The Serpent Pool (17 page)

Shit, shit, shit. The spasm of guilt was like stomach cramps. For a moment she wished the ground would open up beneath her. Why hadn’t she come clean about last night, when there was nothing to hide? She couldn’t guess how he’d found out. Maybe one of his customers had spotted Daniel and her at The Tickled Trout.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she muttered.

‘Touched a nerve, have I? Of course, Daniel is Ben’s son.’

She spun round. ‘Meaning what?’

‘You had the hots for Ben.’

‘We were colleagues, it never went further than that. Now I’m going out. Not sure when I’ll be back.’

‘Take as long as you like.’ She knotted the scarf in silence. Resisting the temptation to wrap it around his neck.

‘Oh, and Hannah?’

‘What?’

‘Your lipstick smudged. Better wipe up if you want to look your best for Daniel Kind.’

The route from Undercrag to The Tickled Trout took Hannah past a trendy bar at the end of a terrace row. Outside it were roadworks and a temporary traffic control, and as she waited an age for the lights to change, a couple of people spilt out of the bar. A man and a woman, arm in arm. Their unsteadiness suggested they’d each had a skinful. As they sank into an embrace, Hannah thought they looked familiar, even though she couldn’t make out their faces. The woman put her back to a brick wall as the man pressed up against her. His hands moved behind her, as if to lift her skirt. Hannah stared with shameless curiosity. Sometimes a detective must become a voyeur.

A furious tooting from the next car in the queue jerked her attention away from the lovers. The lights had changed to green. As she wavered, reluctant to move off, the light switched to red again. She imagined a cry of disgust from the driver in the car behind, and raised a hand in apology, but it was too dark for him to see.

At the sound of the horn, the couple sprang apart.
Perhaps they thought the salvo was aimed at them. In a moment, they vanished into a shadowy passage that ran behind the terrace. For a split second, their faces shone in the glare of light from the street lamp. Hannah’s instinct was spot on.

Nathan Clare and Wanda Saffell were back together again.

She put her foot down the moment she escaped the thirty-mile limit, but arrived at The Tickled Trout ten minutes later than promised. The car park was crowded, but she saw Daniel’s Audi and squeezed into the marked space next to it. As she raced across the asphalt to the pub’s front entrance, raucous cheering broke out from the locals’ end of the lounge bar. Nothing personal: this was quiz night, and the home team had taken the lead with two rounds to go.

Daniel leant against the counter, scanning the crowd. Her heart lurched as their eyes met. Absurd: the last thing she needed was to start behaving like a seventeen-year-old on a date. She pushed through the mass of drinkers, envying Daniel’s cool. Nobody had the right to look so laid-back, hours after discovering a tortured corpse. Like his father, he took disasters in his stride. He’d lined up two glasses of Chablis for them. His knack of reading her mind meant she must take care; she’d die of embarrassment if he could read her most private thoughts.

‘Hannah, thanks for sparing the time.’

They shook hands, his grip firm. As he led her to the corner booth they’d occupied the previous evening, a bell rang and a tubby quizmaster, who looked as though his
specialist subject was chip suppers, bellowed the next question.

‘Who was murdered by his wife at Battlecrease House in Liverpool?’

‘James Maybrick,’ Daniel murmured. ‘Although some people doubt whether his death was murder.’

‘Is that so?’

‘James developed a taste for arsenic as a medicine, and it boosted his virility into the bargain. His wife served fifteen years in jail, but she may have been innocent. Unlike James. According to one school of thought, he was Jack the Ripper.’

She settled into her seat. ‘You know a lot about crime.’

‘Necessary research. Don’t forget I’m writing a history of murder.’

‘So, how is
The Hell Within
?
’

‘Hell to write, frankly. I’ve not even finished my lecture for Arlo Denstone’s festival. Real life keeps interrupting.’

‘And now you’ve stumbled on a real-life murder.’

‘Finding Stuart’s body reminded me why I chose academic life.’ He gazed up at the black wooden beams, as if trying to decipher a pattern in the knots of the timber. ‘That’s the difference between me and my father, I’d rather watch the world from a safe distance. Thomas De Quincey went into rhapsodies about murder as a fine art, but it looks pretty coarse when you come face to face with it. No way could I ever do your job.’

‘I’ll let you into a secret. At times, I’m not sure I can do it, either.’

He shot her a sharp glance. ‘Are you all right?’

Irrationally, her hackles rose. ‘Any reason I shouldn’t be?’

‘You look unhappy, that’s all.’

She gritted her teeth. ‘That obvious?’

