an ear-splitting guffaw; perhaps a jukebox would have been preferable, after all. ‘We always want what we haven’t got.’

‘You’re right.’ A faraway look had come in her eyes and he wondered what was passing through her mind.

‘No one’s immune, I suppose. I was talking to a woman yesterday, a farmer’s wife. She’s spent all her life in the Lake District, the place must be part of her body and soul, and yet she was telling me how she yearned to get away. She has this romantic notion about the old pioneers, travelling across the prairie.’

Suddenly he had Hannah’s full attention. She leaned across the table and said, ‘Can I ask who that was?’

He blinked. ‘She’s called Jean Allardyce. I met her at Brack Hall. She and her husband…’

‘I’m acquainted with her husband. He and I talked this afternoon.’ She hesitated. ‘His wife wasn’t at the farm and he didn’t seem to know when she’d be back. What exactly did she tell you?’

Taking his time, he repeated as much of what Jean had said as he could remember and told her of Tash Dumelow’s concern about her apparent disappearance. As he talked, he was acutely aware of Hannah’s intense concentration upon him. In other circumstances, he might be flattered that an attractive woman was hanging on his words. But he didn’t fool himself: what interested her was the information he had to impart.