The Dungeon House (Lake District Mysteries) (5 page)

He heard a noise. Lysette, unlocking the bedroom door? She’d thought better of her defiance, perhaps, and wanted to talk. Too late, too fucking late. He sat very still, straining his ears. The soft sounds could only be Lysette’s footsteps, as she inched down the staircase, desperate not to disturb him. So she’d decided not to wait until tomorrow after all. She’d probably been listening out, waiting to see if he went up to bed, and left the coast clear. Hoping that drink or pills or exhaustion had knocked him out.

Quiet as a ghost, he picked up the rifle. Energy surged through him. He was about to seize control of his life again.

The study door was ajar. Nudging it open with the butt of the Winchester, he waited for Lysette to appear in his line of vision.

Yes, here she came, in tee shirt and jeans, a zipped and bulging airline bag in her hand. All ready for a quick getaway.

But if he couldn’t have her, no one else would.

As he lifted the rifle, something caught his eye through the window, from the darkness of the garden. A gleam of light, coming from the summer house. Another malfunction in that extortionately pricey lighting system? No, the summer house wasn’t connected up yet. Was someone out there? No, it was impossible.

He heard Lysette gasp, and realised she’d seen him. And she’d seen the Winchester. Now he’d reached the point of no return, he felt drained of energy. All he wanted was for it to be over.

‘Malcolm, no!’

He took a pace forward. Another stride would take her within arm’s reach. Not that she needed to be so close. The Winchester would do colossal damage at this range. Upstairs a door opened. Was that Amber? He couldn’t allow himself to be distracted.

His eyes met Lysette’s. He saw no sign of contempt or hatred now. Only terror.

‘Put that thing down!’

Her voice was a cracked whisper. Probably she was calculating whether she dared make a dash for the door. But it was too late.

‘Heard the news?’

Les Bryant didn’t wait for an invitation to sit down at the table where Hannah Scarlett was chatting to DC Maggie Eyre. One beefy hand held a mug of strong coffee, the other a half-eaten Cumberland sausage in a bap, dripping brown sauce on to the tiled floor of the cafeteria. He curled his lip at the sight of Hannah’s lentil soup and Maggie’s tuna rice salad.

‘Don’t tell me, let me guess,’ Hannah said. ‘New research has revealed that meat eaters’ life expectancy is longer than previously thought. They are now expected to survive until their sixtieth birthday.’

‘You’re a cruel and heartless woman, DCI Scarlett.’ Les was just three weeks away from his sixtieth. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m a born survivor.’

True enough, Hannah supposed. It wasn’t merely that, years after retiring from West Yorkshire Police, and
despite occasional health scares, Les still worked as hard as detectives half his age. He was on contract as a consultant to Cumbria’s Cold Case Review Team, and somehow his post had survived the scything-down of jobs conducted by the grim reapers of Finance and HR. To everyone’s surprise, he hadn’t even committed career suicide by saying something utterly inappropriate when Hannah and her team were summoned to a photo opportunity with the Police and Crime Commissioner.

‘You’d be amazed how much fitter I feel since I went on the veggie detox.’ Her aim was to show solidarity with her friend and colleague Fern Larter, after Fern was placed on a strict diet following a diagnosis of hypertension. The sight of a juicy steak still provoked feelings of lust, but she had no intention of confessing to Les. ‘Seriously, you ought to try it.’

‘I’d sooner stick pins in my eyes. To be fair, you’re not looking terrible on it.’ Les gave her slim figure the sort of appraising gaze nobody else would dare. ‘Take it from me, the feel-good factor is nothing to do with the crap you’re eating. It’s Daniel Kind who’s put a smile on your face. How is he, these days?’

Hannah glared, while Maggie tried to suppress a grin. ‘Fine, thanks. Now, what about this breaking news? I’m all ears.’

Typically, Les strung out the tension, gnawing at his bap, and wondering out loud why no slick marketing man had rebranded long sausages rolled into circular coils. Why not call them Cumbria sausages? The historic county of Cumberland had vanished forty years back, when all was said and done.

‘The name’s a reminder of the good old Cumberland pig.’ Maggie’s family had farmed for generations. ‘The boars died out in the Fifties. My granddad owned one of the last in the county. So sad the breed disappeared.’

‘Tragic.’ Les finished his hot dog, and burped shamelessly. ‘All right, then. Another teenage girl has gone missing. She set off from her home, just outside Ravenglass, on Saturday morning, and nobody’s seen her since. Name of Shona Whiteley.’

Maggie leant forward. ‘You’re not suggesting there’s a link with the Lily Elstone case?’

‘Who knows?’ Les sucked in his cheeks. ‘Admittedly, the circumstances aren’t one hundred per cent identical. Young Lily was knocked off her bike, wasn’t she? Shona said she was catching the bus on Saturday morning, forty-eight hours ago. She was supposed to be spending the night at a sleepover with a friend in Eskdale Green, and the alarm wasn’t raised until yesterday evening when she was due back. But the girls are much the same age. Lily was fourteen, Shona’s fifteen, and the places they were last seen are only a few miles apart in west Cumbria.’

