The Arsenic Labyrinth (7 page)

‘How did your father take all this?’

‘We didn’t discuss the situation. Too embarrassing. But he understood what I was going through and he was always sweet to Emma. There was never a cross word between them.’

‘She went off sick with stress.’

‘According to the doctor’s certificate.’

‘You don’t sound convinced.’

‘Come on, Chief Inspector. How difficult is it to get a busy GP to sign you off if you don’t fancy turning in for work?’

‘You think she was shooting you a line?’

Alex shifted uncomfortably. ‘If Emma was suffering
from stress, it wasn’t my fault. There was no question of my victimising her because she didn’t want to sleep with me any more.

‘She was off work for half a year. That must have caused you enormous difficulty. Not to mention cost.’

‘You exaggerate. As for expense, I’m afraid our sick pay scheme is not exactly generous. We pay the statutory minimum. A temp came in from an agency and Father and I put in long hours to make sure the museum wasn’t affected by Emma’s absence. I won’t pretend it was ideal, but we got by.’

‘I read in your statement that you asked her to undergo an independent medical examination.’

‘I didn’t want her to feel under pressure to rush back before she was better, so for months I was patient. But how long could I be expected to wait? In the end, I wrote to Emma, suggesting we pay for a check-up. Before that, I’d phoned the Goddards more than once and asked if I could arrange to visit her, but they said Emma had asked not to see me. That hurt, all I was interested in was her welfare. Vanessa was apologetic and said she and her husband still hoped Emma would come round.’

‘But she didn’t.’

‘On one occasion I spoke to Francis and suggested that Emma consult a psychiatrist. I didn’t doubt that, as a nurse, he was caring well for her, but I was sure she needed specialist help. To his credit, Francis agreed. He said he’d already persuaded Emma to see someone. But before an
appointment could be arranged, I received a letter from her, tendering her resignation and proffering apologies for having messed me about. I gave a copy to your colleague who interviewed me.’

‘So you didn’t have to pay her any compensation?’

‘Compensation for what?’

Hannah shrugged. ‘Constructive dismissal, sexual harassment, damage to emotional well-being. Employing people is a minefield, isn’t it?’

‘We’ve never had a problem.’ The temperature in the room was dropping with every sentence. ‘Not with Emma and not in the ten years since. I hear there’s a compensation culture in the police service, but the private sector is different. Small employers like the museum don’t fork out large sums to pacify disgruntled workers, they can’t afford it.’

‘Litigation lawyers conjure claims out of nothing.’ Hannah chose a more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger smile. ‘A boss who has an affair with a worker that turns sour is vulnerable to all kinds of unfounded allegations.’

Alex clenched the computer mouse as if it were a stress ball. ‘It’s academic. Emma never threatened legal action. We paid her up to the end of her notice period as a goodwill gesture, that’s all.’

‘No golden handshake?’

‘Not a penny more than she was due.’

‘Then where did she get the cash to buy a house and car and start her own business?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

‘She told different tales. An inheritance, a lottery win. Neither was true.’

‘She said to Father it was lottery money. I knew she picked the same numbers each week, it was the closest she came to a religious ritual. When I heard it had paid off, I was genuinely thrilled for her.’

‘No bitterness?’

‘Like my father, I adhere to the philosophy of Edith Piaf. No regrets. Yes, I was bruised, but I got over it. After Emma resigned, we stayed in touch. Which is why your theory that she held us to ransom over an employment claim is absurd. The flame may have died, but there was no ill will between us.’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘I visited her bungalow a couple of days before she disappeared. She seemed fully recovered. I was so glad to see her happy. I told her I hadn’t been sleeping well and she lectured me on herbalism, holistic therapies and maintaining the body’s natural equilibrium. Guff, perhaps, but she was brimming with zest. It reminded me of her early days at the museum.’

‘You went for a massage?’

‘Please don’t look so prim, Chief Inspector, I’m sure you’ve encountered more shocking confessions. She offered me a free initial consultation and we both kept our knickers on.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Hannah had worked out that Alex’s conversational m.o. was to use frankness as a weapon. Was the candour more apparent than real, a device to
conceal what was really going on in her head?

