Текст книги "Dying Fall"

Автор книги: Elly Griffiths

Соавторы: Elly Griffiths
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Tim is looking out of the window. ‘We’re very high up,’ he says. Sandy doesn’t join him. Though he would never admit it to Tim, he’s afraid of heights.

‘Come on,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing here.’

‘No sign of Pippa Henry then?’

‘Oh I wouldn’t say that,’ says Sandy. ‘What can you smell, lad?’

Tim sniffs the air. ‘Perfume?’

‘Exactly. Ma Griffe, I think.’

Now Tim really does look at his boss in awe. ‘How do you know?’

‘It’s Bev’s favourite. Question is, who else wears it?’

*

Ribchester is much busier today. It’s a sunny Saturday afternoon and that has brought the tourists. They fill the narrow streets and wander into the churchyard where they peer myopically at the Roman remains before heading for a cream tea. Families sit outside cafes eating ice creams, and in the playground near the car park children play on a miniature Roman fort.

‘I didn’t realise gladiators had ray guns,’ says Cathbad, watching them.

‘Those Romans were ahead of their time,’ says Ruth.

They take the path behind the church and walk along the river bank. Thing pants excitedly at the sight of the water meadows, but with so many children about they daren’t let him off the lead. Kate, too, is excited by the landscape.

‘Wet,’ she says. ‘Grass, sky, ducks.’

‘A perfect summary,’ says Cathbad. ‘This is like the Saltmarsh, isn’t it?’

Ruth, who has been thinking the same thing, says, ‘Too many people about.’

‘I bet it was even busy in Roman times,’ says Cathbad. ‘This was a fort, right?’

‘The Roman name was Bremetennacum Veteranorum,’ says Ruth. ‘Max says that the “veteranorum” might mean that it was a place where veterans retired. They may even have helped with rearing and training horses for the cavalry.’

‘Want horse,’ says Kate.

‘A retirement home for old legionnaires,’ says Cathbad. ‘I like that. But what about in King Arthur’s day … you reckon that was after the Romans left?’

‘Dan thought the Ribchester temple, the Raven God temple where the body was found, was late 400s, which would place it at about fifty to eighty years after the withdrawal of Roman troops. We don’t know so much about the post-Roman years. There are fewer written records. But I think Ribchester would still have been important. It’s on the river, not far from the sea, and there was a major road running through here.’

They are approaching Dan’s excavations. As they get nearer they see that a couple in hiking gear are already there, bending down to examine a section of mosaic. The woman looks up and smiles at Ruth.

‘Not much to see here,’ she says.

Only the tomb of the Raven King, Ruth tells her silently. But she is only too happy to see the hikers hiking off in search of more interesting ruins.

Cathbad, in contrast, seems enchanted with the place.

‘This is sacred ground,’ he says. ‘I feel it.’

Ruth looks at him with mingled irritation and affection. Cathbad is apt to declare any isolated spot sacred ground, and if you add a pagan temple a psychic experience is more or less guaranteed. But, on the other hand, he has just lost his friend in horrible circumstances. Surely he is allowed some kind of spiritual leeway? And it can’t be denied that the site is looking its best in the afternoon light. The hills are dark against the sky. The tourists seem to have vanished and the river runs wide and lonely across the marshes. In the distance, Pendle Hill rises up out of the flat landscape like the hull of a vast ship. As Cathbad stands, head up, eyes shut, absorbing the psychic energies, a flock of geese flies overhead, calling plaintively.

‘That’s a sign,’ he says.

‘Of what?’ asks Ruth. She is trying to stop Kate digging in the mud. The child’s a born archaeologist.

‘Geese were sacred to the Romans,’ says Cathbad evasively. ‘It’s a sign of something.’

‘Everything’s a sign of something.’

‘Too true, Ruthie.’ He looks sideways at her, wondering if she’s noticed the nickname. ‘Is this where the body was found?’

‘Over here. Clayton thought it would have been below the altar.’

