The Hanging Wood (21 page)

The painting bore a caption so blurred it was barely legible.

Castor and Pollux
.

‘Well, well,’ Louise murmured. ‘Go on, break it to me gently. What on earth connects a Victorian painting of family pets with Aslan Sheikh?’

Daniel lifted a lined sheet covered in tiny copperplate. ‘Milo Hopes loved his labradors. In his writings, he gives the impression they meant much more to him than his servants. Eventually, first Castor, and then Pollux, died at ripe old ages, and he established a graveyard in the Hall grounds. That’s where they were buried, and it became a family tradition for the Hopes’ dogs to be laid to rest alongside, with headstones recording their names and dates.’

‘Aaaaagh!’ Louise couldn’t contain her frustration. ‘Come on, Daniel, enough of the history, what’s the link with the here and now?’

His eyes flashed with amusement; for an instant, he was a teenager again, relishing a half-forgotten pleasure, the chance to tease his impatient sister.

‘Seriously? You still don’t see it?’

‘Utterly gorgeous.’ Hannah waved towards the sun-soaked cipher garden and the slope of the fell beyond. ‘You’ll find it a wrench to leave, Louise.’

Louise, in cropped top and denim shorts – the severe business suits that used to be her uniform had been consigned to the charity shop – was bustling around the table at the back of Tarn Cottage, filling their tumblers with cranberry juice. She’d produced a chicken salad they could eat outside while Hannah and Daniel discussed what he’d found in the library. When he’d called her, she said at once she was free to come over. The invitation was Louise’s idea; hopeless as she was with managing her own love life, the control freak in her relished matchmaking for her brother.

‘I’ve inflicted myself on Daniel for long enough. He doesn’t need a sister cramping his style. It was my fault he started spending time at St Herbert’s.’

‘Just as well you did,’ Hannah told him. ‘I bet you’re right about Castor and Pollux.’

‘I’d have got there sooner,’ he said, ‘but the painting has been moved during the renovations of Mockbeggar Hall. It hung in the dining room until recently. Purdey Madsen mentioned it when we were there on Friday night – she asked where were the pooches – but I didn’t realise what she was talking about.’

‘So you reckon Callum’s body is buried in the old pets’ graveyard?’ Louise asked.

This was Daniel’s theory, the only explanation that fitted the facts. Why else would two dogs dead for more than one hundred years mean anything to Orla, and consequently to Aslan?

Hannah nodded. ‘While we were interviewing at the caravan park on Friday, the CCTV picked up a man in the grounds of Mockbeggar Hall, an area closed to the public. They assumed he was a caravan-dweller whose curiosity had got the better of him, but he looked very much like someone DS Wharf and I had seen loitering around the entrance to Lane End Farm.’

‘Aslan Sheikh?’ Louise asked.

‘I’ve seen Aslan’s passport photos, two of them, one for each of his identities. Those little snaps are hardly ever good likenesses – least I hope not, mine makes me look like Rosa Klebb – but I’m sure it’s the same bloke. Orla had told him about Castor and Pollux, and he wanted to see the pet cemetery for himself.’

Daniel chewed on a celery stick. ‘I wonder what else Orla told him? Did someone decide they had to kill him, to preserve a secret?’

‘Looks that way,’ she said. ‘So, what secret could be so dangerous?’

The three of them ate without speaking for a minute or two. The atmosphere was heady with the scent of potted lavender and roses scrambling over the trellis nailed to the cottage’s rear wall. Daniel was conscious of Hannah’s presence beside him, and her long slim legs an inch away from his. Wearing a short, semi-floral, belted summer dress, she was displaying much less flesh than Louise, but in sitting down, he’d brushed against her, and the contact sent a jolt of excitement through him, as if he’d touched a live fence at a farm.

At this time of evening, they no longer needed to shield their eyes from the glare. Barely a thread of cloud lingered over Priest Ridge, and the fell was bathed in a mellow light. The cipher garden was alive, and never wholly quiet, but the only sounds were the scurrying of squirrels in the undergrowth and up the trees, and the piping call of a redshank concealed by reeds beside the tarn.

‘When I lived in the city,’ Louise said, ‘I took crime pretty much for granted. The month before I moved out, my next-door neighbour was mugged on a tram, and a woman who lived half a mile away was dragged into a park and raped by a teenage thug with a knife. But the Lakes should be different. A place so lovely shouldn’t be disfigured by cruelty and violence, it feels like an offence against nature.’

‘There’s nothing gentle about nature.’ Hannah blinked at the tartness of the cranberry juice. ‘It’s wild and unsentimental. Ask any farmer.’

