The Hanging Wood (10 page)

Greg nodded. ‘When was the last time you saw your son?’

Hinds frowned. ‘You’ll have read my statement?’

‘At the time Callum disappeared, you said you hadn’t seen him for some time. But was that right? Niamh is dead now, it can’t make any difference.’

‘If it makes no difference, why ask?’

‘We need to be clear about Callum’s movements in the period leading up to his disappearance. The more accurate our information, the better our chance of making sense of what Orla was saying.’

The farmer kicked at a pebble, and sent it skittering across the cobbles. ‘So what if he did come and see me? Where does that get you?’

‘It’s simply a question of building an accurate picture of his movements.’ Greg’s tone was so soothing, Hannah
half-expected
him to start crooning a lullaby. ‘Did he come here before he visited your brother?’

Hinds scowled. ‘If that’s in your mind, think again. All right, the last time I saw him was the night before he disappeared.’

Well, well, a result. This was what Hannah liked about cold case work. Sometimes, just sometimes, you unearthed treasure trove. Important evidence that had lain buried for years.

Greg’s expression didn’t flicker. He was too smart to give away the excitement he must be feeling. ‘What happened?’

‘I used to make my own beer in those days, and Callum slipped over here after Niamh gave him his tea. He told her he had a headache, and wanted a breath of fresh air. As soon as the coast was clear, he scooted over and we knocked back a few glasses of home brew. He loved the stuff, it had a bit of body to it. Not like the bat’s piss you get served nowadays.’

‘He was only fourteen,’ Hannah said.

Shit, why did I open my big mouth?
She should have
bitten her tongue. Greg gave her a pained look, and no wonder, after he’d got on to the witness’s wavelength. She edged backwards, in tacit apology.

‘So what? His mother may have been a drunk, but I’m not. It’s all about knowing your limits. He came to no harm with me.’

‘Deirdre wasn’t around?’ Greg asked.

‘After that time he saw her starkers, she made a point of checking when Callum was likely to show up. Not that she’s easily embarrassed, but she drew the line at having a teenage lad gawping at her knockers.’

‘Yeah, well, that’s women for you.’ Hannah felt she had become invisible. If it was punishment for her indiscretion, she could scarcely complain. They were like two mates, bad-mouthing the opposite sex over a pint. ‘Did he tell you he was going to see Philip the following day?’

‘Never mentioned it.’

‘Did Niamh object to him seeing your brother?’

‘Not on your nelly. Shows what sort of a mother she was, uh? Refused to let him visit his own father, yet happy for him to call on an oddball with a brain like mashed potato. Always had a soft spot for Philip, reckoned I was too hard on him.’

‘So what did you and Callum talk about?’

‘Usual sort of stuff. England’s crap batting in the Test match. Carlisle United’s prospects for promotion.’

‘Bonding, eh?’

‘Whatever you like to call it. Father-and-son stuff.’ Hinds glared. He was angry about life’s unfairness, Hannah thought, far more than their intrusion. ‘The boy had his whole life in front of him. He’d had time to forget school
and start enjoying his summer holiday. No wonder he was excited.’

‘Excited?’

‘Yeah. It’s how I remember him. Pleased with life. And himself.’

Hannah couldn’t contain herself any longer. ‘Any particular reason why he would be excited?’

Hinds glared at her. ‘Such as?’

‘Was it about a girl?’ Greg asked. ‘He’d met a teenager on the caravan site.’

‘That was a load of bollocks, for a start,’ Hinds said. ‘The girl’s father tried to say that Callum was spying on her. Chances are, she made the whole thing up. Who knows? Maybe she’d led Callum on, and then got cold feet and was afraid of her dad going ballistic.’

‘Did he have a girlfriend?’

A shake of the head. ‘He was only fourteen.’

‘I had girlfriends before I was fourteen.’

‘Look, he was interested in girls, yes, but I told him there was no hurry.’

‘And did he take your advice?’

‘What are you getting at?’ Hinds’ face reddened under the sunburn. ‘My boy was no peeping Tom.’

‘Despite watching his father at it with his lady friend on the sofa?’

