The Dungeon House (Lake District Mysteries) (20 page)

‘People harp on about the Yorkshire coast being bleak,’ Les said. ‘Load of bollocks. Whitby in winter is like the Costa del Sol, compared to this godforsaken spot.’

They were walking back to the car through a fierce shower. Gulls wailed up above, and the wind moaned as it whipped sand over the dunes of Drigg. Behind them, a police tape cordoned off Joanna’s vehicle. The force’s policy on missing persons included a lengthy procedure for dealing with situations like this, and two constables were conducting a risk assessment before deciding on next steps.

‘Don’t be such a misery. On a sunny day, Drigg is glorious. Years ago, I spent an afternoon walking along the beach, then back over the dunes. It was so peaceful, I hardly saw another soul. I started wondering where everyone was.’

‘Steering clear of nuclear fallout,’ Les grumbled. ‘What’s
your guess? Has Joanna Footit drowned herself or done a Reggie Perrin?’

‘Or been kidnapped?’

‘You reckon?’

She opened the car door. ‘Why leave a note hinting at suicide, along with her jacket, jeans, and sandals, and then do a flit?’

‘We’ve agreed she’s flaky.’

‘Your adjective, not mine.’

‘Okay,’ Les said, as he squeezed into his seat. ‘Assume I’ve done her an injustice, and her head’s screwed on right. A woman with something to hide has an incentive to fake her own death, and start a fresh life elsewhere. You can interpret the note in two ways.
Sorry
might be shorthand for
I mean to kill myself and there’s nothing you can do to stop me
. Or she could be apologising for something else.’

‘Keeping quiet after the Dungeon House shootings, for example.’ Hannah said. ‘As for suicide, she may have chosen this spot to disappear for a very personal reason.’

‘Because this was where she had her first shag with Nigel Whiteley?’

‘Ah, Les, you have such a delicate way with words. She’d just met her former boyfriend for the first time in twenty years, and he was too distracted by his daughter’s disappearance to make a fuss of her. If she felt mortified by his indifference, she might choose somewhere with romantic associations to end her life.’

‘Seems a bit drastic.’

‘Suicide
is
drastic. There’s another angle we need to consider. Robbie Dean lives close by. Coincidence, probably,
but it’s worth checking out. When I was last here, Lower Drigg amounted to two or three buildings and half a dozen sheep, so his place can’t be hard to find.’

‘Yeah, I’m guessing they’ve not built an executive estate overlooking the dumps of nuclear sludge. Shall we have a chat with him?’

She nodded. Time to meet the man responsible for the death of Alvaro Quiggin’s daughter.

Robbie Dean’s cottage didn’t boast a name, a number or a doorbell. Neither the unkempt patch of lawn nor the cracked pane in the front window made a compelling case for his skills as gardener and handyman, but Hannah supposed he didn’t rely on passing trade. Few people who ventured along that lonely, winding lane would be tempted to make a return visit. The best that could be said of it was that the dunes lining the horizon obscured the view of Sellafield’s brooding bulk. In the chill and wet of this miserable afternoon, the exposed and featureless landscape between the dunes and the lane was very green, but hardly pleasant.

They splashed up the path, and moments after Les knocked, Dean opened the door, a strongly-built man wearing a Black Sabbath hoodie, corduroy jeans, and Doc Martens. Had he been expecting them? If so, he didn’t look in the mood to offer coffee and cake.

‘Mr Dean?’ Hannah flourished her card and made the introductions. ‘Hope you don’t mind if we trouble you for a couple of minutes?’

‘Would it make any difference if I did mind?’ he demanded.

‘You don’t seem surprised to see us,’ Les said.

‘One of my lads rang. Said you’d been asking for me, up at Ravenglass Knoll.’

Hannah had taught herself to resist jumping to instant conclusions about people. Ben Kind’s mantra was that first impressions counted, but not for everything. A good detective always looked beneath the surface. So she told herself to give Robbie Dean the benefit of the doubt, despite the unpleasant glare darkening his face.

She shook her wet hair. ‘May we step inside for a moment?’

A weary shrug. ‘Follow me.’

As he motioned them into the front room, Hannah caught sight of the kitchen through an open door at the end of the hall. A pile of dirty dishes rose up from the sink. Not a house-proud man, then, but a moment’s glance around the sitting room gave a clue to what he cared about. There was a small sofa and two armchairs, but the room was dominated by a huge glass-topped cabinet, long, and deep, on sturdy wooden legs. Inside the cabinet was an array of memorabilia: gold medals in brown boxes, small silver trophies and brass plaques recording team and personal triumphs, gaudy football match programmes, and as a centrepiece, a peaked cap.

