The Serpent Pool (23 page)

The shape of a car loomed out of the mist. At the sight of it, Hannah felt her guts churn. She pulled up and gave it a once-over. A purple Nissan Micra hatchback. Empty, but there was some stained matting at the back, as if something had been transported in it.

Something, or someone.

She swore under her breath. Her guess had been right, but it wasn’t cause for celebration. God knows what Marc might be going through if they had him. This wasn’t a good time to let her imagination rip. Must keep a cool head.

Fingers trembling, she dialled Greg’s number and told him what she’d seen.

‘You reckon Denstone and Weston are up in the Serpent Tower?’

‘Yes. And they may have Marc.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘I wish. She works for him. I think…she may have lured him away on a pretext.’

If he thought she was holding back on him, he was too shrewd to say so.

‘Don’t charge in there on your own,’ he said. ‘You need backup.’

‘No, in this fog, it will take too long.’

‘I said, leave it.’ His voice rose. No doubt he thought she was a loose cannon. Apt to panic if her man were put in jeopardy. And was he that far out? ‘Don’t worry. I’ve left Rydal, and I’m only a mile away. Stay put, ma’am, and I’ll be with you before you know it.’

‘I told you to call me Hannah,’ she said, and ended the call.

Fog snatched at her throat and sinuses as she hurried up the slope. The atmosphere was cold and moist, the dark bushes and trees seemed malevolent as they reared up in front of her out of the grey nothingness, as if intent on blocking her climb.

She couldn’t wait for the cavalry to come. What if the
killers were torturing Marc? She pictured them shoving Stuart Wagg down the well in his back garden, and dragging the metal sheet across the opening as he screamed for mercy. Impossible to live with herself if she hung around while they murdered the man she loved.

Or used to love.

It made things worse that Marc had walked out on her and run to Cassie. If she let him down now, people would suspect she’d extracted a form of revenge by letting him suffer. She’d even suspect it herself.

No, she had to move. Do everything in her power to save him.

She could scarcely keep her bearings, but she pushed herself on. The Serpent Pool couldn’t be far away. The place where it all began, where the lovers lured Bethany Friend to her death.

Suddenly, she was there. The fog confused her, and she came within a couple of strides of the water’s edge before stopping short. The pool was as lifeless and sombre as a grave.

On a good day, the Tower was fifteen minutes away, less if you moved fast. Today, it would take longer. For a moment, she hesitated.

In her jacket pocket, her mobile rang.

Greg said, ‘I’m at the end of Lowbarrow Lane. Where are you?’

‘At the Serpent Pool, below the Tower. I couldn’t wait.’

‘Don’t go any further. Please, not on your—’

She switched off the phone. Her choice was made, though the truth was that she had no choice. She moved swiftly through the trees, locating the muddy path that led to the
ledge on which the Serpent Tower squatted. She looked up and caught sight of the folly rising above her, an ill-defined shape barely visible in the greyness.

But Greg Wharf wasn’t finished yet. Through the foggy blanket, she heard the police siren wail.

Oh God, what was he doing? No chance of taking Denstone and Weston by surprise after that fucking cacophony.

She held her breath. For a moment, nothing.

And then she heard a woman scream.

‘No!’

For a few moments, nothing happened. Finally, she heard a noise. Footsteps pounding, a racket deadened by the fog. Looking up, she caught a glimpse of yellow in the gloom. A hi-vis jacket, but who was wearing it?

‘The police are coming!’ the woman screamed. ‘It’s time!’

Cassie, it must be, although Hannah could not make out her figure on the narrow plateau up above.

‘Two more minutes. Please, I’m begging you. It won’t take long, the dog is waking.’

Arlo’s voice was unmistakeable, but Hannah couldn’t guess what he was ranting about.

‘I can’t live without you, my darkest fear is—’

‘Cassie, this isn’t what we planned,’ the man cried. ‘Don’t jump yet.’

‘Please—’

‘Remember what we agreed. Murder is a thing of beauty…’

They were off their heads. Hannah ground her teeth. That fucking De Quincey, he should never have been born.

Hannah craned her neck and shouted. ‘Cassie, don’t do it! Let Marc go!’

‘Too late,’ the woman screamed.