‘’Fraid so.’

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to bite your head off.’

‘Wretched day?’

‘Not as grim as yours.’

‘It was much harder for Louise. The first corpse she’s ever seen, and it belongs to the man she spent Christmas with. Not a pretty sight. But she’ll get through. This evening she said she’d already fallen out of love with Stuart Wagg before he sent her packing.’

‘He was a bastard.’

‘But a charming bastard, by all accounts.’

‘Charm alone is not enough,’ Hannah said fiercely.

‘Louise reckons he used to get away with murder. Now someone has murdered him. The well wasn’t covered up by accident. The sheet lying on top of it was heavy. You’d never shift it from underneath, even if you could climb up that far.’

‘His legs were broken, and his kneecaps shattered.’ Why shouldn’t Daniel know, where was the harm? He’d already seen the body, and the precise nature of the injuries didn’t need to be a state secret. ‘There was a monkey wrench down underneath the body. Someone tossed it into the well after using it to cripple Stuart before they dropped him down.’

His eyes widened with horror. ‘He was deliberately maimed?’

‘Presumably to prevent him hauling himself up to safety. Whoever put him down there was determined he would never escape.’

Daniel winced. ‘Don’t tell me he was alive when he went down there?’

‘Still conscious, yes.’

‘Fuck,’ he said quietly.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Whatever his faults, he didn’t deserve to die like that.’

‘What was the cause of death?’

‘The post-mortem results weren’t ready when I left work this evening. Hypothermia, possibly heart failure, I’d guess. His head was gashed, you must have seen, that may have been the blow that incapacitated him before his legs and knees were smashed. His injuries didn’t kill him, but he wasn’t kitted out for a night underground in these temperatures.’

Daniel swallowed hard. ‘Imagine his last hours. Trapped in the dark, suffering terrible pain. Nightmarish for anyone, but for a claustrophobe…’

‘Your father thought I relied too much on imagination.’ The wine tasted flinty on Hannah’s tongue. She should have grabbed something to eat, so there’d be no risk of the alcohol going to her head. ‘He worried that I’d let it get in the way of the business of detection.’

‘Dad wasn’t always right.’

‘It helps to try to think myself into the head of the victim. And the criminal.’

‘Not easy to inhabit the mind of someone capable of torturing a man before killing him.’ Daniel swallowed more wine. ‘Someone must have hated Stuart very badly to do that to him.’

‘Has Louise any clue about who might fit the bill? Did Stuart admit to having enemies?’

‘This isn’t a rational crime. Surely it’s the work of a sociopath.’

‘Maybe, but I don’t believe it was a random crime, either. Stuart Wagg wasn’t a fool. How did he allow someone to do that to him?’

‘If the killer incapacitated him with a blow to the head, maybe he was dragged to the well at gunpoint or knifepoint.’

‘How did the murderer get so close? Crag Gill was fitted out with state-of-the-art security.’

‘The storm—’

‘Had nothing to do with the fact that the power supply to the house wasn’t working. I gather the lines were cut. Deliberate sabotage.’

‘So, the murder was premeditated?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Stuart didn’t have to let anyone into his home if he was suspicious or afraid.’

‘The best guess is that he knew his visitor. He or she was a friend or acquaintance.’

‘Not Louise,’ he said quickly.

‘Of course not.’ So he wasn’t quite as laid-back as he looked, at least where his sister was concerned. ‘There will be more questions for her, I’m afraid, but she’ll be OK. I’m sure she couldn’t have hurt Wagg like that. Lashing out with scissors in a moment of despair is very different. The sheer brutality of this murder isn’t in her nature.’

‘Let’s hope your colleagues are equally open-minded,’ he muttered.

‘They are only doing their job, Daniel.’ Why did she sound so defensive? ‘Everyone who knew Stuart Wagg will come under the microscope.’

‘Are we talking about a hired killer?’

‘Who knows? Nine times out of ten, hit men shoot their victims. Why dump him down the well without even making certain he was dead first? That’s gratuitously vicious.’

‘Maybe not so gratuitous,’ he suggested. ‘A sign of intense personal hatred.’

‘Which is why I’m surprised Louise can’t come up with any likely candidates.’

‘Wagg acted for the rich and famous, people who have skeletons in their closet. If he was caught up in criminal shenanigans, money laundering, or drug deals or something—’

‘Did he use drugs?’

‘Not to my knowledge. Louise would never touch them, and if she’d found out that Wagg was involved with drugs, she’d have run a mile. When she was sixteen, the brother of her best friend died after taking an ecstasy tablet and the tragedy left a scar. She’s never so much as ventured a quick drag on a joint.’

