A Body in the Lakes by Graham Smith (great books of all time .TXT) 📕

Christine was from Bolton and Joanne from Newcastle, so the nearest and most logical person to investigate first was the third victim, Harriet.

Beth got the address for Harriet’s fiancé from the file and reached for her jacket. As much as she wanted to continue with her spreadsheet, she also needed to get out of the office and speak to someone connected to a victim. The fire in her belly that compelled her to work as hard as was necessary to catch a killer was building nicely, but she knew from experience that a single conversation with a victim or one of their family members would fan its flames enough to keep her at her desk long after everyone else had gone home.

Fourteen

Denton Holme in Carlisle is known as a village within a city and the red-brick terrace houses that line its streets are bland in their uniformity. Once home to the workers employed by the city’s textile mills and manufacturing plants, the area is devoid of individuality beyond the colours of woodwork and the cars sandwiched nose to tail along the cobbled streets.

As much as Beth despised having to cut her lawn, she knew she’d rather spend an hour a week doing that, than live in a place where a hanging basket or a window box constituted a garden.

She knew this area well enough from her days in uniform. There was a community spirit like few other areas in the ‘Great Border City’. Despite the fact that everyone’s house was laid out the same way, or a mirror image, right down to the positioning of doors and plug sockets, they seemed to rub along with more grace than could be expected.

The street felt claustrophobic to Beth as she knocked on the door of Harriet’s last-known address. There was something about its narrowness and the way the sun was streaming between the chimney pots that made her feel like she was trapped.

For those who’d returned here after a long day working in the mills it would have been even worse. They would live and work with the same people all their lives. By day they’d stand beside a noisy, dangerous loom or some other piece of machinery, and at night they’d be cooped up in their tiny identikit homes with three or more generations living in each other’s pockets.

Beth closed her eyes momentarily and pictured the street as it would have been a hundred and fifty years ago. Boys in short trousers playing games on the cobbles while girls jumped along a hopscotch grid or helped their mothers. The rooftops would be wreathed in the smoke from a hundred coal fires.

The men in her vision wore flat caps and grim expressions, while the women wore looks of acceptance for their lot as they went about their daily routine. Above them all, Dixon’s Chimney would tower like a guard post, its presence a reminder of where they belonged and where they must remain.

When it was completed, Shaddon Mill – which was the reason for Dixon’s Chimney – was the largest cotton mill in England and its accompanying chimney was the eighth tallest in the world.

Beth couldn’t begin to imagine the workers’ fury if they knew their place of employment had been converted into flats, or their sense of containment living in the shadows of their workplace, but it made her feel happier about her own circumstances. Her job let her travel around the county on a daily basis; her home might be a subsidised police house, but she had it to herself and because of this she benefitted from all the freedoms which came from living alone.

The door creaked open and a young man with a toddler on his hip opened the door. The man had the kind of mussy hair that took effort and the girl snuggling against him was clean and well clothed, if bleary eyed.

‘Alreet.’ His voice was as broad a Carlisle accent as Beth had ever heard.

Beth introduced herself and checked the man’s identity. When he confirmed that he was Rory Newham she explained why she was there.

As soon as she mentioned Harriet’s name his eyes flashed in hope. It was a primitive reaction borne of a longing for news of an arrest and the closure it brought. Regardless of anything she may learn from Newham, that split-second glimpse into his pain had made the visit worthwhile in Beth’s view, as the memory of his grief would drive her on through what was bound to be a long and difficult investigation.

‘I’m sure this is all very painful for you and I certainly don’t want to reopen old wounds, but I’d like to ask you a few questions about Harriet.’

Newham opened the door and stepped back so she could enter. As with all houses on the street, the front door opened right into the living room and there was a staircase directly in front of them. It was the kind of arrangement that was once common for working-class homes, although it was as impractical an arrangement as Beth had ever known. On winter days, the open door would flood the house’s main room with cold air and back in the days of coal fires, the doors would have been a constant source of draughts.

As Beth let Newham direct her to a seat, she took in the room. It was tidy without being a show home. The furniture was an eclectic mishmash of styles that spoke of Newham picking up second-hand bargains. The decor was simple but tasteful, and a wicker basket tucked beside a chair held a variety of children’s toys and books.

The most striking thing about the room wasn’t the 40-inch TV dominating one corner but the picture gallery hanging on the chimney breast. In pride of place was the same picture of Harriet that had been stapled to their file, and surrounding it was a medley of pictures featuring Harriet and Newham, or of the two of