He stared at her. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Never more so.’ She kept her eyes on the fire. ‘I was infatuated, it’s not the same as love. A temporary insanity. By the time Christmas came, the magic had worn thin.’
‘You changed jobs, you moved home, you were willing to turn your life around for him.’ It was as if he’d never really known her. ‘Are you telling me it was all done on a whim?’
‘The truth is more complicated, as usual.’ She sounded as though she’d suddenly sobered up after an all-night drinking binge. ‘Meeting Stuart gave me the chance to break with the past. I was bored with my job, bored with my students, bored with my bloody ordinary life. He offered me an escape route. It wasn’t his money that turned me on, it was the excitement. Coupled with the ego boost, that a man who could have pretty much any woman he wanted had fallen for me. I’d dared to do something different. Something wild and life-changing. Like you did, when you left Oxford and moved up here with Miranda.’
‘You told me not to be a fool.’
‘My mistake, as usual.’ She turned to face him. ‘Here in the Lakes, I could start again. Don’t forget, I haven’t sold the house in Manchester yet. And I knew if it didn’t work out with Stuart — at least you’d be here, and I’d have a shoulder to cry on.’
‘Always,’ he said, ‘but then, why go off the deep end when he dumped you?’
‘Pride and temper, of course, what else?’ She seemed astonished that she needed to explain. ‘I’d told myself that the minute I felt trapped with Stuart, I’d make the break. But I never dreamt it would come so soon. And I didn’t want Stuart to be the one who finished it. I’ve never trusted men since Dad walked out on us, but I keep making bad choices. How humiliating to be thrown out as soon as the New Year party was over. It was as if he’d made a resolution to tidy up his life, and get rid of me along with the ripped wrapping paper and empty champagne bottles.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It was so sudden and brutal. Even now, I can’t believe he changed so quickly.’
‘What caused it, do you think?’
‘God alone knows. I hate not being able to understand what’s going on in my life. Which is why I lost control. Does that make sense?’
‘Sort of.’ He shook his head. ‘I bet you barely touched him with those scissors.’
‘I suppose you’re right. For a few moments, I hated him. I might even have summoned up the anger to do him real damage. But now the red mist has cleared, I feel so bad. It’s as if I wished him dead.’
‘Not your fault. Whoever killed him, he brought it on himself.’
‘Nobody deserves to die in such a terrifying way. I can’t imagine anything worse for him, to be trapped underground, cold and alone, with no means of escape. You saw the steep sides of that well, he couldn’t have got enough of a grip to climb out, even if he hadn’t hurt his head, even if the well hadn’t been covered over. What makes it even worse is his claustrophobia. He never even took the lift in his own office block, he always ran up the stairs. I pray he wasn’t conscious when he was dumped down the well. Otherwise, his suffering must have…’
‘Someone must have hated him intensely.’
‘Impossible. Nobody hated Stuart.’
‘Are you kidding? Come on, he trod on a lot of toes.’
‘Yes, but whenever he did someone a bad turn, he managed to wriggle out of the consequences. I saw it time after time. An apology, some ludicrously generous gesture to show his remorse, he was brilliant at mea culpa. It was his redeeming virtue. And he never bore grudges.’
A picture swam into Daniel’s head. His last sight of Stuart Wagg’s body. He needed to learn how to forget, or the scene might haunt his nights as Aimee’s suicide did.
‘But someone bore a grudge against him.’
Hannah spoke with Fern Larter before leaving for the day. For the brass, the decision to ask Fern to handle the Stuart Wagg case was a no-brainer. Not only because of a possible link with George Saffell’s death, but because the bug meant nobody else of sufficient seniority was available.
The only sign of a wound on the corpse appeared to be a graze on the shoulder. So Louise Kind was in the clear. No surprise there, but at least Daniel had no need to worry about her.
Fern intended to quiz Wagg’s partners and staff in the morning, but Hannah expected Raj Doshi and the rest would close ranks. She gave Fern a quick summary of her interview in Ambleside, without mentioning what Wanda had said about Marc. Better talk to him first, see what he had to say for himself.
‘Not only did Wanda work with Bethany Friend,’ Fern mused, ‘she was married to one dead man, and caused a scene at a party given by another.’
‘Why would she want to kill Stuart Wagg?’
‘God knows.’
‘The fact that Bethany worked for George and Stuart. You think it’s significant?’
‘Unlikely.’ Fern frowned. ‘I can tell from your expression that you don’t agree, but think about it. Bethany was a temp, they were employers in the neighbourhood where she worked. It would be as much of a surprise if she hadn’t spent time in their offices.’
‘Saffell and Wagg both had an eye for a pretty girl. They may have tried their luck with Bethany.’
‘Even if they did, does that take us anywhere?’ Fern shook her head. ‘I’m not convinced. But believe me, if there were any clandestine affairs, I’ll ferret them out.’
It was so hard to keep secrets in the Lakes, Hannah thought as she drove into Lowbarrow Lane. A detective simply needed to know the right questions to ask. Cumbria comprised so many small, tightly woven communities that someone always knew more than they should about someone else’s business. Just as Wanda Saffell knew about Bethany and Marc.
As she rounded the last bend, Undercrag stood in front of her. There were no lights on, other than the security lamp that came on as the car came within range of the front door.
He hadn’t warned her that he would be late. What was he up to?
‘Comfortable?’ Cassie asked.
Marc stretched his legs and stifled a yawn. Not that he was bored, just weary. She hadn’t poisoned him with the Irish coffee, though she’d gone overboard with the whisky, and he had to hope that tonight was too cold for the traffic cops to be out with their breathalysers.
‘Perfect.’
‘I’m glad.’
On top of the bookshelves was a clock fashioned from a seven-inch vinyl single by the Beatles. ‘Please, Please Me.’ Quarter to seven. She’d perched on the edge of the sofa, but he couldn’t tell if she was waiting for him to go, or hoping he would stay.
‘More coffee?’
‘I’d love to, but no. I’d not be fit to get behind the wheel if I had any more.’
‘My fault,’ she said. ‘I have this terrible habit of going overboard.’
‘Is that so terrible?’
She leant closer to him. ‘Believe me, Marc.’
His throat was dry. He wasn’t sure where this would lead, but he had a good idea.
A mobile ringtone chirruped. Another snatch of the Beatles: ‘Lady Madonna’.
She stood up and moved towards the kitchen. ‘Saved by the bell, huh?’
She left the door ajar and he strained to eavesdrop. But she was whispering, and he couldn’t make out the words. Within a moment she was back in the sitting room, clutching the phone as tightly as though it were a grenade. Breathing hard.
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘No.’ Her eyes were fixed on the patterns of the kilim, avoiding his scrutiny. ‘Well, in truth, yes. But it doesn’t matter.’
‘You look unhappy all of a sudden.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘The boyfriend?’
‘Ex-boyfriend.’ She coloured. ‘He’s so persistent.’
‘Can’t blame him for that.’
She looked at the mobile screen. ‘Oh God, he’s just sent a text.’
He craned his neck to read the message.
Got 2 c u.
‘He’s stalking you?’
‘It’s my problem, not yours.’
‘Can I help?’
‘I’ll sort it.’