Dark Peak

by Adam J. Wright

  He expected Silas to react to Olivia’s name but the severity of the reaction shocked him.

  Silas grasped at his chest. His eyes bulged in his skull. He pointed at Mitch and gasped, “Don’t you mention my sister.”

  Jack and Alice bent over to attend to him, trying to calm him with soothing words. Jack shot Mitch a disgusted look and wheeled Silas back to the SUV. Silas seemed to have calmed down from his panic attack, or whatever it had been, and was now sitting quietly, staring at the ground. Mitch noticed a tear, glistening in the sunshine, rolling down Silas’ cheek.

  Alice glared at Mitch, shaking her head. “You’ve been back here five minutes and already you’re causing trouble. Just go home and leave us in peace.” She turned to the SUV and got in the passenger side, staring at Mitch through the windscreen while she waited for her son to get into the driver’s seat.

  When Jack finally put the wheelchair into the boot and got into the SUV, he gunned the engine and spun the vehicle around fast enough for the spinning tyres to spray gravel. When the vehicle reached the track and disappeared behind the trees, Mitch breathed a sigh of relief. He could hardly remember Silas and Alice from his childhood but something about what he did remember gave him the creeps, even though he couldn’t pin that feeling on a specific event or time.

  When the sense of relief was gone, guilt rushed in to replace it. Alice had been right about one thing: Mitch hadn’t even visited his father’s grave. Whatever he thought of the man, he felt it was his duty to at least see his father’s resting place. He guessed the grave was located at the church in Relby.

  He needed to get away from the house for a while, anyway. The suffocating atmosphere he’d felt in the living room seemed to be seeping through the walls and reaching for him like a slithering shadow.

  The keys were already in the Jeep, so he climbed in and started the engine. He turned the vehicle more leisurely than Jack had done but when he was pointing away from Edge House, he put his foot down.

  He didn’t intend to stay long at his father’s grave, only the bare minimum to perform his duty as a son. If his father was the Blackden Edge Murderer, did he even deserve to lie in a grave while his victims’ remains languished in places unmarked?

  They’re marked with flowers, he told himself as he reached the main road. But in places that are secret.

  Those girls were as lost to the world as broken petals scattered on a cold winter breeze.

  16

  Forget Me Not

  St. Paul’s Church was the largest structure in Relby, looming over the other buildings from its elevated position on a slope at the northern edge of the village. A small car park was situated near the church. Mitch parked the Jeep near a blue Mini, the only other vehicle there. He pushed through the wooden gate and ascended the stone steps to the church.

  He remembered coming to Sunday School here with Sarah, Tilly, and Jack. He couldn’t recall anything else about that, not even if he’d enjoyed it or found it boring. He just remembered that he’d come to this church regularly when he was young.

  Like Edge House, the church had been built in the neo-Gothic style, with flying buttresses, a tall steeple, and traceried windows. The churchyard was overgrown, with grass, weeds, and brambles covering some of the older, fallen gravestones. Some of the newer graves seemed to be still tended by loved ones and these had been cleared of over-enthusiastic plants and mowed. Instead of snarls of brambles and tangles of weeds, these graves were adorned with neat bunches of bright flowers in pottery vases.

  Mitch had no idea where his father’s grave was located but didn’t mind if it took him all day to find it. He needed to stay away from the house for a while, even if it meant he couldn’t read through the journal again and look for clues until he got back.

  The memory of fleeing along the track and looking over his shoulder to see one lighted room still haunted him. He felt that something terrible had happened in that room where the light burned and he had witnessed it. Yet he couldn’t remember anything other than running.

  Maybe he needed a break from the journal too. Finding the necklace had been exhilarating at first because it had proved the journal was authentic and could be decoded. He’d felt one step closer to finding Sarah.

  But then reality had set in. The necklace had belonged to a girl who was now dead. His self-assigned mission to break the journal’s code wasn’t going to save anyone; the path he was following led only to the remains of those lost girls. The best that could be hoped for was some sense of closure for their families.

  He felt unsure that he could decode any more of the journal. The one clue he’d managed to solve had mentioned a specific location but the others didn’t. He had no idea where to even begin trying to decipher the other passages.

  Mitch felt that Sarah was as far away as she’d ever been and his chances of finding her were non-existent.

  He searched a section of newer graves, reading the names on the stones that stood as sentinels over the dead. None of the names inscribed into the stones were familiar to him.

  Farther along the stone path that wound between the graves, Mitch could see a woman standing in the long grass. She wore jeans, a dark green T-shirt, and a dark green baseball cap. From beneath the cap, shoulder-length red hair flamed in the sunlight.

  She had a camera in her hands and constantly adjusted her position in the grass to capture the best angle of whatever she was photographing. Mitch followed the direction of her lens. She was pointing the camera at two graves that lay side by side in the shadow of the church.

  Abandoning the section of graveyard he’d been searching, Mitch set off up the path towards her. She might know the churchyard well and maybe she could tell him where the newest graves were situated. Even if she didn’t know and was just here to photograph a relative’s grave for some reason, it would be a refreshing change to speak to someone who wasn’t a long-lost relative or a member of the police force.