Les scrutinised the cap as if it were a religious relic. ‘You were a schoolboy international?’

‘Uh-huh.’ He was still tight-lipped, defensive.

‘Worth a few bob, this stuff. Hope you’ve got good security.’

‘Not many people get out this way,’ Dean said. ‘I’ve got CCTV, and the barbed wire keeps out the dog walkers and
their animals. Anyone who tried to burgle me would be very sorry.’

Hannah didn’t doubt it, but now wasn’t the time to deliver a lecture on crime prevention or the legal definition of reasonable force. Dean was obviously ready and willing to take the law in his hands if the need arose. One man’s have-a-go hero is another man’s sociopath, she thought. Framed photographs and press cuttings hung on three walls. One photo showed a young Robbie Dean looking lean and mean in a blue football strip; others featured teams of teenagers. She picked him out in the front row of two of them, staring at the camera with a ball at his feet. How old was he in those shots – fifteen, sixteen? The cuttings seemed to be a mix of match reports recording his triumphs on the pitch, and gossip paragraphs linking him with leading clubs. Snippets of journalistic hyperbole caught her eye:
nerveless … ice-cold finisher … never missed a penalty kick
. The front window didn’t let in too much light, but the clippings were yellow with age. They dated back almost a quarter of a century.

‘You were a star,’ she said.

For a fleeting moment, she saw something other than hostility in his eyes. ‘Yeah, the Press reckoned I could go all the way. So did my coaches, more to the point. Never happened.’

‘You were injured in a car crash, I believe.’

The scowl returned. ‘Been doing your homework?’

‘It’s quite simple, Mr Dean. Your name cropped up in connection with Joanna Footit. She was travelling with you on the night of the collision, I believe.’

‘What about it?’ His tone was derisive. ‘Don’t tell me old Jo is in trouble with the law.’

‘Not at all. We’re concerned for her safety. Her car has been found abandoned nearby. In the public car park.’

‘So she’s gone for a walk on the beach. Or a swim.’ He glanced through the window. ‘Could’ve chosen a nicer day for it.’

‘She was last seen yesterday evening. The signs are that she didn’t spend the night at the guest house where she is staying. If she went for a walk last night, what’s happened to her?’

‘Don’t ask me.’

‘We are asking you, Mr Dean. You knew her years ago, and since she came back to Cumbria, she’s been catching up with old friends and acquaintances.’

‘All right, she did come here,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Wanted to see Nigel Whiteley, and she’d found out I worked for him. Why don’t you ask Nige?’

‘We saw him earlier this afternoon, but he couldn’t help.’

‘Me neither.’ He grimaced. ‘Try the bloke she used to work for. Elstone.’

‘We’ve already spoken to Mr Elstone.’

‘Been busy, haven’t you? Perhaps she’s done a runner.’

‘It doesn’t seem likely.’

‘Why not?’ he demanded. ‘Jo was always a bit mental. She was only here five minutes, but I could see she hadn’t changed.’

‘Is that what you reckon?’ Les asked. ‘Did you know her well enough to judge?’

‘She was Nige’s girlfriend. I saw enough of her to tell.’

‘Sure she didn’t come here again last night?’ Les made a
performance of surveying the room. ‘You’re on your own here, right? Quite nice to have a cosy catch-up with an old flame.’

Dean laughed. ‘She wasn’t my old flame, I told you. Not my type, even when she was a spring chicken. No, she didn’t come to see me last night, or today. Take a look round the place if you think I’ve got her tucked up in bed or summat.’

Hannah was about to say that wouldn’t be necessary, but Les was too quick for her. ‘Thanks, don’t mind if we do. This’ll only take a couple of minutes.’

‘Hope so. I need to finish my VAT returns, or those bastards will be on my back. You two interrupted me.’

The cottage wasn’t large. Apart from the squalid kitchen and a large pantry filled with rubbish, rickety old chairs and half-used tins of paint, there was a back room on the ground floor that Dean used as his office. A couple of spreadsheets and a laptop on his desk and a battered old filing cabinet crammed with invoices and correspondence were the only signs that he ran a business. Upstairs were two bedrooms, one with a bed still unmade, and a bathroom. Les poked around in a wardrobe and cupboard, but found nothing of interest. From the first floor window at the back, Hannah looked down on outbuildings large enough to hold three or four vehicles. Dean followed her gaze.

