‘It must have been an accident.’
He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Like George Saffell?’
‘Hey there.’ She might have been a mother soothing a fractious child. ‘They were customers, not your best friends.’
‘George Saffell was murdered, it’s a stone-cold certainty.’ He was almost talking to himself, struggling to get his head round what had happened to his clients. ‘For all we know, so was Wagg. The same person may have killed them both.’
‘Or else it’s a spooky coincidence.’
‘The police don’t believe in coincidences. That’s one thing I’ve learnt from Hannah.’
‘Don’t say you’re worried they will treat you as a suspect?’
‘Christ knows.’
‘Hannah will look after you.’
He didn’t answer.
‘I mean, you’re the last person who would have wanted them dead. Two rich book collectors?’
‘Of course, it’s madness. But I’ve learnt from Hannah how the police work when they are in a jam. If they find a convenient fall guy…’
‘Don’t sound so anxious.’ Her fingers brushed against his cheek, then scuttled away, as though embarrassed at their presumption. ‘You feel like a cold case too, Marc Amos.’
His body tensed, his heart was beating faster…
‘You need that whisky more than I do,’ she murmured.
In for a penny…
He cleared his throat. ‘Won’t you change your mind about having a drink with me?’
‘In that wretched pub? Are you joking? I’ve visited more cheerful mausoleums. Or do I mean mausolea?’ She hesitated. ‘Tell you what, if you have a few minutes to spare, come up to the flat and I’ll make you a mug of Irish coffee. Special recipe, with double cream to soak up the alcohol.’
‘Sounds tempting.’ He paused, as if deliberating over pros and cons. ‘OK, it’s a deal.’
‘Fine.’ As he turned on the ignition, she settled back in the passenger seat and shut her eyes. ‘How good to have a chauffeur. Wake me up when we get home, will you?’
He listened to her soft, rhythmic breathing as he drove, unsure if she was asleep or dreaming. This felt different from the last time he’d taken her home. They were growing closer to each other, but he meant to be careful. Go so far, but no further.
When they arrived at her place, he nudged her awake and then, without a word, followed her up a narrow flight of stairs to a tiny landing on the first floor. There was a door with her name next to the bell.
‘Welcome,’ she said, shrugging off coat and scarf and waving him into a small sitting room. ‘Sorry, it’s not exactly Crag Gill.’
Stuart Wagg again. For a few minutes he’d banished the man’s suspected death from his mind.
‘It’s incredible. Within a few weeks, my two best customers…’
The gas fire roared into life, and she lit a trio of candles before switching off the main light. In one corner stood an old-fashioned Japanese hi-fi unit; she pulled a Neil Young CD out of a rack and put it on. The room reminded him of a student house. Furnished on the cheap, but she had an eye for casual chic. Indian wall hangings, throws over the armchairs and sofa, and a warm red and brown kilim spread over the carpet tiles. On every available surface were incense burners decorated with Chinese dragons, exotically carved wooden boxes and trinket pots. Even the paperbacks in the bookcase by the window seemed chosen to fit the colour scheme; although every spine was creased with reading.
‘Maybe someone has got it in for you.’
The ironic grin made him blush. It was a knack she had, of constantly pushing him onto the back foot.
‘Sorry, did I sound very self-absorbed?’
‘No need to look shamefaced. You run a business, and times aren’t easy. The likes of Stuart and George pay the bills. And my wages, I’m not forgetting. I hope this won’t cause you any grief.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll get by.’
‘Phew, that’s a relief. I’ve had more jobs already than some people have in a lifetime. I’d be sad if you chucked me out on the street.’
‘No danger of that, Cassie.’
‘Let me fix that Irish coffee while you take the weight off your feet.’
She vanished into a tiny kitchen, leaving him to sprawl across the sofa. Neil Young was singing ‘Tonight’s the Night’. It excited him, to be invited up here, but he was determined not to succumb to his old weakness of allowing himself to get carried away. He didn’t want Cassie to misunderstand him. Not that he was confident that he entirely understood himself.
He closed his eyes. How easy to drift away. What if she invited him to smoke a joint, or share a line of cocaine? He found it impossible to predict her; there was no knowing how far she might go. Suppose the invitation to coffee was a ruse? He’d made himself vulnerable, he wasn’t in control. What might she be stirring into his drink, what pills or potion might the whisky and cream disguise?
As he opened his eyes, she walked through the door, carrying a tray. She cleared a space on the bamboo table by the sofa and set the drinks down.
‘Here.’ She passed him one of the mugs and sat down in the chair facing him. ‘Take a sip. See how you like it.’
He tried the coffee. She’d made it very strong.
Cassie’s lips were parted as she waited for his reaction.
They exchanged smiles. Yes, he was taking a risk, but the weird thing was, he didn’t care.
He took another taste.
‘What did Hannah say?’
Louise was curled up on the sofa in the living room of Tarn Cottage, dressing gown wrapped tight around her. The lights shone bright, the fire blazed, the aroma of their hot chocolate lingered in the air. It couldn’t seem cosier; but appearances deceived.
She had barely stopped shivering after an hour spent answering questions from the police while her lover’s body was hauled out of the well by the CSI specialists. Daniel had called in a solicitor from Preston to represent her, a cadaverous pessimist in a washable but unwashed brown suit. All the lawyers they knew in the Lakes were either colleagues of Stuart Wagg or competitors with an axe to grind. The solicitor’s demeanour suggested that all his clients pleaded guilty in the fullness of time. His advice so far consisted of instructing her to say as little as possible about her relationship with the dead man, and at least this curtailed the inquisition. Perhaps he was smarter than his clothes. But the DC conducting the interview made it clear that Louise was only postponing the inevitable. He’d talk to her again, once the shock began to subside.
Daniel prodded the burning logs with a poker before warming his hands in front of the fire. Louise must feel as numb. If only he could scrub from his mind the surreal vision of Wagg’s body, stuffed down that hole in the ground. Perhaps he’d imagined it, and was about to wake from a nightmare.
Except for this — how could anyone invent that fetid smell wafting up from the hole cut in the ground, that rotten stench of dirty death?
‘We’ve agreed to meet at The Tickled Trout.’
Flames leapt in the fireplace. Louise seemed hypnotised, like an onlooker spellbound by a ritual dance.
‘Who could have done this?’ she whispered.
‘Stuart was selfish, and ruthless. Must have made a new enemy every week.’
‘It’s not a motive for murder. The legal profession is full of people like that and they aren’t all cramming the mortuary drawers. Trust me, I’ve met plenty, and most of them didn’t have a fraction of Stuart’s charm.’
‘His mask slipped sometimes. Remember?’
She flinched, as if he’d prodded her with the poker. ‘You think this is personal?’
‘What else?’
‘He was the most self-centred man I ever met. Which is saying something. But his ego was part of the package.’
‘He hurt you,’ Daniel said. ‘I won’t forgive that.’
‘But people did forgive him, that’s the whole point about Stuart, don’t you see? However badly he behaved, he managed to get away with it. I lost control when he dumped me, but I’d have got over it, promise. It’s not as if I really loved him.’