Neither of them spoke on the journey. Louise wrestled with her private thoughts and Daniel needed to focus on the road. Visibility was down to fifty metres.
Ambleside seemed to be brooding because normal life was on hold. Doom-mongers from the Met Office had scared off even the hardiest walkers, and Daniel was spoilt for choice when looking for a space to park. Louise hurried away to indulge in some retail therapy, while he picked up a copy of the Westmorland Gazette — the newspaper De Quincey edited was still going strong — before strolling past the market cross to the Festival office. Above the door, you could still see the name of a vanished photographer’s studio killed off by digital technology. The unit was surrounded by charity shops on short-term lets, windows stuffed with dog-eared chick lit, faded watercolours, and second-hand climbing gear. Even affluent Ambleside wasn’t spared the tide of change washing through the high streets of England.
The tiny office overflowed with glossy posters advertising the Festival, racks of tourist information leaflets, and a display of classics by the usual Lake District suspects. Behind a desk sat a large, grey-haired woman, whose yellow and red badge proclaimed her as Sandra, Festival Volunteer. She was engrossed in a chat magazine and Daniel found himself hypnotised by its lurid cover: ‘Life! Death! Prizes!’ ‘A vulture tried to EAT me’, ‘The wife who SLICED OFF her hubby’s bits (“I still love him”)’, ‘We sold our pets to pay for Mum’s funeral’, ‘My Reg was banged up for being psychic’, ‘Fab Faye’s big day boob job’. When he coughed, she treated him to a cheery smile.
‘At last, a customer!’ she exclaimed. ‘How wonderful to see you, Mr Kind.’
Daniel hadn’t given his name, but she was a fan of the TV series, and had just bought his latest book. They chatted for five minutes about history and when she might see him on the box again. If, rather than when, he said.
‘But you’re far too young to retire!’ she protested.
‘Too young to stay on a treadmill, you mean. I’m happy to hide away in my cottage and write.’
Try to write, you mean.
‘I’ve been looking forward to your talk at the Festival.’ The note of regret puzzled him. She sounded like a child expecting to be deprived of a long-awaited treat.
‘Speaking of which, is Arlo Denstone around?’ The grey head shook. ‘Could he give me a ring, when he gets back?’
‘Don’t hold your breath.’ She lowered her voice, as if about to confide a secret vice. ‘To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure if he’s coming back.’
‘Later today, you mean?’
‘No, ever.’
His stomach tightened, a spasm of selfishness tinged with outrage. Had Arlo walked out on the job, or chucked it in? And after he’d sweated blood to deliver the wretched talk by the deadline?
‘I don’t understand.’
Sandra became pink and indecisive, torn between discretion and the desire to unload. ‘The last time we saw him was when he did an interview on television with that Grizelda Richards,’ she said. ‘Nobody seems to know where he is.’ ‘Is he poorly?’
Arlo Denstone was a cancer survivor, he recalled. Sometimes cancer came back.
‘He seemed as right as rain when I last saw him.’ The corners of her mouth turned down. ‘To tell you the truth, he’s never here. It’s us who are worried sick.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s happening with the Festival, not a sausage. One of the other volunteers told me yesterday that the conference centre arrangements still haven’t been confirmed. The university phone us every day, chasing the deposit. They’ve threatened to scrub the booking if we ignore the latest reminder. The lady who does our accounts says we don’t have any funds in the bank. Two of the other speakers are losing patience because he hasn’t been in touch. We don’t know what to say.’
‘Arlo is still making plans for the Festival. He called at my cottage this week, chasing my talk before the printers’ deadline.’
‘I don’t know about any deadline.’ She twisted a skein of wool around her fingers. ‘See those posters? We owe the printers for them, the bill’s seriously overdue. At half past nine, they rang to say they were putting the matter in the hands of their solicitors. I know cash is tight, but we feel so embarrassed.’
‘Perhaps he’s lined up another firm of printers.’
‘I don’t know if he’s bothered about the Festival anymore.’
‘Surely he wouldn’t walk out on it?’
‘He’s a volunteer, like the rest of us. What if he’s received a better offer?’
A volunteer? Arlo was keen on De Quincey, but Daniel hadn’t realised he was that keen.
‘Seriously? He isn’t being paid?’
‘He was full of enthusiasm at first, we were thrilled when he agreed to do the work for nothing but expenses. He’s organised festivals all over Australia, you know. But…’
A movement on the other side of the window caught his eye. Someone walking past on the pavement. Hannah Scarlett, brisk and full of purpose.
‘I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding,’ he said hastily. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse-’
Sandra reached into her knitting bag and pulled out his most recent book, beaming like a conjuror with a rabbit. ‘I wonder, before you go, would you mind signing this to me? I must have something to write with somewhere…’
He itched to dash out and buttonhole Hannah, but good manners held him back. Sandra produced a ballpoint pen, and the chance of escape was gone. By the time he made it to the pavement outside, Hannah had disappeared into the mist.
‘There’s something special about foggy days.’ Even on the mobile, Cassie’s voice sounded warm and tempting. ‘I love it that everything is so blurry and mysterious.’
‘Like life, really,’ Marc said.
He’d been back at his mother’s house for the past hour, chewing his nails up in his room, while downstairs, her vacuum cleaner roared. Yearning for the phone to ring, hating himself for acting like a heartsick adolescent. Cassie had cut their first conversation short, saying she needed time to think. Despite the weather, she was setting off for a walk to clear her head. She’d promised to call later, but he hadn’t been sure she’d keep her word.
‘Mmmmm.’
He waited.
‘So.’ She was breathing hard. ‘Would you like to come over?’
Wanda Saffell made Hannah wait in a cubbyhole while she chatted on the phone with someone who was mixing pigments for her next book of woodcuts. From the fragments Hannah overhead, Wanda was spinning out the conversation. The buggeration factor, Les Bryant called it. For all her forty-something elegance, Wanda was a stroppy teenager at heart. Was that common streak of adolescence the bond between her and Nathan Clare? She’d go berserk if Hannah arrested her. It might be worth it, just to wipe the sneer from her face.
‘How long will this take?’ Wanda demanded when at last she hung up. ‘You see how busy I am.’
The table in the little room was piled high with vast printed sheets, ready to be folded. ‘Don’t you have anyone to help you?’ Hannah asked. ‘Nathan Clare, for instance, does he lend a hand?’
‘Why would I want help?’ Wanda asked. ‘I adore the physical act of making books. Not for one second would I go back to public relations, and all the false smiles and back-stabbing. As for Nathan, he’s a creative writer. A very different craft.’
‘But the two of you are very close.’
Wanda put her hands on her hips. Even in a thick Aran sweater and grubby chinos, her figure curved in provocation. Easy to understand why Nathan was smitten. Let alone old, priapic George.
‘Is there a law against it?’
‘Do you or he drive a small purple Micra?’
‘Nathan never learnt to drive. He hates following rules, the Highway Code would bore him rigid. My car is a BMW, you must remember when I carved you up on the way to Stuart’s party?’
‘And now Stuart is dead.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re poking your nose into that case now. Given up on Bethany Friend?’