‘A young lad’s natural curiosity. You can’t read anything into it.’

‘The girl’s story makes him sound like a voyeur.’

‘The little cow lied.’ Hinds balled his fists, struggling to control his temper. ‘It’s what women do. Just like my bloody stupid wife, when she told me you’d not bother me
for more than ten minutes. Come on, I’ve answered your questions fair and square. Time’s up.’

He waved beefy hands at them, indicating the way back out of the farm. He might have been shooing animals through a gate.

‘Had Orla discovered something about Callum?’ Hannah asked. ‘Did she mention it to you the last time you were together?’

‘I said all I’ve got to say about my daughter yesterday.’

‘Finding her like that must have been a terrible experience, Mr Hinds. We only want—’

‘Didn’t you hear me?’ he yelled.

‘Take it easy, eh?’ Greg said.

For answer, Hinds bent and lifted up the scythe. ‘Get off my fucking land.’

‘Mr Hinds.’ Hannah’s voice sounded thin in the silence. ‘You have been cooperative so far. Please don’t do anything you will regret.’

The farmer’s face had blackened with fury. With the scythe in his right hand, he advanced towards them. He’d come to within two or three strides of Greg. Five yards further back, Hannah froze.

Stomach churning, she exchanged glances with her DS. He gave her the faintest nod and mouthed:
Run for it.

No way was she abandoning him. She shook her head.

Sunlight flashed on the curve of the blade. Hannah fought the instinct to retch with fear. The wrong move now …

‘All right, Mr Hinds.’ Greg must be wetting himself, though you’d never guess from his relaxed tone. The scythe was within striking distance of his neck. ‘Thanks for speaking to us.’

‘You should never have come here,’ Hinds muttered.

Hannah heard the door of the farmhouse open. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Deirdre Hinds. She stood on the doorstep, shaking with fear. Not knowing what her husband might do.

He took another pace towards Greg, who raised his hands to shoulder height. Whether to calm the man down or for self-protection, Hannah couldn’t tell.

‘Mike!’ Deirdre screamed. ‘Put it down!’

‘Piss off back inside,’ he shouted back. ‘This is nothing to do with you.’

‘Mike, this won’t solve anything! What do you think Orla would have said, if she’d seen you like this?’

The farmer stopped in his tracks. In a swift and smooth movement, Greg jumped forward, seized the man’s wrist, and twisted it. Hinds let out a cry of pain and dropped the scythe. Greg kicked it over the cobbles, out of reach.

Hinds spat at Greg. The DS wiped his face, gave Hinds’ wrist a final jerk, and dropped it. Turning on his heel, he strode back to join Hannah and they both hurried off towards the drive.

‘You shouldn’t have done that, you scumbag,’ Hinds roared. ‘Next time, I’ll be ready for you.’

They strode past the farmhouse. Deirdre stood motionless on the doorstep, hands clasped as if in prayer.

‘I’d get him to a doctor double quick, love, if I were you,’ Greg muttered over his shoulder. ‘A psychiatrist is what he needs. I’ve heard of people with anger management issues, but your old man’s a powder keg, waiting to explode.’

‘Do you really think I don’t know what he’s like?’ she hissed.

Hannah glanced back at the cobbled yard. Mike Hinds winced as he rubbed his injured wrist. Shit. If Greg had fractured it, they had a problem on their hands. Next stop, the IPCC.

‘If you need help, dial 999. We can have backup here in minutes. Support is available, trust me.’

‘Trust you?’ Bitterness made Deirdre Hinds’ voice grate. ‘Ask the police for help? Don’t you think you’ve helped enough for one fucking day?’

And she ran towards her husband.

The door to the Old Library creaked open, and Daniel glanced down from his eyrie as Fleur Madsen walked in. Short rapid strides, this woman knew what she wanted. Cool and chic in white shirt and trousers, designer sunglasses dangling from a small hand with orange fingernails, she didn’t look as though she’d turned up for an hour or two of quiet scholastic research.

