The Dungeon House (Lake District Mysteries) (9 page)

Striding along the sea cobbles of Main Street reminded her of old times. Gulls wheeled and swooped overhead, and a burly fisherman loaded up his van. As a kid, she’d thought Ravenglass was like an island, and she still did. The tiny promontory might be part of mainland England, but it felt remote from the everyday world, surrounded by lakes and mountains and sea, miles from anywhere except a nuclear power station.

A cottage painted canary yellow caught her eye. Wisteria clambered around the canopied front door,
bluebells covered every inch of the postage-stamp garden, and pansies and pinks spilt from a window box and two hanging baskets. This self-same cottage appeared on one of the watercolours hanging in her room, and Joanna guessed it was Scott Durham’s home even before she saw the carved log house sign. Seagull Cottage was picture postcard pretty, though anyone who stared at it for long enough might suffer a sugar crash.

A man of middle height opened the front door, and locked it behind him. He had an envelope in his hand. At first glance, the famously handsome Scott Durham hadn’t worn too badly, even if the tweed jacket complete with elbow patches, corduroy trousers, and scuffed Hush Puppies suggested a middle-aged schoolmaster rather than an artistic free spirit. His fair hair was greying, but as thick and untamed as ever. On closer inspection, however, he’d developed a paunch, and he looked in need of a shave.

As he closed the front gate and turned into Main Street, they came face-to-face. He did a double take that was almost comical.

‘It’s … it’s not Joanna?’

Forty-eight hours ago, she’d have found this encounter impossible to imagine, but now she felt confident, ready for anything. When he moved closer, to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating, she noticed his cheeks were threaded with veins. The brilliance of those blue eyes had faded, and she caught the smell of alcohol on his breath.

‘How nice to see you, Scott. It’s been a long time.’

‘Yes.’ He rubbed a stubbly jaw. ‘What … what brings you here?’

‘Oh, revisiting old haunts, you know. I came on impulse, to be honest. I’ve booked into the Saltcoats View.’

‘You’re staying here?’

‘Yes, yes, for a fortnight.’ She hesitated. ‘At least.’

‘Holiday?’ he grunted.

‘I’m a lady of leisure these days, I come and go as I please.’ She smiled. ‘I live in Lytham, and I worked in St Annes for years, but I was poorly, and my boss suggested a severance package. An offer I couldn’t refuse, you might say. It left me footloose and fancy free, so I said to myself – why not go back to Ravenglass?’

He swallowed. ‘Like you say, it’s been a long time.’

She pointed to the cottage. ‘Such a lovely place. And your paintings are on the wall of my room.’

‘Yes, Al Quiggin’s a good customer, even if he does haggle me down on price.’

‘Hefty discount for bulk purchases?’ She laughed. ‘I’m so glad to see you’re still painting. And drawing inspiration from Ravenglass!’

He indicated the cottage. ‘There’s a rickety old conservatory at the back, looking out over the estuary. I use it as my studio.’

‘Marvellous! Have you lived here long?’

‘Since Josh left college.’

‘Josh, yes, I remember him well.’ The boy was a blur to be honest, she could just about picture him strumming his guitar at the fateful barbecue. The curly fair hair was all she remembered. ‘What is he up to now?’

‘Why do you ask?’

His abruptness took her aback. ‘No reason, Scott, just curious. Such a nice-looking lad, is he married?’

Overhead, a gull wailed. Scott glanced up to the sky, as if he suspected the bird of mockery.

‘He went into teaching.’

‘Oh lovely!’ Something made Joanna persist. ‘Teaching music, I expect? Passing on his enthusiasm to the young folk?’

‘Yes,’ Scott said through gritted teeth. ‘He teaches music.’

‘Here in Ravenglass?’

‘No, no. At a private school. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ He waved the letter. ‘Things to do. You know how it is.’

She was on the verge of pointing out that he’d missed the post anyway, but something in his demeanour stopped her. ‘Hopefully we’ll bump into each other again. I gather the Eskdale Arms is your local?’

He made a non-committal noise. ‘Got to be on my way. Bye, Joanna. Take care.’

