In the bathroom she studied the mark on her neck. No need to panic. Give it a few days and it would disappear. Sluicing herself under the hot shower jet, she considered her body. There was a bit more of it than she’d have liked, but never mind. She kept trying diets but in her opinion restaurants didn’t want waitresses to look like stick insects, it wasn’t a good advertisement. If she curved in the right places, a few excess pounds weren’t worth worrying about. She’d never match Bel for elegance and glamour, but at least she was still young.
Halfway through a self-denying breakfast of muesli and orange juice, she heard the mail drop through the letterbox. Skydiving Monthly was due to arrive today. Jumping off her stool, she padded out to collect it, but it wasn’t the shrink-wrapped magazine that caused her to freeze as she bent to pick up the delivery, it was an envelope addressed to her mother. The stencilled lettering was unmistakable.
‘It’s great to hear from you,’ Daniel said into his mobile.
He was up in the tiny third bedroom, staring at a blank computer screen. This was his temporary study until the bothy was converted. He liked to look out on to the peaceful tarn and watch the water birds come and go.
‘Sorry I didn’t return your call sooner.’
‘No problem.’
‘Marc tells me you called into the shop.’
‘I was looking for books about Brackdale’s history. Not that I’ll have too much time for research over the next few days. My sister has come to stay.’
‘Louise?’
He whistled. ‘You have quite a memory.’
‘Your father liked to talk about you both. He knew she’d taken the break-up to heart and it hurt him to realise how much pain he’d caused. It’s funny, I felt almost as if I knew your family, long before you and I ever met.’
He was beginning to wonder how well he knew his own sister. In the living room, Miranda and Louise were discussing lingerie. Suki wanted a thousand-word piece reviving the thong-versus-knickers debate, ‘hopefully with a rural lifestyle angle, darling’. When Miranda had complained to his sister that she found G-strings as comfortable as a chastity belt made from piano wire, Louise startled him by saying that she always liked to wear something sexy under the severe suit she wore for work: ‘Something lovely, you know? Turquoise, leopardskin, whatever.’ He’d escaped upstairs, unable to contain his amazement. Louise the Puritan in leopardskin knickers?
‘You must have known him — understood him — better than anyone.’
‘Well, perhaps Cheryl…’
He didn’t bother to hide his scorn. ‘I can’t believe she understood him.’
‘No, maybe not.’
‘I was wondering if we could get together sometime, have another chat. I know you’re very busy-’
‘OK,’ she interrupted. ‘Why not? Would you bring Louise along?’
‘Christ, no,’ he said quickly. ‘I mean, she isn’t ready to talk objectively about Dad. The wounds are still raw, as far as she’s concerned. And she’s finished with a boyfriend, that’s why she’s here in the Lakes, to get away from it all. It wouldn’t be a good idea…’
‘Just you and me, then?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
‘No,’ Hannah said. ‘That’s fine.’
‘Lovely morning!’
A pair of cheery grey-haired walkers greeted Kirsty and she forced a smile in reply. In one sense they were right: the sun was already so fierce that she was wearing her dark glasses and a skimpy T-shirt emblazoned with a picture of an opened parachute and the legend If at first you don’t succeed…maybe skydiving isn’t for you. It turned her on to think of Oliver stealing a glance at her boobs or bare midriff. But the hate mail hung over her like a big black cloud.
She’d borrowed her mother’s chiffon scarf to hide the mark on her neck and left her Citroen at home. Walking to The Heights would clear her head. Sam would never have attacked her but for their row about letters. What had she and her family done to cause someone to be so cruel? They were harmless, ordinary people.
Leaves from an overhanging oak grazed her cheek as she rounded the last bend in the lane. Pushing the branch away, she reminded herself that one extraordinary thing had happened in their lives. Her father’s killing. Why would anyone rake the tragedy up after so long? It didn’t make sense.
It was as if the Howes were cursed. The Lakes were full of folklore about spells and jinxes: who could say it was all nonsense? Roz had once given her a book she’d published, packed with strange tales. Hidden above these sunlit lanes was the dark domain of the Crier of Claife. Ferrymen of old never took passengers across Windermere at night, for dread of the wailing spectre that prowled the Heights. One to remain ‘until a man could walk across Windermere dryshod’. Kirsty remembered a couple of customers swearing they’d heard weird howlings as they walked home in the dark, but Oliver reckoned that had more to do with the whisky they’d been drinking than the Crier of Claife.
Outside the restaurant, Bel was watering the tubs, bending over the pansies, green can in hand. Kirsty stopped in her tracks. For a wild instant she imagined sidling up behind the woman. It would be so easy to slip off the scarf, loop it around her neck — and squeeze.
Oh Jesus, what was happening to her? She would never do it, could never do it. But even to let the idea creep into her brain…
Bel straightened and glanced over her shoulder. When she saw Kirsty, she gave a smile that showed off her flawless teeth. Trust the bloody woman never to have needed a filling in her life.
‘I’ve just taken a booking for noon. Table for eight, a gathering of grandmas. We’d better have them sitting in the window.’
‘Fine,’ Kirsty murmured. ‘I’ll put two tables together.’
‘Lovely.’
All their conversations were like this. Pleasant, superficial, the same as the movie tunes Bel liked to hum. Sometimes she repeated herself word for word, as when complaining about walkers who didn’t take off their muddy boots before entering the restaurant. Her pleasant, softly spoken manner disguised the fact that, in Kirsty’s humble opinion, she really was rather stupid. Thank God she didn’t have an inkling of how Kirsty felt about Oliver. Kirsty knew that was how it had to stay; she couldn’t risk the sack. Not because it would be difficult to find work elsewhere, but because this job gave her an excuse to spend hours in Oliver’s company. Was that pathetic? Sam would say so, but he would be wrong, there was nothing feeble or pathetic about wanting to be close to someone you cared about. Oliver was almost — but not quite — a married man and she’d tried to distract herself with flings, but it was no good. Oliver hadn’t encouraged her, but she couldn’t help herself. The harder she tried to forget him, the more she yearned to be with him. All the time.
‘Has your brother mentioned when he might get round to that work at the back of here?’ Bel smiled again. ‘I asked Peter Flint, and he said Sam’s the one with green fingers.’
Kirsty remembered Sam’s warm, chunky fingers, closing around her throat. ‘He hasn’t said. I expect he’ll get round to it soon.’
A car’s horn pipped and Bel said, ‘Here’s Roz. Reliable as always. I phoned and said we were running low on her recipe book and sightseeing guides. She promised to let me have a few more copies.’
Both of them waved as Roz Gleave jumped out of her little green sports car. Kirsty liked Roz almost as much as she resented Bel and Gail. For a start, Roz never bothered about trying to look glamorous. Bel was uncannily pretty, even Kirsty had to admit that, and Gail disguised mutton as lamb with the help of an army of cosmetic surgeons, while both of them spent a fortune on clothes. In contrast, Roz didn’t give a toss about defying the advance of years. Her once-dark hair had turned as grey as Blencathra in the wet; but she never dyed it, and she didn’t always bother with a comb. If she fretted about the thread veins on her cheeks or the pouches under her eyes, you’d never guess. This morning, she was wearing dungarees and scuffed trainers. To look at her, you wouldn’t dream she ran a business at least as successful as Gail’s or Bel’s.