Cathbad lifts a corner of tarpaulin. ‘There’s a really strong presence here.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Yes.’ Cathbad straightens up. ‘You know, I understand some of what Pendragon must have felt. The druids were a real focus of resistance to the Romans. To know that King Arthur was buried here, in such a Roman spot …’

‘After the Romans had left, though.’

‘Yes, but it’s a Roman place. It still feels like a Roman place today. A Roman cavalry fort. To Pendragon, Arthur was a mystical British figure, a pagan, a shaman. To find him here, in a Roman grave, to think that he might just have been another Roman cavalryman. It must have been like discovering that Merlin was in the SS.’

Ruth smiles, but the mention of the SS reminds her that Pendragon, for all his harmless mysticism, had some very strange bedfellows, people who, presumably, believed in the master race and the subjection of others. She remembers Dan’s diaries and the letters calling him an ‘upstart Jew’. Somewhere along the line the shamans have got mixed up with the bad guys.

She turns to check that Kate isn’t trying to eat the soil and finds that the little girl is standing stock still, staring at something across the river.

‘Funny lady,’ says Kate.

Ruth follows her gaze and sees a figure moving steadily along the riverbank. Contrary to Kate’s description, it’s impossible to tell if it’s a man or woman because the person is dressed in a long white robe and hood. As Ruth, Cathbad and Kate watch, the robed figure turns to look at them. There is a black void where the face should be.

CHAPTER 26

‘A mask,’ says Cathbad. ‘It was obviously a black mask.’

It is evening and Kate is in bed. Ruth and Cathbad are eating a Chinese takeaway in the kitchen. Neither of them had wanted to alarm Kate so it’s the first time that they have discussed the sinister figure on the riverbank. Not that Kate had seemed frightened. Both Ruth and Cathbad had found her silent acceptance of the apparition rather chilling. She had simply put her hand in Ruth’s and said ‘Home now’. And they had all, the two adults, the child and the dog, turned for home. Even Thing had seemed subdued. Now Kate is asleep and Thing is happily eating prawn crackers under the table. Cathbad refills their glasses.

‘It gave me a bit of a shock,’ he admits.

‘Me too,’ says Ruth, taking a gulp of wine. ‘The cloak, the hood, the mask. The way it appeared so suddenly. It was terrifying.’

‘Do you think the show was for our benefit?’

‘How could it be? No one knew we were going to Ribchester this afternoon.’

‘Do you think it was – what do they call him – the Arch Wizard?’

This is exactly what Ruth has been thinking but she feels the need to squash this idea. The idea that the leader of the White Hand should materialise like that, right by the grave of King Arthur, it’s too spooky to contemplate.

‘Of course not,’ she says. ‘It was just some random druid. Someone like you. After all, you must give people shocks sometimes, wandering around in your cloak. It probably wasn’t anything to do with the site or King Arthur.’

‘I don’t know,’ says Cathbad. ‘It felt staged to me. The way it turned and stared at us.’

Ruth shivers. ‘Do you know what, Cathbad? I think we should go home.’

Cathbad is silent for a moment, medatively chewing sweet and sour pork. Ruth says, almost apologetically, ‘It’s just getting too scary for me. The text messages. Pendragon dying. Now the bloody Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come following us around. I don’t want Kate to stay here any longer. I want to take her home.’

‘I thought you wanted to look at the relics from the site.’

Ruth has made an appointment with Clayton Henry to see the tombstone and the raven inscription.

‘That’s on Tuesday morning. We could go home straight afterwards.’

Cathbad sighs. ‘OK. I’ve got to go to Clitheroe on Monday to see Pendragon’s solicitor. Then we might as well go home.’

Cathbad had been surprised to hear from Pendragon’s sister that his friend had made a will and that he had been named as the executor. Ruth is planning to spend the day with Caz.

‘Good,’ says Ruth. She feels relieved but also rather sad. She can’t rid herself of the thought that by running away like this, she’ll be abandoning Dan and his great discovery. But the police are investigating Dan’s death, and while she doesn’t much like Sandy she imagines that he doesn’t give up easily. Sandy and Tim will infiltrate the White Hand and will discover who stole the bones and set Dan’s house on fire. Then Dan and King Arthur will both be able to rest in peace.