‘Emma applied pressure to my feet with her hands. She was good at it. I always loved to be touched by her, but of course nothing sexual took place.’

‘Were you disappointed?’

Alex Clough shuffled a couple of sheets of paper on her desk, aligning their corners so that they were neat and tidy. Without looking up, she said in a voice of infinite calm, ‘On the contrary, I had a glow of well-being and relaxation. You should try it, Chief Inspector.’

‘Did you book another appointment?’

‘Yes, it was scheduled for ten days after the first. But by then Emma had disappeared.’

‘Had you hoped to rekindle the affair?’

‘Reflexologists have their own code of conduct, I presume. Emma wouldn’t have behaved unprofessionally’

‘Forgive me, Ms Clough, but that is hardly an answer.’

‘Very well. I wanted to see how she was. We’d been so intimate – I couldn’t pretend to myself that she’d never existed. As for what might happen in the future, I was philosophical. Events must take their course. No pressure, to coin a phrase.’

Oh yeah? Alex Clough was a rich man’s daughter, she’d probably had pretty much everything she’d ever wanted. She was accustomed to being in control, would dread surrendering to the mercy of Fate.

‘And how did she respond?’

‘The only time I put a foot wrong was when I
complimented her on how well she looked. It was nothing but the truth. She’d lost weight after the illness, and she was very trim. But she suspected I was having a dig, implying that she hadn’t really been sick. I assured her nothing could have been further from my mind and after that she was fine.’

‘When we interviewed you before, you couldn’t account for Emma’s disappearance. Has anything occurred since then to explain it?’

Alex Clough shook her head. ‘Things were looking up for her. Why would she run away? It makes no sense.’

Ten years back, Hannah had thought the same. Today, trapped in the cage of calendars and chloroformed by bureaucratic routine, she could see the appeal of starting again, somewhere nobody knew a thing about her. She’d even dreamed of it a few nights back, dreamed of waking one morning in a strange hotel room. When she looked in the mirror, she’d gone strawberry blonde, when she went downstairs, the man at the desk greeted her by an unfamiliar name. Everyone spoke a foreign language she couldn’t understand, yet she wasn’t frightened. The weirdness of it was exhilarating. She felt free.

‘What do you think happened to her?’

‘Who knows? An accident?’

‘Or perhaps she was murdered?’

‘By whom?’ Alex Clough wasn’t the sort to let her grammar slip, even when asked about the possible homicide of an ex. ‘And for what reason? Unless she had
the bad luck to fall prey to a rapist who throttled her and somehow disposed of the body.’

‘You speak of her in the past tense. Presumably you believe she is dead?’

‘Nothing else makes sense, does it? I did my grieving in private long ago. I have had to move on.’

‘Aren’t you curious about your lover’s fate? Sad that you never had a chance to say goodbye?’

A brisk shake of the head. ‘Like I said, no regrets.’

‘I’m surprised, Ms Clough. Museum folk, they’re supposed to have a thirst for knowledge. Do you really not want to find out what happened?’

Alex Clough folded her thin arms. Her pale face had turned grey. ‘You have your job to do, Chief Inspector, but I’ve decided ignorance is bliss. Some things are too painful. I can only pray that the end, when it came, was quick. That she didn’t suffer.’

‘Your relationship with Emma still means a great deal to you, doesn’t it?’ Hannah said in a quiet voice.

A long pause. Alex Clough bowed her head, but Hannah could still see the single tear trickling down her cheek. When she spoke, she no longer sounded glacial. Just hoarse, and old before her time.

‘Everything. You must understand, Emma Bestwick meant everything to me.’

When the phone trilled, Daniel was in his study, leafing through the correspondence that he’d bought at auction. Letters written by a neighbour of Ruskin who had been an
occasional visitor to Brantwood in the years before genius yielded to mental collapse. Already Daniel was regretting his failure to buy more of the lots. The old story. You always regretted the ones that got away.

He picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’

‘It’s Louise.’

His sister. A corporate lawyer, currently working in academe. Even in a social call, she was as brisk and no-nonsense as a textbook on insider trading. When he explained that Miranda was away in London, she tutted.

‘Not again?’

