The Hanging Wood (5 page)

‘Well, good evening, ma’am.’

‘Greg.’

Predictable to a fault, his gaze locked on her cleavage. She’d agonised about the lowish cut of this dress in the
shop last Saturday, but she’d decided to hell with it, she was going to take the risk. The plan was never for Greg to get an eyeful. A poster on the wall advertised a Federation talk about
The Surveillance Society
; Hannah felt like a target of it.

‘You’re gonna wow them, ma’am, no question.’

Hannah ground her teeth. Greg had this talent for catching her off balance.

‘It’ll be a miracle if I stay awake.’

‘Too many late nights?’ He treated her to an all-innocence smile that, she knew instantly, he’d bestowed on a hundred women before. ‘Believe me, I’m devastated that I can’t be there. VIPs only, of course, it’s to be expected. No room for the humble spear carriers.’

Sarky bugger. ‘Don’t pretend you’re heartbroken. Especially after what you and Les said when we found out we were on the shortlist.’

‘Churlish of us, ma’am, on reflection. It was no mean achievement; now I see it all.’ He allowed himself another peek down the top of her dress. ‘Obviously, I’m not suggesting for a moment that Les is a bad influence, but the truth is, I’ve recognised the error of my ways. I reckon I could have found this a very enjoyable evening.’

‘Oh yeah?’ She made a move to go, but it was difficult to stride past him in the corridor without brushing against him.

‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, ma’am,’ he said, and with a last lingering leer, he stepped aside.

As she shoved open the double doors, it struck her that his banter no longer annoyed her as it once had. Crazy, really. Greg Wharf was a sexual harassment claim waiting
to happen, the sort of officer she’d loathed from the earliest days of her career. But she’d also come to realise that beneath the bravado was a very good detective who didn’t mind putting in extra hours when they were short-handed. To her astonishment, she felt almost sorry she wouldn’t be able to chat to him at the dinner.

‘Congratulations, Detective Chief Inspector.’

Bryan Madsen had limped through the hubbub to join her the moment the final award was presented, the final words of gratitude gushed. The Malt Room buzzed with a hundred voices, the conversations lubricated by generous quantities of alcohol served throughout the five-course dinner. Bryan struck Hannah as strong and vigorous, even if his paunch and florid complexion suggested overindulgence in fine food and wine. Tall, with expensively cut steel-grey hair, he might have passed for a brigadier, or a leading man in a 1950s British
black-and-white
movie, sporting a stiff upper lip and a gammy leg caused by a shrapnel wound. You wouldn’t cast him as a bloke who had spent a lifetime trading static caravans. During the longueurs of the presentations, Hannah had kept awake by studying Lauren Self’s companions on the top table, and she’d recognised the Madsen brothers from newspaper photographs. They were accompanied by good-looking and expensively attired wives. Bryan often featured in the local press, though never in stories that held the slightest interest for Hannah. A businessman with a taste for politics? She’d stereotyped him in her mind as a boring old fart.

‘It’s an honour to have been in the mix.’

Scary, how the lie sprang to her lips, but she was bound to get away with it. How many captains of industry with a passion for politicking had a built-in irony detector?

‘Your cold case team ran the winners desperately close, I can assure you. Your people did a first-rate job with that dreadful business up at Ambleside last January.’ He mopped his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief, and fiddled with the window to let in a breath of air. ‘Boiling in here, isn’t it? As for the judging process, I suppose what tipped the balance is that your profile in the community only rises every now and then, while the Clean Cumbria Campaign is never off the advertising billboards.’

‘They deserved it.’ She resisted the temptation to simper – better not go completely over the top. Though she couldn’t resist adding, ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness.’

‘Absolutely right.’ He snapped his fingers and a young woman in a short glittery dress materialised by his side. Her sinuous and silent movements reminded Hannah of a magician’s assistant, her smile was cool and enigmatic. ‘Purdey, another glass of Bolly, if you don’t mind. This is Detective Chief Inspector Scarlett – Purdey Madsen. Now I promise I’m not driving, Chief Inspector! But what will you have?’

