The Cipher Garden by Martin Edwards

wanted was for Marc to get the wrong idea, as he had done about her relationship with Ben. ‘More of an acquaintance, really. I’ve not been in touch with him since the Brackdale file was closed.’
    ‘You’ve been watching his TV shows. I noticed the DVD in the rack.’ For a moment she thought he was going to make an issue of it, but thankfully tonight his good humour was unshakeable. ‘His latest passion is the history of his own cottage garden. Maybe you should call him in asa consultant on your murder case. Make the most of having an expert in detecting the past on your doorstep.’
    Hannah laughed and flicked through an aged copy of Busman’s Honeymoon , wrinkling her nose at the title page description, ‘A love story with detective interruptions.’ One of the chapters was headed ‘When You Know How, You Know Who.’ A wildly optimistic assertion, not one you’d find in the ACPO manual. Yet so often the key to solving a murder lay in victimology, finding out how a person behaved to find out why they died.
    Put it another way. When you know Howe, you’ll know who.
     
    Kirsty Howe’s bottom lip trembled as she studied the torn scraps of paper. She’d fished them out of the bin-liner and, forgetting that she’d been about to put out the rubbish, she was hunched over the breakfast bar, piecing together the bits like completing a jigsaw.
    The roar of the washing machine made it hard to think. She switched it off and focused on her task. The envelope was addressed to Sam. She’d recognised the writing at once – the same horrid stencilled style of the note which had destroyed her day.
    He’d screwed up the pieces, making tight little balls, but she smoothed them out with care. Soon the message was staring up at her.
    Why did you hate your father? Jealousy?
    She’d hardly seen Sam all day. He always left early for work and she mostly came back after he’d gone to bed. This evening was an exception, for he was staying out later than usual. Their mother reckoned he had a girl over in Broughton, but he’d not mentioned anything to Kirsty. His life revolved around football and beer and motorbikesand women. Throughout her teens, she’d entertained the romantic hope that tragedy would bring them closer together. For all his laziness at school, he was brighter than he liked to make out and she hoped that, once out of his father’s shadow, he would reveal a sensitive side. After all these years, she was still waiting. Worse, he was smart enough to have picked up on her liking for Oliver and he never lost a chance to sneer.
    As she taped the fragments of the message together, she heard the thundering of a motorbike for a few moments before the engine died. The smell of alcohol wafted as he strode through the back door, helmet in hand. His eyes might be tired but his skin was glowing. She’d seen that look on the face of a couple of boys from Hawkshead whom she’d slept with. A look of bleary triumph. Her lovers reminded her of Lakeland twitchers excited by the sighting of a rare bird, or trainspotters at Oxenholme who’d ticked a rare number off their list. All they wanted was to bask in their conquest until they targeted a new trophy.
    ‘What’s the matter with you?’
    ‘I found this.’
    She waved the anonymous message at him. He made as if to snatch the note from her, but she was too quick for him and, evading his lunge, skipped off her stool and stood in the doorway, daring him to hit her. He’d never gone so far as to strike her, at least not since he was a boy and he used to poke her in the ribs or twist her arm behind her back.
    He moved forward, the soles of his trainers scraping on the tiled kitchen floor. His mouth was inches from hers. It wasn’t only the stale beer that stank, but the Pot Noodle on his breath. No wonder he hardly ever ate at The Heights, even though he and Peter had been doing somework for Bel in the garden lately. His idea of gourmet dining was curry and chips.
    ‘Hand it