He pictured her mouth tightening in disapproval. An expression she’d inherited from her mother, worn whenever he made the mistake of mentioning the father who had left them all for another woman.

‘She needs to see her editor face to face.’

‘I’m amazed she can tear herself away. I read her article about how trendy the Lakes have become. “
A fantastic destination for the loft and latte set. You may not realise after glancing at the temperature gauge, but the Lake District is hot.
”’ The breathless take-off was so accurate that Daniel winced. ‘Haven’t they heard of video conferencing?’

‘They’re journalists, not company executives. They’d rather interact face to face.’

‘Well, you know what I think.’

‘Uh-huh.’

Daniel didn’t want to go there. The two women had nothing in common. He hated having to defend Miranda
to Louise. Trouble was, his sister was a lawyer to her fingertips. She specialised in chilly logic, and giving unwelcome advice.

‘I mean, I hope it works out for the two of you, but …’

‘It will,’ he interrupted.

‘Let’s face it. You met her when you were bereft after Aimee’s suicide. Oh, she did you good, I don’t deny it. None of us could get through to you until she came along. But the two of you are so very different. You used to be so funny, so laid-back. You’re not cut out for a roller-coaster ride with a drama queen.’

‘She’s not …’

‘You know what I mean. Escaping your old lives suited you both for a time, but you can’t live a dream forever. Passion is fine, but it isn’t enough long term.’

What makes you an expert
? he was tempted to ask. But that would be cruel. Louise’s own relationship had fallen apart last summer and he wasn’t sure she was over it even now. She’d never rung him without a reason until she started living on her own. But she’d never admit she was lonely. Too much pride.

‘We’ll be fine.’

‘Listen, you’re not as accustomed to failure as the rest of us. But sometimes it’s better to …’

‘When I want an agony aunt, I’ll give you a ring.’

She gave a
have it your way
sigh and said, ‘Started that book yet?’

‘Waiting for inspiration.’

‘You once told me that nobody who writes should ever wait for inspiration.’ A note of curiosity entered her voice. ‘Seen any more of that police officer friend of yours?’

‘No.’ Did he imagine a touch of innuendo in the word
friend
? ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I just thought … oh, nothing.’

After she’d rung off, he dialled Miranda. Was it selfish to hope she was missing him? She was in a restaurant, surrounded by a wailing saxophone and people laughing. Glasses clinked, someone whistled for a waiter. American football was playing on TV in the background, the commentator shouting himself hoarse. Miranda was joining in the laughter and a couple of times she asked him to repeat what he said. Even when he did, he wasn’t sure she was paying attention.

‘Was there anything particular?’ she asked in the end. ‘The roof isn’t leaking, the electrics haven’t gone up in smoke?’

‘Nothing special,’ he said. ‘Didn’t mean to interrupt.’

‘No problem,’ she assured him. ‘Talk soon. Love you.’

She made a loud kissing noise and the phone went dead.

‘The woman intrigued me.’

Alban Clough was leaning back in his ancient leather chair, eyes shut and hands behind his head. He might have been speaking of an exhibit on display downstairs and not his daughter’s vanished lover.

‘Why?’ Hannah asked.

He’d invited her up to the small sitting room at the top of Inchmore Hall. The only access from the living quarters on the floor below was by a perilous spiral staircase lit by candles in wall-holders that would have a health and safety inspector frothing at the mouth. But Alban Clough clambered up the steps like a mountain goat rather than a man of seventy five with a heart condition. As she followed, Hannah took care not to look down and tried not to think about the cop who feared heights in that Hitchcock movie.

The small table that separated them was piled high with books and foolscap sheets of closely written text, with more papers scattered across the carpet; Alex’s tidiness gene couldn’t have been inherited from her father. Looking through the single mullioned window, Hannah watched slivers of mist curling down from the heights. At least there was one hotspot inside Inchmore Hall. A log fire crackled and the air was heavy with the smell of burning wood.

Alban Clough jerked upright and opened his eyes. As he shifted his weight, the armchair squeaked. ‘She was a sweet girl, but secretive.’

‘What about?’

‘I could not discover that. Which is why I was intrigued.’

‘Her sexuality? The relationship with your daughter?’