‘Nothing for me, thanks.’

‘Please, I insist. You sat with the patience of Job through all our speeches.’ An appraising smile. ‘Surely even a senior police officer can let her hair down once in a while?’

Hannah wondered what he was after. ‘An orange juice, please.’

‘Thanks, Purdey.’ As the girl melted into the chattering crowd, he said, ‘Lovely kid, took a degree in psychology
last year; such an asset in her father’s team, marketing our holiday homes. I absolutely dote on her.’

And get her to fetch and carry for you.
‘She’s your niece?’

‘That’s right. Gareth and Sally have two daughters; it was a great sadness to my wife and myself that we never … Anyway, past history, long gone, forget it. Do you have a brood of your own, Hannah?’ When she shook her head, he said, ‘Never mind, you’re only young. Plenty of time yet.’

Hannah was saved from the need to reply by Lauren Self, timing her arrival to perfection for once in her life. The ACC was enjoying her second champagne, or possibly her third, to judge by the flush on those taut cheeks. Body-swerving through the crowd like a footballer followed a man she’d seen chatting to Lauren during the dinner. Unmistakably a Madsen, but younger than Bryan and with an athletic build; this must be Gareth. Not even a hint of grey at the temples, but if his light-brown hair had been coloured, he got away with it. He moved with the self-confident swagger of a man accustomed to getting away with things.

As the ACC and Bryan effected introductions, Gareth Madsen glanced at Hannah. In an odd moment of complicity, his lips twitched with suppressed amusement, though she wasn’t sure what he found funny, his brother’s self-importance or Lauren’s photo-opportunity smile. Both, she hoped.

All of a sudden, the ACC was her best friend. ‘Gareth was fascinated by your work on cold cases.’

‘I did vote for your team, cross my heart and hope to die.’ He gave a cheeky grin that tested Hannah’s own
irony-detector. ‘Bryan let me down, to his eternal shame. I mean, binning litter is extremely worthy and all that, but your department puts away serious criminals. As good as something off the telly. Finding DNA matches to help you solve old crimes! Bringing people to justice years after they thought they’d got off scot-free!’

‘I’m afraid DNA testing is horrendously expensive,’ Lauren said. ‘The current funding crisis means the generosity of partners like Madsen’s Holiday Home Park is more important than ever.’

‘Our commitment to giving something back to our local community is a core aspect of our mission statement.’ Bryan might have been reading an autocue. The legacy of too many speeches, no doubt. ‘We hope the constabulary thinks of us as a friend in need. Delighted to do as much as we can to help.’

Hannah could imagine. The rules allowed every police force in the country to garner up to one per cent of its annual budget from sponsorships and other business ventures. It was supposed to offer a good way of funding equipment that the government was too tight-fisted to provide. The bait for private businesses was a higher media profile, a chance to brag about their commitment to corporate social responsibility. Nobody ever hinted that the quid pro quo for funding might be a blind eye turned to questionable business practices. That was forbidden. Any suggestion of dodgy dealing would be met with outrage and threats of legal action. Naturally.

‘I’m guessing you’re not a poker player?’ Gareth whispered in Hannah’s ear, as Lauren engaged Bryan in a cosy chat about shared values. ‘Your face is a picture.’

‘Never said a word,’ she murmured.

‘You don’t need to, Hannah – may I call you Hannah? Obviously you don’t approve of the forces of Mammon currying favour with the forces of law and order.’ He narrowed his eyes, mimicking a stage villain. ‘Pity, I hoped our largesse would get me off with a slap on the wrist next time I’m caught speeding.’

‘Forget it, the fines are an even more important source of revenue.’ She placed her empty glass on the window sill. ‘So, do you play poker … Gareth?’

‘I’m an entrepreneur, that’s what entrepreneurs do. To do well, you have to gamble. Business is all about taking risks. As I keep telling my esteemed chairman.’

‘I hear you used to be a racing driver.’

