Her view was of a mountain called ‘the Lion and the Lamb’. They’d been told by one of the staff at Dow Bank House that the mountain was given its name because if you look up at the peak from a certain angle, it looks like a small lamb sitting meekly in front of a fierce, huge lion. She took the barman’s word for it. She wasn’t about to go and test the statement. She believed him. From this angle, it looked like a small hill. It still amused her, after years of living in the US, how her native Brits still thought they were Great with a capital G. She’d driven up bigger hills in the Smoky Mountains.
The house was stunning, and Sandy expected nothing less. The plot had first been developed during Elizabethan times and it still had a topiary garden. It had been fortified, rebuilt and extended over centuries and now stood as a fine example of a classic historic home. But this one wasn’t open to the public. The Dent family had purchased it twenty years ago when the owners ran out of money to maintain it. It was also where she’d discussed the first trials of Neurohydroxy-14, over several brandies. She had great affection for the place.
It was consummately private, unlike the hotel, and the grounds were more extensive. There was a lake and island in the middle, with a funny-looking bandstand-type structure on it, added by the Victorians. It was barely five miles away from Heron Hall, and part of her wished she could sneak Lee in for the evening. She was bored. But his threats to her were still fresh in her mind and she hadn’t yet decided what to do about him. If Hampton-Dent got wind of potential blackmail, things wouldn’t end well for Lee Lovett.
Her whole career had been shaped by the belief that the early bird catches the worm. It had been a saying her mother used. It meant coming first. There was no other option. Staying ahead of the game was as much about science as it was about wit. Sandy liked to think she had both. Which was why she’d called the detective and left a message. She’d called just after five o’clock, thinking the female copper would be enjoying her privacy with her man. Perhaps she had a family, and they were swimming in some lake to cool off, or at a big party, laughing and being normal, like she imagined people doing. But no, the detective turned out to be a workaholic and had called her back.
She let the phone ring five times, then answered.
‘Sandy?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Detective Porter.’
‘I know.’
‘You know?’
‘I never forget a voice.’
‘Right. Are you settled in? I know the estate; it’s beautiful. You called me.’
The detective sounded breathless and Sandy recalled her keen eyes and terrier-like stare.
‘It is and I am. It’s peaceful here, just what we all need after what happened.’
‘Exactly. Take time to look after each other.’
Sandy didn’t know if the detective was genuine. DI Porter was hard to read.
The copper sounded upbeat, and she reminded Sandy of one of those annoyingly happy people who breeze through life with a smile. Then she checked herself and realised that the detective had seen death too. But the detective’s motives couldn’t be further from the science. The police were on the right side of justice, and they sought the truth. Science, Sandy reflectedglumly, stopped doing that years ago. What was the saying?Scientific studies find that 99 per cent of scientists agree with whoever provides their funding?
She smirked to herself. But it wasn’t funny. Plenty of old colleagues had lost their livelihoods, reputations and futures for sticking to the truth, which was why she’d chosen not to. Truth was relative.
‘I was keen to stay in touch regarding what happened,’ Sandy said, aware she sounded insincere. But if morality – or rather the lack of it – bothered her she’d be in a different job.
Jamie had once been a similar beast, until Hank got handy with his sister, then suddenly he’d discovered a moral backbone.
‘The company is keen to resolve the matter for damage limitation,’ she told DI Porter.
‘Really? You called me for that?’
Sandy looked across the estate from the grand hall windows. Tilda said they must avoid attention.
The detective was a Joan of Arc type, she could tell. Which was exactly why they should be on a jet out of Manchester heading for New York and not still in the English countryside waiting for the police to work out what Angelina Robbins was up to.
But she was feeling rebellious over the commands Tilda had given them. They weren’t to leave the grounds, nor should they explore the beautiful surroundings they found themselves imprisoned in. And they couldn’t call anybody. Rule breaking felt deliciously awful to Sandy.
‘I hoped you were calling with extra information,’ DI Porter said. ‘But I’m glad you called, as I wanted to talk to you aboutYouthBlast,’ the detective said.
Sandy’s stomach tightened and she was impressed with DI Porter’s progress.
She peered across the gardens at the bodyguards who followed Hank wherever he went. The detective was closer than anyone could imagine.
‘In particular a compound I’ve been told is in it but shouldn’t be.’
‘Really?’ Sandy instantly regretted calling. It was too soon. Her aim was to find out more about Jamie and Angie. Some news on their postmortems perhaps. A reassurance that Jamie tripped and fell over the banister, even though she knew that wasn’t true. Or how much they knew about what his sister was up to.