‘I can’t wait to see Flint again,’ she says.

*

Sunday may be a day of rest but, for DCI Sandy Macleod, it’s business as usual. He decides that Terry Durkin needs a shock so he pays him a visit, causing quite a stir in the quiet street of lawn-mowers and car-washers by drawing up outside the house in a marked police car, driven by Tim.

Terry appears on the doorstep in his slippers.

‘What the hell’s all this about?’

‘Few questions we’d like to ask you,’ says Sandy, smiling pleasantly at Terry’s next-door neighbour, who is blatantly peering over the fence.

‘Can’t it wait until Monday?’

‘Not really. We’ve had an interesting bit of information about you.’

Terry backs away slightly, which gives Sandy the chance to barrel over the threshold. Tim follows, looking apologetic.

‘I didn’t say you could come in!’

‘I’m sorry.’ Sandy pauses. ‘Do you want to do this down at the station?’

Terry looks at the large man who seems to be taking up most of the hall. He is clearly weighing up whether to order them to leave, or to co-operate and complain later. After a moment, he says, ‘Come through to the front room.’ Adding, ‘Mr Greengrass will hear about this.’

‘Always glad to hear from my old mate Pete,’ says Sandy genially. He leads the way through the hall, which smells strongly of roasting meat, and into a room dominated by a flat-screen TV and flowery sofa and chairs.

Sandy lowers himself into an armchair with a sigh. ‘Sit down, lad.’

‘What’s all this about?’ asks Terry, remaining standing.

‘Live with your mum, do you?’ asks Sandy.

‘What’s it got to do with you?’ says Terry, adding in a slightly awed voice, ‘How did you know?’

Even Tim has to admire the speed of his boss’s deductions, while deploring his methods. OK, the Inside Soap and Chat magazines on the table are a bit of a give-away, as is the knitting on the arm of the chair. Tim noticed the stairlift as soon as they got in and there are also headphones for the TV and one of those grabbing arms for picking objects off the floor. The whole room is old-ladyish really – white lace covers on the chairs, framed Bible tracts on the walls, a gas fire with fake coals, china horses, and a complete set of Catherine Cooksons. The interesting thing is how little of Terry’s personality seems to be reflected in the house. The only signs that a young man lives here are a set of dumbbells in the corridor and a copy of Cycling Today lying open on the sofa. Of course, Tim reflects, one doesn’t want to be sexist or ageist: both these items could belong to old Mrs Durkin.

‘Where’s Mum now?’ asks Sandy.

‘At church.’

‘Is she a Catholic?’

‘C of E,’ says Terry, sounding shocked. ‘What do you want anyhow?’

Tim leans forward. They agreed in the car that he would be the one to take the lead. As Sandy so charmingly put it, ‘Being questioned by a black copper is sure to piss him off big time.’

‘Terry, are you a member of the English Defence League?’

Terry looks from one to the other, then into the hall as if planning his escape (or listening for his mother’s return).

‘It’s not a crime, is it?’ he says at last.

‘No,’ says Tim gently. ‘It’s not a crime in itself.’

‘Well then.’

‘Are you involved with any other far-right groups? At the university, for example.’

‘I know a few people up at the university. I’m not stupid, you know.’

‘Do you talk politics with them?’

‘Sometimes. Lots of people think this country’s going downhill. Too many immigrants taking our jobs, destroying our culture. You can walk down the street in Preston and not see a white face.’

‘Is that a bad thing?’ asks Tim politely.

Terry looks away. ‘No offence.’

‘None taken. So, when you’re talking politics with your friends at the university, have you ever heard anyone mention an organisation called the White Hand?’

‘No. I don’t think so. Who are they?’

‘They’re a Neo-pagan group who revere the Norse gods.’

‘Never heard of ’em.’

‘They also revere King Arthur. Have you heard anyone talking about King Arthur recently?’

‘Nah.’ Terry is regaining his confidence. He attempts a grin. ‘Fella’s dead as far as I remember.’

He may be dead, thinks Tim, but he’s still capable of causing trouble. But now, while Terry is relaxing, it’s time to ask the important questions.

