The Hanging Wood (15 page)

‘Disease killed a lot of elms,’ Greg said. ‘Even so, some trees survived. Turns out there’s something macabre about wych elms. They feature in a lot of folklore. Traditionally, they were associated with melancholy and death.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Nobody knows for sure. Perhaps because they drop old branches that can crack your skull, like the one I just tripped over. Possibly because they look like they are weeping. Or because elm was used to make coffins.’

His thirst for finding things out reminded her of Marc.
Daniel Kind, too. This energy and enthusiasm for stockpiling scraps of knowledge, she couldn’t help finding it attractive, although she never quite understood why. They walked on in silence, their route carpeted by ferns and moss. Greg was right about the mood conjured up by the wych elms. The sun was barely visible through the canopy of leaves, and there was an earthy primitive smell in the air. Even on a day like this, the Hanging Wood had the odour of decay. Purple foxgloves supplied a scattering of colour, but for Hannah, the flowers conjured up sinister memories. They were poisonous, and when she was small, a thoughtless uncle warned her that nibbling the stems in his garden would kill her. She’d spent the rest of the day in a state of terror. She remembered his nickname for foxgloves: dead man’s bells.

She’d seen photos of Philip Hinds in the files. A bulky shambling man, whose eyes looked anywhere but straight at the camera. He’d felt at home in this melancholy wood, where nobody bothered him. Inside the big body was someone small and frightened, unable to cope when his world was invaded. How must it feel to live like Philip, encircled by tall forbidding trees, with only a fat smelly pig for company? The Hanging Wood covered a tiny area, yet the bright world outside seemed as remote as a faraway land. Philip’s brother had no time for him, and for the Madsens he was no more than a backup handyman. Yet even a man who craved solitude must sometimes yearn for someone to talk to. No wonder he’d welcomed fleeting human contact when his young nephew and niece came to play. You wouldn’t need to be a closet paedophile to relish their zest, their innocence, their lust for life.

Durston had found no evidence that Philip had harmed
Callum, far less that he was responsible for his death. The case against him was hopelessly circumstantial. But convenient.

The track sloped gently into a dip where the trees thinned, and soon they reached a clearing. Fir cones were scattered over the ground; they’d been chewed by the squirrels. Sycamores had seeded, but too few to block the sun, which blazed down on a thick tangle of brambles and grass.

‘So this is where the cottage stood,’ Greg said.

Nature had reclaimed the site of Philip Hinds’ home; every trace of his existence had been erased from the Hanging Wood. The undergrowth was so thick that you couldn’t see where the foundations of the cottage had stood, or any sign of a pigsty. In the middle of the clearing, grass and brambles had been hewn back around a small sandstone tablet. The letters had worn, but the inscription was perfectly readable.

In Loving Memory of Callum Hinds
.

A single rose lay at the foot of the table, a splash of crimson amidst the green and brown.

‘Well, well,’ Greg said. ‘You reckon that bloke on the CCTV came here and left the rose, before he wandered into the Mockbeggar grounds?’

‘But why?’ She inhaled the perfume of the luscious bloom. Rich and strong, a contrast with the dank foliage. ‘What reason could he have for taking an interest in a boy who disappeared twenty years ago?’

‘If he’s staying at the holiday park, we should be able to track him down.’

‘As for poor old Philip, not a mention. Far less a floral tribute.’

‘Can you wonder?’

She sighed. ‘Not really, though this was his domain, the place where he lived and died. With Callum, nobody knows for sure where he died. According to the file, his mother wanted some sort of memorial to the lad placed here, as well as a stone in the local cemetery. Joseph Madsen insisted on paying for it himself. The Paynes, Mike Hinds, the Madsen family, none of them wanted to think about the man they blamed for Callum’s death. He was the bad guy, he deserved nothing.’

Greg looked around. ‘Did they chop down the wych elm he hanged himself from?’

A cloud of midges buzzed around Hannah’s head, persistent as paparazzi. She swatted them away. ‘Of course. The tree and the cottage, they both had to go.’

The detectives contemplated the sandstone memorial. Everything was still; no birds sang in the trees, no breeze rustled the leaves. People supposed a savage murder had taken place in this quiet and lonely spot, but you would never guess.

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Greg asked.

