The Dungeon House (Lake District Mysteries) (7 page)

‘True. And we have gained more experience of these cases, unfortunately, since the deaths at the Dungeon House. But Ben had other reservations. He wasn’t sure the forensic work in the quarry was as thorough as it should have been. There hadn’t been any rain, so it seemed unlikely that the girl had slipped over the edge of the quarry. The path wasn’t fenced, but it was quite wide. Would Malcolm really have pushed her to her death, rather than shooting
her? Why the change of M.O.? Killers don’t usually switch methods like that.’

‘Paper thin,’ Les murmured. ‘Was that it?’

‘No, there was something else. A witness claimed to have seen someone fleeing the scene that night.’

‘Any I.D.?’ Maggie asked.

‘This chap was driving along the lane that passes by Dungeon House. He was taking it slowly, because he’d been out on the ale, and was probably well over the limit. He came forward a few days after the murders, and said he’d nearly hit someone who ran out into the road in front of him. He swerved, and managed to avoid a collision, at the price of hitting a dry stone wall. This person seemed to come out of nowhere, and had vanished by the time the man got out of the car. The car was damaged, but he managed to drive home in one piece. When he sobered up and went back over the incident in his mind, he reckoned it occurred right outside the gates to the Dungeon House. The gates were never locked, and he thought the person he saw had run out from the grounds.’

Les made a sceptical noise. ‘Don’t suppose he came up with anything as useful as a clear description?’

‘No such luck. But he claimed that he’d seen a man, dressed in a woman’s clothes.’

Joanna’s expedition proved a triumphant success, and she arrived home exhausted yet elated. Her spur-of-the-moment decision to decamp to Ravenglass meant there was no need to stock up with food, but she’d enjoyed her toastie, and treated herself to a carrot cake. Just as tasty as Edna’s, she decided over a blissfully solitary cup of camomile tea, even
if shop-bought. For good measure, she’d bought herself three new outfits. Quite a spending spree, but she could afford it. She’d hardly opened her purse for months, except for bare essentials. Her illness might prove a blessing in disguise. The sales girl had boosted her morale by admiring her trim waist, and in the changing room mirror, Joanna had persuaded herself that she really was capable of looking svelte. So often lately, she’d felt closer to sixty-plus than forty-plus, but her legs were as slender as ever, and at least her breasts weren’t big enough to sag. On her way home, she felt young again. She’d rediscovered the spring in her step, and the only reason she’d caught the bus back was that she was weighed down by her parcels. All this thanks to that glimpse of Nigel on the telly. The next step must be to see him in the flesh. What would he make of her?

‘What do you think, Darcy?’ she giggled ‘A flame-haired temptress?’

Ravenglass was an inspired choice as somewhere to stay. She was right to trust her instinct. Such a pretty spot, where the National Park met the sea. Full of historic significance, an old railway line and Roman remains. Seascale didn’t compare, and as for Millom and the Furness Islands, forget it. Ravenglass was perfect.

Joanna had never booked accommodation online. In fact, she’d not had a proper holiday for the past three years. Since those nightmarish months with that conman Eoin, she’d withdrawn into herself, relying on Darcy and the television for company. No wonder her health had suffered, along with her work, but it wasn’t too late to make a fresh start. She picked up the phone, and started making enquiries.

Within twenty minutes, she’d secured a room in a guest house for a fortnight. The place sounded snug, and the proprietor eager to please. You couldn’t ask for a more beautiful location, overlooking the estuary, and the price per week was very reasonable, all things considered. Joanna’s luck was turning at long last. She hugged herself with delight.

‘I’ll see you when I see you,’ she told Darcy. ‘This will be quite an adventure.’

‘I’m guessing the mystery transvestite never came forward?’ Maggie said.

‘And was never traced.’ Hannah took a final taste of the cappuccino before giving up on it. ‘Desmond decided early on that the witness was pissed, or a time-waster, or both. To be fair, everyone in the team agreed. We all know that any major incident attracts sensation-seekers.’

Les grunted. ‘Like pigs in muck.’