‘Did you know Dan Golding?’

‘Who?’

‘The man who excavated the bones that subsequently went missing. The man who died in a house fire.’

For the first time, Terry seems to falter. ‘I may have met him. Quite a few people from the university came to look at the bones.’

‘You investigated the fire, didn’t you? Your firm, CNN Forensics.’

‘What? Oh, the fire in Fleetwood. On Mount Street.’

‘That’s the one. Were you one of the investigators?’

Terry looks sulky. ‘Looks like you know I was.’

Tim smiles. ‘Yes, we do know. And we also know that some property went missing. Did you take anything from the house, Terry?’

‘No!’

‘A computer? A mobile phone?’

Terry is shaking now. ‘You’ve got no proof.’

Sandy speaks from the armchair, where he has been examining the knitting with interest.

‘Terry, where were you on the night of June the second?’

Terry looks at Tim almost with entreaty. ‘What are you accusing me of?’

‘Nothing,’ says Tim.

‘Yet,’ adds Sandy.

‘You can’t just come in here, accusing me of things.’

‘No one’s accusing you,’ says Tim. ‘It’s a simple question. Where were you on the night of June the second?’

‘Here, I suppose. I’d have to check.’

‘With your mum?’

‘Yes. She doesn’t go out much.’

‘Except to church.’

‘A neighbour takes her.’ Terry looks round again. ‘They’ll be back soon.’

Sandy stands up. ‘Well ta-ra for now, Terry lad. Don’t forget to give my regards to old Grassy Arse.’

Terry looks as if he can hardly believe it.

‘Are you going?’

‘Can’t hang round here all day. Unless you want to invite us for Sunday lunch. What are you having?’

‘Roast beef,’ says Terry with a swagger. ‘Classic English food.’

‘Keen cook, are you?’ asks Sandy.

‘Nah. My mum cooks. I just keep an eye when she’s out. Put the potatoes on and suchlike.’

‘My mum doesn’t let anyone in the kitchen when she’s cooking,’ says Tim.

‘What does she cook?’ asks Terry.

‘Oh roast beef, Yorkshire pudding. The usual things. Classic English food. Good day to you, Mr Durkin.’

*

Ruth is also eating a traditional meal. Chinese traditional. Susan Chow explains, almost apologetically, that the older she gets the more she craves the food of her childhood. Her parents emigrated from Hong Kong after the war and Susan was born in Lancashire.

‘But I’m still a bloody immigrant to some,’ she says with a grin. ‘Despite having a broad Blackpool accent. Might as well live up to the stereotype.’

Ruth thinks of the black soldiers on Hadrian’s Wall. Did they too feel like ‘bloody immigrants’? And what about their mixed-race children growing up in post-Roman Cumbria … Did they feel British? Did they hear rumours about a black warrior called Arthur?

‘I love Chinese food,’ says Ruth. ‘Well, I love most food.’

Susan, who is the size of a sparrow, smiles without comprehension and tucks into a spring roll. When Susan rang and suggested this meal, saying that she could show Ruth the photos of the dig at the same time, Ruth had been pleased. She had liked Susan when she met her (despite the embarrassment of Kate and the papier-mâché model) and here was a chance to find out more about the history department and about Dan as an archaeologist. But since then Ruth has read Dan’s diaries and sees Susan in a different light. Was this neat, precise woman really Dan’s lover? She remembers something Susan said when she first talked about Dan and the excavation. He was a man possessed, she said. She had sounded sad. Perhaps Susan felt that King Arthur had taken Dan away from her.

‘I don’t cook much for myself,’ Susan is saying. ‘Well, there’s no need. Mostly it’s just me and Trixie. My dog,’ she explains, seeing Ruth’s quizzical expression.

‘It used to just be me and my cat,’ says Ruth. ‘But now I’ve got Kate so I try to cook proper meals.’

‘Oh yes,’ says Susan. ‘I remember Kate.’

The photos are spread out on the table, with difficulty as the table is also laden with food. Susan has ordered dishes that Ruth has never encountered before (they don’t even appear on the menu) but they are all, without exception, delicious. Ruth tries not to eat too greedily, taking frequent sips of jasmine tea and remembering to wipe her mouth on her napkin.