He strode off toward the village, leaving her to reflect that he hadn’t asked a single question about how she was, or what she’d been up to over the past twenty years. Typical man. Not an ounce of curiosity.

How strange to walk back into the Eskdale Arms after twenty years. At first glance, the only change was the arrival of a huge television screen in the saloon bar, where once a dartboard was the centre of activity. Even the aroma of beer and steak and onions seemed reassuringly familiar. A group of men were watching some football match, and she mistook their loud collective groan for an unkind comment on the arrival of an unaccompanied woman. In fact, one of the players had just missed an open goal.

A colourful poster pinned on the wall caught her eye. There was a photograph of a chap she’d seen once or twice on television a few years ago, a historian called Daniel Kind. He was coming here in a couple of days’ time to talk about his new book. The subject was the history of murder. Even in the warmth of the pub, she found herself shivering. Would he talk about the deaths at the Dungeon House?

The large oak table where they’d eaten the Last Supper still occupied the same nook. That night, she’d sat in the corner, with Nigel at her side, their legs touching under the table. Chatty and charming, he had paid close attention to everything she had to say, ignoring Amber’s self-absorbed prattle. When the younger girl’s increasingly clumsy attempts to chat him up failed, she lapsed into monosyllabic surliness. Joanna recalled her twinge of sadness at the thought their friendship was unlikely to survive.

She could picture the faces around the table as if it were yesterday. Scott Durham had turned up late, after giving Josh a meal at home, and Joanna remembered wondering why he’d bothered to come. Did he really carry a torch for Lysette? The pair barely exchanged a word all evening.

Cheryl had changed into a low-cut top and tiny skirt, and was giggly after an afternoon’s drinking. Her partner Ben watched and listened, and made sure she didn’t make a fool of herself. His taciturnity made Joanna wonder if policemen could never be completely off duty.

Malcolm Whiteley was conspicuous by his absence, and by common consent, the barbecue wasn’t discussed, nor
was his excruciating drunken speech of welcome. Lysette seemed tense, and more than once she bit Amber’s head off. Joanna shivered. To think that, a few hours later, both mother and daughter were dead.

In this day and age, pubs couldn’t survive simply by selling beer and traditional chicken in the basket. The dining area had been extended, taking in most of the old beer garden, so that outside there was just a tiny paved area, and steps leading down to the sand. She claimed the last vacant table before ordering a vegetable balti with garlic and coriander naan bread, plus a small glass of house white to wash it down.

Her thoughts turned to Nigel. She’d need to pick her moment in contacting him. Poor soul, he was bound to be preoccupied while his daughter remained missing. She’d be happy to help take his mind off things, but obviously, tact was required. Scott Durham might be in touch with him. If Scott came into the pub, she’d wheedle out any information he had about Nigel.

The food arrived, but Scott Durham was a no-show. Surely he wasn’t avoiding her? Never mind, perhaps she’d track down Gray Elstone. He’d lost a daughter, just like Nigel. Surely there was no connection? Because of her medication, she had to be careful how much she drank, but a couple of units wouldn’t do any harm. Dr Chanderpaul’s pills were doing the trick. The doctor had sympathised about the setbacks she’d experienced, but urged her not to waste time feeling sorry for herself, and the advice was spot on.

A roar of pleasure erupted from the football spectators in the bar as someone scored. Joanna was in an equally
good humour. This little adventure was like a shot in the arm. No longer did she feel like one of life’s victims. She was infused with energy and a sense of purpose. She was making things happen.

Joanna polished off a croissant and orange juice in the pub the next morning before setting out down Main Street. No more lazing around in bed for the new Joanna. The sun was shining, and the vagaries of the climate here meant she’d better take advantage of it while she had the chance. She was familiar enough with the laid-back ways of Lakeland folk not to be startled by the sight of a middle-aged woman in a fleecy white dressing gown standing at the end of the street, throwing sticks for a spaniel to fetch.