‘The Dungeon House killings provoked a flurry of unlikely stories from losers gagging for a share of the limelight. A Masonic conspiracy led by the people who bought Malcolm’s company was behind the killings. The Whiteleys hosted regular swingers’ parties, and Malcolm became jealous when Lysette started enjoying them too much. You name it. There wasn’t a shred of evidence to back up the wildest theories. The inquest decided that Lysette was murdered, and Malcolm committed suicide. As for Amber, they recorded an open verdict. Logically, you couldn’t argue.’

‘But?’

‘Ben knew the witness. This was a bloke who liked
a drink, and wasn’t chasing fifteen minutes of fame. He never uttered a word about what he thought he’d seen to anyone outside the police, so the Press never got wind of it. Ben felt Desmond should have taken his story more seriously.’

‘Any men in the Whiteleys’ circle known to have a taste for dressing up as women?’ Les asked wryly.

‘None. Ben had a quiet word with the witness, and tried to persuade Desmond to take him more seriously, but Ben was a newcomer, and his views didn’t count. We all know it takes time to gain respect when you join a new force. People hate loose threads, they prefer narratives with a beginning, a middle, and an end. Nobody was sure whether the girl fell or was pushed, but Malcolm Whiteley was obviously the villain of the piece. Desmond’s team wasn’t looking for anyone else, and once the inquest was over, they had every incentive to wind down the investigation.’

Maggie was growing restive. ‘I can’t see any connection between those three deaths and Lily Elstone’s disappearance. Even allowing for her father being Malcolm Whiteley’s financial guru.’

‘I’m not saying there is one,’ Hannah replied. ‘The burning question is whether there’s a link between what happened to Lily, and the disappearance of Malcolm’s niece. Who’s in charge of the search for Shona Whiteley?’

‘Ryan Borthwick,’ Les said. ‘Billie Frederick is on his team, and the FLO is Grizzly. I’ve already had a word with her.’

Griselda Hosein, he meant. Plump and maternal, she made a very sympathetic Family Liaison Officer. In that
job, you needed to be a good listener, and Grizzly was skilled at picking up clues to family secrets.

‘What does she have to say?’

‘Nigel’s charming, she says, but a loner. He was married to a much older woman, who died a year back, but he doesn’t want mothering. Already he’s made it clear that there’s no need for Grizzly to hang around. She can report when there’s some progress, but that’s all he wants from her.’

‘Any suggestion he might have harmed his own daughter? Killed her in a rage, and hidden the body?’

‘Absolutely none, in Grizzly’s opinion. She’s convinced he adored Shona. As for concealing the remains, he does own a large garden. The house doesn’t actually have a dungeon, but there is a wine cellar, and Grizzly persuaded him to show her round, just in case he’d buried her there. Nothing to report, except that it’s full of rare vintages worth a fortune. He doesn’t drink them, they are strictly an investment.’

‘Shocking waste,’ Hannah said. ‘How the other half live, eh?’

Maggie stood up. ‘Chances are, Lily’s case and Shona’s are entirely separate.’

‘True, but we can’t take it for granted,’ Hannah said. ‘The same goes for the Dungeon House killings. Three teenage girls connected to the Whiteleys and, over the space of twenty years, bad things have happened to all of them.’

Les levered himself to his feet, and waved at the papers covering the table. ‘I’ll leave you in peace to digest the stuff I’ve dug up. For starters, there’s one particular question I’d like answering,’

‘I can guess,’ Hannah said. ‘Nigel Whiteley is made of money, or so it seems. Rich enough to pick and choose where he lived. So with its horrible history, why of all places did he set up home in the Dungeon House?’

Each time Hannah returned to Brackdale, she found something else to love about the narrow, wooded valley, criss-crossed by streams, and surrounded by steep slopes. In the depths of winter, when the fields were silent, and the fells shrouded in snow, you felt you were in a world of your own. Especially at Tarn Cottage, with its mysterious garden snaking below the shadowy bulk of the Sacrifice Stone. Daniel’s home stood close to the coffin trail, where centuries ago the dead were carried over the tops on packhorses for Christian burial in consecrated ground. Not another house was in sight, and when darkness came, Tarn Fold seemed to Hannah as remote and mysterious as anywhere in England.

