I got to the Drunken Duck early, again, parked my scooter up against the wall and waited. Ten minutes later the same dirty white van arrived as last time, and the same man climbed out – or at least, the same moustache. He walked towards me with his ambling cowboy’s gait.
“Well, Eden! Glad you made it this time. Have you got something for us?”
“What if I haven’t?”
The moustache curled. “I don’t think Dawn will be too happy if you can’t return a simple favour.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I’ve done it.” I reached behind me for the cardboard tube, and held it out.
“Good girl. You didn’t sign it, did you? Mind if I look?” Without waiting for my answer, he slid out the thick roll of paper and carefully unfurled it.
He blinked. “What’s this?” he said, nonplussed.
“It’s as requested. I think it’s rather good. And no, I didn’t sign it.” Instead of a signature, it bore in the bottom right hand corner the black imprint of a rubber stamp: PROPERTY OF CUMBRIA CONSTABULARY.
“What the hell–”
“It’s a genuine stamp,” said Hunter. He strolled out from behind a parked truck where he’d been waiting. “I’ll vouch for it.”
Moustache man held his ground. He looked at Hunter’s uniform, then at his face. “There’s nothing illegal in this transaction,” he said. “No money has changed hands.”
“I’m quite aware of that. I’d just like to inform you that Miss Shirer is currently involved as a chief witness in a murder investigation. We will be looking very closely at her movements and associates over the last few weeks. Also over the next few weeks and beyond.”
The man chewed on his moustache. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“You may have it on loan,” said Hunter gravely, “as a memento.”
Moustache man seemed to be at a loss. He rolled up the painting and stuffed it back in the tube, more carelessly than he had removed it. Then he hawked and spat, to Hunter’s left, before stalking back to his van. As he drove away he took a considerable burden of worry with him. This going straight lark was easy, after all.
“That’ll hold them off for now,” said Hunter. “I wouldn’t bank on it being permanent. I’ve got his registration number but I doubt if it’ll show up anything useful.”
“Hunter? Thank you. You just rescued me from the long slippery slope.” And without giving myself time to lose courage I reached up and kissed his cheek, which was cool and faintly bristly.
“Bugger off,” he said. “You can’t do that when I’m on duty.” But I didn’t think he was too displeased.
“I’ll buy you a ginger beer some time when you’re free.”
“I’ll hold you to that, Eden. Where are you going next? Back to Raven How?”
“Not yet. I’ve got some errands to run first.”
I watched the police car pull away and then climbed back on the scooter. My next stop was High Wray: I sought out the house that I had stumbled on after emerging from the lake and whose carpet I had decorated with my dripping clothes. I took me a little while to find it. When I did, I recognised it by the dent on the front door.
Mr James did not look happy to see me: Krista, however, did. I gave her back the outfit I’d finally got round to laundering, and we exchanged promises to meet again some time soon. I buzzed off with a lighter heart.
On the road up to Ambleside I halted at a sudden view across the lake. Baby clouds gambolled over Wansfell, careering in the breeze: a sprinkling of yachts decorated Windermere like blown spring blossom. A perfect landscape, if I only had my camera...
My final stop was Griff and Muriel’s flat. I’d not yet seen them since Matt’s death four long nights ago. When I’d crept round surreptitiously to retrieve the scooter, I hadn’t rung the bell.
The truth was, I felt almost as guilty about the attack on Griff as if I had inflicted it myself. I’d let Matt in. I should have been able to stop him. Whatever must Muriel think of me?
I needn’t have worried. “My poor dear,” she said on opening the door, “I am so grateful. It could have been so much worse. Of course, Griff doesn’t remember a thing about it, which is a blessing. He’s gone a little quieter than usual, but that’s all. Griff? It’s my young friend Eden.”
Griff had a yellowing black eye and a bruised cheek, but he went through the usual introductions with bland politeness. I shook his hand uncertainly, and thought of those big fingers tapping at computer keys: downloading images. With furtive satisfaction? Or appalled surprise?
I had no way of knowing. I wondered how much Muriel knew, and hid.
“Are you on holiday here too?” Griff asked. “Wonderful place, isn’t it? So peaceful. We’ve just got another week to go and then it’s back to work.”
“We could stay a little longer if you like,” suggested Muriel. “How would that be, Griff? Would you like to live here permanently?”
“What, you mean when we retire?” He pondered it. “Not permanently. This is a lovely place, admittedly, but it’s too much out of the real world, isn’t it? I mean, nothing ever happens in the Lakes. And I do like a sense of things happening, of being connected. When is it we go home, Muriel?”
“Soon,” she said. Despite the lie, she looked happier than she had for quite a while. “Such a relief it’s all over. I was so afraid of– It’s a terrible relief, of course, but still,” she murmured.
“Yes.” It almost sounded as if she had suspected Griff. Once guilty, why not twice? Maybe that was what she’d thought. Griff’s guilt – or accident – would never be erased: except from his own mind.
“Muriel, I was wondering,” I said diffidently. “How did Griff leave a message for you? How did you know that it was Matt?”
“Who?” said Griff.
Muriel reached over to the bookcase and picked up a sheet of Griff’s close-written Wainwright notes. She turned it over and held it out to me.
On the back was a scribbled drawing, but a deft one: the wide cat’s eyes, the spiky hair, the badge on the lapel. It was unmistakeably Matt. Holding up a knife.
“My word,” said Griff. “Did I do that? I don’t remember that. It must have been a while ago. A bit dramatic, isn’t it? I wonder what I was thinking of.”
“It’s very good,” I said. “You’re talented.” And he looked pleased.
“There! You shouldn’t run yourself down, Griff. I keep telling you how good you are! Eden is an artist,” Muriel told him. “She knows about these things. Actually, there’s something I wanted to show you, Eden. I’d be interested in your opinion of it. I bought it just the other day, as a present to Griff for being so brave.”
“What’s that?” asked Griff. “You didn’t tell me! Is it a surprise?”
“Everything’s a surprise.”
It stood on the mantelpiece, in place of the picture that had been destroyed by Matt. This one was framed. She turned it round and the colours leapt out at me: the coral clouds, the lilac heather, the amber, peaty waterfall gushing over mossy stones. It was Rae Bridge, by Antony MacLeish. By Eden Shirer.
“We’d been admiring it in Latrigg Galleries,” said Muriel. “Isn’t it beautiful? And the man there said it was an excellent investment.”
“It’s stunning! Muriel, what a lovely thought!” Griff enfolded her in a bear-hug. “It must have been expensive. You’re too good to me!”
“You’re worth every penny. Well, Eden, you’re very quiet. Do you approve? What’s your professional opinion?”
The waterfall rushed at me, gurgling, chuckling, laughing with delighted mischief, tempting me.
I breathed in deep, then took the plunge.
“I’m afraid there’s a problem,” I began.
THE END
Also by Emma Lee Bole:
Mud Pie
A tale of rugby, puddings and murder.
Ingredients: 1 handful of illegal drugs, 1 twelve-inch chef's knife, 1 blood-stained handkerchief, 6 rugby forwards and half a motorbike.
When well stirred by Lannie Herron, a young chef on the run, these make a deadly mixture. One of the players at the rugby club where she’s found refuge may be a killer - but which one?
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