The Hanging Wood (25 page)

‘Why not? We’re friends, aren’t we?’

She watched his face fall. ‘Well, yes. Of course.’

‘Fine. And – thanks again for a lovely afternoon.’

‘The pleasure’s mine.’

She thought he would kiss her goodbye; instead he took a step backwards, and waved. She raised her hand as she put her foot down and accelerated out of Tarn Fold.

A mile later, Terri rang. It took five minutes for her to get to the point. She coughed nervously, and the timid build-up was so out of character that Hannah guessed what she was about to say.

‘I just wanted to mention … I bumped into Marc last night. There was a book signing at his shop, and I was at a loose end, with Stefan working. Marc and I went for a quick drink later on. I mean, that’s absolutely all there was to it. He talked about you the whole time; he’s still besotted, you know.’ She paused. ‘Honest, it was totally innocent. You don’t mind, Hannah?’

‘Course not.’ Why was her upper body rigid with tension?

‘Thanks, Hannah. I knew you’d understand.’

Half a minute later, she’d rung off. It might have been the shortest phone chat she and Terri had ever had.

On the radio, Carole King sang ‘It’s Too Late’. Hannah remembered Marc, turning up at their home the other night, and the hard time she’d given him. The lane was narrow and winding, and Hannah realised she was taking the bends too fast. She stamped on the brake just in time to avoid a collision. The drystone walls were a hazard, the lane barely wide enough to take a single vehicle, let alone offer latitude for careless driving. If you encountered a car coming in the other direction, you had no choice but to reverse until you came to a passing place. Trouble was, Hannah hated going backwards.

At last she reached the main route through Brackdale that would take her out of Daniel’s valley and home to Ambleside. As she drove through the small settlement of Brack, her phone rang again. She hadn’t been this popular in years. Unless it was Terri, determined that, having dug herself into a hole, she would keep digging.

‘What is it?’

‘Blimey, Hannah. Not like you to sound so tetchy.’

Greg Wharf – how about that for a turn-up for the book? Surely not a call about work on a Saturday evening?

‘You still there, Hannah?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Everything all right?’

‘Yeah, yeah, of course. I’m in the car, on my way back home after a day out.’

‘OK, it’s just that … I’m in Kendal at the moment. I was planning to call in at Westmorland General, and see Mario Pinardi. I wondered if you wanted to come along too.’

Hannah tightened her grip on the steering wheel. ‘Actually, I’m less than ten minutes away.’

‘Well, then!’ Greg brightened. ‘We don’t need to stay long. I mean, visiting time finishes at eight and Alessandra is sure to be there anyway, along with all the little Pinardis. I just want him to know he’s in our thoughts.’

‘Good plan.’

‘We could have a quick drink afterwards, if you have half an hour to spare.’

‘Sure,’ Hannah said. ‘Why not?’

St Herbert’s is described by Daniel Kind as the only residential library in England, and, like the other organisations and businesses that feature in the story (other than Cumbria Constabulary, my version of which is very highly fictionalised), it does not exist. There is, however, a splendid residential library just over the border in North Wales. St Deiniol’s Library in Hawarden, venue of a marvellously enjoyable launch of
The Serpent Pool
, inspired my creation of St Herbert’s and I am grateful for the help and information given to me by the staff of St Deiniol’s. I hasten to add that St Herbert’s is not a thinly veiled equivalent of St Deiniol’s. I recommend it warmly to anyone fascinated (as I am) by the concept of a residential library. All the people who appear in this novel, and not only those associated with St Herbert’s, are my inventions, and do not have, and are not meant to have, counterparts in real life.

Similarly, Madsen’s Holiday Park is a product of my imagination, though again I benefited greatly from talking
to James G. McAllister, a client and expert in the caravan and holiday home business. His parks are based in North Wales, and Madsen’s is not meant to represent either them or any equivalent in the Lake District.

Many other people have assisted me in various ways during the writing of this book. Stephen Knowles and Ted Brown gave me a start with the set-up of the opening chapter, and Damien Culshaw offered a good deal of practical assistance on farming matters. I found a visit to the Culshaw family’s farm in Lancashire fascinating, and I’m most grateful to Damien’s parents for allowing me to explore. I only hope I haven’t misrepresented the realities of farming life beyond the extent required by crime fiction. David Ward gave me useful insight into the origins of the Theatre by the Lake in Keswick, and Rachel Swift took my family and me on a tour backstage which formed part of a memorable birthday on a beautiful day in the Lakes. Ian Pepper helped with information on forensic science, while Roger Forsdyke gave me expert guidance on issues affecting police officers nationwide, a subject I also researched through various publications; Roger’s police force is not based in Cumbria, and my account of the working lives of Hannah and her colleagues is not a portrayal of their real-life equivalents. To reinforce the fictional nature of the story, I have introduced a number of changes on matters of detail, as well as some aspects of local topography …

I’m indebted to my agent, Mandy Little, my publishers, and my family for their support through difficult times. Whilst I was writing this book, my mother died, and I am proud to dedicate it to her memory, knowing that I owe my passion for reading and writing above all to her.

L
AKE
D
ISTRICT
M
YSTERIES

The Coffin Trail

The Cipher Garden

The Arsenic Labyrinth

The Serpent Pool

The Hanging Wood

H
ARRY
D
EVLIN
N
OVELS

Waterloo Sunset