He grinned. ‘Your sources are impeccable, as I’d expect of Cumbria’s finest. I’m afraid I never made Formula One. In my youth I totalled a Porsche and a Ferrari in quick succession and walked away without a scratch, but that kind of luck doesn’t last for ever. Ask Bryan, he never drove so much as an open-top sports car, but when he drove into a tree years back, he nearly died. Can you wonder that we settled for life as businessmen? Not so much fun as racing cars, but you live to draw your pension.’

Purdey arrived bearing drinks. Despite the crush at the bar, she’d managed to get served in record time; no doubt she’d inherited her father’s
savoir faire.
With her snub nose and long chin, she might not be a raving beauty, but her skin was fresh and her legs slim, and what was that line of Greg Wharf’s – there’s no such thing as an ugly heiress?

Gareth helped himself to the champagne. ‘I think your uncle had better go easy, don’t you?’

‘Cheeky whippersnapper,’ Bryan brayed.

Purdey’s eyes misted over. ‘I can’t believe it, really.’

‘What’s that, sweetheart?’ her father asked.

‘Here we are, out enjoying ourselves, and yet poor Orla …’

Bryan said, ‘Orla’s death is an utter tragedy, but quite frankly, she inherited her mother’s weakness. The poor girl couldn’t hold her liquor, that’s the top and bottom of it.’ He turned to Hannah. ‘Lauren tells me that you’ve heard about this dreadful business?’

Hannah nodded. She’d briefed the ACC about Orla’s calls to the Cold Case Review Team, and her family connection with Madsen’s. It was the last thing Lauren wanted to hear, as a prelude to schmoozing wealthy captains of industry, but she found a crumb of comfort in Gaby Malcolm’s confidence that the IPCC wouldn’t be looking askance at the handling of the phone calls.

‘She rang me two days ago,’ Hannah said. ‘While I was out yesterday, she tried to contact me again.’

Bryan stiffened. ‘Good Lord. Not wanting you to reopen enquiries into her brother’s disappearance, for goodness’ sake?’

‘Had she discussed what happened to Callum with you?’

Before Bryan could reply, a jovial fat man from Commerce in Cumbria slapped him on the back and asked how the hell he was doing. As Bryan disengaged himself, Gareth checked his watch.

‘Come on, we’ve done our duty here. Why don’t we say cheerio to the mayor and then nip round to Mancini’s? It will be quieter, and there will be more oxygen.’

‘Good plan.’ Bryan was in avuncular mode. ‘If you like, Lauren, we could talk some more about whether we can find a way to contribute to these DNA-testing costs.’

Hannah opened her mouth, about to make her excuses, but Lauren was having none of it. ‘We’d love to join you, wouldn’t we, Hannah?’

The ACC smiled at Bryan, and he beamed back at her. Hannah cringed inwardly. Easy to guess what was going through Lauren’s mind.

Don’t get your hopes up, chum. It’s not your body she’s after, it’s your wallet. 

Mancini’s was tucked away in a courtyard off Kirkland. It called itself a jazz bar, and a lonely saxophone wailed from hidden speakers. The walls were adorned with moody photographs from films noirs, and Gareth Madsen made straight for a table beneath a shot of Lana Turner making eyes at John Garfield in
The Postman Always Rings Twice.
Hannah recalled watching it on a movie channel late one night with Marc. Realising that the two of them would never see another film together gave her an unexpected pang of regret. Lauren seated herself between the two men, arranging her rather short skirt with care; when it came to ruthless pursuit of her objectives, the ACC could give Cora Smith a run for her money. As for Bryan Madsen, he was much smarter than Frank Chambers. Presumably.

Fleur and Sally Madsen showed up as Purdey was despatched to the bar. ‘Your favourite spot, Gareth?’ Fleur asked, nodding to the photograph. ‘I’m starting to think 
you fancy yourself as a twenty-first century John Garfield.’

‘Do you mind?’ Sally said in mock indignation. She patted her husband’s knee with a bejewelled hand. ‘That chap isn’t half as good-looking as my feller. He still reminds me of Paul Newman in his
Butch Cassidy
days.’

