staying over, or coming back here after you’ve dropped me off, darling?’
‘Staying over, of course. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason.’
‘You’ve taken the week off work.’
‘Yeah, I was thinking of getting up among the fells.’
‘Term doesn’t start for another week, we can explore the fells together.’
‘It’s not what I had in mind. For me, fell-walking is a solitary vice.’ Wagg got to his feet. ‘I assumed, now your brother’s back in England, you’d want to spend some time with him.’
‘Daniel and I can see each other any time.’
She sounded as though Wagg had smacked her face. Daniel clenched his fists behind his back.
‘Fine, fine. Let’s go, then.’
Daniel saw them to the door, and watched them climb into Louise’s sports car without a word. Her face was as bleak as Scafell. She crashed the gears, the ugly noise breaching the peace of the wooded valley.
The car sped off, Louise driving too fast for the little lane through the wood. Daniel stared after them.
He found himself loathing Stuart Wagg.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Bethany Friend’s body was found by a group of half a dozen fell-walkers,’ Hannah said. ‘A damp winter morning almost six years ago. February 15th, to be precise. She’d been dead for less than twenty-four hours.’
Greg Wharf swung back and forth on the plastic chair. Not quite insubordination, not far from it. Her new detective sergeant was testing her patience, but Hannah was determined not to let him win the game. They were alone in the briefing room. It was newly refurbished, with lots of greenery in posh stone pots, and a couple of abstract daubs on the wall. The money came from a budget surplus at the end of the last financial year, though the Police Federation would have preferred cash in their members’ pay packets.
Hannah hardly knew Greg Wharf. He was a Geordie with bleached hair and an incipient beer gut. Dark rings under his eyes testified to intensive New Year partying. He’d spent most of his career in Newcastle, where he’d married a highflying colleague. Once his wife discovered him in flagrante with a community support officer, a messy divorce followed,and he transferred to Cumbria’s Northern Division. Most of Hannah’s female colleagues fancied him, and one had even dubbed him Gorgeous Greg. No accounting for tastes. Some poor soul was probably responsible for ironing that white shirt to crisp perfection. He was the sort of bloke who regarded doing the laundry as women’s work.
Hannah had called him in early for a briefing on the Friend case before the rest of the team arrived. Ten minutes in, she suspected the less she got to know about Detective Sergeant Gregory Wharf, the better. That mocking light in the blue eyes made him look like a beach bum humouring a parish priest.
He wasn’t overjoyed to be here. Lauren Self, the assistant chief constable, had moved him from Vice after he procured a confession to the rape of a prostitute from a recidivist sex offender. It seemed like a neat piece of detective work, until the man hanged himself and it turned out that the woman had made up the complaint to take revenge on an ex-boyfriend. Greg wriggled out of it without a disciplinary hearing, but he’d taken one chance too many. Exile to Cold Cases was the price he had to pay.
‘So, Bethany died on 14 th February.’ A laddish snigger. ‘Valentine’s Day.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Is the date supposed to be significant?’
‘That’s for us to find out, isn’t it?’
‘Sure.’ His eyes narrowed, like a chess player figuring out the next move. Trouble was, she’d never had the patience for chess, and he wouldn’t bother to follow the rules of the game anyway. ‘Do we have any theories? Any leads?’
‘Nothing to suggest that her death was linked to aromantic entanglement. Of course, she may have killed herself because her love life went wrong.’
‘Flaky, was she?’
His grimace implied that, with women, flakiness was an
‘Staying over, of course. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason.’
‘You’ve taken the week off work.’
‘Yeah, I was thinking of getting up among the fells.’
‘Term doesn’t start for another week, we can explore the fells together.’
‘It’s not what I had in mind. For me, fell-walking is a solitary vice.’ Wagg got to his feet. ‘I assumed, now your brother’s back in England, you’d want to spend some time with him.’
‘Daniel and I can see each other any time.’
She sounded as though Wagg had smacked her face. Daniel clenched his fists behind his back.
‘Fine, fine. Let’s go, then.’
Daniel saw them to the door, and watched them climb into Louise’s sports car without a word. Her face was as bleak as Scafell. She crashed the gears, the ugly noise breaching the peace of the wooded valley.
The car sped off, Louise driving too fast for the little lane through the wood. Daniel stared after them.
He found himself loathing Stuart Wagg.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Bethany Friend’s body was found by a group of half a dozen fell-walkers,’ Hannah said. ‘A damp winter morning almost six years ago. February 15th, to be precise. She’d been dead for less than twenty-four hours.’
Greg Wharf swung back and forth on the plastic chair. Not quite insubordination, not far from it. Her new detective sergeant was testing her patience, but Hannah was determined not to let him win the game. They were alone in the briefing room. It was newly refurbished, with lots of greenery in posh stone pots, and a couple of abstract daubs on the wall. The money came from a budget surplus at the end of the last financial year, though the Police Federation would have preferred cash in their members’ pay packets.
Hannah hardly knew Greg Wharf. He was a Geordie with bleached hair and an incipient beer gut. Dark rings under his eyes testified to intensive New Year partying. He’d spent most of his career in Newcastle, where he’d married a highflying colleague. Once his wife discovered him in flagrante with a community support officer, a messy divorce followed,and he transferred to Cumbria’s Northern Division. Most of Hannah’s female colleagues fancied him, and one had even dubbed him Gorgeous Greg. No accounting for tastes. Some poor soul was probably responsible for ironing that white shirt to crisp perfection. He was the sort of bloke who regarded doing the laundry as women’s work.
Hannah had called him in early for a briefing on the Friend case before the rest of the team arrived. Ten minutes in, she suspected the less she got to know about Detective Sergeant Gregory Wharf, the better. That mocking light in the blue eyes made him look like a beach bum humouring a parish priest.
He wasn’t overjoyed to be here. Lauren Self, the assistant chief constable, had moved him from Vice after he procured a confession to the rape of a prostitute from a recidivist sex offender. It seemed like a neat piece of detective work, until the man hanged himself and it turned out that the woman had made up the complaint to take revenge on an ex-boyfriend. Greg wriggled out of it without a disciplinary hearing, but he’d taken one chance too many. Exile to Cold Cases was the price he had to pay.
‘So, Bethany died on 14 th February.’ A laddish snigger. ‘Valentine’s Day.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Is the date supposed to be significant?’
‘That’s for us to find out, isn’t it?’
‘Sure.’ His eyes narrowed, like a chess player figuring out the next move. Trouble was, she’d never had the patience for chess, and he wouldn’t bother to follow the rules of the game anyway. ‘Do we have any theories? Any leads?’
‘Nothing to suggest that her death was linked to aromantic entanglement. Of course, she may have killed herself because her love life went wrong.’
‘Flaky, was she?’
His grimace implied that, with women, flakiness was an
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