Martin Edwards - The Coffin Trail

Both men were breathing hard. Allardyce raised a grimy finger and wagged it in Nick’s face. ‘Next time you try to be a smartarse, I’ll make you regret it.’

‘Mr Allardyce…’ Hannah began.

He turned on her. His face had reddened with fury. ‘Now you listen to me, missus. I don’t know what’s happened to Jean, but it’s my business, no one fucking else’s. You leave me to sort it out. All right?’

‘So you’ve been checking up on me, Detective Sergeant?’ Simon Dumelow said.

Nick stretched his arms in a semblance of a yawn. He’d regained his composure after the brush with Tom Allardyce and, like Hannah, had made himself comfortable in one of the vast armchairs in the drawing room of Brack Hall. Meanwhile Tash Dumelow was busying herself in her studio, sorting out pictures to be displayed in a forthcoming exhibition.

Simon hadn’t seemed troubled when they’d asked if he’d been drinking with Gabrielle in the pub the night before her death. According to him, Tash had complained of flu symptoms and had insisted that he keep her friend company in the pub while she got an early night. Simple as that. No question of Tash being kept in the dark, or being jealous. She had nothing to worry about: Gabrielle couldn’t hold a candle to her. Nor was he fazed by mention of Eldine Webber’s name. He just shrugged and claimed it meant nothing to him.

‘Purely routine, sir.’ Nick didn’t disguise the relish in his voice; he always loved mimicking Dixon of Dock Green.

‘My bean-counter was on the phone within five minutes of your calling his office. His secretary said more than she was supposed to and he was flapping about client confidentiality.’ He seemed, Hannah thought, to falter over the longer words. Had he been drinking? She sniffed the air, but could smell nothing other than Simon’s tangy after shave. ‘To say nothing of the risk of losing my audit work. I know for a fact that it pays for his mistress and her cosy apartment opposite the Lowry in Salford Quays. Of course, I told him not to worry. You weren’t seeking corroboration of my whereabouts for any sinister reason.’

‘Quite right, sir.’

‘I take it…’ Dumelow began. For a few seconds the sentence seemed to lose its way. ‘I take it that you’re looking into the fact that Jean Allardyce went AWOL yesterday.’

‘We are aware that she isn’t at home, sir, although Mr Allardyce hasn’t reported her officially as a missing person.’

Dumelow shrugged. ‘Chances are, she decided she couldn’t take any more of Tom. Between you and me, sometimes I feel the same. Not a bad farmer when he’s so inclined, but stubborn. And he cuts corners. When I pick him up on it, you can be sure he’s got an answer. Everything’s my fault for penny-pinching.’

‘You have no idea where she might be?’

‘None whatsover. It’s a bloody nuisance. My wife’s beside herself with worry.’

Hannah wondered if Tash Dumelow’s anxiety was motivated partly by a fear that she might have to dirty her pretty hands with the housework. An unworthy thought: no doubt Tash was genuinely concerned. Daniel seemed to think so and he struck her as a good judge of people. Did he fancy Tash? Most men would. But he didn’t seem the sort to cheat on his partner. Ben hadn’t been that sort, either. Although, she had to remind herself, he had cheated, and with Cheryl of all women.

Dumelow said, ‘So you’ve discovered that I lied to Tash about what I was up to yesterday. I suppose you wonder why.’

‘It did cross our minds,’ Nick said.

Hannah watched, trying in vain to fathom Simon Dumelow’s game plan. During the original investigation, he’d struck her as articulate and plausible and he still was, despite the odd hesitations when he spoke. But he’d been caught out in a lie and she presumed that in a few minutes they’d be listening to a confession of adultery. Yet he seemed as relaxed as if taking them on a tour of a building site rich in potential for development.

‘I’ll be glad to explain, but first I’d appreciate your confirmation that we’re speaking in confidence.’

Hannah said, ‘You’ll understand, we can’t sign a blank cheque. You wouldn’t in your business, Mr Dumelow. But in — delicate situations, we obviously try to be discreet.’

A wan smile. ‘Thank you. If you don’t mind, I’ll treat myself to a nip of whisky. I don’t suppose you will join me?’

She shook her head and they waited while he went over to a drinks cabinet and poured a tot from a crystal decanter. Even though he still seemed calm, she noticed that his hand was shaking.

‘With each year that passes, Detective Chief Inspector, I realise how important it is to savour the good things in life. So — you’re burning to know where I was yesterday. The answer is that instead of going to Manchester, I took a taxi all the way to Liverpool. I’d managed to book an appointment at short notice in Rodney Street.’

Rodney Street. Merseyside’s answer to Harley Street. Like a punch in the ribs, the realisation hit Hannah that she’d got it all wrong.

Dumelow grunted. ‘I can tell from your faces that you weren’t expecting that. True, though. I’ll give you the name of my consultant when we’re finished. To cut to the chase — I’ve been suffering from headaches lately, trouble with my balance, and things have kept getting worse. The other day when I was driving to my office, I found it difficult to keep off the pavement. My GP was obviously bothered and referred me to a specialist. It didn’t take that long to get an expert diagnosis.’

Hannah said nothing. There was nothing she could say.

Dumelow puffed out his cheeks. He was a strong man, but suddenly it seemed an effort for him even to talk. ‘Well, as any Yorkshireman might say, I’ve had a good innings. Only sorry it’s coming to an end. I rather fancied knocking up a century, but the Great Umpire in the Sky has decided to give me out sooner than I’d have wished. I have a tumour of the brain, and I’m told that it’s inoperable.’

It was quite a confidence to keep while they talked to Tash Dumelow. Her husband was adamant that he didn’t want her to know he was dying yet. He was determined to wait till the last possible moment before breaking the news.

‘We’ve had a great marriage, Detective Chief Inspector. Trust me, I know. My first wife turned out to be a harpy. But Tash and I have always suited each other down to the ground. I don’t want her to think of me as an invalid until she has no choice.’

Tash was chatting about the art of framing watercolours. Soon she would become a widow and she didn’t have a clue. When they’d first met, Hannah had regarded her with an instinctive mistrust. Ben Kind — who had definitely fancied Tash — had laughed and called it prejudice. Of course he was right; it was the bias of a hard-working professional against a woman who has ended up in the lap of luxury because she shagged the right man at the right time. With a pinch of envy thrown in because of Tash’s looks. Right now, Hannah wouldn’t have changed places for all the cash in Cumbria. How would she feel if Marc succumbed to a terminal illness? Even after his confession of infidelity, the mere thought made her knees weak.

She let Nick do most of the talking. When he asked if the name of Eldine Webber meant anything to her, Tash’s eyes widened but she took refuge in vagueness, saying simply that the name rang a distant bell. In the end, she admitted that he might have been one of Gabrielle’s boyfriends, but said she couldn’t be sure. It was all so long ago. Hannah was sure that Tash remembered more than she was willing to admit, but could understand her reticence. Eldine Webber belonged to a world that the lady of Brack Hall had left far behind.