Read Chapter 20: The Bargain

The rain came down in steady silver sheets, plastering the windscreen of Martha’s Fiat and turning the village green into a smear of grey-green. She sat in the car park of the Red Lion, engine running, wipers clicking in a rhythm that matched the pulse in her throat. DI Chen had texted her twenty minutes ago. *The back room. Alone. Come through the kitchen.*

She had not told James. She had not told anyone.

The pub kitchen door was propped open with a crate of empty bottles, and a young man in a flour-dusted apron nodded her through without a word. The back room smelled of stale ale and floor polish. Chen sat at a small table with two glasses of water, his suit jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He looked less like a detective inspector and more like a man who had not slept in days.

“Martha.” He gestured to the chair opposite. “Thank you for coming.”

She sat. “You said you had something that couldn’t wait.”

“I said I had a proposition.” He slid a manila folder across the table but kept his palm flat on it, holding it in place. “Before I show you this, I need you to understand what I’m risking by even having this conversation.”

“Then don’t keep me in suspense, Inspector.”

He lifted his hand. Inside the folder was a single photograph, grainy and overexposed—a woman in a pale summer dress, standing at the edge of the boundary well, her face half-turned to the camera. Martha recognised the dress from the archive, the faint pattern of cornflowers along the hem.

“Her name was Celia Hartley,” Chen said quietly. “We finally identified her through dental records. Twenty-nine years old. A historian from Bristol. She went missing in June 1986 while researching a book on the Hayward estate.”

Martha’s fingers hovered over the photograph. “And you’re telling me this now because…?”

“Because her family filed a missing person report that was closed within forty-eight hours. Because the officer who closed it retired three months later with a full pension and a cottage in Cornwall. Because when I pulled the file, half the paperwork was missing, and the other half had been signed by someone who died in 1984.” Chen’s jaw tightened. “Someone has been protecting this case for thirty-five years. And I think they’re still doing it.”

Martha looked up. “You mean someone in your own force.”

“I mean someone with enough reach to bury a murder.” He sat back. “The victim was strangled. Manual ligature, probably a rope or a strap. She was buried hastily, then dug up and moved years later. That’s not the act of a panicked killer. That’s an organised clean-up.”

The pub’s radiators clanked overhead. Martha thought of Matilda Hayward’s smile, the way it never reached her eyes. She thought of her aunt’s hidden notes, the list of names, the threats that had followed Margaret Pemberton for decades.

“Why are you telling me all this?” she asked. “You’ve been careful to keep me at arm’s length.”

“Because you’ve got something I don’t.” Chen slid an evidence bag across the table. Inside was a small brass key, tarnished with age, its bow shaped like an acorn. “That was found in Celia Hartley’s coat pocket when her body was examined. It matches the locks on the Hayward estate’s outbuildings.”

Martha’s breath caught. “The slate store.”

“We can’t get a warrant. The Haywards have a solicitor who could make a judge disappear, and every application I file seems to evaporate before it reaches the court.” Chen leaned forward. “But you’ve already been inside that estate. You have a relationship with Gerald. You know the family’s history.”

“You want me to break in.”

“I want you to *retrieve* something.” He tapped the folder. “There’s a second ledger inside that store—Celia Hartley kept a journal of her research. She wrote about documents she found on the estate, records that implicated the Haywards in a land deal that went wrong in the 1970s. If I can get that journal, I can build a case that no amount of family pressure can suppress.”

Martha stared at him. “And what would I get in return?”

Chen’s eyes met hers, unblinking. “You get the truth about your aunt. There’s a file in my division, opened in 2001, flagged as dormant. It was opened the week Margaret Pemberton died. Someone in the family reported her death as suspicious, but the case was closed within a day. No follow-up. No autopsy appeal.” He paused. “I think whoever killed your aunt is the same person who killed Celia Hartley. And I think the evidence to prove it is in that slate store.”

The rain hammered against the window. Martha’s tea had gone cold, but she didn’t notice.

“You’re asking me to commit a burglary,” she said slowly.

“I’m asking you to help me solve two murders.” Chen’s voice was low, urgent. “I’m asking you to do what the system can’t. I’ll be your backup. I’ll have a car nearby, a radio channel open, a cover story ready if you’re caught. But I can’t walk through that door with you. If this goes wrong, I’ll deny everything, and you’ll be alone.”

“That’s not much of a deal.”

“It’s the only deal I can offer.” He slid a second photograph across the table. This one was older, faded colour—two young women in flowered dresses, arms around each other’s shoulders, laughing. One was Evelyn Hayward. The other was Emmeline Pemberton. Martha’s grandmother. “Your aunt spent her whole life trying to prove that the Haywards had something to hide. She came close. I think she paid for it with her life.”

Martha’s hand trembled as she picked up the photograph. Her grandmother’s face—she had never seen it in colour before, never seen her smiling like that, carefree, before everything went wrong.

“If I do this,” she said, “you’ll share everything you have on my aunt’s case. Everything.”

“On my mother’s grave.”

“And you’ll protect James. If something happens to me, you’ll make sure he’s safe.”

Chen’s brow furrowed. “James Carruthers? The vet?”

“If I’m going to break into a Hayward property, I need help. And he’s the only person I trust.” She met his gaze. “He doesn’t know what I’m planning. He won’t be involved in the actual break-in. But if I don’t come back, someone needs to know what happened.”

Chen studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “You have my word.”

Martha folded the photographs into her coat pocket. She stood, her legs unsteady beneath her, and looked down at the detective inspector.

“The slate store. Matilda all but dared me to look inside. She said it would destroy more than just the Haywards.” Martha paused at the door. “What do you think is really in there, Inspector? Beyond your historian’s journal?”

Chen’s expression was unreadable. “I think it’s a tomb. Not just for Celia Hartley’s secrets—but for anyone who ever threatened the Hayward family. Including, possibly, your aunt’s reputation.” He stood, buttoning his cuffs. “I’ll be in touch with the details. Two days. Be ready.”

Martha pushed through the kitchen door into the rain, the cold hitting her like a slap. Her phone buzzed as she reached her car. A text from James: *Matilda just called my surgery. She wants to meet us both tomorrow. Says she has information about your aunt—but she wants something in return.*

The Bargain: she had made one with the police. But Matilda was making one with her. And Martha had the terrible feeling she had just agreed to the same deal twice.

She typed back: *What does she want?*

Three dots pulsed. Then: *She wants the ledger. The one from your aunt’s coat. She says it belongs to the Haywards, that Margaret stole it. She says she’ll trade it for the truth about what really happened to your aunt.*

Martha stared at the screen. The debt ledger. The one that Gerald had given her, the encrypted annotations, the single-pound transaction for the well site. She had copied every page and hidden the original in her cottage’s floorboards.

Tomorrow, she would meet Matilda Hayward with a forgery and a lie. And then, that night, she would climb the fence into Dead Man’s Spinney with a key that had been sitting in a dead woman’s pocket for three decades.

She started the engine and pulled out of the car park, the rain swallowing the village behind her.