Springtime was different. Light flashed through the trees, and danced on the clear water and uneven rocks, making the ancient landscape seem fresh and young. She parked at the end of the rutted track, and walked toward
the cottage, breathing in the lemon scent of the magnolia blooms, and spotting two white butterflies with orange-tipped wings fluttering around the camellias beneath the shade of a rowan tree. Daniel appeared from around the side of the house, barefoot, and wearing dark glasses and shorts. At the sight of his lightly tanned skin, she felt desire stirring. He clutched a fat airport thriller in one hand, and waved with the other.

‘Thought I heard the car. I was out by the pond. Good day?’

‘Fine.’ She kissed him, and pointed to the paperback. ‘Flogging yourself to death, I see.’

‘Coming to live here taught me to seize the moment. Or at least the sunshine. Tomorrow it may bucket down. I need it to, so I won’t be distracted from finishing my talk for the local publicity tour. I’ve been shaking off the remnants of jet lag out in the garden.’

‘Are you really going to find inspiration in a Scandinavian serial killer novel?’

‘You’ll hate me for saying this, but I’m tempted to write another book about murder. My agent says the American publishers won’t commit until they see sales figures for
The Hell Within
. They’re nervous about my becoming typecast as a murder maven. I see their point, but I’m not in the mood for yet another orthodox social history. Murder intrigues me, I can’t help it. You’re a bad influence.’

He’d arrived back in England thirty-six hours ago, after a fortnight spent on the road in the States, promoting the American hardback of his newly published history of homicide. Five hundred pages sparked by a fascination
with the work of a long ago denizen of the Lake District, Thomas De Quincey.

Hannah had never come to terms with the concept of considering murder as a fine art. She’d seen too much of the misery it caused. Yet she shared Daniel’s fascination with the motives that led to murder. So had Ben Kind, despite his frequent reminders that the CPS were only interested in proof, not psychology. For Hannah, as for Ben, solving the puzzle of why one human being might wish to end the life of another was the ultimate challenge for any detective.

She ran upstairs for a quick shower, and changed into a halter top and jeans. After she and her ex, Marc Amos, had sold their house in Ambleside, Daniel had invited her to stay at Tarn Cottage while she hunted for a flat. They’d never spoken about living together long-term. Thank God he was perceptive enough to realise it wasn’t what she wanted. Too soon, too risky. She needed somewhere of her own. So she’d gone ahead, and exchanged contracts on a flat in Kendal. It was handy for Divisional HQ, and work was her anchor. Completion wasn’t far away, and the prospect of moving in excited her. It reminded her of being eighteen, eagerly anticipating the liberation of student life.

‘I’ll leave some clothes and a toothbrush here, if that’s okay,’ she’d said. ‘After that, let’s see how things go.’

He’d nodded, and said fine, and they’d left it at that.

Finishing with Marc had bruised her. They’d been together for a long time, and she’d always have a soft spot for the guy, but he’d had his chance, and now she meant to look ahead. So – what did her crystal ball reveal? She and Daniel had become lovers not long after the death of an old friend, coupled with the break-up with Marc, had left
her numb with loss. Daniel had also suffered bereavement; his fiancée’s suicide had been a catalyst for his move from Oxford to the Lakes. Her inner pessimist warned it was too good to last. Secretly, she expected they’d finish up as they’d begun, as friends, not lovers. Their lives were so very different. He was a well-known historian, a minor celebrity, and one of these days, the lure of the life he’d abandoned would surely prove too strong.

A lager and lime awaited her outside. That crazy cipher garden, with its eccentric planting and paths leading nowhere, seemed to symbolise her unlikely relationship with the son of the man whose patience and encouragement had made her a half-decent detective. This morning, Daniel had proposed cooking dinner, which probably meant raiding the freezer and shoving whatever he found in the oven. He really wasn’t perfect. Then again, neither was she.

‘Your Dad’s name cropped up today.’

He lifted his dark glasses. ‘Really?’