The pictures show a meticulously organised dig, a perfectly symmetrical trench, everything numbered and measured and recorded. One photo shows the skeleton in situ, arms crossed on the chest. Then the bones are being sorted and bagged. The site looks pretty crowded, volunteers working in the trench, other people just watching and taking photos. Ruth identifies a few faces. She thinks that’s Guy kneeling by the trench and surely that’s Elaine, swigging from a flask, her blonde hair shining in the sun. Dan seems to be everywhere, kneeling to examine the bones, standing in the trench, hand shielding his eyes, talking into his mobile phone, laughing with the volunteers. Ruth finds herself looking at one picture in particular. Dan is examining the skull, which is lying on a tarpaulin by the trench. There is something Hamlet-like about the pose and certainly, in retrospect, something almost tragic about Dan’s bowed head. Did he suspect then that the skull was African? Did he know the danger he was in? In the background of the picture she can see Guy looking intently at his friend. Ruth feels that she would give a great deal to know what was in his mind at that moment.

‘Were you close to Dan?’ she asks Susan.

She expects the other woman to evade the question but Susan looks at her calmly over the crowded table.

‘Yes. We had a brief affair about a year back. Nothing too serious. It ended by mutual consent and we stayed friends. I was fond of him. He was very charismatic.’

‘Yes,’ Ruth agrees. ‘He was.’ She can’t help thinking that Susan’s account of the affair sounds a little too civilised. Nothing’s ever that straightforward, surely?

‘Dan went out with Elaine too, didn’t he?’

Now there is fire in Susan’s eyes. She breathes in sharply, nostrils flaring.

‘That woman. She trapped Dan into sleeping with her and then threatened to kill herself when he tried to end it. She’s a complete nut job.’

Ruth is always sceptical when men say they’ve been trapped into sex by women and she’s not more convinced by Susan’s claim. But she’s never heard the bit about suicide before.

‘Elaine threatened to kill herself?’

‘Oh she didn’t go through with it,’ says Susan dismissively and unnecessarily. ‘She’s just an attention seeker.’

How far would Elaine go in search of attention, thinks Ruth. Dressing up in a mask and robe? Burning down a house?

‘Do you know anything about a group called the White Hand?’ she asks.

‘No,’ says Susan. ‘Who are they?’ Her gaze is clear and almost child-like. But Susan is a highly intelligent woman.

Ruth smiles back. ‘It’s not important. Do you want some more egg-fried rice?’

CHAPTER 27

On Monday morning, Cathbad leaves promptly at nine. He feels rather guilty at abandoning Ruth, but as he turns out of Beach Row he sees a huge gas-guzzling monster car pulling up at Number One. That must be Ruth’s university friend. He’s glad that she’s got some company but he can’t really see what Ruth would have in common with a woman who drives a car like that. They are spending the day at a water park, something else that Cathbad finds quite inexplicable. Why go indoors with artificial rapids and fake waterfalls when you have the sea on your doorstep? Kate will like it, Ruth had said, but Kate had liked playing on the beach with him, building a henge, collecting shells and driftwood, watching the tide retreat so quickly that the sand had glistened like a mirage. She’s not your child, he tells himself, something he finds himself having to do several times a day. She’s Ruth’s daughter, and if Ruth wants to take her to a water park, that’s up to her. After all, isn’t he the one who has said he will take her to Nickelodeon World, that vast plastic pleasure ground? Is he only doing it to be popular with Kate? Of course he is.

He drives carefully along the dual carriageway, Thing at his side. The solicitor may be surprised at his turning up with a dog in tow but he could hardly leave the animal alone for the day. Besides, he likes Thing’s company. He can see why Pendragon called him his familiar, there is something accepting about a dog that’s very comforting when your thoughts are in turmoil. Cathbad likes cats but they are more judgemental somehow. He imagines that Flint would just tell him to pull himself together and break open the Go-Cat.