The curtains at Seagull Cottage were open. Was this a good time to speak to Scott Durham about Nigel? On impulse, she rang the doorbell. No answer. She peered through the window into an untidy front room. Watercolours and ink drawings covered every inch of the walls, and half a dozen of this morning’s newspapers were scattered over the dining table and armchairs. There was no sign of Scott. Presumably he’d seized the moment, and
headed off to paint or sketch while the spring weather stayed fine.

The beach lay beyond the floodgates. The land facing her on the other side of the water was owned by the Ministry of Defence, and the Eskmeals firing range. A sinister notice warned that it was ‘dangerous to touch any shell, bomb, missile or strange object found on the sands or beach’.
Strange object?
The mind boggled. As if the possibility of being shot wasn’t enough. Just thinking about the guns of Eskmeals reminded Joanna of Malcolm Whiteley’s horrific crimes, and she turned away with a shudder.

Walking round the point, she followed the shoreline behind the houses, back in the direction of the Eskdale Arms. The urge to climb over the rocks, something she’d last done in her teens, was impossible to resist. A rusting anchor was stuck in the mud, and you could see the willow sticks from the old salmon traps. Traces of the old coast road still remained, and someone had even parked an ancient Ford Anglia on the shore. Here she’d once collected fragments of Georgian pottery and coloured glass from in between the stones, though she’d never fulfilled her ambition of picking up a long lost Roman coin.

The Esk, the Mite, and the Irt joined together here, but although a footbridge ran alongside the railway viaduct, toward Saltcoats and the caravan park, she intended to go round in a circle, and return to the guest house. No point in hanging around Ravenglass in the hope of a word with Scott Durham.

Half a dozen houses backing on to the shore boasted conservatories, and Joanna identified the most dilapidated as Scott’s studio. Set into the concrete sea
wall below was a back door – locked, she couldn’t resist trying the handle – giving access to the foreshore. Steep steps ran up to the house, with an iron spiral staircase leading to the studio from the tiny garden. She imagined Scott sitting up there on the other side of the floor-to-ceiling glass walls, drinking in the view. Why had he been so grumpy yesterday? Seeing her must have opened old wounds. If Lysette was the love of his life, perhaps her death left scars that never healed.

The rocks were slippery, and the gusts of wind gaining strength, but somehow she kept her footing. The cold morning air had cleared her mind, and a fresh thought struck her as she scrambled down. Those newspapers in Scott’s cottage – why had he bought so many? He hadn’t collected a pile of yellowing copies of
The Whitehaven News
or something, but rather a mix of nationals as well as the latest locals. She’d spotted the
Telegraph, Guardian
, and
Mail
amongst others. Why would an artist take such an interest in what was going on in the outside world? He was checking out a particular story, Joanna thought.

At once she realised what it must be. Scott was researching the disappearance of Shona Whiteley.

‘That girl is still missing.’

Daniel was in the kitchen of Tarn Cottage, listening to the news on Radio Cumbria, as Hannah looked in to say goodbye. Spread out in front of him on the kitchen table was a sheaf of notes, background material for the talk he was preparing. ‘Heard the latest on Shona Whiteley?’ She frowned. ‘Not looking good.’

‘No, she was last seen on Saturday morning, and today’s
Wednesday. A long time for a sixteen year old to be away from home.’

‘The more time passes, the more likely it is that she’s been taken against her will. Her father must be frantic. It’s only a year since he lost his wife. I’ll see if I can get an update at HQ before I set off for Grange.’

‘Good luck with Cheryl.’

‘Thanks, I’ll need it.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘Maybe I should have ordered that body armour, after all.’

‘An accountant called Gray Elstone?’ You-can-call-me-Al was standing in the doorway that led to his private office. ‘I certainly do know the name, Joanna. He does my books.’

‘I used to work for him, a long time ago,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d look him up.’

He gave a thoughtful nod. Her skin prickled, and she wondered if he was mentally undressing her. He reminded her of one of Gray Elstone’s clients, a corpulent middle-aged businessman who thought his audit fees entitled him to fondle her backside whenever she made the mistake of getting within range. She was glad the reception counter separated the pair of them.

‘Old flames of yours, Scott and Gray?’

She flushed. ‘Not at all. They were both quite a lot older than me.’

