Chapter 51

Eve Bowman lived in an old farmhouse, all whitewashed walls and traditional slate roof, same as all the other houses in the area. Underbarrow fell within the Lake District National Park boundary so she was limited in what she could do to the exterior of the house. ‘Restrict unwelcome change' was what the National Park Authority called it, which Poe believed was just an excuse to make everything look like a Beatrix Potter film set. Tradition was OK, but not at the expense of the people who lived there.

A tumble of outbuildings and a bunch of chickens roaming in the old farmyard completed what was a lovely, isolated property. Poe imagined coming back to Cumbria had been a big deal for Eve. She'd probably yearned to return but hadn't wanted to cope with being a curiosity. The sole survivor of an infamous massacre. Someone to point at and whisper about. Underbarrow was far enough away from Keswick for her to start again, while still having the fells and lakes that she'd have fallen in love with as a child.

Eve Bowman was thirty-two years old but looked younger. She had watched them walk up the long and winding garden path from her front room, where she had been halfway through a strenuous yoga workout. She beat them to the front door and opened it as Poe was reaching for the bell. She wore black leggings, jade-green trainers and a matching vest. She was slightly out of breath. She was a tall, rangy woman and the muscle definition on her arms was perfect, suggesting she had played sport in her youth. A university sport, such as rowing or fencing. The kind you only ever saw during the opening week of the Olympics. Her face was free of makeup and her hair was pageboy short.

Poe hadn't done the death knock since he was in uniform, and although he wasn't there to tell Eve that someone she loved was dead, he had the same sense of unease. How did you tell someone the person who'd butchered her entire family might be back? During death notification training, it had been drummed into Poe that, apart from checking you were delivering the bad news to the right person, the most important thing to do was use plain language. Phrases like ‘I am very sorry to tell you that such-and-such is dead', rather than phrases that could be misinterpreted like ‘passed away' or ‘gone to a better place'. Although the reality was that you just had to find a way that worked, Poe had always tried to do as he'd been trained. So, after he had shown her his identification he said, ‘May I come in, Ms Bowman? I'm afraid I have some bad news.'

She clamped a hand over her mouth and Poe realised his mistake at once.

‘It's not about your husband,' he said quickly. ‘I'm sorry, I should have led with that.'

‘Thomas is OK?'

‘As far as I'm aware,' Poe said. ‘He's not here? I was hoping to speak to him too.'

‘He's at work.' She stared at Poe; her relief at her husband not being dead tempering what would have been wholly justified anger. ‘You'd better come in.'

She led them through the hall and into the kitchen. The south-facing window overlooked a field full of freshly shorn sheep. She flicked a switch on a stainless-steel bean-to-cup coffee machine and for a moment they listened to automated grinding and tamping. Poe had a headache, and he hadn't planned on having any more coffee, but the smell coming from the machine was intoxicating.

‘Coffee?' she said.

‘Please,' Poe said.

‘This wasn't cheap,' Eve said, gesturing at the machine, ‘but there are some things you don't scrimp on. Coffee is one of them.'

‘Smells lovely.'

‘Apologies for the way I'm dressed; I try to do a workout before I leave for the office.'

‘It's us who should apologise, Ms Bowman,' Poe said.

‘Eve, please.'

‘Apologies, Eve. It's very early and we didn't call ahead.'

She waved away his apology. ‘Now, what's this bad news?' she said. ‘If it's about one of my ex-renters, the agent handles it all. I have nothing to do with any of it.'

‘We think Bethany might be back,' Poe said.

Which sort of killed the conversation.