A moment of silence was followed by a crash. Something had smashed into the stony ground, twenty yards away from her.

And then another cry of wild pain tore the silence. Followed by a wild, unintelligible roar, a flash of yellow tumbling from the ledge above the Serpent Pool, and seconds later, another sickening noise.

Hannah was sure it was the sound of death.

She hauled herself up the fell, driven by desperation. Every few seconds it seemed that she missed her footing, and collided with jagged rock, collecting one more gash on hand or cheek. But she was beyond pain. Only one thought in her mind. To find Marc, if he was still to be found.

As she climbed, she mumbled incoherently to herself. Praying to a God in whom she wasn’t sure she believed. The fog around her was nothing compared to the fog in her brain. One day she’d clear her head, but for now, all she knew was that she had to reach the Serpent Tower.

At last it rose in front of her. A narrow structure, like a Victorian chimney. Dark stonework, the only decoration those serpents entwined above the entrance in a macabre embrace. What had possessed that long-dead landowner to build such a dismal monument?

She peered at the door. The key was still in the lock. Denstone had meant to shut Marc in, she supposed, but Greg’s siren had spooked him.

She threw the door open.

First she saw the dog, then Marc.

Hanging naked from the wall. A pitiful, degraded spectacle. She covered her mouth, fearing to throw up as he had done.

The pit bull lay on its side, eyes half-closed. Even as Hannah took in the sight of the creature, it twitched. A convulsive movement. The dog was coming round. Striving to get its bearings.

‘Save me!’ Marc hissed.

She took a step forward. He shook violently. A strip of tightly wrapped plastic cord linked his wrists to the hook on the wall. Another bound his feet.

The pit bull made a throaty rumble.

‘Quick!’

A quick fumble inside her coat. Thank God, she hadn’t tidied away her last hope of keeping Marc alive. The knife she’d taken to peel the apple at Undercrag was still in the pocket.

She sawed at the cord. Christ, Marc stank. He’d wet himself, but it didn’t matter. All she cared about was setting him free before the dog came round.

‘Faster!’

The pit bull had opened its eyes and panted hard as it tried to struggle onto its feet.

Hannah sawed harder. The cord was tough, but had begun to fray. This wouldn’t take long.

‘Please, please, hurry!’ Marc was dribbling, but it was too late for disgust or nausea. Numb with cold and horror, she felt herself sweating as she tried to cut the cord.

Suddenly, it snapped.

Marc would have collapsed to the ground if she hadn’t caught hold of him.

She needed to sever the cord around his ankles too, but the pit bull was clambering to its feet.

The animal’s gaze met hers. In its eyes, she saw only hate.

Wrapping her right arm around Marc, she bundled him to the door. He was a dead weight.

The dog found its voice and bellowed. A cruel roar, brimming with fury.

She pushed Marc through the door and threw herself out after him. The dog was moving, but it slipped on the rock, unsteady on its legs after a long drugged sleep. The stumble gave Hannah the chance to turn the key in the lock.

She stood with her back braced against the door, as the pit bull charged into it and then howled in pain as its head struck the unyielding oak.

Marc lay on the patch of mud in front of her. Eyes open wide.

Pleading for forgiveness.

‘A bloody good result,’ Fern said as she munched from a packet of prawn cocktail-flavoured crisps. ‘So, how is Marc?’

They were in a bar off Stricklandgate. At the next table, Greg Wharf was regaling Donna and Maggie with a lusty account of his part in the murderers’ downfall. Everyone was in celebratory mood, except for Hannah, who was sipping lemonade. Half an hour earlier, she’d sat at Marc’s bedside in Westmorland General.

He was a wreck, but the doctors reckoned he’d make it through without too many scars. At least, not physical scars. The last thing Hannah wanted right now was to spend the evening in company; the urge to run away and hide was overwhelming, but it was vital to make an effort. No choice, she must tough it out. Couldn’t have everyone feeling sorry for her. Pity so easily tipped into scorn.

‘He’ll live.’

‘And learn, I bet.’

Hannah shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’

Fern leant towards her. ‘Don’t be too hard on him, kid. Men are all the same. She was a gorgeous woman, and she set out to snare him.’

‘Didn’t have to make it so easy for her, did he?’

