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Early thirties, features as sharp as his suit. Gel glistening on coal-black hair. Despite his fall, not a strand out of place.

‘Tony Di Venuto, I presume?’

‘So you know who I am without being introduced. Proof positive you’re a top detective!’

Di Venuto knew she’d recognised his voice from their phone conversation, but still treated her to a roguish smirk. Hannah groaned inwardly. A phrase of Les Bryant’s echoed in her mind. If he were a chocolate pudding, he’d eat himself.

‘What can I do for you?’

‘When we spoke last Friday, you promised to consider reopening the Emma Bestwick file. You’re in charge of cold cases. It’s a perfect project for …’

‘As I said, the moment you provide any new information, we’ll be glad to study it.’

‘Hopefully my piece in the Post will jog a few memories.’

‘Hopefully. Now if you’ll excuse me …’

‘I realise you’re very busy.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I believe she was murdered, Chief Inspector. Emma deserves justice. Her killer is still at large.’

He even talked in tabloid headlines. Hannah summoned the stonewall smile she reserved for press conferences when she had no titbits to offer.

‘We never found any evidence she was dead. People disappear from home every day of the week. Plenty of them are never seen again.’

‘Ten years have passed. Nobody has heard from Emma in all that time. It’s inconceivable that she’s still alive.’

Hannah cast around for the right words. She didn’t want a casual remark to finish up as a sensational quote in a newspaper article. The media relations people would send her off on another press training day for punishment.

‘Stranger things have happened.’

‘Won’t you let me take you through the facts?’

‘That won’t be necessary.’ Hannah stepped away. ‘One thing you ought to know. I was a member of the team that investigated Emma Bestwick’s disappearance.’

Guy’s new quarters occupied the basement at Coniston Prospect. He’d mentally rechristened it Coniston Glimpse. Mrs Welsby advertised en suite facilities, which meant he had exclusive benefit of a chilly toilet and separate bathroom on the other side of a short passageway. A yellowing spider plant drooped on the mantelpiece above the gas fire. The room reeked of damp, and as he lay on the stiff mattress Guy noticed patches of rot around the window frame. The radiator and pipes kept cackling, as though Macbeth’s witches were trapped inside.

His lips moved but no sound came as he read once again the opening paragraph from the article in the newspaper that he’d cadged from the landlady.

This week sees the tenth anniversary of one of Cumbria’s strangest unsolved mysteries. Thirty-year-old Coniston reflexologist Emma Bestwick vanished from home and was never seen again. Police were unable to establish whether she left of her own accord or was the victim of suicide, accident or murder. Perhaps the time has come for the Cumbria Constabulary’s Cold Case Review Team to take another look at whatever happened to Emma.

How bloody typical. Talk about media irresponsibility. With so much strife in the world, how could it make sense to scour through the past, looking for trouble? People disappeared all the time, what was so odd about that? Why make a front page story out of one woman who went missing long ago? Emma Bestwick was a troubled woman who might easily have given up her old life and gone in search of something new. It was perfectly plausible; he’d made a fresh start himself more than once. Why bully an over-worked police force into raking up old ashes?

A timid knock at the door.

‘Only me! I brought your tea down.’

He tossed the newspaper to one side, scrambled off the bed and flung open the door. Mrs Welsby’s face was pink, as though she felt like an intruder in her own home. He took the hot mug, blenching as it scalded his fingers, yet managing to preserve a grin of thanks.

‘I meant to come back upstairs, but truth to tell, I needed forty winks. Travel can be exhausting, don’t you find? It’s wonderful to have the chance to put my feet up.’

‘You do take milk?’

The mug bore a smiley face and he tried not to wince as he sipped. He loved leaf tea; his favourite was Assam, followed by Darjeeling, but this muddy mess was courtesy of two Coop tea bags.

‘Mmmmm. Lovely.’

He saw her eyes flicker in the direction of the newspaper. He’d left it on the bedside table.

‘Thanks for letting me have a glance. Good to catch up.’

‘You know the Lakes?’

‘My favourite place in the whole world!’ As soon as he said it, he realised it was the truth. Keep your Costa del Sols and your Corfus. Even the glory that was Rome was of another day. If he belonged anywhere, it must be here. The Lake District felt like home, even in the rain. Especially in the rain. ‘Mind you, this is my first time back in a decade. Too long.’

‘Well, I mustn’t interrupt.’

‘Any time!’

They swapped smiles, and as the door closed behind her, he climbed back on to the bed. The journalist was called Tony Di Venuto. What had caused him to light upon the disappearance of Emma Bestwick? News must be thin, there was no other explanation. The tenth anniversary wasn’t much of a peg to hang a story on.

Since he’d last walked the streets of Coniston village, Guy had stopped thinking about Emma. He had a gift for blocking out unpleasantness, found it as easy as closing a door on a draught. Yet memories lurked like invisible weeds beneath the surface of a tarn. After heading out of North Wales, he might have journeyed anywhere. But the Lakes pulled him back; he was a puppet on an invisible string. True, he’d given a promise never to return. But ten years was long enough. Nothing was forever.

Hannah switched off the tape recorder and yawned as Les Bryant lumbered into her room. She’d spent the past hour listening to interviews conducted by Maggie Eyre, a young DC in her team. Dip sampling of tapes was a tedious part of the job and some DCIs were quick to delegate it, but for her it was not a task to be skimped, however predictable the outcome. The idea was to check whether the interrogation techniques of junior officers was up to scratch and it was unwise to take much for granted. But it came as no surprise that Maggie’s questioning of witnesses had been diligent, firm and courteous. Another tick in another box.

‘Jobs they never tell you about at the student recruitment fairs,’ she muttered.

Les shrugged and deposited his ample backside on a chair on the other side of her desk. ‘Wouldn’t know, I was never a student.’

She couldn’t resist a grin. ‘University of life, huh?’

‘School of hard knocks, yeah.’ He considered her. ‘You look different today.’

‘Thanks for noticing.’

He went through a pantomime of guesswork. ‘Ummm … your hair’s not the same. More blonde than brown these days.’

‘We’ll make a detective out of you yet. And don’t dare to say that you liked it the way it was. Now, have you squared things with Lauren?’

That morning the Assistant Chief Constable had scheduled a meeting with Les to review his conditions of service. He’d shambled out of retirement to lend his expertise to the Cumbria Constabulary’s Cold Case Review Team. He was a dour Yorkshireman, a veteran of such fabled cases as the Whitby caravan shootings. The young DCs nicknamed him In my day, a tribute to Les’s favourite phrase, but Hannah liked his morose humour as well as his nose for crime. He’d forgotten more about detective work than most cops would ever know. Once Lauren Self sorted out a few niggles about expenses, they could talk about extending his contract.

‘Her ladyship was too busy. Press conference announcing that the force merger has been put on hold. I heard on the grapevine that some reporter asked if she thought the Home Secretary should be charged with wasting police time. By all accounts, she nearly jumped off the podium and slapped him.’