  She was so absorbed in what she was doing that she didn’t notice Mitch even when he was almost standing next to her. Crouched in the long grass, she continued snapping pictures. When she was done, she checked the screen on her camera and, seemingly satisfied with her handiwork, stood up. It was then that she noticed Mitch.

  “Morning,” she said. “Lovely day.”

  “It is.” Mitch gestured at the graves around them. “Do you come here often?”

  She laughed and raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t heard that one before. Not in a graveyard, anyway.”

  “Sorry,” Mitch said, “I didn’t mean it like that.” Now that he could see her up close, her face looked familiar. And her eyes were searching his face as if she recognised him, too. She’d probably turn out to be some long-lost relative after all, he mused. “I meant do you know the graveyard well? I’m looking for the area where they put the newest graves.”

  “I think that’s down there,” she said, indicating the area Mitch had just been searching. “They’ve got the most recent dates on them, anyway. Unless the grave you’re looking for is part of a family plot, then I guess it could be anywhere.” She paused and then said, “Oh, I’m sorry, have you recently lost a member of your family?”

  “No,” Mitch said, “Well, yes. It’s complicated.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” she said.

  “It’s fine,” he said. He was sure he knew her face from somewhere and searched his memory to remember where. When no answer presented itself, he said, “This isn’t a line, I swear, but do we know each other?”

  She looked sheepish. “No, I’m pretty sure we don’t. You may recognise me, though. I wrote a bestselling book a few years ago. Heart of a Killer.”

  Now Mitch knew where he’d seen this woman. He’d seen her on TV. Her book had been the bestselling true crime book in a long time. “The Eastbourne Ripper,” he said.

  “Yes, that’s me.” She looked uncomfortable for a second and then added, “I mean, I wrote the book about the Eastbourne Ripper. Elly Cooper.” She held out
a slender hand.

  Mitch shook it. “Mitch Walker. So what are you doing here?” he asked. “Are you working on a new book?”

  She didn’t answer him immediately. Her face had paled, making the red hair framing it seem even more vibrant. The searching look that had been in her eyes transformed to one of realisation. “You’re the boy with the bike,” she whispered, almost to herself.

  “I’m sorry?” Mitch asked.

  “No, no, I’m sorry,” she said, coming to her senses. “I should have realized who you were. You’re Mitchell Walker. Of course you are.”

  “It’s Mitch. I haven’t been called Mitchell since I was a kid.”

  “Mitch,” she said, as if confirming his name to herself. “I think I know where you’ll find the grave you’re looking for.” She pointed at the two graves in the shadow of the church, the ones she’d been taking photos of.

  Mitch walked through the long grass to the gravestones. Each was square-shaped, fashioned simply from black marble with gold lettering etched into the stone. Both graves had been tended to recently and were clear of grass and weeds.

  The first grave Mitch came to was his father’s. Its inscription read:

  Michael Walker

  Beloved Brother

  1954 - 2017

  The matching gravestone closer to the church had an inscription that made Mitch’s breath catch in his throat.

  Sarah Walker

  June 17th 1980 - December 21st 1987

  Taken too soon

  Mitch had never considered the possibility that Sarah would have a grave. Now that he thought about it, it made sense, but it had never crossed his mind until now.

  A stone vase sat on the headstone. A bunch of forget-me-nots poked up from it, their blue-petalled heads waving slightly in the warm breeze.

  A forget-me-not that never blooms might hide and then grow old.

  He felt a chill run through his body. The forget-me-nots on the grave were fresh and had been placed there recently, certainly after his father had died.

  “Are you okay?” Elly asked. Her eyes held a look of worry.

  “Yeah,” Mitch said. But he didn’t feel okay. He was unable to take his eyes off the cut flowers or stop the thoughts whirling around in his head. Who had placed these here? Was it someone who knew he’d read the journal? Had the flowers been left here as a taunt?

  “You don’t look okay,” Elly said.

  “I…I just didn’t know my sister had a grave here,” he said. But it wasn’t the grave that disturbed him so much, it was those flowers. He wanted to tell Elly about the flowers, about the journal, about everything, even though he didn’t know her. Or maybe it was because he didn’t know her that he wanted to bring her into his confidence. She wasn’t connected to the case in any way, had never known Sarah, and wasn’t a suspect. Mitch felt that if he didn’t tell someone soon about what was going on, the oppressive atmosphere at Edge House was going to swallow him up and he was going to go crazy.

  He knew madness could be hereditary. When he finally unravelled the tangle of this mystery, perhaps he would be left with nothing but a single thread of insanity that ran through his family.

  But he didn’t tell Elly about the flowers, or the journal, or the fact that his father was probably a murderer who had killed several women. Because he remembered what Elly had been doing when he’d first got here.

  “You were taking photographs of his grave,” he said. “And Sarah’s.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I was.”

  He looked at the graves and then back at Elly, understanding why she was here. “Are you writing a book about my father?”