And his thoughts are in turmoil. Pendragon’s face and his ghastly swinging body haunt his dreams (despite the soothing ballet wallpaper). Why did he do it? Why hadn’t he confided in Cathbad? Again and again, Cathbad wonders if he could have been more understanding that day when he visited Pendragon. He’d known his friend was worried about something, why hadn’t he tried harder to find out what it was? Was Pendragon so terrified of the White Hand that he’d killed himself rather than face their vengeance? Cathbad had been shocked at the evidence of Pendragon’s involvement with the Neo-pagan group. He still can’t accept that his gentle friend believed in all that rubbish about the supremacy of the white Norseman. After all, Pendragon had lived in Ireland. He must, surely, have had some sympathy with the Celtic gods too. Cathbad has always believed that one of the good things about being a pagan was that you didn’t have to settle for one narrow set of beliefs but could choose from a cornucopia of mysteries. But it seems that Pendragon had chosen the narrowest path of all.

They reach Clitheroe at ten. It’s a bustling market town, built on steep cobbled streets, overlooked by a magnificent castle. On any other occasion Cathbad would have enjoyed strolling around, absorbing the energies of the place. But today he feels that he is on business. He is even wearing what is almost a jacket. He puts the lead on Thing and walks sedately along the high street. It’s almost like working in a bank.

The solicitors, J. Arthur Wagstaff, are housed in a reassuringly uncorporate building, a quaint little house with a bow window like a Victorian sweetshop. Cathbad feels his spirits beginning to rise. The receptionist doesn’t even blanch at Thing (or Cathbad’s jacket). She ushers them into an office and tells them that Stephanie will be with them shortly. For the first time Cathbad realises that the S. Evans mentioned by Pen’s sister is actually a woman. He chastises himself for such sexist assumptions. Ruth would be horrified.

To complicate matters further, Stephanie Evans is extremely attractive. She has red hair, which gleams seductively against her black dress. She reminds Cathbad of Ruth’s friend Shona. Her accent is pure Lancashire. Cathbad leans forward so as not to miss a word. What she tells him is almost as interesting as the glimpse of cleavage with which he is rewarded. Dame Alice’s cottage was rented but Pendragon has left its contents in their entirety to Cathbad. He has also left him his savings, a surprisingly healthy sum. Pendragon also asked his friend to care take of his dog.

‘I see you’re already doing that,’ says Stephanie warmly.

‘It seemed the right thing to do,’ says Cathbad.

There are a couple of legacies to Pendragon’s sister, Margot, and to local charities. Most interesting of all is a donation to a local neurological centre.

‘I understand they were treating him,’ says Stephanie.

‘Treating him?’

Stephanie looks at him in surprise and concern.

‘Didn’t you know? Pendragon had a brain tumour. Inoperable apparently. He thought that he only had a few months left to live.’

Cathbad leaves the solicitors’ office in a daze. This revelation sheds a new light on Pendragon’s suicide. And, in retrospect, the headaches and the herbal infusions are also explained. Did the tumour contribute to Pendragon’s feelings of persecution and isolation? Or was he, simply, afraid of dying? Did he ask Dame Alice for help, wonders Cathbad, remembering the garden and the raven in the apple tree. It’s possible that Pendragon acted not out of fear but out of a desire to be master of his own fate. But then Cathbad remembers his friend’s contorted face as he cut him down from the beam. If he’d wanted an easy death he would have taken a gentle poison handpicked from the hedgerows. He would have lain down in Dame Alice’s herb garden and waited for nightfall. No, that’s not the way it happened.

He is so preoccupied that he gets tangled in Thing’s lead and has to stop to extricate himself. As he does so he sees, above a shop, a name that looks vaguely familiar. R. Wade and Sons, Estate Agents.

‘Come on, Thing,’ he says. ‘We’ve got another call to make.’

*

Halfway through the morning Sandy Macleod gets an unexpected visitor.

‘Lady to see you, boss,’ says the duty sergeant.

‘Lady?’ says Sandy, heaving himself up from his chair. ‘I don’t know any ladies.’

‘This is definitely a lady,’ says the sergeant.