She managed a smile, still trying to make sense of the strange idea. ‘Depends on what you’re thinking.’

‘It seems crazy,’ he muttered.

‘Go on.’

She felt tense, expectant.

Greg took a breath. ‘We’re assuming the man at the farm, the man in the wood, the person who left the red rose, were one and the same?’

‘Agreed.’

She was sure he’d had the same idea, and she found
it thrilling. Detective work did this to you, if you cared enough about your job. She’d learnt as much from Ben Kind. Solving a mystery was a turn-on, he said, and he was right. In her excitement, she had to force herself not to give Greg a hug.

His eyes were shining, and she knew he was excited too.

‘What if we’ve just seen Callum Hinds?’

‘It was something and nothing,’ Kit Payne said. ‘When you run a large holiday park, there are a thousand and one issues to deal with every day. That’s the price of working in the service sector, dealing with Joe Public. Our insurance premium costs rise year on year, and don’t get me started on legal fees.’

Hannah and Greg had bumped into him on their way back, as he said goodbye to the visiting Bulgars. Hannah asked whether the security wardens had found the man spotted wandering around the grounds of Mockbeggar Hall. Kit said that by the time the wardens turned up, he had vanished, and he might have headed off in any number of directions. Back to the holiday park, most likely, but he could just as easily have walked to Mike Hinds’ farm, along the lane that ran from the Hall, or over towards St Herbert’s Residential Library. Kit said his sole concern was to make sure the chap wasn’t at risk of coming a cropper on Madsen property, and claiming compensation for personal injury.

‘Back with us already, Hannah?’

Hannah looked up and saw Bryan Madsen on the balcony outside his first-floor office. A broad smile of greeting did
not quite disguise his irritation that the police were still present in his holiday park.

‘They wanted to know if we found the chap who was trespassing in the Hall grounds,’ Kit said.

Bryan frowned. ‘He’s a nosey holidaymaker, not a criminal on the run.’

‘He reminded me of someone, that’s all,’ Hannah said.

Kit stared. ‘Who did—?’

She gave them a sweet smile. ‘I must have been mistaken.’

Louise was fretting over which dress to wear for dinner at Mockbeggar Hall, while Daniel checked his mobile for messages. The signal in Brackdale, and especially in and around Tarn Fold, was unreliable, and he found he’d missed a call. When he dialled voicemail, he heard the voice of Aslan Sheikh.

‘Daniel, it’s Aslan. Sorry to miss you, but it’s not important. Catch up with you next time you’re at the library.’

‘I’m off to have a shower,’ Louise announced. ‘Be honest, I can take it – don’t you think the black dress is a bit too revealing? Even a bit tarty?’

He made reassuring noises, knowing that she’d make her own choice in the end. No doubt she’d decided hours ago on the red gown with the high neckline, but felt the need to indulge in the formality of consultation, like a politician wanting to be approved for doing the right thing.

When she padded upstairs, he took his mobile out into the lane that petered out at Tarn Fold. As soon as he was clear of the trees, he dialled Hannah’s number. For once he
got straight through, and he heard her excuse herself to a companion and step out into the street.

‘Sorry, I’m up in Keswick, at the police station.’

‘I wondered if you’d like to get together?’

A pause. He could hear traffic noise.

‘Love to.’

‘I’m tied up this evening. The Madsens have invited Louise and me to dinner at Mockbeggar Hall, would you believe?’

‘My sergeant and I called in at the caravan park today. You’ll probably have to listen to them complaining about our wasting their valuable time on a fool’s errand.’

‘Look, I wanted to talk to you about Orla. One or two things I’ve gathered from her colleagues at St Herbert’s. You wouldn’t be free tomorrow, by any chance?’

‘It’s Saturday, and the budget doesn’t allow for overtime. When and where?’

His spirits lifted. He liked Hannah’s directness, and the absence of fuss about needing to check her diary. ‘The weather forecast is fine, and I’ve an unfulfilled ambition to explore Derwent Water. How about meeting in Keswick and then we can go on the lake? Unless you’d prefer somewhere closer to Ambleside?’

‘Keswick suits me fine. Shall we say ten-thirty? I fancy taking a look at the market, so if we meet outside the Moot Hall?’

‘Perfect.’

‘So Callum Hinds might still be alive?’ Mario Pinardi said.