Daniel watched her scan the ground floor. Today he’d faced no competition for his favourite corner table. The sunshine was tempting, but his book wouldn’t write itself. No climate control system cooled St Herbert’s, and although the mullioned window behind him fitted its frame imperfectly, there wasn’t enough breeze to make the pages of his typescript flutter. The reek of leather and calfskin filled his sinuses. Readers came and went, only the books stayed for ever.

Looking up to the gallery, Fleur caught sight of him. She signalled with the sunglasses, and hastened towards the
spiral staircase. Stiletto heels clicked on the metal treads as she climbed, cracking the silence like warning shots. What did she want?

Fleur arrived at his side, and bent her head. He caught a strong whiff of Chanel as she whispered in his ear.

‘Sorry, I know you’re working. Please tell me to go away if I’m a nuisance.’

She said it as though no man in his right mind would ever tell her to go away.

‘Great to see you again.’

‘Difficult to work in this heat, isn’t it?’

He smiled, said nothing.

‘Could you spare me five minutes? We could have a word outside in the garden if that suited you?’

He shut down his laptop and followed her down the staircase. Her figure was gym-toned, her movements lithe. She was in her fifties, but you’d never guess. An intelligent well-bred woman who had married a millionaire, Fleur Madsen had it all. So how come he detected a restlessness in her that hinted at discontent?

On the ground floor, she swept past the catalogues and the desk where the librarian sat, through folded-back double doors into the rear of the building. Daniel had bumped into Orla here, the last time he’d seen her, and they’d agreed to grab a bite together. She should have been working, but he sensed she’d lost interest in her job and preferred to browse through collections of old papers. Here the De Quincey correspondence was stored, along with Sir Milo Hopes’ extensive archives; thousands more volumes were packed into towering book presses.

‘I told Micah to put more warning signs on the presses,’
she murmured. ‘If you were crushed between them, you’d end up as flat as a dust jacket.’

Done to death by books? There were worse ways to go, even if you weren’t a bibliophile. Like suffocating in a mountain of grain.

Beyond the last book press lay a steep flight of stairs and a door marked
Private
. Fleur fished a key from her trouser pocket and, with the gentlest touch on his shoulder, guided Daniel through the door. Grey blinds masked the windows, and even on such a bright day, she had to switch on the lights. Gilt-framed portraits of solemn dignitaries, along with a scattering of landscapes, covered each of the oak-panelled walls. A dozen chairs were grouped around a mahogany table. There were no bookshelves, but a drinks cabinet squatted in one corner. Daniel’s throat felt dry and dusty. In the heat of the afternoon, the darkness of the wood and paintings was claustrophobic.

‘The trustees meet here. Even the principal is allowed to enter only by invitation.’ Fleur indicated the largest painting. ‘That formidable old chap with mutton chop whiskers is Sir Milo Hopes, founder of St Herbert’s and first chairman of the trustees. That is the house I was born in – and there you see the Hanging Wood in autumn.’

Two landscapes faced them. In fading light, Mockbeggar Hall was all flaking stonework and shuttered windows, a study in grandeur tainted by decay. But his attention was seized by the other painting, captioned
The Hanging Wood
. So this was where Orla’s brother was last seen alive, and their uncle committed suicide. At first glance, the woodland scene, with dense foliage glimpsed through morning mist, seemed tranquil, if sombre. Dew glistened on bracken
and ferns, a bird drifted between the branches. But the fallen leaves were curled and dead, the small pond looked stagnant, and a fox sneaked through the undergrowth with something in its mouth.

‘The style is familiar.’ He pondered. ‘Not Millais, by any chance?’

She clapped her hands in delight. ‘Brilliant, really well recognised! This pair of pictures are not at all well known. I’m not a fan of his work, too often it seems cloying. But he must have been reading ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’ when he painted the Hall – it’s as if he anticipates our family’s financial downfall. And
The Hanging Wood
haunts me. Not his best work artistically, you can see he rushed it. But I like the lack of sentimentality.’

He suspected Fleur Madsen didn’t have a trace of sentimentality in her DNA. How could she, if she’d annexed her ancestral home to a caravan park?

‘I haven’t ventured into the wood.’

