The Dungeon House (Lake District Mysteries) by Martin Edwards Page B
Authors: Martin Edwards
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pondered. ‘Gray Elstone was a friend of Malcolm Whiteley, wasn’t he? His financial adviser?’
He applauded lavishly. ‘Go to the top of the class. Not sure he was such a great adviser. Whiteley’s finances were in meltdown at the time of the shootings.’
‘Small world, eh?’ Maggie said. ‘Though I don’t see what this has to do with it.’
‘The world’s even smaller than you think.’ Les sat back, ready to play his ace. ‘You’ll never guess where Shona Whiteley was last seen.’
‘Try me,’ Hannah said.
‘At her father’s home, before she set off to catch a bus.’
‘So?’
‘These days, it’s called Ravenglass Knoll. Twenty years ago it was known as the Dungeon House.’
Joanna Footit wasn’t even watching the television when Nigel Whiteley’s face appeared on the screen. She liked to keep her set on in the background, even in the morning, when there was nothing on worth watching. It was company, especially when Darcy was at his most aloof; it was true what they said, dogs have owners, but cats have staff. The regional news was on, and Joanna was hoovering the living room carpet in her pyjamas, looking even more of a sight than usual. She was waiting for the local weather forecast, although if anyone had asked, she’d have struggled to explain why she followed the weather news with almost religious devotion. It wasn’t as if she spent a lot of time out of doors.
‘All we want is to have Shona back, as soon as we can.’
That voice, oh God! The timbre was imprinted in her brain. She’d misheard Nigel’s name when the reporter mentioned it, but she’d never mistake the sound of him. Fumbling with the switch of the vacuum cleaner, she tripped over the lead in her haste to catch sight of him on the screen.
Yes, there he was, tall and square-jawed. He’d aged well. His hair was short and flecked with grey, but it made him look distinguished. He wore a sombre suit, and an expression to match, but he was still the Nigel Whiteley she’d once adored.
The news item was brief, but she played it back half adozen times until she had the story off by heart. The gist was that Nigel’s daughter had vanished into thin air. A photograph showed Shona at a party, giving a thumbs-up to the camera. An attractive girl, with shoulder-length dark hair, and a brace on her teeth. Good cheekbones, inherited from her Dad.
‘Shona has never done anything like this before.’ Nigel said. ‘I’m desperately worried.’
Shona had told him she’d arranged to stay the night with another girl, and it wasn’t clear to Joanna whether the friend was actually expecting her. You never got the full story on television. Sometimes, Joanna knew, this was due to ‘legal reasons’, a phrase which covered a multitude of sins. The police liked keeping their cards close to their chest.
Pausing the television, Joanna made herself a cup of Nescafé. Perched on her favourite chair, she sipped slowly, and asked herself what could have happened to Nigel’s daughter. The obvious assumption was that she’d run off with some lad, but if the police took the same view, would the story make the TV news? Then again, Nigel was a wealthy man these days, and the rich were different. They had influence with the media.
Nigel’s name cropped up in the papers now and then. He was sometimes described as one of the North West’s leading entrepreneurs. His company, Accident Payback, was highly successful, but courted controversy. She’d read news items accusing them of encouraging people to make false claims, and putting up the insurance premiums of innocent motorists. For Nigel, it was water off a duck’s back; he insisted he was performing a public service. Joannasupposed he was right, and found it impossible not to dwell on what-might-have-been. This wasn’t foolish fantasising about a celebrity who was hopelessly out of reach. Her spine tingled at the memory of him running his hands along her body.
If only Robbie
He applauded lavishly. ‘Go to the top of the class. Not sure he was such a great adviser. Whiteley’s finances were in meltdown at the time of the shootings.’
‘Small world, eh?’ Maggie said. ‘Though I don’t see what this has to do with it.’
‘The world’s even smaller than you think.’ Les sat back, ready to play his ace. ‘You’ll never guess where Shona Whiteley was last seen.’
‘Try me,’ Hannah said.
‘At her father’s home, before she set off to catch a bus.’
‘So?’
‘These days, it’s called Ravenglass Knoll. Twenty years ago it was known as the Dungeon House.’
Joanna Footit wasn’t even watching the television when Nigel Whiteley’s face appeared on the screen. She liked to keep her set on in the background, even in the morning, when there was nothing on worth watching. It was company, especially when Darcy was at his most aloof; it was true what they said, dogs have owners, but cats have staff. The regional news was on, and Joanna was hoovering the living room carpet in her pyjamas, looking even more of a sight than usual. She was waiting for the local weather forecast, although if anyone had asked, she’d have struggled to explain why she followed the weather news with almost religious devotion. It wasn’t as if she spent a lot of time out of doors.
‘All we want is to have Shona back, as soon as we can.’
That voice, oh God! The timbre was imprinted in her brain. She’d misheard Nigel’s name when the reporter mentioned it, but she’d never mistake the sound of him. Fumbling with the switch of the vacuum cleaner, she tripped over the lead in her haste to catch sight of him on the screen.
Yes, there he was, tall and square-jawed. He’d aged well. His hair was short and flecked with grey, but it made him look distinguished. He wore a sombre suit, and an expression to match, but he was still the Nigel Whiteley she’d once adored.
The news item was brief, but she played it back half adozen times until she had the story off by heart. The gist was that Nigel’s daughter had vanished into thin air. A photograph showed Shona at a party, giving a thumbs-up to the camera. An attractive girl, with shoulder-length dark hair, and a brace on her teeth. Good cheekbones, inherited from her Dad.
‘Shona has never done anything like this before.’ Nigel said. ‘I’m desperately worried.’
Shona had told him she’d arranged to stay the night with another girl, and it wasn’t clear to Joanna whether the friend was actually expecting her. You never got the full story on television. Sometimes, Joanna knew, this was due to ‘legal reasons’, a phrase which covered a multitude of sins. The police liked keeping their cards close to their chest.
Pausing the television, Joanna made herself a cup of Nescafé. Perched on her favourite chair, she sipped slowly, and asked herself what could have happened to Nigel’s daughter. The obvious assumption was that she’d run off with some lad, but if the police took the same view, would the story make the TV news? Then again, Nigel was a wealthy man these days, and the rich were different. They had influence with the media.
Nigel’s name cropped up in the papers now and then. He was sometimes described as one of the North West’s leading entrepreneurs. His company, Accident Payback, was highly successful, but courted controversy. She’d read news items accusing them of encouraging people to make false claims, and putting up the insurance premiums of innocent motorists. For Nigel, it was water off a duck’s back; he insisted he was performing a public service. Joannasupposed he was right, and found it impossible not to dwell on what-might-have-been. This wasn’t foolish fantasising about a celebrity who was hopelessly out of reach. Her spine tingled at the memory of him running his hands along her body.
If only Robbie
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