The Hanging Wood (18 page)

‘Is that really what my father believed?’

She smiled. ‘That sceptical glint in your eyes reminds me of him.’

He was conscious of the sun scorching his cheeks. What had she felt for Ben? Liking, of course; respect, certainly. Anything more?

Her gaze settled on Derwent Isle again. They had rowed round in a circle, as he followed a course back to the shore.

‘Orla must always have hoped that a fresh explanation for Callum’s disappearance would emerge. Something that exonerated her uncle.’

‘Wishful thinking?’

‘She was keen on happy endings. If her hopes were dashed, that could have sent her into a tailspin. There must be a reason why she committed suicide.’

‘I suppose there is no doubt that she killed herself?’

‘Very little. Hypothetically, if she came across evidence suggesting someone other than Philip murdered Callum, that someone had a motive to get rid of her. But what evidence, which someone, and above all why? It’s speculation piled on speculation, and I don’t suppose historians approve of speculation any more than the Crown Prosecution Service does.’

‘True, but we all speculate sometimes.’

He eased off on the oars and leant back to take in the view of the forbidding bulk of Skiddaw to the north of the town. Hannah followed his gaze, the breeze ruffling her hair. He was seized by an urge to stroke and smooth it, to feel its silky texture and the warmth of her skin. Bad idea. He needed to be patient. The moment was too precious to spoil.

Aslan crushed the phone against his hand.

‘You killed Callum.’

Silence.

‘And then you killed Orla.’

‘Not true.’

Aslan laughed, incredulous. ‘You expect me to believe you?’

‘Believe what you want. She jumped.’

‘I believe you murdered both of them.’

‘I don’t have to listen to this.’

‘Do you want the police to listen, instead? I’ll ring them now, if you want.’

‘They will think you are mad.’

‘I’m angry, actually, not insane. You killed my
half-brother
, and then my half-sister.’

‘Why on earth would I want to do that?’

Aslan paused. This was his weak spot. He hadn’t filled all the gaps in his knowledge, there were things he didn’t fully understand.

‘I know about Castor and Pollux.’

A long silence. Surely a killer would not hang up?

‘What do you want?’

Aslan felt a wave of relief wash through him. He had won.

‘I called in at Marc’s shop last weekend,’ Daniel said. ‘Bought a set of Wainwrights, much to Louise’s disgust. She says I ought to throw out at least two books for every one I buy. I had new bookshelves put up in the cottage after moving in, but already the to-be-read pile is mounting on the floor of the spare room.’

‘Marc and I had the same conversation a dozen times,’ Hannah said, ‘but I never made any headway. Once a bibliomaniac, always a bibliomaniac.’

Lunch in the light and airy cafeteria at the Theatre by the Lake. Hannah savoured a mouthful of her open sandwich: smoked Borrowdale trout with lemon-and-dill dressing. Until now, they’d steered clear of personal stuff, which suited her fine, but Daniel knew Marc had moved out back in January, and was bound to be curious.

‘Marc told me you and he were due to meet up this week,’ he said.

So Marc had talked about her to Daniel, even though
he’d been jealous of their relationship. Another sign that he might be growing up; pity it was too late.

‘He wants us to get back together again, but I don’t think it will work.’

‘Perhaps you both need more time.’

‘We’ve had six months.’

‘It may take longer.’

‘I’ve had long enough to get used to living on my own. It’s sort of liberating.’

‘I know what you mean. The endless compromises when you share with someone are hard work. Ask my sister.’

He showed his white teeth in a grin. A good-looking man; strong features, clear brown eyes, she couldn’t be blamed for finding him attractive. Plenty of women would, even if he’d never appeared on television. But what drew him to her was that she was sure she could trust him absolutely – as she had his father.

‘And how are things with Louise?’ Grabbing the chance to change the subject.

‘She’s good. That bastard who gave her such a rough time is a fading memory, thank God. Now she’s looking round for a place of her own up here. Not that I’m pushing her out; she’s someone else who likes to have her own space. At least the sparks don’t fly between us the way they did when we were teenagers.’

‘Sibling rivalries, eh?’ She swallowed the last morsel of trout. ‘There’s no escaping them in this case. The Hinds brothers, the Madsen sisters, Callum and Orla. Perhaps it’s just as well my sister emigrated years back.’

