He couldn’t help grinning. ‘You never liked Simone, did you? Just because she overdid the make-up.’
‘It wasn’t only the make-up. And don’t change the subject. What are you up to?’
He shifted under her steady gaze. ‘I’ve been doing some research.’
Her smile was sceptical. ‘It’s obviously turning you on.’
‘Just because I’ve escaped from Oxford, that doesn’t mean I want my brain to atrophy.’
‘It’s not your brain I’m wondering about.’
Miranda called from the open kitchen window, ‘Anyone fancy a glass of Chablis?’
Louise turned her head and waved her thanks. Softly, she said, ‘Miranda’s lovely, Daniel. Not your usual type of lady friend, though.’
‘Is there a type? Leaving Simone out of it?’
‘Well, yes. Pretty, intense, introspective.’
‘Christ.’ He was startled that she’d given his love life a moment’s thought. He’d assumed she was too wrapped up in her own affairs of the heart. ‘Actually, I’d say Miranda fits the bill.’
‘Mmmmm. Not sure about introspective. I’m not saying that it matters. I just want you to be happy, that’s all.’
‘We are.’
‘Long term, I mean.’
‘We will be.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ she whispered as Miranda approached, bearing a tray laden with wine cooler and glasses.
But he wasn’t sure that she believed him.
‘Your garden is gorgeous,’ Hannah Scarlett said.
Roz Gleave nodded. ‘I can see what you’re thinking. A lovely place to die.’
Hannah grimaced, not least because she seldom encountered strangers who could read her mind. Even in the heat of the afternoon, Roz was cool and composed in white blouse and jeans. She was a tall woman with decisive movements; it was impossible to imagine her giving a slinky wiggle of the bum. With her thick grey hair and lack of make-up, she made no concessions to vanity, yet there was something about her cast of features and strong jawline that was oddly attractive. Not glamorous, but striking. Handsome, even.
They were facing each other across a wrought-iron table on the patio at the back of Keepsake Cottage. Behind them was an extension to the original house, from where Roz ran her publishing business. Through the windows Hannah could see piles of shrink-wrapped books in cardboard boxes. On the slope above the cottage was the spot where Warren Howe’s slashed corpse had been dumped in a hole in the earth, but his only memorial was a rose bush with huge yellow blooms. Roz had served Earl Grey and Battenberg cake; de Quincey was snoozing at their feet in a wicker basket. Very civilised: a murder site transformed into a backdrop for a tea party.
‘Tell me about finding the body.’
‘You must have this in your files.’
‘Refresh my memory.’
Roz sighed. ‘I spent the day in Lancashire, with a firm of library suppliers. A nerve-shredding presentation of our latest titles. I left home at half seven, to make final preparations at our office before I set off. Warren’s van passed me in the lane; he used to say he liked an early start and an early dart. The weather was miserable, but he didn’t care.’
‘Did you stop for a word?’
‘No, I waved, he winked back, and we drove past each other. It was the last time I saw him alive, but I didn’t give him another thought until I got home. My main aim was to keep myself busy. Anything to avoid dwelling on what might have happened to Chris. What I dreaded might have happened…’
A frown flitted across Roz Gleave’s face as she adjusted her dark glasses. A woman unwilling to surrender to her emotions, or to the urge to colour her hair. If she’d been shaken by the request for a meeting, she’d given no sign of it, agreeing a convenient time with the brisk efficiency of a woman who had succeeded in keeping a small press afloat in an unforgiving business climate.
Hannah said gently, ‘You and Warren were friends?’
‘We went back a long way.’
‘Not the same thing.’
‘No.’ Roz smiled. ‘Come on, this sun is too harsh for a skin as fair as yours, let’s sit in the shade.’
She led the way up the sprawling terraced grounds, past lupins jostling with tall ornanmental grasses, towards a teak arbour seat. Hannah sat beside her on the plump cream cushion. Lawns across the county were parched, but this wild garden remained fresh. A stream gurgled down the slope, white butterflies circled a late-flowering mint with a soft lavender haze. Through the branches of an ash tree Hannah could see sunlit patterns on Esthwaite Water. A dark blue wisteria threaded through gaps in the trellis, and she inhaled its perfume.
As if reading her mind, Roz said, ‘Special, isn’t it? Thanks to Peter Flint — and Warren. You know, Warren used to have a phrase about wild gardens. No moss, no magic.’
‘Perhaps he was right.’
‘He was no saint, Chief Inspector, but he was no fool, either.’
Hannah was tempted to close her eyes. On the most humid day so far this year, she felt unbearably lethargic, as if she might be going down with flu in the midst of the heatwave. But she must stay focused to glean anything from the conversation. Murder had been committed on Roz’s doorstep; she must have ideas about what had led to it. Her original statement was brusque and uninformative. Charlie’s team hadn’t pressed the right buttons, but this was a second chance.
‘You arrived back here that afternoon shortly before five, according to your statement.’
‘The first surprise was that I couldn’t park in the garage because Warren’s van was parked in the drive, blocking the way. I expected him to have gone home by that time. I assumed he was engrossed and didn’t want to finish halfway through a particular job. I went inside, changed out of my business suit and poured myself a glass of plonk. A tiny celebration. Without Chris, I hadn’t had much cause to cheer myself up, but I was in better heart because the people in Lytham had been so positive about our titles. I took a couple of sips and then wandered outside to have a word with Warren. See if he fancied a drink himself.’
‘So you were on good terms?’
‘If you’re wondering whether Warren reckoned his luck was in, working for an old flame whose husband had left her, think again. I’m not exactly a sex goddess these days. I’m not sure I ever was, even in my teens, but he wasn’t above trying it on, just for the hell of it. Actually, he was a satyr, but he knew the score. Chris was the only man for me.’
‘But you were afraid Chris was dead.’
‘Even so.’ Roz stared down towards the cottage, and Hannah guessed she was picturing the scene that had greeted her that afternoon. ‘I came through that door from the kitchen, made my way up the slope. At first I couldn’t see anything untoward. I called his name, but there was no reply. Odd, but no alarm bells rang.’
‘Warren wasn’t someone you could imagine suffering an accident?’
‘That’s right. Nothing ever knocked him off stride, stopped him from doing what he wanted to do. I could see where he’d been digging. He’d piled up the turves he’d dug and his wheelbarrow was full of weeds and pebbles. As I moved closer, I saw the ground was streaked with red. When I looked into the trench, for a split second, I didn’t realise the bloody lump was Warren. To tell you the truth, there are still times when I can’t quite believe it. For him to be killed like that…’
‘How well did you know him?’
‘Old Sawrey is a small place. He wasn’t easy to avoid.’
‘And in your teens you went out with him?’
‘For a few weeks. That wasn’t easy to avoid, either. I was fourteen, an age when a little flattery goes a long way. One thing about Warren, he was persistent. It was scarcely a remake of Brief Encounter. His claim to fame in my life was that he was the first boy to put his hand inside my knickers.’
Roz’s wry grin was infectious and Hannah couldn’t help smiling. ‘Very romantic. And that was why you split up?’
‘No, he lost interest. Just as he had done with Bel before me. Thank God, it didn’t ruin our friendship. If anything, it brought us closer together. We cried on each other’s shoulders.’