‘Of course, of course, I didn’t mean to …’ He coughed, to signal a hasty retreat into platitudes. ‘Nice chap, Gray, salt of the earth, I’m sure he’ll be over the moon to see you. His office is in Seascale, but you probably knew that?’

‘No, we lost touch a very long time ago. In those days, he was based in Ulverston, and lived nearby. But I seem
to remember he came from Seascale originally.’

‘Yes, and he has a big house on the cliffs, two minutes from the office. There’s nothing like getting back to your roots, is there? Not that I plan to get back to mine in a hurry. Then again, I was born in a two-up, two-down in Benwell, so can you blame me?’

He gave a throaty laugh, but Joanna didn’t join in. Once again, he’d baffled her. She had no idea where Benwell was, but she suspected Benwell was doing just fine without him.

‘DI Borthwick still thinks Shona left home voluntarily.’

Billie Frederick conveyed her disagreement with a shake of her tight black curls. She was one of Cumbria Constabulary’s few detectives with West Indian heritage. Her family had come over from Jamaica when she was a child, and although her father and brothers were medics, she’d joined the police after leaving school. A no-nonsense character, always blunt and often bolshie, Billie was a small woman with a loud voice. Her inexhaustible supply of scathing one-liners made her the life and soul of any party as well as a scarily effective negotiator on behalf of the Police Federation. Management had learnt from bruising experience that you didn’t mess with DC Wilhelmina Frederick, and so had plenty of criminals.

‘Why’s that?’ Hannah asked. ‘Was she unhappy at home?’

‘Not according to Daddy. Question is, how much does Daddy really know about his little darling? Grizzly reckons he’s a smart guy, but how many men are that smart when it comes to their teenage daughters?’

‘There were no clues on her laptop or her phone, were
there? Not on her Facebook page, or anywhere else. Nothing to suggest she was planning to do a bunk.’

‘One theory is that she left her phone at home on purpose, because she had another phone, ready for use.’

‘Any evidence to support that?’

‘We found a girl from her class who reckoned she saw Shona fiddling with a brand new iPhone on the last day of term before the Easter break.’

‘The day before she disappeared.’

‘Right. When she asked Shona if it was a present from her Dad, she was told it belonged to a friend, and Shona had just borrowed it out of curiosity. According to the classmate, she seemed evasive, as if she’d been caught out. We’ve not been able to track down whoever supposedly lent the phone.’

‘Was the classmate a close friend?’

‘Shona doesn’t have many friends. Let alone people she confides in. That’s one of the things complicating the enquiry.’

‘And there’s no trace of the girl she was supposed to be seeing over the weekend?’

‘Nothing. The story she told her father was untrue. Unless she didn’t tell him that story after all.’ Billie leant forward. ‘There is another possibility. Want to hear it?’

Hannah grinned. ‘I’d be heartbroken if you didn’t tell me. Gobsmacked, too, to be honest.’

‘Ouch.’ Billie rocked with laughter. ‘What if darling Daddy did something to Shona, and made up the story to cover his tracks?’

‘Grizzly reckons he’s devoted to her, doesn’t he? And hasn’t the house been searched?’

‘Grizzly’s too nice. And yeah, we’ve had a look round, but I doubt the kid’s buried under the floorboards. The grounds are extensive.’

‘You really think Nigel Whiteley is a murderer?’

‘Hey, nobody around here knows better than me about the dangers of stereotyping. But we’ve got to face facts.’ Billie grimaced. ‘This man’s uncle was a killer, and one of his victims was a teenage girl. I’m not talking sexual abuse here, not necessarily. Just about a violent temper snapping. Let’s face it. It’s in the blood.’

Seascale was a few miles up the coast, on the far side of the sand dunes at Drigg, but to reach it by road from Ravenglass, you had to drive inland and zigzag out of the National Park. As Joanna drove along the front, above the cliffs, she thought the resort hadn’t changed much in the past twenty years. She parked next to the rebuilt battlements of an old stone fortress. Below a reinstated cannon, a plaque commemorated the people killed a few years back by a demented gunman called Derrick Bird. Although Bird’s madness was very different from Malcolm Whiteley’s, he’d destroyed even more innocent lives.