Hannah and Greg were debating the case in The Forge Brow, a tiny pub backing on to the River Greta. Half five
on Friday evening, and the place was packed with people who had finished work and were getting in the mood for the weekend. Mario had bagged a table outside, on a small paved patio that separated the saloon bar from the river.

‘I have to admit, it’s the longest of long shots,’ Hannah said.

During the afternoon, her initial excitement at the possibility that Callum might have staged an audacious comeback had waned. She and Greg hot-desked at Keswick police station for a couple of hours, catching up on emails and chewing over their theory. The longer they talked, the more unlikely it seemed that Callum was back in town.

‘If Callum is alive, it would explain a few things,’ Mario said.

‘And raise plenty more questions,’ she said. ‘Like where he disappeared to, and what he’s been playing at all these years.’

‘Explains why you saw him at Lane End – looking out for his long-lost father. Maybe plucking up the courage to say,
Hello, remember me
?’

Hannah found herself playing devil’s advocate. ‘Why would Callum leave a rose at a memorial to himself? I mean, narcissistic, or what? And why would his reappearance coincide with Orla’s suicide?’

Mario took a swig of orange juice. ‘It might explain Orla’s suicide, don’t you think?’

‘How?’

‘Suppose she met this bloke and got an inkling he was Callum. So she became insistent that her brother hadn’t died at the hands of Philip Hinds. But for some reason, things turned nasty. Did she discover he had some dark
secret that explained why he’d stayed away so long?’

‘Must have been very dark for her to dive into a silo full of grain.’ Greg drained his glass. ‘Same again?’

He strode into the saloon bar, leaving them to watch the river rushing over stones set in shallow mud. Hannah found it hard to imagine that, only months before, the Greta had smashed through its banks during freakish floods that drowned large areas of Western Cumbria, claiming lives and wrecking homes. Scaffolding still shrouded houses along the riverside, and flood defences were being built in an attempt to make the buildings safe in case the waters ever swelled again.

‘Where are you up to with the enquiry?’ she asked.

‘Orla was a pisshead,’ Mario said. ‘She never settled to anything; jobs and relationships, none of them lasted. The most exciting thing that happened to her was that her brother was supposedly a murder victim. She was bright and not bad-looking, and Kit Payne did his best by her after her mother died. Decent education, she was a long way from destitute. But she wasted her opportunities.’

‘Callum’s disappearance defined her,’ Hannah said, almost to herself. ‘How life-changing must it be, to lose your brother in those circumstances?’

‘She moved away to make a fresh start, but it didn’t work out. Once she took the job at St Herbert’s, the old memories came flooding back. I’d say that in the end, they killed her.’

‘You’re still certain it was suicide?’

‘Her father’s farm and the Hanging Wood were just around the corner from St Herbert’s. There was no escaping the past. She persuaded herself that Callum was alive, then
changed her mind, and couldn’t cope with the grief. End of.’

‘Is that what you really think?’

Mario flashed the smile that sent so many women weak at the knees. ‘Dunno. It’s a job for an ace detective, I guess.’

‘But where do you find one of them?’ Greg demanded as he returned bearing drinks. ‘Solved it yet?’

Mario tilted his glass. ‘Cheers, mate. Might be worth my having another word with the feller that Orla palled up with at St Herbert’s. He says they were casual acquaintances, no more than that. But the word is, she saw it differently. Perhaps he has something to hide.’

‘Hasn’t everyone?’ Greg said. ‘What was his name?’

‘Aslan Sheikh,’ Mario said.

Hannah almost choked on her lemonade. ‘
Aslan
?’

The two men stared at her.

‘What?’ Greg asked.

‘Did you never read C.S. Lewis?’

‘
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
?’ Mario asked.

Greg made a face. ‘Wasn’t that the film with Tilda Swinton? Saw it on Sky by mistake. Not my cup of tea.’

‘But
The Chronicles of Narnia
were Callum Hinds’ favourite books.’ Her voice was unsteady. ‘Aslan was a Christ-like figure who came back from the dead.’

‘The Hall dates back to the seventeenth century,’ Fleur Madsen said, ‘but it needed to be rebuilt after being burnt down the year Victoria came to the throne.’

‘I read about that when I looked up the Hall’s history this afternoon,’ Louise said. ‘Arson, wasn’t it?’

