‘So, she could have done all that and then chucked herself into the water?’
‘All eighteen inches of it, yes. Or so the investigating team was told by one of the country’s leading experts on knotting techniques.’
Greg Wharf’s face made clear what he thought of anyone who devoted a career to studying the methodology of tying knots.
‘No sign of rape?’
‘No evidence whatsoever that she’d had sex lately. She was dressed, but not fully equipped for a long hike over the fells. Blue jeans, shirt and body warmer. Marks amp; Spencer bra and pants. Boots. No injuries or signs of a struggle — if you don’t count the neck bruises.’
‘Bondage game gone wrong?’
‘Out in the open air?’
‘All the more fun.’
‘The weather was lousy. A rainstorm would dampen anyone’s ardour.’
‘Takes all sorts.’
He made a performance of stifling a yawn. She decided to allow him the benefit of the doubt and assume he was recovering from the festivities. Better not kill their relationship on the very first morning. Though right now she didn’t give it more than forty-eight hours before she’d have to slap him down hard, and no doubt earn his enmity for good. Bloody Lauren. This was a decent team, why did the ACC have to sabotage it by parachuting in a misogynistic egoist?
‘Can you reach the scene by car?’
‘An off-road vehicle could get close, but it’s not as if she was killed somewhere else and then brought to the water to be dumped. Bethany’s VW was parked at the end of a lane which peters out three-quarters of a mile away from the pool. She’d driven there herself, either with suicide in mind or to meet someone else. The forensic evidence was conclusive about cause of death. Drowning.’
‘Did she have suicidal tendencies? Any family precedents?’
‘None. Her father was long dead, and an elder brother was run over by a lorry a year before Bethany was born. She was studious, didn’t have many relationships. A long-term crush on a woman who taught her English in the sixth form ended when the teacher died of meningitis during Bethany’s first year at Lancaster Uni.’
‘Unlucky lady. A lot of people she was close to kicked the bucket.’
‘Not her mother, she’s alive to this day. She was forty when Bethany was born. I don’t think she ever understood her daughter, but she idolised her.’
‘Was there a history of depression?’
‘Nothing known. Bethany had few friends, but the people she knew found it hard to believe she’d want to end it all.’
‘Friends and family are often the last to know.’
‘According to the mother, Bethany couldn’t swim. She hated putting her face under water, so why would she choose to drown herself?’
‘Another way of tormenting herself?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
He shrugged. ‘So, why are we bothered?’
Good question. Hannah was ready with an answer. Though, as when she’d talked with Marc up at the Serpent Pool, it wasn’t a complete answer.
‘The SIO who led the inquiry wasn’t satisfied. He mentioned the case to me before he retired. He always believed she was murdered.’
‘Yeah?’
She remembered Ben Kind telling her about the investigation into Bethany’s death, after he was told to run it down. She’d been embroiled on another inquiry at the time. Even now, she could hear Ben’s voice.
I can’t get her last moments out of my mind. A woman who hated water, drowning herself like that? She must have been terrified. Why would anyone do that to themselves?
‘Bethany had a lover called Nathan Clare. The SIO wondered if Clare knew more about Bethany’s death than he was prepared to admit. But there was no proof, and plenty more pressing cases where there was no doubt a crime had been committed. He had to give up. But letting go rankled with him. Unfinished business.’
‘This SIO.’ His white teeth gleamed. ‘Not Ben Kind, by any chance?’
Shit. If this was chess, he’d placed her in check. She gave a quick nod, praying that she wasn’t blushing.
‘I used to work with him.’
‘Yeah, I heard.’
His knowing smile grew broader. The bastard. What had people said about her and Ben?
‘What he told me about the case convinced me that Bethany’s death was worth looking into, once we had the capacity.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, your arrival is the lucky break I’ve been waiting for.’
Take that, you cheeky bugger.
Greg Wharf frowned.
‘What do we know about her, then?’
So he was interested, after all? Better not let point-scoring wreck things between them from the start. For an ambitious guy with a high opinion of himself, Cold Cases must seem like a dead end. In the absence of material yielding fresh evidence thanks to the advances of DNA technology — the sort of stuff that had the Press Office salivating at the prospect of sexy headlines — only a minority of investigations made progress.
Leaning against the whiteboard, she closed her eyes. No need to consult her notes. After hours poring over witness statements and a transcript of the inquest, she knew the key points off by heart.
‘Bethany was twenty-five. She had countless short-term jobs after she graduated. Writing was her passion, but she needed to earn enough to pay the rent while she spent every spare moment scribbling. She often worked as a temp, and she spent a whole term as a secretary in the offices at the University of South Lakeland. Until shortly before her death, she was seeing a man who gave lectures in English from time to time.’
‘This Nathan Clare, her shag buddy?’
She ignored his leer. ‘Clare’s phrase was “lovers without commitment”.’
‘Don’t tell me, he was married?’ She shook her head. ‘Commitment wasn’t his cup of tea.
He never tied the knot.’
‘Unless it was around Bethany’s neck?’
‘The sort of man who enjoys his freedom, by the sound of it.’
‘My sort of bloke, then.’
‘Yeah, he’s keen on Samuel Taylor Coleridge and all that. You could chat about Xanadu over a pint of real ale.’
He pushed a lock of hair off his forehead and looked round, as if in search of a mirror to preen before. ‘Xanadu? That’s a nightclub in Whitehaven, isn’t it?’
Hannah followed his gaze. It lingered on a second photograph of the victim, this time a head and shoulders snap taken by her mother twelve months before her death. Bethany was quietly pretty, with shoulder-length brown hair. Her skin was clear, her teeth strong and even. A Mona Lisa smile suggested she was enjoying a private joke at the photographer’s expense. No question, Hannah thought, something about her compelled interest. There was more to Bethany Friend than met the eye.
But she wasn’t Greg Wharf’s type. ‘One thing’s for sure,’ he said. ‘Nathan Clare must like a challenge.’
Back in the sanctuary of her own office, Hannah closed her eyes and imagined herself on the brink of the Serpent Pool. Pictured a woman in despair, unable to escape her troubles. A woman who saw only one way out.
So on a wet winter’s day, had Bethany driven from Grasmere to Ambleside and walked up the fell on her own? Tightened her scarf around her neck before having second thoughts and stuffing it into her mouth? Brought the rope and jump leads from the boot of her car and tied them around her ankles and wrists? Conquered her fear and thrown herself into the water? Thrashed around for a few moments, or remained still, content to wait for the end?
Imagine the coldness of the water. Swilling over her face, filling her nose and mouth, choking her lungs.
No, no, no.
Something was wrong with the picture. Why the Serpent Pool? It wasn’t as if the Lake District was short of places to drown yourself. Ben Kind thought it had been chosen because of its secluded setting. He’d never believed she’d killed herself and his failure to prove she was a victim of murder, let alone find the culprit, troubled him to the end of his days. He had a detective’s nose for the truth, sensed it in the way a seasoned experienced walker knew the right way down a mountainside, even when the mist descended.