The narrow wooden jetty had been rebuilt, and three anglers were trying their luck. The smell of fish and salt took her back to seaside trips of her childhood. The waves were choppy, the breeze bracing, and she strolled to the end of the jetty before looking back at the buildings perched on the low cliff. With the coming of the Furness Railway, Victorian speculators planned to transform the village into ‘the Eastbourne of the North’, but the money ran out, and the grand hotel-lined promenade never got past the
drawing board. Seascale remained tiny, peaceful, and half-forgotten until the government built a munitions factory, and then replaced it with a nuclear processing plant. In the Fifties, so many atom scientists lived in Seascale that it claimed to be the brainiest village in Britain. Most of the boffins moved on, but Sellafield remained, a vast sprawling blot on the landscape. During her childhood, Joanna had recurrent nightmares about being burnt to a cinder in an atomic explosion, or turned into some sort of radioactive zombie. But time acclimatised you to almost anything, and the night of the Last Supper had taught her that the worst dangers were those you never dreamt of.

She walked back toward the old water tower, with its red stonework and conical roof. Thank goodness nobody had bulldozed it in the name of progress. In no time, she found Elstone and Company’s offices, which occupied the floor above a tea shop rejoicing in the name of The Odd Women. Her pleasure at tracking Gray down soon gave way to uncertainty about what to do next, and she dithered on the pavement until the decision was snatched from her hands. The door marked with the name of Gray’s firm swung open, and the man himself strode out. Ungainly as ever, he cannoned into her. ‘Hello, Gray.’

He gave a little gasp. ‘Joanna?’

She smiled. ‘Glad you still recognise me.’

‘Good Lord, of course.’ He’d lost an inch or two of height, thanks to a slight stoop, and he still bit his fingernails, but he’d had his teeth whitened, and his shirt and tie looked expensive. He peered through rimless spectacles. ‘Your … um … hair, I mean … it’s still very … um … eye-catching.’

‘Thanks.’ She took it as a compliment. The numbing misery of her younger days returned only when someone like Eoin was unkind about her appearance, and made her think her appeal lay in her bank balance, not in her womanliness. ‘It’s lovely to see you again.’

‘Yes … um, and you, of course.’ He drew breath. ‘What on earth are you doing here, of all places?’

‘I’m staying in Ravenglass. Decided it was time to get back to my roots. The man who runs the guest house told me he’s a client of yours. Is his name really Alvaro Quiggin, or is he pulling my leg?’

‘Alvaro? Goodness, yes, nothing less than the truth. Um … nice chap. Well …’ Gray seemed unsure where the conversation was going. So was Joanna. It was one thing to map out an encounter in your mind, quite another to conduct it according to plan when the moment arrived. ‘Can you spare the time for a cuppa?’

‘How kind. I’d love that.’ Nothing ventured, nothing gained. ‘I’m sure you’re rushed off your feet without wasting your time chewing the fat with an old secretary from twenty years ago.’

Gray hesitated, and she feared she’d played her cards badly, giving him a chance to escape. ‘No, no. I was only popping out to the florist’s. I don’t have any more client meetings till this afternoon.’

‘Well, in that case …’ Joanna waited to see if he was going to explain the trip to the florist’s, but he simply smiled, and said that The Odd Women did a very good Darjeeling.

Walking into the tea shop, they were greeted by home cooking smells, and the fragrance of herbs. Gray whispered,
‘In case you’re wondering about the name of this place, the owners are two … um … lesbians. Nice women, Molly and Pat. Jolly good fun. They’re clients of mine, and they’re making a go of the business, though it’s never easy out of season.’

‘I suppose it helps that they have a sense of humour.’

Gray allowed himself a smile as they took a table in the window. ‘They are also a very cultured couple. As you can see.’

He pointed to a framed print showing a Victorian novel, lavishly bound. The author was George Gissing, the title
The Odd Women
. A small buxom woman in her fifties came to take their order, and greeted Gray like an old friend.