‘Presumably you don’t want to see her any longer?’
He finished his tuna sandwich. The act of putting his plate and tumbler in the new dishwasher gave him time to compose a reply. ‘This makes no difference. She broke up my parents’ marriage, then her own, but there’s no changing the facts. She lived with my father for the past twenty years. If anyone can tell me about him, she can.’
‘Yes, but how much more do you want to know about him?’
He hesitated. ‘I–I need a clearer picture of him than the old blurry snaps in the family photo album.’
‘How can you be sure that Cheryl would be a reliable witness?’
‘I can’t. But she’s the best that I have.’
Despite failing to find her at Oxenholme, Daniel remained unwilling to phone Cheryl and give her advance warning of his arrival. That would give her the chance of making an excuse, or refusing outright to have anything to do with him. Judging by what the Whistons had said about her, this was more than likely. He’d rather take the risk that she was out.
Even if she eluded him, his journey would not be in vain. He planned to stop off en route. Like a child husbanding a special treat for a rainy day, Daniel had been saving up his first visit to Amos Books. The shop was supposed to be something special, an Elysium for seekers after secondhand and antiquarian books. There was even a cafe which earned high marks in the guide-books for value and atmosphere. Best of all, the shop was only a short drive from Brack.
He found it without difficulty, one of half a dozen small businesses grouped around a large yard. Most of the units produced and sold crafts of one sort or another: wall hangings decorated with Lakeland themes, pottery and wooden gifts, hand-made greetings cards, and teddy bears with large, beseeching eyes. The bookshop occupied a section of a converted mill, the rear of which overlooked a weir. Rain was rattling on the gravel and although Daniel ran from his car, his sweatshirt was soaked by the time he was inside. The rich aroma of Kenyan coffee blended with the smell of old books and he recognised the andante movement of Hanson’s Romantic Symphony coming from discreet speakers near the entrance. The front part of the lower floor was devoted to fiction and the rear to the cafe, which spilled out on to an elevated area of decking from which on a fine day customers could sit out and watch the beck rushing past.
This afternoon an elderly couple taking shelter from the weather were pretending to interest themselves in slip-cased effusions of the Folio Society while a pair of earnest back-packers studied a glassed cabinet containing a complete set of Wainwright first editions as if glimpsing the Crown Jewels. A quick reconnaissance established that one of the upstairs rooms had a stock of historical titles that many libraries might envy. A yellowing pamphlet called Ancient Corpse Ways of Cumberland and Westmoreland caught his eye and he started leafing through it.
‘Looking for anything in particular?’ A man with floppy fair hair paused in the act of filling a box with dog-eared National Geographics and gave him an amiable grin.
‘Just browsing.’
‘Fine. Have a browse over a latte, if you like. No obligation to buy. It’s not a bad way to spend a few minutes drying off until this downpour eases.’
‘You’ve talked me into it. Do I gather that you’re Mr Amos?’
‘That’s me.’ The man extended a slim, well-manicured hand. ‘Now tell me, why is your face familiar? I don’t think we’ve met…’
‘My name’s Daniel Kind.’
‘The historian? Good Lord, quite an honour.’ He squinted at the pamphlet Daniel was reading. ‘Don’t tell me you’re planning a programme about corpse roads?’
Daniel shook his head. ‘The editor of Contemporary Historian called a couple of days ago and asked if I’d like to contribute an article. I thought that corpse roads might be a suitable subject. But television — no. One or two of my colleagues seem to think I’ve done enough harm already, creating a generation of historical illiterates. From now on I’ll be writing, not presenting.’
‘We have one of your books here, as it happens. Not just the TV tie-in, but your very first.’
‘So I see. Like all authors, I can’t resist checking in any bookshop whether it stocks a title of mine. I see you’re asking a good price.’
‘It’s a sought-after book, especially in such a pretty dustjacket. Maybe I can persuade you to sign it for me, make it even more special? Don’t worry, I won’t sell it for an even more vastly inflated sum. It will go into my private collection. However hard I try, it keeps growing. My bibliomania is pretty acute.’
‘Worrying in a bookseller,’ Daniel said. ‘Like trying to diet when you own a chocolate shop.’
As Daniel inscribed the book, Amos asked, ‘You’re up here on holiday?’
‘We’ve bought a cottage over in Brackdale.’
‘My favourite spot, I’ve walked every fell in the valley. Hope to see you dropping in here more often, then.’
‘You won’t be able to keep me away. Especially if the coffee’s as good as the stock.’
‘No worries on that account. When you’ve finished browsing, come and meet Leigh Moffat. She runs the cafe.’
Amos led the way back down the steps. They creaked just as, Daniel believed, all floorboards in secondhand bookshops should creak. It was an essential part of the ambience, like the giddy sense of claustrophobia that came from squeezing between tottering towers of books and the clouds of dust that had to be blown from the ancient volumes lingering in the darkest recesses. In the other half of the old mill, the cafeteria was fresh and airy, with seductive cakes arrayed beneath a transparent cover. A pretty woman with shiny auburn hair in a neat bob was washing up behind the counter.
‘Leigh is a near-neighbour of yours,’ Amos announced after making introductions. ‘Brackdale born and bred.’
‘I live opposite the lychgate at the side of the church.’ Her voice was husky and the aroma of orange cake that clung to her appealed to Daniel just as much. ‘Where are you?’
‘The cottage at the end of Tarn Fold.’
She glanced sharply at the bookseller. ‘I know it, of course. The story I heard was that Mrs Gilpin’s relatives had sold it to a couple from down South.’
‘Word gets around.’
‘You know the history of the place?’
‘I’ve heard what happened to Barrie Gilpin.’
‘Poor boy.’ She sighed. ‘We were at school together.’
‘You liked him?’
‘We were never close. There was no harm in him, but I remember the way he prowled round the playground, day after day. He always followed exactly the same routine, patting the same railings on the wall, as if to prove everything was where it should be.’
Amos stared. ‘There was no harm in him?’
Daniel said quickly, ‘You lost touch with Barrie later on?’
‘You never lose touch completely, not in Brackdale. It’s too small for that. But I’m sure his mother found him a handful. As he grew older, he became more and more of an outsider, even though he’d spent the whole of his life in the valley. Not a recluse, but not “one of us”. I felt sorry for him. Most of all after he died and people nodded and winked and hinted that he’d killed a woman.’
‘Come off it.’ Amos was brusque. ‘There wasn’t any doubt that he killed her.’
‘Innocent until proved guilty,’ she said, her tone defiant. ‘Whatever the police may believe.’
She held Marc Amos’s gaze until he looked away and changed the subject. Something lay unspoken between them, but Daniel could not guess what it was.
Grange-over-Sands lay just outside the National Park, perched above the shores of Morecambe Bay, a last resort for the over-sixties. Daniel remembered a childhood trip to Grange, and the accompanying sense of disappointment. At twelve, he’d associated English seaside towns with the raffish seediness of Blackpool or Brighton, but anyone in search of big dippers or louche entertainment at the end of the pier would, he discovered, be wise to skip Grange. It might have been sheltered by the fells and warmed by the Gulf Stream, it might even have boasted an improbable palm tree and a promenade, but it didn’t possess a pier. The only thing he’d enjoyed about his visit was his father’s quip that the town’s demographic profile had earned it the nickname of ‘God’s waiting room’. As the rain thinned, the gentle slopes of Grange still didn’t set his pulse racing, but as he paused at a red light, a glance over to the bay startled him. As a boy, he hadn’t paid any attention to the view but now, even in steady drizzle, the panorama took his breath away.