‘My equipment’s kept there, plus my vans and a trailer. Half empty right now. A lot of the stuff is out with the lads at Nige’s place.’

‘May we have a quick look?’

‘It’s only a garage.’

‘All the same.’

She knew even before he said yes that their chances of finding any hint of Joanna Footit’s whereabouts were negligible, and so it proved. There was a workbench and plenty of tools in the garage, and although he kept them much cleaner and tidier than the pots and pans he cooked with, she felt consumed by frustration as she followed Dean back through the kitchen door.

‘Quiet place, this,’ Les said. ‘You don’t even have a telly.’

‘Got rid of it. There was nothing on but a load of crap.’

‘You don’t follow the footie? Plenty to watch nowadays. Not just home-grown teams. La Liga, Serie A, and I don’t know what. Don’t you miss it all?’

‘Been there, done that, got the football shirt.’ He considered Les. ‘As for the rest, the telly’s full of shitty cop dramas.’

‘Even shitty cops need to relax. What do you do for company, how’s your social life?’

A withering glance. ‘There are pubs not too far away,’

Les refused to give up. ‘Funny about Nigel Whiteley, isn’t it?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘A bloke who can afford to pick and choose, wanting to live in the house where his uncle committed murder?’

‘Takes all sorts.’

As Dean unlocked the front door to let them out, Hannah said thanks, and couldn’t resist adding, ‘You’ve been extremely helpful. I’m sure you’re concerned about your old friend. We’ll let you know the outcome of our search for her.’

At least she managed to provoke a response, however
baleful. ‘Joanna will be fine, you can stake your life on that. She’s lucky, that one.’

‘Lucky?’

For the first time since he’d admitted them, he seemed uncertain. Finally, he tapped his damaged leg. ‘She walked away from that car crash without a scratch. Same as Nige, he’s always led a charmed life. Not like Carrie. Or me.’

He slammed the door behind them, and Hannah winked at Les. ‘Salt of the earth, would you say, just a shade taciturn?’

‘Miserable bastard. No wonder he lives alone, who in their right mind could put up with that?’

‘Not likely that Joanna parked where she did simply because she wanted to be in his neighbourhood, is it?’

‘Nah. We passed a station when we drove through Drigg, didn’t we? Maybe she got away by train.’

‘On the Cumbrian Coast Line? You might be right, Drigg’s a request stop.’ Hannah considered. ‘If she found shelter overnight, she could have caught a train this morning … For all we know, she could be in the north of Scotland or on the Eurostar by now.’

‘Did she ask her old chum Dean to put her up? Stranger things have happened, but he won’t admit it any time soon.’ Les peered up at the sky. ‘Looks like it’s going to pee down even harder. What next?’

‘There’s nothing more we can do about Joanna. We need to let them get on with the search. Time to get back to basics.’

‘Lily Elstone?’

‘Exactly. It’s her disappearance we’re supposed to be reviewing, after all.’

He opened the car door on the driver’s side. ‘Yeah, but my instinct is the same as yours. Joanna Footit worked for Lily’s Dad, she was at the Dungeon House when Malcolm Whiteley went berserk. Hard to believe there’s no connection whatsoever.’

The back of Hannah’s neck prickled as they belted up. Was Robbie Dean watching, waiting for them to move off? She refused to turn, and look in the direction of the cottage. The trill of her mobile distracted her, and she smiled with relief when she saw the caller’s number.

‘Daniel,’ she murmured to Les.

‘Hope your day is going better than mine,’ she said into the phone. ‘We’ve found one and lost another. The good news is that Shona Whiteley has turned up safe and well in Northern Ireland with Scott Durham’s son. The bad news is that Joanna Footit’s vanished.’

‘Never a dull moment, huh?’

‘You can say that again. Les and I are at Drigg, where her car was found, with some of her clothes and a note saying
Sorry
. Not clear yet whether she’s killed herself or wandered off on a mysterious frolic of her own.’

‘I’d hate to think I drive my audience to suicide,’ he said. ‘That puts my mishaps into perspective. There’s been a flood at the pub where I’m speaking tonight. Collapsed drain. They’ve had to cancel the talk. Edwin Broderick has offered to take me out for a meal, but if you’re in the mood for something to eat before trekking back home, we could meet up.’