And like her mother? Kirsty had never been able to read her mind. As a kid, she’d assumed that her parents were deeply in love, that the late-night rows and the crockery-throwing were not signs of anything wrong with the marriage, but rather a token of how much they cared. Growing up, she’d assumed that her mother was devastated by the murder. If she’d been sleeping with Peter Flint at the time, that changed everything. What if Dad had found out? His temper was volcanic.
She went down the passageway leading to the customer toilet. Out of hours, it was a sanctuary. She locked herself in the cubicle and dialled Sam on her mobile. It was a lovely afternoon, he should be hard at work, but as soon as he answered, she could tell that he was on the skive. In the background she could hear heavy metal music blaring from a jukebox and shrill drunken female laughter.
‘I need to talk to you. It’s about Mum. She’s had an anonymous letter and it says she was sleeping with Peter at the time Dad was killed.’
‘What are you mithering me for?’ The disembodied tones combined boredom with bad temper. With each year that passed, he sounded and acted more like their father at his worst. Obviously there was no chance of his apologising for hurting her.
‘Is it true?’
‘How the fuck should I know? I’m hardly going to ask her, am I?’ His voice was faintly slurred. It was still early, but he was a fast drinker. She only hoped he’d left his motorbike at home. One of these days, he’d kill someone. If not himself.
‘What about asking Peter?’
‘Are you losing your marbles? What do you expect me to do, walk up to my boss and demand to know if he was shagging Mum while Dad was alive? He may be a feeble little wimp, but even he would sack me for that.’
‘But don’t you see? If it is true, and this person who’s sending the letters knows all her secrets, who knows what else is going to come out?’
‘It was a long time ago. Who cares?’
‘I care, Sam. And so should you. Don’t you see? If the police found out, Mum would be a prime suspect.’
For a few moments she could hear nothing except the racket from the pub jukebox. She knew her brother well enough to realise he was scouring his vocabulary for some brutal putdown.
‘You’re mad. I don’t have the foggiest when they first got it together. But if anyone should be shitting himself, it isn’t Mum, it’s that smug bastard Peter. After all, he finished up with her and the business, didn’t he?’
Chapter Eight
While Daniel visited Kendal, Miranda and Louise had gone to Grasmere, destination Dove Cottage. Returning home, he remembered that he hadn’t eaten anything since toast and marmalade for breakfast. Hunger pangs reminded him of Oxford, when he could spend a day delving into the Bodleian archives before thinking of his stomach. Talking to Hannah had made him forget about food but now he was ready for a little self-indulgence. Miranda was on a healthy-eating crusade, but her absence gave him a chance to sin with a chunky bacon and egg bap coated in brown sauce. After washing his lunch down with a can of lager, he went upstairs to continue his researches.
The makeshift study would become a spare bedroom once the renovations were completed, although if the builders didn’t get a move on, he might be ready for a stairlift by the time the project was finished. Even now most of his books were in crates. A handful of whodunits squatted on low shelves alongside a pile of CDs and a snap he’d taken of Miranda, showing off her long smooth legs as she lazed on a recliner by the tarn. There was nothing to remind him of Oxford, far less of Aimee. He’d wanted to leave his past behind. Though sometimes he wondered if it was madness to believe that might be possible.
A Google search didn’t add much to his stock of knowledge about the murder and soon he was navigating the Flint Howe Garden Design website, learning that Peter Flint was a Royal Horticultural Society Chelsea Flower Show medal winner among various other accolades. A gallery of photographs showed ‘before’ and ‘after’ shots of drab patches of lawn becoming mini-Sissinghursts. Encomiums abounded from clients whose herbaceous borders, rockeries and patios had been transformed into visions of light, water and colour. The website answered frequently asked questions about the sensitive use of decking in a suburban environment and offered tips on composting and establishing an organic garden. No suggestion that dumping a body in your back yard was recommended for fertilising the ground for years to come.
Daniel clicked on to the site contact details. In the corner of the page was a name in small type. Enquirers were invited to email the firm’s ‘Client Liaison Partner’. Her name was Tina Howe.
He swivelled in his chair, closing his eyes to let the news sink in. Presumably Tina had inherited her husband’s share in the business, but wouldn’t most widows take their money and run? Back at the home page, he studied the photo of Peter Flint. Curly, greying hair, spectacles, crooked front teeth. He looked vague and good-natured, not accustomed to getting his hands dirty. Perhaps Tina Howe had tired of her rugged husband and fancied offering his partner a spot of personal assistance? What if…?
Don’t go there. He slammed his fist on the desk. He should have learned, it was dangerous to get involved in a case of murder. Not so long ago, he’d looked death in the eye and hadn’t liked what he’d seen.
And yet, hunting the truth fired him; it became a obsession impossible to quell, whatever the cost. At last he’d come to understand why his father cared for police work. They shared the need to know.
The front door crashed. He imagined Miranda sniffing the air before calling out, ‘Who’s been having a fry-up, then?’
He wandered downstairs and they told him about their day. To listen to Miranda bad-mouthing selfish drivers in Grasmere and the unpredictability of the bus services, one might think she was a native. As she chatted, Daniel kept glancing at Louise. She was on her best behaviour, nodding agreement at suitable intervals and laughing at every witty remark. The perfect guest.
He nodded towards the garden. ‘We need help sorting this out. There’s a good firm Hawkshead way. I thought I’d give them a ring, ask them to take a look and give us their advice.’
‘Fine.’
Miranda resumed her account of what she would show Louise tomorrow. For her, the garden was a place to relax, nothing more. She wouldn’t have minded if he’d announced that he meant to dig it all up and replant every square inch. As long as she could sit by the water’s edge and soak up the sun, who cared if someone had long ago laid out the grounds according to an unfathomable design?
When she took the tea things back inside, Louise pulled her chair closer to Daniel’s. ‘So then, what did you get up to in Kendal?’
‘I spent an hour in the library. Nothing special.’
‘Is that all?’
He frowned at her. ‘Meaning?’
‘You’re wearing your faraway look. Suppressed excitement, something going on in your own little world while you nod your head at appropriate points in the conversation. You weren’t listening to Miranda, she doesn’t know you well enough yet to realise. I remember that look from when Mum was scolding you for not putting your bike in the garage and all the time you were thinking about that tarty girl from Manor Drive.’