‘Speaking of siblings, there’s a question about Castor and Pollux.’

He gave her the gist of what Aslan had told him. ‘Let’s suppose Orla resorted to playing the detective. She’d fantasised that Aslan Sheikh was Callum, larger than life. When he disillusioned her, she was forced to accept that her brother was dead after all. But she was sure Philip was incapable of murder – so she tried to fathom what did happen to Callum.’

‘If she decided that he was killed by someone she cared for, that could have driven her to suicide.’

‘Kit Payne? He’d done his best for her, as he did for her mother.’

‘And we do know that Callum didn’t hit it off with Kit.’

‘Did she talk to you about Kit?’

‘Not much, but she seemed to like him.’

Hannah savoured her camomile tea. ‘After so many years, she is hardly likely to have found any evidence that Kit was responsible for Callum’s death. But if she confronted him …’

‘Would he admit his guilt to her, do you think?’

‘Only if she caught him off guard. He’s a streetwise businessman, don’t forget. I’d expect him to deny it. Perhaps prey on her fears, say that she needed psychiatric help. Which might explain why she jumped into the grain.’

‘I’ve never met him, but even hard-nosed executives aren’t always natural-born killers. Do you think he’s capable of murdering a young boy?’

‘Depends on the provocation. If they had a fight, and Callum died by accident, Kit might have panicked and hidden the body. Once he’d done that, he was trapped. No going back.’

‘So he sat back and watched an innocent man persecuted for a crime he didn’t commit?’

‘You’ll be amazed what people will do when the
self-preservation
instinct kicks in. Besides, he might be able to salve his conscience on the basis that there was no evidence to prove Philip’s guilt, and that the storm would soon blow over.’

‘It was Kit who found Philip’s body.’

Hannah nodded. ‘I hadn’t forgotten.’

‘If that’s how it happened, it may never be possible to prove Kit’s guilt.’

‘No.’ Hannah fiddled with her teaspoon. ‘Unless – something else happens.’

‘Such as?’

‘If we finally find Callum’s remains.’

Taking risks didn’t faze Aslan. How else could you make something special out of your life? The mistake he’d made so far in his life was that the risks he’d taken had never earned a proper reward.

The butterfly knife lay on his bedside table. He traced a finger along the blade, so gently that the skin did not break. He liked danger, that was the truth of it. It turned him on more than any woman.

Looking through his window, he spotted distant walkers, tiny dots of colour on the grey slopes. His eyesight was keen, his body muscular and strong; he needed to make more of his life before he grew lazy and old. Since arriving in the Lakes, he’d spent time climbing. Once, he’d nearly found himself stranded on Helvellyn when the mists closed in. He was alone, and nobody knew where he was. He’d got away
with it, suffering nothing more than bruises as he scrambled down the scree as if his life depended on it. Perhaps it had. He was accustomed to getting away with things; some days he could persuade himself he was invulnerable, and like a denizen of Shangri-La, he would live for ever.

The sun was high, tonight his star would be in the ascendant. His life was going to change, no question. He wasn’t a planner – he was too disorganised a thinker to bother with tactics or strategy. Sometimes you just had to play a card, and see where it fell. In returning to the Lakes, he hadn’t worked out a plan of action. Curiosity had pulled him back. Mum had talked of the Lakes for years after she left Turkey. When he was older, he’d asked about his father, but she hadn’t told him much. Perhaps there wasn’t much to tell. She’d spent a couple of years in England on a student visa, earning a few quid behind a bar to help fund her studies. Mike Hinds came in for a pint one night, and swept her off her feet; almost literally, she told her son. He was a farmer, big and strong as well as intelligent. Enough virtues for her not to mind too much about his temper. For a few weeks, she was in seventh heaven, until a fellow barmaid told her he was married, and forty-eight hours later a pregnancy test came out positive. She plucked up the courage to tell Hinds, fearing a volcanic outpouring of rage. But all he wanted was to solve a problem, and he gave her the money for an abortion, along with plenty of cash to pay for the plane home.

Thank God she was determined to keep me
.