  “Technically, no,” she said. “But I’ll be honest with you. I was sent here by a publisher to look into some cases of abduction. My research may become a book someday.”

  “You’re researching my family,” he said.

  “I’m following a number of leads.”

  “But why my family in particular?”

  She frowned, as if deciding whether to share something with him. “Mitch, how much do you know about your father? Your mother took you away when you were nine, so you may not know what’s been going on around here.”

  “You’ve been researching me?” he asked incredulously.

  “Look,” she said, reaching into her pocket and taking out a business card. “I have some information you may be interested in. Call me if you want to discuss it.”

  He took the card but now he was sure he would never confide in her. Rather than being uninvolved in the events surrounding his father, she was working for a publisher that wanted to profit from them.

  “I can’t discuss anything with you,” he said. “You want to turn the tragic deaths of young girls into entertainment. I won’t have any part of that.”

  Coming to the graveyard had been a mistake. He’d thought that seeing his father’s grave might give him some sort of closure but instead, old wounds had been opened. Seeing Sarah’s grave had reminded him that he’d been with her when she’d been taken, that he could have done something about it.

  The sight of the blue forget-me-nots nodding in the breeze slammed home the fact that he had to decode the journal. He hadn’t saved Sarah and he couldn’t save any of those other girls but if their bodies were found, then at least the world that had forgotten them would remember again. He could bring them back from the lonely world of the lost.

  He turned on his heels and walked back along the stone path towards the gate.

  “It isn’t like that,” Elly called after him. “I want to do what’s best for Sarah. For all the girls.”

  Ignoring her, Mitch descended the steps and pushed through the wooden gate into the car park. He had no intention of returning to Edge House just yet but he needed to get away from here. He needed to put Relby in his rear-view mirror and drive to somewhere far enough away that no one had ever heard of Michael Walker, the missing girls, or the Blackden Edge Murderer.

  As he climbed into the Jeep, he saw Elly at the top of the church steps. She shouted something to him but he couldn’t hear her through the window. She descended the steps quickly and came running over towards the Jeep.

  Mitch put the vehicle into gear and drove out of the car park. He saw her in the rear-view mirror. She shouted again, and this time, he heard her.

  She was shouting, “The killer might still be out there.”

  17

  The Letter

  Elly watched the Jeep drive away and sighed in frustration. “That could have gone better,” she told herself.

  The thing that really frustrated her was that she was usually good at getting the measure of people and judging the best way to talk to them. She could usually get them to open up and confide in her. She’d mistakenly judged the best way to handle Mitch Walker was to be honest with him. He seemed like the sort of person who dealt with life in a straightforward manner and would appreciate honesty.

  He probably was but he’d caught her taking photos of his dead sister’s and father’s graves and it was always going to go downhill from there.

  It was just bad timing, she reassured herself, opening the Mini and getting in, wondering if she should follow Mitch and try to explain that she wasn’t trying to profit from tragedy at all. She just wanted justice for those girls.

  Better leave him alone for a while. She could try to contact him in a few days and see if he was more receptive then. She wasn’t sure how helpful he would be anyway. He hadn’t been here for years and probably knew less about his father’s involvement in the girls’ disappearances than Elly did, if he knew anything at all.

  She needed to speak to someone who had inside knowledge of the case. That meant retired DCI Gordon Farley or DCI Stewart Battle.

  She decided to try Battle and called the Buxton police station after finding the number on her phone.

  “Derbyshire Police,” a female voice said after four rings.

  “Hi, could I speak to DCI Stewart Battle, please?”

  “Do you hav
e a case number?”

  “Umm, no, I’m calling to speak to him about an investigation he worked on some time ago.”

  “Could you give me some information about the case?”

  “The disappearance of Sarah Walker,” Elly said.

  “If you leave your name and number, someone will call you back.”

  Elly left her name and mobile number, wishing she’d spoken to Battle himself. She might have been able to persuade him to talk to her if she’d asked directly but if he just got a message on his desk that someone had called about a case from 1987, he’d probably ignore it.

  She spent five minutes searching on her phone for retired detective chief inspector Gordon Farley and discovered that he lived in Bakewell. His exact address wasn’t listed anywhere but there was an article about him that included a photo of him standing outside his house.

  The article was a human-interest piece about the retired policeman who now lived by the river in Bakewell and spent his time tending his garden instead of catching criminals. Farley supplemented his pension by selling flowers to florists in town.

  Elly got the SatNav out of the glove compartment and set it for Bakewell town centre. Somebody there would know the house in the photo, or even know Farley himself and tell her where he lived.

  She may have screwed things up with Mitch Walker but she wouldn’t make the same mistake with Farley. She’d handle him with kid gloves. As she started the car, she wondered if she’d lost her edge when it came to interviewing. She hadn’t interviewed anyone for six years.

  “Yeah, but that was a serial killer,” she told herself as she left the car park and drove through Relby. “The Eastbourne Ripper, no less. If I could handle him, I can handle a retired copper.”

  But had she actually handled Leonard Sims, the Ripper, or had he played with her the way a cat plays with a mouse it’s about to kill and devour?