Her husband raised his eyebrows but smiled, as though his wife’s admiration was his due. And Hannah had to admit that he had blue eyes to die for. Gareth Madsen wasn’t her type, but if Terri were here, she’d never be able to keep her hands off him.

‘I spoke to Kit,’ Fleur said, as if bored by the display of marital bliss. ‘He’s stunned by Orla’s death, keeps reproaching himself for not realising the extent of her depression. Sally’s had a word with Mike Hinds, to offer condolences.’

At first sight, the Madsen wives contrasted as much as their husbands. Sally was raven-haired, mid forties, and plainly determined not to surrender to the ageing process without a fight. Hannah suspected her lips were Botoxed, while her curves screamed implants. The grace of her movements made Hannah suspect she’d once spent time on a catwalk. Fleur, though, was a natural born lady of the manor. Even if the manor had been subsumed into a caravan park.

‘Change your mind and stay for a drink,’ Gareth said. ‘We can ask the driver to wait for an hour and take us all back home together.’

Sally opened her mouth, and seemed about to say yes, and hers was a Bacardi and Coke, but after a moment’s hesitation, Fleur shook her head. ‘It’s been a long day. We’ll send him back after he’s dropped us off. You two can
concentrate on helping the police with their enquiries.’

Gareth grinned at his sister-in-law. ‘We’ll try not to incriminate ourselves.’

He blew his wife a kiss as Fleur pecked Bryan on the cheek and said, ‘See you later, darling.’

Purdey brought the drinks, and told her mother she’d come back home with her father and uncle. As Sally and Fleur headed off, Hannah turned to the girl and said, ‘So were you close to Orla?’

‘To be honest,’ Purdey said, ‘I’m not sure anyone was that close to her, poor thing. God knows what made her tick.’

‘Surely as a student of psychology—?’

‘Believe me, Sigmund Freud would have found Orla a challenge. We sort of grew up together, because the Paynes lived nearby, but she was older, so I didn’t know her well. Over the past few years, I’ve seen her around the park occasionally, visiting Kit. The last time we spoke was when I called in at St Herbert’s one day on an errand for my dad. A quick exchange of pleasantries, that was all. She seemed OK, but you can never tell what’s going on inside someone’s head, can you?’

Hannah wasn’t convinced that was the right attitude for a psychology graduate. ‘Where did she live?’

‘In a small flat on the outskirts of Keswick. Kit and her father gave her money to help her to put down the deposit after she came back to live in the Lakes.’

‘When was this?’

‘The end of last year. She went to uni in Newcastle, but she dropped out after a couple of years, though she stayed in the North East. I don’t think she ever truly settled. She
had a string of jobs in marketing, but none lasted long. I heard she had a bit of a breakdown.’

‘Did Orla’s stepfather consider fixing her up with a job at the … uh, holiday home park?’

‘She never showed any interest in caravans.’ Purdey made it sound like a character flaw. ‘I didn’t expect her to move back here. Not many youngish people do.’

No arguing with that. Local children often moved away from Cumbria for good once they left school. Good jobs were easier to find in the cities, and so was cheap accommodation, given that house prices in the Lakes kept being driven up by middle-aged incomers who sold their swish detached homes in order to live the dream up in the rural north. Purdey was lucky, with a successful family business ready and waiting for her to step into.

‘Why did Orla come back? To follow a boyfriend?’

‘None of her blokes stuck around for long, sad to say. She is – oh God, was – quite attractive. Or could be. Though between you and me, she never really did herself justice, and it didn’t help when she lost all her hair.’

‘What caused that?’

‘Alopecia, brought on by stress. She never had much luck, didn’t Orla.’ Purdey hesitated. ‘I hate to sound cruel after what has happened, but I think Dad is right. One of his favourite sayings is, you make your own luck. If Orla was unlucky, in a way she brought it on herself.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘She could be clingy and persistent. Once she got an idea in her head, she didn’t like to let it go.’

