"Another winning entry in a consistently strong series." ― Booklist Twenty years ago, teenager Callum Hinds went missing in England's Lake District. His uncle, suspected of having done the boy harm, was interviewed by the police. When the uncle committed suicide near his cottage in the Hanging Wood, everyone assumed it was a sign of guilt. The boy's body was never found. Now Callum's sister, Orla Payne, who never believed in their uncle's guilt, has returned to the Lakes and taken up a job in a residential library close to the Hanging Wood. She wants to find the truth about Callum's disappearance. Prompted by historian Daniel Kind, she tries to interest DCI Hannah Scarlett, head of Cumbria's Cold Case Review Team. Hannah is reluctant, but when Orla dies in strange and shocking circumstances, Hannah determines to find the truth about what happened to Callum―and to Orla. Soon Hannah finds herself racing against time as the past casts long shadows on the sunlit landscape of the lakes. "With an unforgettable ending, this outstanding cold case will attract Lynda La Plante and Mo Hayder fans." ― Library Journal STARRED Review Martin Edwards has been described by Richard Osman as ‘a true master of British crime writing.’ His novels include the eight Lake District Mysteries and four books featuring Rachel Savernake, including the Dagger-nominated The Puzzle of Blackstone Lodge . He is also the author of two multi-award-winning histories of crime fiction, The Life of Crime and T he Golden Age of Murder . He has received three Daggers, including the CWA Diamond Dagger (the highest honour in UK crime writing) and two Edgars from the Mystery Writers of America. He has received four lifetime achievement awards: for his fiction, short fiction, non-fiction, and scholarship. He is consultant to the British Library’s Crime Classics and since 2015 has been President of the Detection Club.  The Hanging Wood A Lake District Mystery By Martin Edwards Poisoned Pen Press Copyright © 2011 Martin Edwards All right reserved. ISBN: 978-1-59058-852-9 Chapter One `I must talk to Hannah Scarlett, it's a matter of life and death.' Orla shaded her eyes from the July sun. Her right hand trembled so much that she dropped her mobile into the shallow ditch and had to reach down to fish it out. In front of her stood the hedge marking the boundary of her father's farm. `Life and death,' she hissed into the phone. `May I have your name?' `Orla ... Orla Payne.' A long, long pause. `You spoke to DCI Scarlett yesterday afternoon?' The detective constable sounded young and sceptical. Orla pictured her, pursing her lips, searching for a politically correct way to say get lost . A gatekeeper, tasked with making sure her boss wasn't disturbed. She'd written Orla off as a drunken timewaster, just because her voice was too loud and she'd slurred her own name. So what if she'd downed a few cans? This was supposed to be a free country, it wasn't against the law to drown your sorrows. `That's right.' Yesterday's call had gone badly, but she'd summoned the nerve to try again. The last chance saloon. In the hedgerow, a linnet sang. The summer air tasted sweet, and she could smell the fields. But her head ached; she couldn't do this. It was too difficult. `Ms. Payne. Are you still there?' Legs swaying, Orla grabbed the handle of the car door and steadied herself. She'd parked next to the ditch. On the way, she'd cracked the wing mirror against a dry stone wall, but who cared? People would say she was unfit to drive. Yet here she was, calling the Cold Case Review Team at Cumbria Constabulary. She wasn't afraid any longer. Fear had become as pointless as hope. `Ms. Payne?' `Just put me through, will you?' `I'm sorry ...' `Am I talking to myself?' Orla was trying not to scream with frustration. `DCI Scarlett is on leave today.' The woman spoke with exaggerated patience. Orla's cheeks were moist. Despair made her guts churn. `Can I help, Ms. Payne?' `Too late,' Orla mumbled into her phone. `It's just ancient history to everyone else. Nobody cares about justice.' People never listened to her. The warning she'd been given was true: nobody would believe what she had to say. She had no proof; talking to the police was a waste of time. The energy had drained out of her, like oil trickling from a leak in her car. She had no fight left. `Ms. Payne?' Orla killed the call. She tried to crush the mobile in her hand, but it was impossible, so she hurled it over the hedge. The phone struck a black tank squatting on top of a small trailer, and fell into a trough filled by the tank with water for the cattle to drink. The trough was an old enamel bath, and her father hadn't bothered to take the taps off. Contacting the police was a stupid idea. She should never have listened to Daniel Kind. All he knew about murder came from books and dusty archives. He'd advised her to talk to Hannah Scarlett, but yesterd