‘Is that all?’ Maggie had never mastered the art of hiding disappointment. She was desperate to come up with something fresh, but it was hardly unknown for teenagers to go missing. Even in the Western Lakes, it had happened several times since Lily vanished without trace. Each time the kid had turned up safe and sound. Usually the explanation was a row with the parents.

‘He’s just ratcheting up the suspense,’ Hannah told her. ‘Our Mr Bryant is more of an old ham than any of your granddad’s Cumberland pigs. Come on, Les, spit it out.
And I don’t mean that bloody sausage. Did the two girls come from the same village, or attend the same school?’

‘Not as far as I know. But there is a link between their fathers.’

Maggie’s eyes widened. ‘You’re talking about the accountant, Gray Elstone?’

‘And Shona’s dad, yes. Name of Nigel Whiteley. Ring a bell, Hannah?’

‘Uh-huh.’ He peered at her across the little table, smug as a quizmaster when an answer teases the tip of a contestant’s tongue. ‘Whiteley, Whiteley …’

‘You’ll kick yourself when I tell you.’

‘Was he …?’

‘The Dungeon House killer?’ Les’ bleak smile resembled a ‘before’ picture in a commercial for cosmetic dentistry. ‘You’re getting warm.’

‘But his name wasn’t …’

‘Nigel? No, you’re right. The man responsible for the murders at the Dungeon House was Malcolm Whiteley. He was the uncle of this Nigel Whiteley.’

‘Ah.’ Hannah pondered. ‘Gray Elstone was a friend of Malcolm Whiteley, wasn’t he? His financial adviser?’

He applauded lavishly. ‘Go to the top of the class. Not sure he was such a great adviser. Whiteley’s finances were in meltdown at the time of the shootings.’

‘Small world, eh?’ Maggie said. ‘Though I don’t see what this has to do with it.’

‘The world’s even smaller than you think.’ Les sat back, ready to play his ace. ‘You’ll never guess where Shona Whiteley was last seen.’

‘Try me,’ Hannah said.

‘At her father’s home, before she set off to catch a bus.’

‘So?’

‘These days, it’s called Ravenglass Knoll. Twenty years ago it was known as the Dungeon House.’

Joanna Footit wasn’t even watching the television when Nigel Whiteley’s face appeared on the screen. She liked to keep her set on in the background, even in the morning, when there was nothing on worth watching. It was company, especially when Darcy was at his most aloof; it was true what they said, dogs have owners, but cats have staff. The regional news was on, and Joanna was hoovering the living room carpet in her pyjamas, looking even more of a sight than usual. She was waiting for the local weather forecast, although if anyone had asked, she’d have struggled to explain why she followed the weather news with almost religious devotion. It wasn’t as if she spent a lot of time out of doors.

‘All we want is to have Shona back, as soon as we can.’

That voice, oh God! The timbre was imprinted in her brain. She’d misheard Nigel’s name when the reporter mentioned it, but she’d never mistake the sound of him. Fumbling with the switch of the vacuum cleaner, she tripped over the lead in her haste to catch sight of him on the screen.

Yes, there he was, tall and square-jawed. He’d aged well. His hair was short and flecked with grey, but it made him look distinguished. He wore a sombre suit, and an expression to match, but he was still the Nigel Whiteley she’d once adored.

The news item was brief, but she played it back half a
dozen times until she had the story off by heart. The gist was that Nigel’s daughter had vanished into thin air. A photograph showed Shona at a party, giving a thumbs-up to the camera. An attractive girl, with shoulder-length dark hair, and a brace on her teeth. Good cheekbones, inherited from her Dad.

‘Shona has never done anything like this before.’ Nigel said. ‘I’m desperately worried.’

Shona had told him she’d arranged to stay the night with another girl, and it wasn’t clear to Joanna whether the friend was actually expecting her. You never got the full story on television. Sometimes, Joanna knew, this was due to ‘legal reasons’, a phrase which covered a multitude of sins. The police liked keeping their cards close to their chest.

Pausing the television, Joanna made herself a cup of Nescafé. Perched on her favourite chair, she sipped slowly, and asked herself what could have happened to Nigel’s daughter. The obvious assumption was that she’d run off with some lad, but if the police took the same view, would the story make the TV news? Then again, Nigel was a wealthy man these days, and the rich were different. They had influence with the media.

Nigel’s name cropped up in the papers now and then. He was sometimes described as one of the North West’s leading entrepreneurs. His company, Accident Payback, was highly successful, but courted controversy. She’d read news items accusing them of encouraging people to make false claims, and putting up the insurance premiums of innocent motorists. For Nigel, it was water off a duck’s back; he insisted he was performing a public service. Joanna
supposed he was right, and found it impossible not to dwell on what-might-have-been. This wasn’t foolish fantasising about a celebrity who was hopelessly out of reach. Her spine tingled at the memory of him running his hands along her body.

If only Robbie Dean hadn’t crashed his car, things would have been so different. The accident might not have harmed her physically, but it had destroyed her nerves. They had a name for it now, post-traumatic stress disorder, but back then, everyone thought she should just be thankful she’d survived in one piece. She and Nigel were the lucky ones, but Joanna didn’t see it that way, not for a long time.