Lauren’s mobile sang – her ringtone was ‘Pretty Woman’, what else? – and she moved away to take the call. Gareth
turned to Hannah, and she sensed he’d been paying as much attention to her conversation with his daughter as to Bryan and the ACC.

‘Orla found it hard to accept that Callum was dead. Understandable, since there was no proof that his uncle did kill him. Though topping yourself is pretty good circumstantial evidence, I’d say.’

‘Suicide isn’t necessarily an admission of guilt,’ Hannah said.

‘Your colleagues twenty years back thought it as good as.’ Gareth turned to his brother. ‘There were no other suspects, were there, Bryan?’

‘None whatsoever.’

Hannah said, ‘I suppose the people living in your caravans were all checked?’

‘Thoroughly.’ Bryan’s cheeks reddened, thanks either to the champagne or the provocation. ‘It was established that none of our customers had any record of misbehaving with children. No surprise, I can assure you. There’s a good deal of mindless snobbery about caravans, but you only need take a look at our visitors’ car park. You’ll see plenty of BMWs, even the occasional Porsche. We don’t cater for oddballs.’

‘Unless they’re loaded.’ Gareth gave a mischievous grin.

‘By all accounts,’ Bryan said, ‘Orla became irrational on the subject of Callum. Kit was quite concerned about her.’

‘Concerned?’ Hannah asked.

‘About her mental state. He worried that if she didn’t pull herself together, she might need to be sectioned.’

‘That bad?’

‘I’m afraid so. Kit felt he owed it to Orla’s late mother
to do his best for the girl. It wasn’t enough, but he can’t be blamed for that. She was a loose cannon. You could never be sure what she might say or do next.’

‘I suppose that’s what led her to do such a ghastly thing,’ Purdey said. ‘She simply lost the plot.’

‘Assuming she did kill herself,’ Hannah said.

Gareth’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Is there any doubt?’

‘Until the inquest verdict, who knows?’

Purdey said, ‘It’s awful for Kit. I feel so sorry for him. After everything he went through when Callum disappeared and then during Niamh’s long illness. Now this.’

Bryan said, ‘He was due to join us today, but of course, in the circumstances …’

‘He’s rebuilt his life,’ Purdey said. ‘New wife, new family. Glenys gave him a son; they dote on little Nathan.’

Bryan nodded. ‘The chap deserved some happiness after Niamh drank herself to death.’

‘Were Kit and Orla close?’ Hannah asked.

‘He made sure she was never short of money.’

Not an answer, Hannah thought.

Gareth seemed to read her mind. A disturbing knack. ‘You have to understand, he wasn’t her real father. Once Niamh was dead, there wasn’t much to keep Orla and her stepdad together. But he did his best for her.’

‘What was the state of her relationship with Mike Hinds?’

‘Uneasy. Mike’s an old mate of mine, and it cut him to the quick when she took Kit’s surname. Callum refused to follow suit, though I suspected that was as much to piss Kit off as to please Mike. Orla was younger, and when Niamh remarried, she went along with what her mother wanted.
There were furious arguments about access. But Orla never lost touch with Mike.’

‘Though she never went back to live at his farm?’

Gareth shook his head. ‘No, she stayed with Kit on the park until she started at university. By then, Kit had remarried, and so had Mike.’

‘She told me once she felt there was nowhere she could truly call home,’ Purdey said. ‘No wonder she suffered from stress. First she lost her brother, then her mum, and both her dad and her stepdad began new lives that didn’t include her.’

Lauren was still gabbling into her mobile, no doubt bragging about the dinner to her husband, an insurance broker whose fat commissions kept her in haute couture. She was standing in front of a shot of Gene Tierney in her most famous role as the eponymous Laura – she probably thought that movie about the seductive woman who drove a detective wild with desire should be remade as
Lauren
.

‘What do you think drew her back to Mike Hinds’ farm yesterday?’ Hannah asked.

Bryan shook his head. ‘Who knows what goes through a disturbed mind?’

‘My guess is,’ Gareth said, ‘they had a row and it was a childish kind of payback on her part.’

