The Dungeon House (Lake District Mysteries) by Martin Edwards Read Free Book Online Page A

he’d made from selling his company would cripple him. Fifty per cent? Same difference.
    A sharp pain stabbed him in the guts. Early warning of a stomach ulcer? Stress did that to people, it was a well-known fact. Not so long ago, he’d been as fit as a flea, now he was odds-on for an early grave. When was the last time he’d managed a full twenty-four hours without a drop of the hard stuff? He needed booze the way a one-legged man needs a stick to lean on.
    Selling the company was the turning point. Each year, waste management became more cut-throat, and creative accounting could only take you so far. The offer from Morkel’s consortium was timed to perfection. Too good to be true? Well, yeah, so it had proved.
    Once the celebratory Caribbean holiday was over, things started going awry. He’d assumed Lysette would jump at the chance to spend more time with him, but she kept heading to places like Buttermere and Ennerdale Water, to sketch or paint. Or so she said.
    He savoured the whisky’s tang. No better medicine. For months he’d been sleeping badly; his GP prescribed Temazepam, but after he began to suspect Lysette of an affair, he started having nightmares for the first time in his life. Once in a dream, he’d discovered his wife naked in bed, legs wrapped around a smooth-skinned man wearing nothing but a goat’s mask. Malcolm had seized hold of the goat’s horns, determined to tear off his enemy’s disguise. Instead, his own fingers were ripped away, leaving his hand a bloody stump. He woke in a cold sweat, to find his wife sleeping peacefully beside him.
    When she’d lost interest in sex, his suspicions crystallised.At first, he gave her the benefit of the doubt, knowing her appetite was almost as healthy as his. Once or twice he’d drunk so much that he was incapable of performing anyway, but lately she kept whining that she had a headache or wasn’t in the mood. And that wasn’t all. Several times, she’d hurriedly silenced her chirruping phone for no obvious reason, making excuses that wouldn’t convince a child. One afternoon when she was out sketching, he rifled through her things until he found a folder of credit card statements. None of her purchases looked dodgy, though he cringed at the sums she frittered away on clothes. At least he’d put his mind at rest – until Robbie Dean had set him wondering again.
    ‘Saw your missus in Seascale yesterday, while I was filling up the van.’
    ‘You did?’ She’d told him she’d spent the afternoon at Wasdale Head, had rhapsodised about the light playing on the surface of the lake.
    ‘Yeah, gave her a wave, but she didn’t wave back.’
    ‘Too busy enjoying the sea breeze, I suppose?’
    Robbie shook his head. ‘Dunno. When I glanced round again, she’d dipped out of sight.’
    That evening, he’d told Lysette that Robbie had seen her. She brushed it off, pointing out that he’d admired the watercolour of clouds scudding over the peaks of Great Gable and the Scafells, her afternoon’s work. It sounded convincing, but panic flickered in her eyes before she recovered her nerve. You could paint clouds and mountains any time. Had she stockpiled watercolours, to corroborate her alibis? Next chance he had, he resumed his search of her personal belongings. Her bank statements proved more mysterious than the credit card transactions. She’dmade a series of sizeable cash withdrawals. Unusual for someone who never liked to carry much money in her purse. What was she spending the money on? Gifts for her lover surely couldn’t account for all of it. Hotel rooms for their assignations surely explained the rest. Seascale boasted several hotels and guest houses, and if she wasn’t making use of them, why else would she be there? In a small town she disliked, nestling under the brooding bulk of the nuclear power station at Sellafield?
    The only puzzle left to solve was the identity of the boyfriend. Scott Durham had his cottage, and Gray Elstone lived