And the sergeant is right. Pippa Henry, sitting in the reception area wearing a black dress, white cardigan and pearls, looks every inch a lady. In fact, Sandy muses, ushering her through the swing doors with a low ironical bow, it’s almost too good a performance. Who wears a black dress and pearls on an August morning in Blackpool? She looks like that woman in that film, what was it called? Something about Tiffany’s. Bev would know.

Anyway, it’s distinctly interesting, her coming to call like this, all dressed up. It means she wants to impress him, maybe even influence him. Why?

‘Coffee?’ he asks, showing her into his office.

‘That would be lovely.’

That’s what you think, Sandy tells her silently. He dispatches a WPC for coffee and Kit Kats.

‘So,’ he says, sitting opposite and pushing some papers onto the floor. ‘You wanted to see me.’

‘Yes.’

Pippa Henry looks straight at him. She’s really a very good-looking woman, thinks Sandy. Mid-forties probably, there are fine lines around her mouth and eyes but the overall impression is shiny and expensive. Her dark gold hair is in a bun and she sits up very straight, without fidgeting, a rare thing in a woman. Poise, thinks Sandy, that’s what she has. Poise. He leans forward and sniffs. Chanel number 5. He might have guessed. Pippa recoils slightly.

Sandy smiles encouragingly. ‘What did you want to see me about, Mrs Henry?’

Pippa smooths her skirt over her knees. ‘I wanted to tell you about Dan Golding,’ she says.

‘What about him?’

Pippa smiles, revealing small white teeth. ‘I think you already know, Detective Chief Inspector. I was having an affair with Dan.’

‘Why would I know that?’

‘You’ve found his computer with all his emails and everything. Everyone knows that.’

‘Do they?’

Sandy wonders how everyone knows. Could Ruth Galloway have been talking? Nelson seems to trust her with all his secrets but Sandy wonders whether they were wise to give her free rein to look through Golding’s files. She could easily have blabbed to one of the Pendle academics. Apparently she met that Guy chap the other day. Anyway, nothing on a computer stays private for long. Tim is actually with the forensic-data recovery people now, probing the mysteries of the hard drive.

Sandy arranges his expression to one of polite interest and smiles encouragingly at Pippa. The coffee is brought in and Pippa sips hers with a grimace.

‘Great stuff,’ says Sandy, taking a slurp. ‘Kit Kat?’

‘No thank you. Anyway, I thought I should come and see you. My husband doesn’t know about … about Dan.’

I wouldn’t be too sure about that, thinks Sandy. In his experience, husbands always know, though they might not want to admit it, even to themselves. He thinks of the nervous figure bouncing around the deluxe windmill. Clayton Henry seems to have so many problems that maybe infidelity isn’t high on his list. Didn’t he say that his wife had money of her own? Maybe he can’t afford for her to walk out.

‘Don’t judge me too harshly,’ Pippa is saying, throatily. ‘My first husband was handsome and charming but he should never have married. He left me for another man.’ She looks at Sandy as if daring him to say something but Sandy keeps his face blank.

‘I was on my own with a young child. It was very difficult. I decided to go back to university – my father had left me some money – so I went to Pendle and studied history.’

‘And that’s where you met Clayton Henry.’

‘That’s right. He was my tutor. He was kind and he offered security, and although he’s been a very good stepfather to Chloe, it’s not a passionate relationship. But when I met Dan it was different. It was the real thing. He was so good-looking and charming. It was inevitable really.’

‘Was it?’

Pippa flushes. ‘Well, I suppose I could have resisted but …’

‘Bit of a ladies’ man, was he?’ says Sandy sympathetically. ‘Very persuasive?’

‘No,’ says Pippa. ‘It wasn’t like that. He wasn’t some loathsome charmer, oiling around women. He was quiet and rather aloof. It was just … well, we started talking at our Christmas party and there was this instant connection. It was more mental than physical.’

I’ll take your word for it, thinks Sandy. Beautiful people always claim not to be interested in looks. He has seen a photo of Dan Golding and the man looked like a bloody movie star. (He also saw his dead body when it was brought in for autopsy but then, to be fair, he wasn’t looking his best.)

‘I’d heard he was seeing his next-door neighbour,’ he says now.