Fleur moved her head to one side, allowing a pretty waitress to refill her glass with a fine red Bordeaux plucked from the newly refurbished climate-controlled wine cellars that lay beneath their feet. There were ten for dinner, sitting around a mahogany Chippendale table large enough to have accommodated twenty; Fleur sat beneath a portrait of her great-grandmother’s
great-grandmother
. The woman in the painting wore a green velvet-and-satin evening gown, whereas Fleur contented herself with a simple black dress and necklace of pearls, but like her long-dead predecessor, she radiated the
self-assurance
that came with being chatelaine of Mockbeggar Hall. 

‘One of my ancestors dismissed a servant on a whim, and the man set fire to the place in revenge.’

Her wry smile gave no clue to her thoughts. Daniel felt a sudden urge to step inside her mind. How must it feel to belong to a house like this, where your family had lived for so long? Hard to understand for someone who had grown up in a nondescript semi on the outskirts of Manchester. When he was a boy, to live here would have seemed a dream come true. But real life was no dream. The Hall’s makeover had been planned and executed with respect for the past, and many of its original features had been restored and retained, but the historian in him could not help cringing at the metamorphosis of a grand family home into an offshoot of a caravan empire.

Beggars couldn’t be choosers, but was Fleur as happy about the Hall’s fate as she claimed? For whatever reason, discontent lurked beneath her surface calm, he was sure of it.

Kit Payne smiled. ‘Thank goodness there are employment tribunals nowadays where disgruntled staff can ventilate their grievances without resorting to acts of vengeance.’

‘Not that we like to think we have any disgruntled staff,’ Bryan Madsen announced, sneaking a not very surreptitious glance down the waitress’s top. ‘Kit does a first-rate job of keeping everyone motivated. Ably assisted by Glenys, I might add.’

Kit beamed, a spaniel relishing a pat from his master. Further down the table, his wife Glenys simpered, prompting Sham and Purdey Madsen to exchange glances that implied shared scorn of long standing. Twenty years her husband’s junior, with a Geordie accent and a generous
bosom, Glenys had met Kit while working in the office as a trainee personnel officer, and now she was in charge of Human Resources. Her principal topic of conversation was their son Nathan, who was currently in Tanzania on an educational holiday organised by his very expensive private school.
Just as well in the circumstances
, she’d said. Orla’s name didn’t pass her lips; her main concern about the suicide at Lane End Farm was clearly that it should not disrupt the equilibrium of the Payne household.

‘What happened to the arsonist?’ Louise asked.

Fleur shrugged. ‘I believe he was executed.’

Purdey Madsen made a face. ‘Gross.’

‘Darling,’ her aunt said, ‘they knew how to deal with criminals in those days.’

‘But he didn’t even kill anybody!’

‘He made the greatest mistake of all.’ Fleur allowed herself a faint smile. ‘He was careless, and so he got caught. Why risk doing wrong if you don’t make sure you get away with it?’

Bryan coughed. ‘When we started renovating the place, Daniel, it was hardly in a better state than it was back in 1837.’

Daniel made admiring small talk as the waitress served him with venison accompanied by a generous helping of cranberry Cumberland sauce, wild mushrooms, and a head of sweet caramelised roast garlic. The catering was handled by a firm run by a celebrity chef; nothing but the best for the Madsens. An honoured guest, Daniel sat in pride of place, between Bryan and his wife. Before the meal, his host had taken him and Louise on a tour of the Hall, a chance to show off the lovingly restored silk hangings in the drawing
room, the intricate carvings and fine plasterwork in the pastiche Elizabethan gallery.

This huge dining room had been reimagined as one more facet of the Madsen money-making machine, available for hire by elite dining clubs, business magnates, and politicians in search of an awayday with a touch of class. Bryan had hinted that a committee of cabinet ministers was booked in for late August for a private meeting over dinner to discuss the next round of spending cuts. The focal point of the room was a magnificent fireplace bordered by twisted columns carved from wych elms cut down, Bryan said, from the Hanging Wood. There was a Japanese lacquered chest, a small table on which huntsmen once breakfasted, and a long case clock with a moon dial and an engraved motto,
Time flies, pursue it, Man, for why the days are but a span
. A couple of dozen Victorian portraits depicted three generations of the Hopes family: stern fathers, demure wives and assorted children, cats and horses. The Hopes undeniably thought of themselves as animal lovers, even if hunting foxes to death was their favourite sport.