‘What makes you think that?’ Hannah asked.

‘Mike hated the way she drank so much, it reminded him of Niamh. And he couldn’t bear her raking up the past. He’d accepted his son was dead, he’d moved on. It was up to Orla to do the same.’

‘He told you this?’

‘Mike wears his heart on his sleeve.’ Bryan grunted 
scornfully to make clear he didn’t share Gareth’s charitable assessment. ‘Snag is, he has a shocking temper. If Orla got the wrong side of it …’

‘She might have taken it so hard that she felt life wasn’t worth living?’

Gareth downed the last of his champagne. ‘If that’s the way it was, I pray that he can cope. Bad enough to lose one child, but to lose two …’

‘Poor Hansel and Gretel,’ Purdey said.

Three heads turned towards her.

‘Hansel and Gretel?’ Hannah asked.

‘Yes, that’s what they called themselves.’

‘Who?’

‘Orla and Callum. She told me they thought of themselves like the kids in the fairy tale.’ Purdey gave a theatrical shiver. ‘Except that neither of them had a happy ending.’

‘So what did you make of Orla Payne?’ Louise Kind asked.

Eyes closed, Daniel stretched to soak up the warmth of late evening. This was the life, lazing on a vast and colourful Mexican hammock. He’d set up the stand beside the path that wound around the garden of Tarn Cottage. The cipher garden, he called it, secluded and secretive grounds that stretched to the foot of Tarn Fell. The hammock had room enough for three or four, but his sister hadn’t joined him. She lounged in a deckchair with canvas decorated with artwork from
Evil Under the Sun.
Their glasses and the empty wine bottle stood on the paving. The alcohol had done its job, and blunted his sorrow at the death of a woman he’d liked.

‘She was an unhappy woman.’

‘Sounds like it, if she’s killed herself. This story that her uncle didn’t murder her brother, was there anything in it?’

Louise’s tongue was as sharp as her spiky new haircut. A lawyer to her fingertips, she kept asking questions until she prised out an answer. Years ago, she had left private practice for academe; at times Daniel felt a pang of sympathy for her students.

‘She convinced herself, for sure. I felt sorry for her.’

Louise gave a theatrical sigh. ‘I bet the moment she knew who you were, she latched on to you. Another lame duck you took pity on?’

He tried to shrug, tricky in a hammock. Louise had never hit it off with Aimee; after their first meeting, she’d caused a row by asking Daniel if the woman was always so neurotic. Maybe that’s why he’d scarcely mentioned Orla to her until now. Orla reminded him of Aimee, if only because they were guided by instinct, not reason, and their instincts drove them to self-destruct.

‘Not fair. Orla and I talked once or twice when I took a break from writing. She told me she loved history before she knew I was a historian; she described herself as a failed history undergraduate. There was something unworldly about her, which appealed to me. Eventually someone recognised me, usual story, and before long the principal came and said hello.’

‘Goodbye to anonymity?’

‘He urged me to become involved with the library, and asked Orla to talk to me about ways of publicising St Herbert’s and raising cash. Her job was to improve the library’s profile in the region and further afield, but she
didn’t seem cut out for it. She preferred mooching through books to hitting the phones. The principal brought in an events organiser to help, so Orla could focus on public relations while he packed the guest rooms with conference attendees.’

Louise stretched her arms, soaking up the last of the sun as it set behind the Sacrifice Stone on the top of the fell. ‘Was Orla afraid of losing her job?’

‘I can’t imagine the principal firing anyone. No, getting the sack was the least of her worries, even though she told me that before she came to the Lakes, she’d been unemployed following a period of illness.’

‘What was wrong with her?’

A heron flew across the garden, and perched at the far side of the tarn. Daniel contemplated its elegant form before answering.

‘I gather she had some kind of breakdown, and her drinking didn’t help. Booze had killed her mother – maybe neither of them got over the loss of Callum. Orla was emphatic that she never felt uncomfortable with her uncle, quite the opposite. He used to tell her fairy tales and she adored that, said it gave her a lifelong love of the stories.’