‘If you’ve caught the news bulletins, you’ll know a teenage girl has gone missing.’

‘I saw something at lunchtime, though I didn’t pay attention until I heard Ravenglass mentioned. That’s where I’m giving the first of these talks.’ Now he was back in Britain, his next task was to promote
The Hell Within
locally, talking to audiences in venues around Cumbria over the next fortnight. ‘When you hear something like this, you always hope she’s simply run off with a boyfriend. Whatever the truth, it must be agony for the parents, not knowing where she is.’

In idle moments, Hannah had wondered what sort of a father Daniel might make. They’d never talked about
having a child together. It was almost a taboo, as it would involve a commitment that neither was ready to make. The closest they’d come to discussing it had been when Daniel once said his parents had married too young. Ben’s desertion had hit his kids like a hammer blow, and Daniel was determined not to make the same mistakes. Ben only realised how much he’d missed, how badly he’d messed up, when it was too late to make amends.

‘Nigel Whiteley is a single parent. His wife died a year ago. Your father knew him. Nigel’s aunt was Cheryl’s best friend.’

‘Is that right?’ The sunglasses masked his eyes, but his tone was as cool as a November breeze. He’d never had much time for the woman he blamed for breaking up their family. Though Hannah had to admit, it took two to tango. Ben had been a fool.

‘The aunt was shot by her husband twenty years ago. His teenage daughter also died, and Malcolm Whiteley shot himself.’

Daniel swore. ‘Dad knew these people?’

‘Whiteley held a barbecue at his home on the day of the shootings. A big event, he fancied himself as a country squire. Ben and Cheryl were both invited.’

‘This wasn’t the Dungeon House case?’

‘You remember it?’

‘Very well. Not that Dad and I ever discussed it, of course. I read it up in the papers. After he moved to Cumbria, I devoured anything I could find that concerned crime in the county. I was desperate to know what he was up to. He was a big hero of mine, even after he left home. The crime-buster, the great detective. I kept reminding myself of
that when Mum and Louise complained about him being a lousy husband and father. The killings were a big story, and I remember my disappointment when Dad’s name wasn’t mentioned. At that tender age, I wanted him to come up with the vital clue, the one piece of evidence that everyone else overlooked … Hey, what’s amusing you?’

Hannah couldn’t help laughing. ‘You know, it’s funny. There’s just a chance – an outside, outside chance – that he might have done precisely that.’

Joanna decided on an early night. She’d done so little for so long, she must take care not to overdo things. Tomorrow was bound to be taxing. As soon as she came back from the manicurist, she’d set off for Cumbria. Not by train, the journey was dreadful – two or three changes, depending on when you travelled, and sometimes it took more than four hours. Utterly ridiculous, given that Ravenglass was no more than one hundred miles away. She’d resolved to drive, even though she was out of practice, and would need to take extra care on the busy roads. Her confidence had collapsed after she’d scraped a bollard in a car park while trying to reverse into a tight space, and other than a few sorties to the nearest parade of shops during a bus strike, she hadn’t sat behind the wheel since her last day at work. During her illness, she’d made up her mind to sell her Polo and rely on public transport. Thank goodness she’d lacked the energy to carry out her plan. In the Western Lakes, you didn’t want to be at the mercy of the buses.

Before having her tea, she closed the curtains, and stripped to her underwear. Two Christmases ago, someone had given her a DVD of yoga exercises, but a new year’s
resolution to give them a go had lasted less than a week. She tried a few gentle stretches, nothing too ambitious, and found she enjoyed it. Amazing how a sense of purpose changed your mood. For the past year, she’d felt like a punchbag, battered into submission at home and in the office. Deceived and eventually deserted by a boyfriend she’d adored. Detested by the new Head of Claims, a slip of a girl who had slept her way to the top, and loved to find fault with loyal, long-serving workers. She’d lost Eoin and she’d lost her job, no wonder she’d lost confidence all over again.

People said you should never go back, that it was a mistake to try to recapture the happiness of youth, but Joanna thought they were wrong. If the present was bloody awful, why not chance it? What was the worst that could happen?