She pressed the TV remote. Nigel spoke directly to the camera. ‘Shona, love, please. All I want is to hear that you’re safe and well.’

Heartbreaking to see him in such distress. Joanna knew what heartbreak felt like. She’d been so happy that final night, that terrible night of the Last Supper. They’d kissed and made up on the foreshore at Ravenglass. She had a good job, a little nest egg in the bank, and the man of her dreams. It felt like Heaven.

Except that, in the space of a few hours, came the blood-soaked Hell at the quarry garden.

The Dungeon House nightmare had destroyed her fragile recovery from the horror of the fatal car crash. She’d lost the ability to think straight. Malcolm Whiteley had so much to answer for. It wasn’t just that he was a murderer. He’d ruined her life, and, yes, Nigel’s too. Money didn’t count for everything, and Nigel looked so pale and drawn. Twelve months ago, when she’d read about the death of his wife from pancreatic cancer, she’d almost got up the nerve
to drop him a line and offer her sympathy, but at that stage Eoin was still around, and the moment had passed.

‘You’re not in any kind of trouble. Just get in touch, and let me know you’re okay, yeah?’

Nigel was distraught, naturally, but Joanna’s instinct told her the girl would turn up safe and sound. Teenagers often did ridiculous things. The authorities would pull out all the stops to find her, but would the joy and relief of reunion with Shona be enough to answer all Nigel’s prayers? Joanna suspected he was suffering from a deeper unhappiness. Pain was visible in his dark eyes. While everyone hunted for the girl, who was taking care of him?

‘If we’re raking over the past,’ Hannah said, ‘let’s do it in my office, and let someone else grab this table.’

‘You’ve not finished your soup,’ Les said. ‘What’s wrong, too many lentils?’

‘It got cold while I waited for you to tell us about this Whiteley girl.’

He bared his teeth again. ‘No loss. Why not forget the veggie experiment, and grab yourself a pork pie, build yourself up? With you in a minute. Just let me collect my bits and pieces.’

Hannah watched his retreating back. ‘He’s getting worse.’

Maggie laughed. ‘You did tell me to watch him and learn.’

Not long ago, Maggie had split up with her fiancé, and further dismayed her parents by deciding to prioritise the job, rather than marriage and raising a family. She was aiming for promotion, though with salary budgets under
tight control and competition fierce, the odds were against her. Hannah was giving her more responsibility, with Les acting as her mentor. In the last forty-eight hours, Maggie had fronted a press conference about the case, under the watchful eye of a woman from PR, and made a fleeting appearance on local TV. She’d done well, and resisted the journos’ invitations to promise a swift and miraculous solution.

Lily’s bike had been found in a ditch next to the lane she cycled along to reach home, but no trace of her had ever been found. It looked as though she’d been knocked off the bike and abducted, but without a body – assuming she was dead, of course – there was little to go on. But you never knew what diligent re-examination of witness testimony might turn up. Someone knew the truth about what had happened to the kid, and the best way to find that someone was through patience and determination. Qualities that Maggie possessed in abundance.

‘Selectively, was what I had in mind. Come on.’

‘I’ve heard of the Dungeon House,’ Maggie said, as they walked down the corridor. ‘Some nutter gunned down his family? And now his nephew’s daughter is missing.’

‘I’m hazy about the details. Believe it or not, I was barely into my teens when the murders took place. But a colleague told me about the case, years ago.’

‘Is that right?’

Hannah coughed. Why on earth did she still feel a pinch of embarrassment about mentioning his name? ‘Yes, my old boss, Ben Kind.’

Maggie nodded. Ben had retired not long before his premature death, and she’d never worked with him. But
she was familiar with his name, and the fact that Hannah was seeing his son, Daniel. A small world, yes, that was the Lake District. So often around here, one person was connected to another. One of the lessons Les drummed into any colleague willing to listen was that a good detective needed to understand the significance of the connections. Especially those that people didn’t want you to discover.

‘Dare we risk a coffee?’ Maggie asked.

Even the quality of the hot drinks had fallen victim to austerity measures, but Hannah said, ‘Yeah, I need a caffeine boost. Let’s risk it.’

They stopped at the machine, and carried three alleged cappuccinos into Hannah’s room. At one point, her office had been due to be sacrificed on the altar of cost efficiency, but in the end she’d shifted to a smaller room, commanding a view of the car park. Beggars couldn’t be choosers and she was glad to keep her own space. Open plan working was supposed to help communication, and undoubtedly saved money, but she often yearned to shut the door on the hubbub outside, and work out in her head what to do next. Blue sky thinking, this was called, when practised by divisional commanders. For a humble DCI, it looked dangerously like self-indulgence, but Ben had taught her that it was easy for police inspectors to feel the need to run around like headless chickens, and plenty did just that. She dared not think what he’d have made of the cult of budgets and bureaucracy, with its sacred rituals of process, form-filling, and spreadsheets, where worshippers prospered, and heretics who queried the crime statistics were cast into the outer darkness. Slavish devotion to protocols, systems, and key performance indicators were
as comforting as blind faith, but proper detective work demanded the courage to use your initiative, and a little imagination.