‘Ever heard Louise or Stuart mention the name of Bethany Friend?’

From the other side of the bar came a chorus of whistles and guffaws. It sounded more like the climax of a rugby match than a general knowledge quiz.

‘Never. Why would there be a connection between Stuart and a young woman who died of drowning?’

Hannah looked down and saw her glass was empty. ‘Can I get you another drink?’

‘Don’t you need to get back home?’

‘No rush.’

When she glanced up, she saw his gaze fixed upon her. She’d taken care to make sure that her expression gave
nothing away, but he was his father’s son. Skilled at seeing through people.

‘Then I’ll have a cranberry juice.’

Waiting her turn at the bar, she decided it made a change to be looked at with any sort of curiosity. Stuck in a rut, at work and at home, she was bound to feel flattered by the attention of an attractive man. Especially one who wasn’t spoken for any longer. Miranda, the lovely narcissist, hadn’t appreciated how lucky she was. As the barmaid dragged herself away from a chat with a colleague, Hannah ventured a quick glance back at the corner booth. The shape of Daniel’s head, the jut of his chin, reminded her of Ben. If the hair had been grey instead of dark, she’d swear she was seeing a ghost.

Physical, primitive desire jolted her. Hot and shocking, as if she’d touched a live wire.

‘What would you like?’ the barmaid asked.

Hannah’s throat was dry, her knees were mushy and about to buckle. Stuttering her order, fumbling with her purse, she felt her cheeks burn, as though all her clothes had slid off, and everyone could see exactly what she was made of. The barmaid rolled her eyes, thinking she was pissed. Somewhere in the distance, the question master announced that the capital city of Senegal was Dakar.

Pull yourself together. You’re not sixteen anymore.

Deep breaths.

The moment she’d steadied herself, she ferried the drinks to their table, taking extravagant care not to spill a drop. Daniel stuffed a felt-tip pen back in his trouser pocket. He’d been doodling on a beer mat. A picture of a hangman.

‘Cheers,’ he said absently. ‘I was thinking…’

‘Yes?’

Shit, she was almost reduced to a nervous squeak.

‘They are an odd trio, aren’t they? Bethany Friend, George Saffell, Stuart Wagg? But they do have at least one thing in common.’

She stiffened. ‘And what’s that?’

A roar of delight gusted over from the other side of the bar. The fat question master had finished reading out the answers. If only every puzzle had a ready-made solution. Daniel drummed his fingers on the surface of the table.

‘All three of them loved books.’

A ludicrous connection, yet the more they tossed it around, the more she was intrigued. Millions of people still loved books, even in the electronic age, but with Bethany, George, and Stuart alike, books were a consuming passion. Bethany yearned to write books, the two men simply collected them.

‘So, what are you suggesting?’ She enjoyed playing devil’s advocate with him. ‘Three people murdered by someone who loathes the printed word?’

He grinned. ‘Maybe the opposite. The man you’re looking for might be mad about books.’

Marc?
No question, her partner matched the profile. He knew each of the victims. But the idea that Marc might be responsible for three deaths made no sense. She’d lived with him, slept with him, she believed with all her heart that he was incapable of violence. No doubt he’d revelled in Bethany’s admiration. As for Saffell and Wagg, how absurd to imagine that he’d bite the hands that fed him, far less cut them off for ever.

‘What makes you think the murderer is a man?’

‘The level of cruelty, I suppose.’ Daniel ticked the names off on his fingers. ‘Bethany, tied up so that her head could be put beneath the water. George, bound so that he couldn’t escape being roasted alive. Stuart, crippled and then dumped down a well hole so that he froze to death.’

‘Women can be crueller than men, I think.’

‘When provoked?’

She gave a tight smile. ‘Men can be very provocative.’

‘It would take muscle power to lift that metal cover over the well,’ he mused. ‘Though a strong woman could do it.’

‘Your father always warned me against making assumptions based on stereotypes. Not a matter of political correctness, just good police work. You can’t presume that Stuart was murdered by a man.’

‘I stand corrected,’ he said, so meekly that she had to laugh.

‘That’s one difference between you and Ben. He never admitted he was wrong.’

‘Yeah, I remember.’

‘Not that he was often wrong. He decided early on that someone had murdered Bethany. It hurt him that he never managed to give her justice.’

‘Suppose the same person killed George and Stuart. Why the six years of inactivity? Hardly the pattern of a conventional serial crime.’

‘You’re an expert in serial crimes?’