‘Speaking of farmers,’ Daniel said softly. ‘I can’t get out of my mind what has happened to this man Hinds. If I ever had children, it would break my heart if one of them were
to suffer pain. But to have three, and lose them to violent death, one by one …’

‘He lost his brother, too.’

‘You don’t suppose someone hates him so much, they want to make him suffer?’ Louise asked.

‘Over the space of twenty years?’ Daniel spread his arms. ‘Who could hate a man that much?’

‘And you are assuming Callum did die a violent death.’

‘What’s the alternative? Whether or not he was buried in the same grave as Castor and Pollux, he must be dead. In the end even Orla lost hope that he was still alive. If he was killed accidentally, somebody covered it up. Why do that, if they weren’t afraid of being arrested, or if they weren’t responsible for his death?’

‘All right, but as for Mike Hinds, it’s unthinkable that he was the culprit. Surely?’

They turned to Hannah, who was leaning back in her chair while her eyes followed the flight of a buzzard over the trees on the lower reaches of Tarn Fell. She dabbed at her lips with a paper napkin.

‘Of course you’re right. A father, murdering his offspring? Straight out of a Greek tragedy.’ She toyed with a slice of lettuce she’d speared with her fork. ‘But it was your father who taught me that being a detective means being ready to think the unthinkable.’

Louise paled. ‘I hear the man has a foul temper, but even so …’

‘Let’s not run ahead of ourselves,’ Hannah said. ‘Aslan was murdered, but Callum might have been the victim of some kind of accident, and there’s still a strong likelihood that Orla committed suicide. Daniel, I’ve been mulling over
what you said about getting a handle on the sequence of events.’

‘It begins twenty years ago, with Callum’s disappearance,’ he said. ‘The past colours the present.’

His sister feigned a yawn. ‘There goes the historian again.’

‘The snag is,’ Hannah said, ‘we know much more about what’s happened over the last week. Not one, but two prodigals returned to their roots and finished up working side by side at St Herbert’s.’

Daniel nodded. ‘Coming back set Orla thinking about Callum again. She spotted a family resemblance in Aslan – it wasn’t a neurotic fancy. But when Aslan denied that he was Callum, her last hope of finding her brother alive went up in smoke. Hard to take.’

‘And Castor and Pollux?’ Louise asked.

‘She was familiar with the Hopes archive, she must have been aware of the pet graveyard. In fact, given that she spent the first eighteen years living a stone’s throw away from Mockbeggar Hall, first at Lane End, then with Kit Payne in his home in the caravan park, she almost certainly knew about it for years. Yet she never mentioned the dogs to me until that last time we talked.’

‘There may be something else in the archive that we didn’t have time to read,’ Louise said. ‘Some clue that set her on a fresh track.’

‘Such as?’ Daniel shook his head. ‘How could a memoir a century old explain what happened to her brother? Orla picked up new information, for sure. But where from, God knows.’

‘Whatever the new information was,’ Hannah said, ‘it
must have pointed to whoever was responsible for Callum’s disappearance.’

A crow’s wings flapped above the roof of the cottage. Daniel put down his knife and fork.

‘It’s all about history; the answer lies in what happened twenty years ago. Understand that, and you understand why Aslan finished up in a tank of slurry.’

The sunset was glorious, a soft reddish-orange glow above the silhouetted fells. Once they’d drained their cups of camomile tea, Daniel asked Hannah if she’d like a stroll around the garden before the drive home. As they walked, they talked about a hundred and one things while Louise, tactful for once in her life, disappeared on
dishwasher-loading
duty.

‘Your dad would have been thrilled,’ Hannah said, ducking beneath a low oak branch, ‘to imagine talking to you about a case. It grieved him that he missed out on your growing up. His choice, Louise would say, but it cost him dear. I suppose you don’t remember much from the days when he was still at home?’

‘I have more memories than you might imagine. Vivid, too. The big cases, when he was out all night, the stuff that got in the newspapers. It excited me, his detective work, I was proud to be his son. Even if he didn’t know it, even though the job screwed him up. He cared too much; he was often stressed to the eyeballs.’

‘That never changed, till the day he retired. It’s the nature of police work, you can’t be left untouched by it. If dealing with crime and catastrophe doesn’t stress you out from time to time, you aren’t paying attention.’

She caught her foot on a tree root, and stumbled. He grabbed her arm to prevent her falling to the ground. Her flesh was firm and warm. As she steadied herself, he released his grip and she halted by an old yew tree, resting her back against the trunk.

‘Thanks. I ought to look where I’m going.’ She smiled and said lightly, ‘It’s so easy to trip up and make a fool of yourself, when you least expect it.’