‘Give it time.’ Fern hesitated. ‘If you want to.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘You like Daniel Kind, don’t you?’

On the way here, Hannah had called Daniel. It was only fair to tell him the news, before he heard it on television, and she’d thanked him for pointing her in the direction of Arlo Denstone. He sounded subdued and said Louise was showing signs of depression. The reality of discovering Stuart Wagg’s remains was kicking in.

Hannah supposed his book about De Quincey and murder would become a best-seller after this, but he wouldn’t find that much consolation. He and his sister had been through the mangle during the last few days. They needed time to come to terms with everything that had happened.

‘Fern, don’t go there, OK?’

‘All right, all right. Keep your hair on. Last thing I want is to sour the mood. Not on a day like this, when we’ve solved three cases at a stroke. And claimed a special bonus by saving the courts the time and expense of putting on a double trial.’

The bodies of Cassie Weston and Arlo Denstone had been recovered. Their bloody corpses lay in a thicket yards away from the Serpent Pool. Greg’s siren had disrupted the killer’s plan, but Hannah was sure Arlo intended them both to die once they’d feasted on the spectacle of Marc’s death – as, she guessed, he’d drooled over the sight of Cassie pushing Bethany Friend’s head under water. The symmetry
would have appealed to him. Two lovers, dying together at the scene of their first crime. An elegant example of murder and suicide as a fine art. Not even De Quincey could have made it up.

‘Greg told me Denstone wasn’t lying about the cancer, after all.’

Fern nodded. ‘Yeah, he had skin cancer three years back in London and his GP gave him bad news a week before Christmas. Prostate cancer this time, and pretty aggressive.’

Across the room, laughter erupted at Greg’s table. Donna was loudest, her merriment raucous and uninhibited. A young, pretty woman, out for a good time. Hannah felt a pang of envy, then reminded herself about the disease that had wrought havoc inside Arlo Denstone’s body. As malignant and destructive as jealousy.

‘Come on,’ Fern said. ‘Give us a smile. We did a great job, you and me.’

‘You think so?’

‘All right, then – you did.’

Hannah finished her lemonade. ‘I’ll be off.’

‘See you in the morning. We’re going to be busy.’

‘Too right.’

Hannah didn’t have much in common with Scarlett O’Hara, except for a name. But that line in
Gone With the Wind
summed it up.

Tomorrow would be another day.

As usual, I would like to acknowledge some of the very extensive help and support that I have received while writing this book. It is, of course, entirely a work of fiction, and the characters, incidents, businesses or organisations which play an active part in the story are imaginary, other than Cumbria Constabulary, which I have again reinvented for my own purposes. Rupert Holmes, a songwriter (and crime novelist) of distinction, generously agreed to my reprinting a portion of the lyric of his song ‘Him’. I’ve admired Rupert’s work for thirty years, and I’m glad that
The Serpent Pool
has finally brought us into direct contact. Information, and several jokes, about the police and contemporary police work have come from Roger Forsdyke and various magazines. Rare-book dealers Mark Sutcliffe and James M Pickard have given me insight into the world of Marc Amos. Paul Flint, Bursar of Windermere St Anne’s School, and fellow writer Diane Janes supplied background about the Lake District generally (a night spent staying at Paul’s home near Windermere enabled me to picture Undercrag in my mind)
and Arthur Ransome in particular. Ann Cleeves and Rosa Plant provided comments on aspects of the manuscript, and my agent Mandy Little was, as ever, a great source of moral support. My thanks also go to everyone at my various publishers who has helped to bring this project to fruition, as well as to my family and all those others who have contributed support and helpful information in countless ways. As usual, I emphasise that all the characters and incidents are imaginary, as are the named organisations, except for the Cumbria Constabulary (but my version of it is fictitious) and businesses. Any resemblance between people and events in this book and actual counterparts in real life is coincidental.

M
ARTIN
E
DWARDS
was born in Cheshire. He read Law at Oxford and then trained as a solicitor. He is married with two children, and is currently a partner at Mace & Jones law firm, based in Liverpool and Manchester. The author of the acclaimed series of legal mysteries featuring Harry Devlin, he is also a critic and has edited various short story collections.

www.martinedwardsbooks.com