‘Not many people do. It’s fenced off to deter trespassers, but frankly there are plenty of pleasanter walks on the doorstep. Even on a day like this, the Hanging Wood seems gloomy. When I was a child, I didn’t play there, and to this day, I’ve never walked through it on my own. Millais stayed at the Hall a few times as a guest of Sir Milo. He was a dog lover, and he paid Millais a small fortune to paint the family pets. Those pictures are hack work in the style of his chum Landseer, but Milo proudly hung them in the dining room. I prefer these, which he dashed off and presented to Milo as a gift.’

‘This was after Millais ran off with Ruskin’s wife?’

‘Oh yes, forty years later. You know the story? Ruskin
never consummated the marriage, although Effie was a lovely woman. They say he couldn’t cope with the sight of her pubic hair.’ She smiled and tapped her forehead in a parody of belated awareness. ‘Doh! Of course you will know, you’re a famous historian.’

He pointed to a door at the far end of the room. ‘Shall we?’

‘Of course. There aren’t many perks for trustees, I’m afraid, but at least we have our own private garden.’

They moved outside into a tiny knot garden, crammed with herbs and screened from the rest of the grounds by a tall box hedge, into which was set a small bolted door. An aroma of marjoram wafted through the air, strong and sweet. She sat on the solitary wooden bench and beckoned to him. He joined her, keeping a few inches between them. She wanted something from him, and experience had taught him to be wary of attractive women accustomed to getting their own way.

Fleur smiled. ‘Very Frances Hodgson Burnett, don’t you think?’

‘A secret garden, yes. Designed by Gertrude Jekyll, like the walled garden?’

‘Actually, no. There’s a rural legend that Beatrix Potter organised the planting, though I haven’t found any evidence to back it up.’ She put on a wistful little-girl face. ‘I yearn to find some truth in it. The Blessed Beatrix is a much bigger draw than Gertrude. Tourists are so besotted with Peter bloody Rabbit, we could fill our accommodation with pilgrims from Japan.’

‘Would the trustees be willing to sacrifice their privacy?’

‘A price worth paying,’ she said. ‘Anyway, the sacrifice would be mine. I’m the only regular visitor to this little haven. It’s so close to home, and believe me, if you live on a caravan park, you need to escape, every now and then.’

She made it sound as though she inhabited a dilapidated mobile home surrounded by washing lines and snivelling toddlers. Perhaps even a luxurious architect-designed mansion in a secluded enclave in Madsenworld represented a comedown from the splendour of living in a stately home, however dilapidated.

‘Now Mockbeggar Hall is renovated—’

‘It belongs to the company. And it’s not a home anymore. The ground floor and part of the grounds will be opened to the public. Soon, visitors will be roaming around the nooks and crannies I loved as a child. I’ve spent years planning the project together with my husband and brother-in-law, but now it’s almost complete, becoming involved with St Herbert’s has made a refreshing contrast. Which brings me to why I interrupted your afternoon.’

She leant towards him, closing the gap that separated them.

‘After we met, I started wondering if you …’

She paused, and he knew she was teasing him. He waited.

‘Yes, I wondered if you would care to become a trustee of the library? I’d love to have you on board. We have to make sure St Herbert’s is fit for purpose in the twenty-first century. Lottery funding for building maintenance and more acquisitions is an option, but we need a higher profile. An eminent historian, working here on his latest book – what could be better?’

Daniel murmured something non-committal. Ungrateful to refuse on the spot, but there was no way he wanted to join the great and the good of Cumbria. He’d sat on too many committees in Oxford and London; he was determined to remain his own man. He temporised, hoping she was smart enough to realise he didn’t want her to push it.

‘Of course, you need to think it over,’ she said. ‘But I do hope I can tempt you.’

When she looked into his eyes, he felt again the magnetic force of her personality. Fleur Madsen didn’t take no for an answer.

‘I promise to get back to you next week.’

‘Fine, thank you.’

She touched him on the arm as they rose from the bench. As they retraced their steps, his eye was caught by a flash of sunlight on a window looking out on to the parapet on which Aslan Sheikh had stood the previous day.

‘The staircase outside the trustees’ meeting room,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t lead to the gallery of the Old Library, does it?’

