‘I wanted to let you know I’ve met Peter Flint. As well as the dead man’s son.’
‘Is your garden sorted now, then?’
‘Far from it. But you might be interested in what Peter told me.’
‘You didn’t prise a confession out of him, by any chance?’
‘No such luck. All the same, he talked freely enough and I found out a few things. Have you got five minutes?’
As he recounted his discussions with Peter and Sam, Daniel pictured her closing her eyes as she listened. As he answered her questions, he guessed she was sifting through the answers, assessing whether there was anything she didn’t know already. He liked the way she concentrated her full attention upon him whenever they talked. She didn’t disapprove, she took him seriously. He couldn’t help finding it flattering.
‘I spoke to Tina Howe on the phone and Peter Flint told me the daughter is a waitress at a restaurant called The Heights.’
‘The woman she works for, Bel Jenner, was an old flame of her father’s.’
‘Small world. My sister offered to take Miranda and me out for a meal. I might suggest The Heights.’
Through the crackling, he could make out her laughter. ‘You’re incorrigible.’
‘’Fraid so.’ Any minute the line would go dead. Time to take a chance. ‘I wondered. Would you like to meet up for a drink one evening?’
As he held his breath, the buzzard moved. First it soared into the air, and then it swooped down towards an unsuspecting victim in a patch of gorse. For a long time Hannah didn’t speak. Shit. Had the signal gone, or had he simply overplayed his hand?
Then he heard her voice again. Faint but clear.
‘Yes, why not?’
Chapter Eleven
‘Oliver, we need to talk.’
Kirsty dug her nails into her palms. This was a huge risk. If it went wrong, she’d lose him forever. And they didn’t have much time before Bel locked the doors for the night. She’d finished blowing out the candles and clearing the tables, but it had taken the last diners fifteen teeth-grinding minutes to agree amongst themselves how to split the bill. Never mind hoping for a tip, she almost volunteered to pay out of her own wages, just to get rid of them. As soon as she managed to bundle them out of the premises, she went in search and bumped into him coming out of the kitchen.
‘Talk?’ His body language spelled uncertainty. He might have been a quiz contestant, stumped by the simplest question. ‘What about?’
‘Please. Two minutes, that’s all I ask.’
Raised voices were coming from the kitchen. Veselka and Danica, arguing about who should mop up. Bel was in the bar, chatting about nothing in particular to Arthur while they washed the glasses. Once the job was done, Bel would spend five minutes restocking the fridge so that enough beer, wine and soft drinks were chilled overnight, and then she would want to lock up. It was now or never.
Oliver brushed a stray hair out of his eyes and focused on her. His eyes were like lasers, she thought, penetrating her soul. She knew she was blushing, but she no longer cared.
‘All right, Kirsty, if that’s what you want. Two minutes maximum, though, OK?’
‘Thank you,’ she breathed and led him outside.
The overspill car park at the rear of The Heights was empty except for Arthur’s rusty Fiesta. Beyond lay the small garden, separated from the grounds of the house next door by a six-foot willow screen. That lazy sod Sam still hadn’t got round to doing the work that Bel wanted. Typical, bloody typical. When she clutched Oliver’s hand, he didn’t resist. His palm was warm. When the moon passed behind a cloud, they were alone in the darkness.
‘What is it?’
‘Oliver, you’re not going to like this, but I have to say it. I think Bel knows about you and me.’
‘What are you talking about?’ he hissed. ‘There’s nothing to know.’
She squeezed his hand. So far, so predictable. He never wanted to hear a word against Bel. Of course, that was half the trouble: he was in denial. Loyal and faithful to a fault, he couldn’t help still caring for her. He’d never be able to see through her unless she made him understand.
‘It’s the anonymous letter. I’ve been thinking about who could have sent it. We’ve both behaved so discreetly. We’ve never been anywhere together, we only ever see each other here. Yet the letter told me to keep my hands off you.’
The moon came out again and she could see him, rubbing his beaky nose in bafflement. ‘Anyone could have written that. Some spiteful person who saw us chatting together, who knew we were friends. Someone who felt you took too long serving the main course, whatever.’
‘No, no, don’t you see? There have been other letters, two that I know of for sure. One to my mother, another to Sam. Both of them talking about Dad’s murder. Whoever wrote those letters knows our family, Oliver. And wants to hurts us. Me in particular.’
He pulled his hand away and took a step backwards into the shadow. ‘You seriously think Bel sent those letters? It’s mad, Kirsty. She’d never do it. There isn’t a malicious bone in her body.’
Leaves rustled. A squirrel, or more likely a fox. Kirsty swallowed hard. ‘She’s crazy about you, Oliver. A middle-aged woman clinging on to a much younger man, she’ll do anything. You’ve never married, you’re not exactly Mr Commitment. She’s afraid she’s going to be left on her own, and she can’t cope with the prospect. Look at how she chased after you within weeks of burying her husband. The stuff about Dad was a blind. I’m the target.’
‘You’ve got it all wrong.’
She reached out and gripped his wrist. ‘Listen to me, Oliver, no other explanation makes sense. I’m not angry with her, I sympathise…’
‘No!’ He shook her off, like a celebrity detaching himself from an over-familiar fan. ‘Kirsty, God knows, I don’t want to hurt you, but you must see sense.’
‘All I want to see is you,’ she said.
‘Look, I’m very fond of you, seriously I am.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Much more than you could ever imagine.’
‘Well, then.’
‘But we’re just friends, that’s as far as it goes.’
‘No! We can-’
‘Listen to me! You say Bel’s crazy about me. What you don’t seem to understand is this. I’m absolutely crazy about her.’
She recoiled as if he’d slapped her. The moon came out again and she could see his white face, skin taut over those high cheekbones. He was breathing hard, in the way she’d imagined he might when they were making love. But if he meant what he said, they would never make love.
The rusty hinges of the back door screeched. Veselka in sullen mood, bringing rubbish out to put in the bin. She was bound to see them, but Kirsty no longer cared. Oliver was lying, or at least she prayed he was, but he would never admit it. And if he was telling the truth, she no longer cared about anything.
Louise joined Daniel in the kitchen as he took the stopper out of the wine bottle. The smell of chicken curry lingered in the air. The clock on the oven said ten to midnight, but you would never have guessed. This was the hottest night so far.
‘Is Miranda OK?’
‘She has a migraine, that’s all.’
Miranda had been tetchy and monosyllabic all evening. He’d kept quiet, hoping to avoid a row, but in the end she’d gone up to bed, leaving Louise to watch a Julia Roberts DVD while he browsed through a stack of books about the Lakes, searching in vain for clues to the mystery of the garden. Even with the window open, there wasn’t a breath of air. He felt like an aged miner, hacking coal out of a poor seam. In the end he gave up and decided to finish off the Sancerre with Louise.
‘She blames the weather, but there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? All day she’s been tense and fidgety. Even working out in the gym didn’t help.’
‘That’s Miranda for you.’
‘She’s missing London, she said so.’
‘I don’t know why. Whenever she isn’t flogging down there on the train, she and the people at the magazine are firing emails back and forth.’