‘I can’t imagine you making a fool of yourself.’

She put her head to one side, considering him. ‘We all do it sometimes, don’t we?’

He cleared his throat. ‘I like it, that you tell me about your work. Reminds me of life with Dad. He offloaded occasionally, perhaps not as much as he should have done. But I realise there’s plenty of stuff you can’t discuss.’

‘You’re helping a lot. The tip about the dogs’ graveyard is terrific, a real breakthrough. We’ll take a look there tomorrow. See how Bryan and Fleur react when we announce that the missing boy may not have been gobbled up by that much-maligned pig after all, but could have lain in their own backyard for the past two decades.’

Daniel winced. ‘Wear your body armour. The reopening of the Hall may need to be put on hold and Bryan will hate that.’

‘My heart bleeds. It won’t leave the Madsens destitute. The lovely Fleur will still be able to spend more on one pair of shoes than the budget for my entire wardrobe.’

His eyes travelled over her. ‘I’d say you’re doing fine.’

It wasn’t soft soap; give him the natural look any day. Fleur’s glamour was too self-conscious, too expensively contrived. Micah Bridge’s words sneaked back into his
mind.
She married for money, rather than love
. No doubt the match suited both husband and wife. Bryan acquired an attractive woman to take his arm at business and social gatherings, Fleur was free to spend as though there were no tomorrow.

A pink tinge coloured Hannah’s cheeks. ‘It helps, talking things through. I’ve never—’

‘Yes?’

‘Sorry, I was about to say that, even though I talked to Marc about the cases I was working on, it wasn’t quite the same. You have first-hand experience of life in the police, and that removes a barrier.’

‘How are things with Marc?’

‘You mean, between Marc and me?’ She cracked a twig in her fist. ‘Last week, I’d have said it was over and done with. And yet … one or two doubts are creeping in. Or at least, I can’t quite make the break. Too soft, you see. Ben would have been cross with me; he had no time for dithering.’

‘Give it time.’

‘I dunno, maybe I’m not suited to living with someone else. Since January, I’ve never once been bored with my own company. All the same, it’s good to have someone to discuss stuff with.’ She grinned. ‘You make an excellent sounding board. Most detectives need someone on the outside to lend an ear, every now and then. A spouse, a partner, someone discreet they can trust to keep stuff confidential.’

‘Don’t worry, I know how to keep my mouth shut.’

‘Of course you will. You and Louise were a detective’s kids. It’s almost like talking to family.’

His turn to blush. Hannah didn’t give her trust lightly,
he was bound to feel flattered. To cover his embarrassment, he said, ‘I have a confession to make.’

She laughed. ‘Oh yes, Daniel?’

‘I’ve been wondering about Callum. As you said, there isn’t much hard information, just a few clues, scattered around like crumbs. Looking at the photo of the Millais painting made me think of Giovanni Morelli.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Morelli was an art historian who argued that you can recognise the hand of an artist from tiny details in their work better than from a signature. The way the folds of a background character’s ears are painted is more distinctive than the theme of the picture or the stuff that’s more obvious and likely to be imitated.’

‘The importance of unconsidered trifles, huh?’

‘Exactly. And the Morelli technique isn’t confined to attributing works of art correctly. Sigmund Freud took a similar line with scientific method, finding hidden meaning in small details. Freud admired the detective work of Sherlock Holmes, who believed that inconspicuous bits of apparent trivia helped you find the truth, if only you interpreted them correctly. So if we apply that to what we know about Callum Hinds …’

‘Yes?’

If he ever talked like this to Louise, she groaned and urged him to get on with it. Hannah was different; fascinated for some reason by how his mind worked. She leant closer to him, more like a first-term student than a seasoned cop. The wind blew a strand of her hair against his cheek. It was like being stroked with silk. He was seized by the urge to put his arm around her, and draw her to him. Here they
were out of sight of the cottage, and masked by the trees from people walking up on Priest Ridge. For once in his well-ordered life, he was in danger of losing control, and finding himself swept away like a stick in a stream.

He stepped backwards, creating a space between them, and ticked the points off on his fingers. ‘One, even Orla said that Callum was sly. He’d listen behind doors to rows between their parents, and boast about it to his sister. Two, he was a peeping Tom who spied on a girl in a bikini who was staying at the caravan park, and on his father making out with his new lady friend. Three, he enjoyed nursing secret knowledge, it gave him a sense of power. Little scraps of information, but they help us see a picture of Callum. So what do we make of a kid like that, half-eavesdropper and half-voyeur?’

‘Go on.’