Mum stayed in England until after he was born. It seemed strange that she’d given him the name of the man who had let her down, but she said that, in the hospital
crib, his newborn face was the image of his father’s.

He was half-English, and Mum remained a passionate Anglophile until the day she died. She’d deserved so much more than the hand-to-mouth existence she’d led. She kept in touch with news from Britain, and she knew all about Callum’s disappearance. It made the national newspapers, and she said she’d thought about contacting Mike Hinds, and letting him know that he still had one son, but she was afraid her child would be rejected, as she had been.

He was intrigued by Callum’s disappearance and wondered if his half-sister knew more about it than had been made public, but he’d never returned to the land of his birth until this year. It wasn’t a conscious avoidance, it was just how it happened. You had to trust to fate. In the States, he almost came a cropper when he sold some drugs to a pretty customer who turned out to be a female cop. A quick getaway saved him, but he was ready for a change of scene. And, for a man who never did things by halves, why not a change of ID as well?

So Aslan Sheikh was born.

The small room was stuffy, even with the window thrown open. He kicked off his shoes and padded off to stand under a cold shower, relishing the jets of water as they smacked against his chest, buttocks and legs.

It was almost a metaphor. Washing away the wrongs of the past. Shutting his eyes, he pictured his mother’s face, and saw a slow smile creep across it.

‘How are you spending the rest of today?’ Daniel asked, as they leafed through the pamphlets in the theatre shop.

‘Praying for an excuse to put off mowing the lawn,’
Hannah said. ‘Occasionally, I remember Marc did have his uses.’

‘Why don’t we take a walk around the lake? Not enough time for a full circuit, obviously, but we can catch the launch back from one of the jetties.’

‘Don’t you have a book to write?’

‘I’m in search of inspiration.’

‘You’re writing about the history of murder, aren’t you; De Quincey and all that? I’m not sure I’m flattered.’

He laughed. ‘While I’m at it, why don’t we come back here for dinner this evening and then watch the play, if they have a couple of tickets left?
What the Butler Saw
, it’s my favourite by Orton. It’s the one where a character says,
We must tell the truth!
To which she is told that’s a thoroughly defeatist attitude.’

‘Sounds like a lot of defence lawyers I’ve met.’

‘Can I take that as a yes, then?’

‘So why did you want to meet here?’ Aslan asked. ‘A bit risky, I thought.’

His companion’s eyes settled on the farm buildings. The day was over, and the roaring tractors had fallen silent. Aslan had arrived in good time before his appointment, and he’d caught sight of the farm labourers clambering into the van that would take them to their accommodation in the town. In the old farmhouse, a light shone behind a curtained window.

‘There’s a very good reason, believe me.’

‘Want to share it with me?’

Aslan leant against the side of the slurry tank, as if he’d paused for a casual chat. Not for the first time in his life, he
was finding it hard not to sound cocky. So far, so brilliant. The bag at his feet bulged with banknotes. This was a highly professional transaction. A pleasure to do business.

‘Don’t you want to count the money?’

Aslan smiled. ‘Shouldn’t I trust you?’

A shrug. ‘It’s up to you.’

‘Oh well, you’re right. It’s sensible to take precautions.’

Aslan grinned. Crushed in his hand was his tiny mobile. Any messing, and he’d dial 999. And the butterfly knife was sticking out of his jeans pocket, backup if he needed it.

As he bent down, he heard the knife fall to the ground and before he could pick it up, he felt a searing pain in the side of his head. He fumbled frantically with his phone, but the agony was unbearable, and he couldn’t think straight.

His last conscious thought took him back all those years to when he used to watch the cruise ships sailing away from Warnemünde. Sailing beyond the lighthouse and into the unknown.

‘It’s years since I’ve seen an Orton play,’ Hannah said, as they joined the crowd streaming out of the theatre. ‘The last one was
Loot
. I seem to remember it features a bungling police inspector.’

Daniel cleared his throat.
‘I’m innocent till I’m proved guilty. This is a free country. The law is impartial
. To which Inspector Truscott replies,
Who’s been filling your head with that rubbish
?’

She laughed and mimed applause. ‘Do you have an encyclopaedic recall of loads of British literature?’