Tina reached across the table and patted his hand. They smiled as they looked into each other’s eyes. Hannah stifled a sigh of exasperation.
‘So you weren’t jealous?’
Peter Flint cocked his head. ‘I suppose if someone had proved to me that Warren was sleeping with my wife, yes, I would have been unhappy. Thank heaven, it never arose. Warren didn’t rub my nose in it, and I’m not plagued by the green-eyed monster.’
Quite a paragon, aren’t you? Hear no evil, see no evil.
‘Is it true that your wife’s involvement with Warren Howe ended a short time before he was killed?’
‘If I don’t know for sure that there was any involvement, how could I know if and when it ended?’
‘How did she react to the news of his death?’
Peter blinked. ‘You’re surely not wondering whether…’
‘All I’m trying to do is to get a clear picture of Warren Howe’s life. His relationships.’
‘Gail didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘I haven’t suggested it.’
‘She has a tongue like a stiletto, I don’t deny it. Especially after she’s had a few drinks. But she isn’t a murderer.’
Tina frowned and Hannah sensed a warning. Don’t overdo it.
‘Your divorce, Mr Flint. Was it acrimonious?’
He lifted his chin. ‘Aren’t all divorces?’
‘Was it your decision to part?’
‘After Warren’s death, it was as if for a time, in some strange way, the tragedy brought us together. But we were only papering over the cracks.’ More gesturing with the hands. You’re like a politician, Hannah thought, only answering the questions you like. ‘We’d become different people since our marriage. Both self-employed, working long hours trying to make ends meet. Between us, we’d sunk every penny into our businesses. We had very little time together. It was never going to work out, we both came to recognise that. A mutual decision, let’s say.’
‘The anonymous letter, did you see it?’
‘Tina destroyed it before she mentioned it to me. Quite right, too. Wicked nonsense.’
Brakes screeched outside. Peter winced and through the window Hannah saw a white van pulling up. A burly figure clambered out and for a shocking instant she thought it was Warren Howe. The shape of the head and the dark tousled hair resembled the old photograph in the file. But of course this must be his son Sam. The dead never came back to life.
Chapter Thirteen
The crowds at Hill Top gave Miranda a headache. Beatrix Potter had stipulated in her will that the old farmhouse should be maintained in its original state, and entry was restricted by a timed ticket system. They waited for an hour to get into the shrine, but within five minutes Miranda declared that she’d seen enough and wandered off to seek refuge from the worshipping sight-seers amongst the whitewashed cottages of Near Sawrey.
Louise lingered in silence over the old bound volumes in the library while Daniel leafed through a pamphlet about the author’s life. She’d had an unexpected fondness for mystification, he discovered. It had taken years to crack the secret code in her private journal. He liked the story about her dressing up in sackcloth and being mistaken by a tramp for a fellow traveller. And for all her tales about dear little creatures, Beatrix could be clinical as well as cute. Skinning a rabbit, boiling the bones and then reassembling the skeleton with an autopsy technician’s attention to detail, questing for authenticity, determined to give her pencil drawings a cutting edge.
The shaded room offered shelter from the heat and noise. Something was troubling his sister, he could tell; each time the room cleared, she seemed about to speak, but then more visitors came in and the moment passed. Only when they made their way out into the cottage garden did she reveal what was on her mind.
‘I’m outstaying my welcome, aren’t I?’
‘She’s tired, that’s all.’ He screwed up his eyes in the glare of the afternoon sun and reached into his pocket for his dark glasses. ‘This weather doesn’t suit her.’
‘It’s not about the weather, Daniel.’
‘Don’t take it personally. Miranda will be fine.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Louise exhaled. ‘I’ll check train times.’
‘Don’t be silly. There’s no need. Listen, I enjoy having you here. I don’t want you to leave.’
She brushed his cheek with her lips. ‘Thanks, Daniel. The break’s done me good. But I don’t want to come between you and Miranda.’
‘Anyone would think you’re an old mistress, returning to haunt us. You’re reading too much into a few grumpy remarks.’
‘She wants you to herself.’
She rested her backside on a low stone wall and he perched beside her, out of the way of people taking pictures of each other, gleefully snapping and posing in Mr Macgregor’s flower-filled back yard.
‘I want you to be happy together.’
‘We are.’
‘I’m not just talking about the sex, Daniel.’ A rueful smile. ‘That sounds pretty good.’
Early that morning, Miranda had woken him up and hauled her warm naked body on top of his. As they made love, she’d cried out in delight. Even with the thick stone walls of Tarn Cottage, it would have been a miracle if Louise in the next-door room had slept through.
He groaned. ‘Christ, Louise, I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. All I’m saying is that you need more than fun at bedtime to keep you together. Trust me, Rodney was surprisingly good in that department, but in the long run it wasn’t enough.’
‘Hey,’ he said, determined not to think about Rodney with his sister, ‘you and I aren’t the only people who’ve had a rough time. Before we met, Miranda had an affair with a married man that didn’t work out. Plus a lesbian boss who made a pass and then victimised her when she didn’t say yes. She’s been badly bruised. Healing takes time.’
‘Don’t I know it? But that’s the point, Daniel. The two of you need space, a chance to see if you can make this mad idea of running away from the rat race work out for you both.’
‘Is it such a mad idea?’
‘Not for you,’ she said. ‘But for Miranda? A different story, I guess.’
‘I wouldn’t be here if it she hadn’t persuaded me we should buy the cottage.’
‘Even so.’
‘Don’t you like her?’
‘I do, actually. I’m just not sure she’s right for you.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because I know you.’ She hesitated. ‘And I can tell that deep down you’re not sure either.’
‘You specialise in mind-reading now?’
She tapped him on the shoulder. ‘You and me, we’ve spent too many years together to be able to fool each other. Don’t let me bother you. After all, you never did when you were younger. I want this to work out for both of you, Daniel, honestly I do. I just think you may have a better chance if I’m not here, getting in the way.’
‘You’re not getting in the way,’ he said stubbornly.
Louise slipped off the wall and disappeared into the throng of camera-toting, ice-cream-licking tourists and National Trust volunteers. He closed his eyes and felt the sun burning his unprotected cheeks. He took in a breath of hot air and then headed out of the garden and in search of Miranda.
Hannah arrived back in Kendal shortly after five. Chris Gleave had presented her with a CD of his songs and she’d been playing it in the car. His voice and guitar-playing were pleasant but unexceptional, his words and music much the same. If he’d ever hoped to earn fame and fortune as a latter-day Paul Simon, he’d been deceiving himself. He might entertain an undemanding audience here or in Keswick, but no singer so bland would ever fill Central Park.
As the town baked, tempers frayed. Drivers tooted at pedestrians who took a chance dodging through slothful traffic, mothers yelled at infants and made them wail. Hannah’s eyes were dry and sore and her abdomen hurt. She called at a chemist’s and a bookshop and then hurried back to the station.