Daniel tasted the meat. Tender and lean, with a tangy aroma. He tried not to think of the deer from which it came.

‘What happened to the pooches, Aunt Fleur?’ Sham asked, waving her knife at a pair of landscapes, each of misty heather-clad fells, which were interspersed between pictures of Fleur’s forbears and their domestic menagerie.

Before his sister-in-law could answer, Gareth said, ‘We’re trying out different ideas for exhibiting some of the contents of the Hall, darling. The insurers might kick up a fuss if we keep all Millais’ work in areas accessible to the public.
Or at least increase their already extortionate premiums. Thank God so much stuff survived – we’re spoilt for choice as to what to display. The Hopes may have fallen on hard times, but at least they didn’t flog every last piece of the family silver.’

Sham was about to ask another question, but was interrupted by Fleur exclaiming in admiration about her niece’s bracelet. Talk of the family silver had Daniel glancing at the cutlery. Old, heavy, and no doubt absurdly valuable, it bore the same Hopes monogram as the napkin rings and the tiles of the fireplace, an elaborately curling letter H. Fleur might have become a Madsen, but the Hopes hadn’t quite been airbrushed out of Mockbeggar Hall. Their monogram spoke of power and possession, a reminder to visitors of how the other half once lived. Mind you, the other half continued to live very well, to judge by this meal served with such swift and silent efficiency, albeit no longer by flunkeys born into service, but by freelancers on agency contracts. Impossible not to be impressed. And yet, like the sumptuous furniture and fittings, the food was too rich for Daniel’s taste.

Hannah stayed at The Forge Brow longer than she’d intended. When Mario left for home, Greg suggested another drink and she found herself saying OK. By the time the Friday crowd thinned and the evening grew chilly, she was ready to leave, but she’d enjoyed his company far more than she’d expected. As a drinking companion, he was funny without being crude – at least, not very – and knowledgeable without being tedious. He’d arrived in the Cold Case Review Team with a very dodgy reputation,
but she was glad she’d given him the benefit of the doubt. He even claimed to share her enthusiasm for the music of Diana Krall.

‘Back to Ambleside, then?’ he asked as they reached the car park.

‘With any luck I’ll be home before it gets dark.’ She was seized by a sudden dread that he might invite her back to his place. Not what she wanted at all. ‘Anyway, I’ll see you on Monday.’

‘Take care, Hannah.’

He hesitated, as if for once in his life he was unable to make up his mind about something, but then he gave a brisk nod of farewell, and strode off to where he’d left his car.

She shook her car key out of her bag. Her heart was beating faster, but her overriding emotion was relief, rather than excitement. In a strange way, it was as if Greg had passed a test by not trying it on. He’d treated her as a trusted colleague, not another potential notch on his belt.

And tomorrow, she’d see Daniel again. Things were looking up.

Orla’s name wasn’t mentioned until halfway through the dessert course, yet Daniel had become conscious of her presence the moment he and Louise walked through the imposing front doors of Mockbeggar Hall. She was the ghost at the feast.

It was Sally Madsen who brought Orla into the conversation – no surprise there. You only had to be in the company of Gareth’s wife for ten minutes to hear her saying the first thing that sprang into her head, relying on
her good looks and charm to compensate for any offence caused. Tall, tanned and tactless, she wore a short magenta evening dress meant for a woman half her age; yet somehow she got away with it. After they were introduced over pre-dinner drinks, Louise had whispered something disobliging about hair extensions and silicone implants, but whatever Sally’s style secrets, they worked. For a man, anyway.

Daniel was intrigued by the contrast between the Madsen brothers, and between their wives. What did their different choices say about them? Gareth had married a woman who might otherwise have decorated the arm of a football player. Bryan had gone for the local squire’s daughter. Sally’s voice grew louder each time she gulped down a mouthful of wine. Fleur watched her with an indulgent smile that gave nothing away. She’d covered her wine glass with her hand the last time the waitress came round, and was now confining herself to Bowland Spring Water.

‘So when is poor Orla’s inquest, Kit?’ Sally asked.