The Lake District was where she belonged. Her mother came from St Bees, and her father from Barrow, and they’d settled down halfway between, on the edge of Holmrook. They’d died within a year of each other, and her inheritance had paid off her mortgage. With hindsight, she understood that her bank account had appealed to Eoin more than she did. Thousands of pounds she’d loaned him, and she’d never see a penny back. Thank goodness she’d caught him out in a string of careless lies about what he was spending the money on before he bled her dry. No wonder she’d succumbed to depression.

Before getting ready for bed, she watched the national news, in the hope of an update about Nigel’s daughter. Nothing doing, but the regional bulletin covered the story. To Joanna’s disappointment, the snippet merely recapped
the item she’d seen in the morning. At least it gave her one more opportunity to admire Nigel as he addressed the camera.

He was being interviewed outside his front door. How well she remembered the Dungeon House, and how shocked she’d been, when she learnt he’d made it his home. You’d think that after what had happened … well, nobody could say it was a lucky house. Still, Nigel and his daughter seemed to have been happy enough there, despite the death of that woman he’d married. Happy, at least, until Shona had disappeared.

What must it feel like, to lose a child? Or to give birth to one, come to that? Joanna had never been the maternal type. If ever anyone hinted she must be disappointed not to have had kids, she insisted in all honesty that a family had never been high on her agenda. If the right man had come along, things might have been very different, but the men she’d slept with over the past twenty years had proved unreliable lovers, and would have made hopelessly unreliable fathers. Poor Nigel had been the best of them, by far. If only …

Who was that?
Heart pumping, she froze the picture, and rewound for half a minute. Yes, she wasn’t mistaken. There he was, walking away in the corner of the picture, a brawny man in a black sweatshirt and denim jeans, opening the door of a van, and oblivious to the fact that he was in shot as the camera panned along the imposing façade of the Dungeon House. The van bore his name, but in any case, that walk of his, a sort of limp with a swagger, was unmistakable.

A ghost from the past.

Robbie Dean, oh my God.

Nigel’s oldest friend. The man who had killed Carrie North, and nearly all four of them. The man who had once put his bare hands around her throat when she’d discovered his shameful secret.

‘I need to talk to Cheryl,’ Hannah said.

‘Good luck with that.’ Daniel eased his hand under her top.

‘Hey, shouldn’t you be getting on with writing up your talk?’ They were on the sofa in the living room, with Ellie Goulding crooning in the background.

‘A job for tomorrow,’ he said, as his fingers began to explore. ‘Let’s take it easy this evening. If my brief encounters with Cheryl are anything to go by, you’ll find tomorrow hard work.’

‘You’re not kidding. She never liked me.’

‘Did she see you as a threat?’

‘Because I liked your Dad?’ she asked lazily. A delicate subject, this. Until now, they’d only ever skirted around it. ‘She had nothing to worry about. We were never more than friends. I didn’t believe in mixing business with pleasure, and neither did he.’

‘He did meet Cheryl through work.’

‘Even so.’ She smiled as his hand slid up to her breast. ‘He certainly never did what you’re doing now. Cheryl struck me as insecure. Not her fault, necessarily. Before she met your Dad, she had bad luck with men. She was terrified of losing him, and he felt sorry for her. She’d lost her parents young, and later she lost her best friend, in horrific circumstances.’

Daniel withdrew his hand. ‘Your best friend died too.’

‘Uh-huh. I suppose it gives me a better insight into Cheryl’s experience. Losing your parents is desperately hard to cope with, but it’s part of the expected order of things. When someone you’ve grown up with dies suddenly, it’s a reversal of nature. It shouldn’t happen. You’ve lost someone close to you, and received a sharp reminder of your own mortality, at one and the same time.’ She took a breath. ‘I’d never really thought about dying until …’

‘Yeah, I know.’ He wrapped his arm around her. ‘Do you really need to talk to Cheryl?’

‘It’s not my idea of a fun day out, but she can tell me more about the Whiteleys, Gray Elstone, and their circle. It’s appalling, how much they’ve suffered. The killings at the Dungeon House, the Elstone girl vanishing, now Shona Whiteley.’