‘No, it’s another route to the offices and guest accommodation.’

Daniel indicated the window glinting in the sun. ‘Fantastic views of the walled garden from a room like that. And of this garden too.’

‘Yes, that was poor Orla’s office, actually; it’s next door to the room I use for St Herbert’s business when I’m over here. She said she found the view quite inspirational – pity it didn’t inspire her fund-raising work.’ Sensing Daniel’s disapproval, she added, ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to be unkind. Her death was a ghastly tragedy, but I have to say, I’ve
always regarded suicide as a selfish act. Poor Kit was stunned by the news.’

‘He was close to his stepdaughter?’

‘He had a great deal to cope with because of Niamh’s alcoholism, but he never let either Niamh or her daughter down. After Niamh died, he put Orla through university, and made sure she wasn’t short of money, even though he’d started a new life with Glenys.’

‘Do you know any more about how Orla died?’

‘No, it’s such an extraordinary thing to do. On her father’s land, as well. None of us can quite believe it.’ And she did sound bewildered, although he also sensed that something else was bothering her. ‘Of course, we’re desperate to find out more about what happened. Mike Hinds must be beside himself.’

‘You know him well?’

‘We grew up together, but we have never been close. His father had a chip on his shoulder about the Hopes family, even though we’d become as poor as church mice. As Mike grew up, he had a reputation as a ladies’ man, but he never exercised his charm on me.’

She feigned a rueful expression, and Daniel shook his head in polite disbelief.

‘Besides, Bryan asked me out on a date not long after my eighteenth birthday, and after that I was pretty much spoken for. Mike always gave me a wide berth – he and Bryan have never been pals. Poor Bryan assured me that one day he’d be prime minister, though I never got to see inside ten Downing Street. But we’ve been together for over thirty years. Through good times and bad, so to speak.’

‘Mostly good, I’m sure.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh yes, I’m very fortunate. Bryan was never cut out for the national political stage, and he was badly injured in an accident ages ago, which didn’t help. But the combination of his business acumen and Gareth’s salesmanship and flair is hard to beat. The park has gone from strength to strength, while farming is a struggle these days. Mike isn’t an easy man, but he works damned hard.’

‘Orla gave me the impression she and her father weren’t close.’

‘There were bound to be tensions after Niamh left the farm to live with Kit.’ Fleur paused. ‘Sham tells me you spent a lot of time talking to Orla.’

‘We chatted, yes.’

‘She saw the two of you munching baguettes together the other day. Orla’s last at work, I think. She seemed upset, and you were trying to calm her down.’

Orla underestimated Sham, he thought, when she dismissed the girl as just a pretty airhead with rich parents, who played at working nine-to-five until she found a man she wanted to settle down with. The pretty face included a pair of lynx eyes.

‘Orla told me about her brother who went missing.’

‘Callum? That was heartbreaking. But … it was twenty years ago.’ Fleur’s brow furrowed. ‘She never seems to have reached closure; it was such a shame.’

‘I told her that if she had any concerns, she should talk to the police.’

‘Surely they want hard evidence, not wild speculation? The case was finished once Philip hanged himself.’ Fleur breathed out. ‘Poor Orla, she must have been depressed.
She loved fairy tales, and I can’t help thinking she made one up for herself about Callum.’

‘So you believe Philip killed his nephew?’

‘Absolutely, no other explanation made sense. Callum was a strange boy, but he’d never run away from home. I can’t believe he is still alive, that he’s stayed out of touch for all these years. Why did Orla torment herself, when the passage of time made it
more
certain that Philip was responsible for his death, not less?’

‘She seemed to think someone else murdered him.’

‘But that’s ridiculous! Who else could have killed Callum?’ Fleur shook her head. ‘A passing tramp? I don’t think so. You’re not saying she had a suspect in mind?’

‘If she did, she never told me. I had the impression she was flailing around, trying to make sense of stuff she didn’t understand. Which is why I encouraged her to talk to the Cold Case Team. The woman who’s in charge of it is a friend of mine; I thought she’d give Orla a fair hearing, and see if there was anything worth investigating.’