She’d seized a moment when Glenys Payne paused in a lengthy account of young Nathan’s trip to Africa to swallow a truffle. Kit cast an anxious glance at his wife’s reddened face. She must hate to be reminded that her husband had a life before she arrived in it. A life including an alcoholic wife with a suicidal daughter, and a son who was missing, presumed murdered. You could hardly blame her for wanting Nathan to be the main topic of conversation.

‘I’m told it will be opened when the coroner returns from holiday next week, but she will adjourn it for twelve
weeks to allow time for post-mortem reports. In a case like this, there have to be toxicology tests, and God knows what else.’

‘They don’t think she was under the influence of drugs when she jumped, do they?’ Sally was agog; in another age, she’d have been a tricoteuse. ‘It would explain things, I suppose. Such a terrible way to go.’

‘Alcohol was her drug of choice,’ Kit said. ‘The sad thing is, people can say anything about her now, and she can’t defend herself. What happened is traumatic enough, frankly, and it doesn’t help to have the cold case people noseying around.’

‘Pity they can’t let Callum rest in his grave,’ Sally said.

‘That’s rather the point, sweetheart,’ Gareth told his wife, with exaggerated patience. ‘The kid never got a proper grave, did he?’

‘You’d think the police would have better things to do, with the crime figures sky-high,’ Glenys complained. ‘Two senior officers, Kit told me, going for a ramble around the Hanging Wood! Hard to beat that for a ridiculous waste of time. And they make such a fuss about being short of resources; any excuse for not putting enough bobbies back on the beat!’

‘I suppose they need to justify their existence,’ Kit said.

‘That’s the public sector for you.’ Bryan fixed his gaze on the waitress as she topped up his glass yet again. ‘Thank you very much, my dear. Yes, the police force is far too politically correct these days. Scared stiff of litigation, so they waste time and effort on trivia, for fear of someone complaining. That’s the trouble with this country, if you ask me.’

‘What did you make of DCI Scarlett?’ Gareth asked.

Kit’s brow furrowed. ‘She didn’t give much away.’

‘She does realise she’s on a wild goose chase?’

‘Never going to admit it, is she?’ Bryan demanded.

Daniel saw Fleur exchange looks with her brother-in-law. Presumably Fleur had spent her married life listening to Bryan pontificating, when he wasn’t leering at attractive young women. Over an aperitif, Bryan had recounted his plucky attempt to stand for Parliament in an unwinnable seat; no doubt Fleur was relieved not to have spent the past twenty years small-talking with the constituency hoi polloi.

‘Nobody can seriously believe that Philip didn’t murder Callum,’ she murmured. ‘It’s an absurd notion.’

‘There’s no proof about what happened,’ Purdey said. ‘We can’t be certain.’

‘For Christ’s sake, don’t you start.’ Gareth usually left the tetchiness to his elder brother. ‘Bad enough that Orla made her own life a misery, imagining Callum might still be alive and kicking. None of this rumour and innuendo is good for the business. If the bloody media get hold of it, my job will become ten times more difficult.’

‘Just saying.’ His daughter’s voice was plaintive, though a gleam in her eye suggested she was more than capable of standing up to her father.

‘Sorry, love, didn’t mean to snap.’ He gave Purdey’s bare shoulder an affectionate squeeze. The gift of a daddy’s girl, Daniel thought, that knack of twisting him around her little finger.

‘Orla was a dreamer,’ Sham pronounced in a voice loud enough to indicate that she’d overindulged in the wine.
Whenever Purdey said something, Daniel had noticed, her sister butted in a few moments later. Purdey’s cool contrasted with Sham’s stridency, just as her little black dress only showed off her long legs, whilst Sham’s lacked any subtlety. ‘No wonder she was crazy about fairy tales. Let’s face it, she lived in a fantasy world.’

‘She wasn’t off her head,’ Purdey said.

Damning with faint praise, Daniel thought.

‘Orla was bloody hard work, you must admit,’ Sham said. ‘You’re not telling me you were a member of her fan club?’

‘She could be a pain, but I did feel sorry for her,’ Purdey said.

If Kit Payne was troubled at the talk about his dead stepdaughter, he contrived not to show it. One advantage of possessing such unlovely features was that they masked his emotions. A useful asset for a man who depended on the Madsen family for his living. When he’d talked about grievance and employment tribunals, was that a reminder not to push him too far?