Dead End

by Dead End (retail) (epub)

  He dragged her by the legs and she left a trail of bloody saliva along the floor as freedom slipped away from her and she was dumped back into the room. He walked out and slammed the door, locking it.

  Only one thing kept her from giving up.

  When she’d screamed, a faint echo had reverberated around the bleak corridor; but it hadn’t been an echo, Hannah was dead certain of that.

  It had been Sophie, replying to her call.

  Chapter 41

  After one of the driest months of May on record, the afternoon saw angry, black clouds gather over the northern fells and torrential rain battered the thirsty hillside. Brilliant sunshine gave way to a tempestuous downpour and turned the dusty tracks to mud, and the withered waterfalls to cascades. From the warmth of Kelly’s bed, Johnny listened to the flood bouncing off roofs and pouring down street drains. He was on call and it never ceased to amaze him how many walkers remained determined to hike in such shit weather. What was the point? It was as if they enjoyed pitting themselves against a giant opponent, to see if they could triumph over it.

  The thought of Kelly beneath him in her bed would keep him warm as he and his colleagues in mountain rescue braced themselves for the night ahead, knowing that anyone caught in such a storm would likely find themselves in trouble. On days like this, Cumbria became a canvas paused. Boats stayed attached to their jetties, ice cream shops closed, outdoor furniture remained stacked against walls, and the hills fell silent. In late May, the rest of the country were cleaning their barbecues, but in the Lake District, shops sold out of cagoules.

  Plenty of walkers had remained optimistic right up until midday, determined to plough ahead despite the surprise warnings. But by two o’clock, no one began any new walks, and hikers spilled off the mountains into pubs to steam-dry walking gear and eat hot meals. Red noses and ruddy cheeks glowed in the bars and restaurants, and walkers shared stories of when the rain had hit.

  Beda Fell wasn’t a particularly hard hike, but in weather like this it was easy to become disorientated. When the call came in from two walkers up there unable to see which way they’d come, Johnny was the first to be reached by radio. He showered quickly and gathered his things.

  From Pooley Bridge, the drive to Boredale would probably take him twenty minutes, if the roads were clear. Dusk had begun to fall, and he called in to the operator for an update. She said the walkers were getting cold and couldn’t find shelter. She’d advised them to find a rock and shelter from the wind.

  ‘Have they got waterproofs?’ he’d asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know, Johnny, you just can’t tell these numpties. They think, a walk in the hills, how romantic, then bang, they’re lost; no water, no whistle, no food and no map. Idiots.’

  ‘Any landmarks?’ he asked.

  ‘They started at St Martin’s Church and took the usual route, but the weather came in before they summited, so they could be anywhere.’

  ‘How far do they think they wandered?’ he asked.

  ‘An hour.’

  ‘Great, they could be in Grizedale by now. OK, give me their number.’

  Johnny could smell north from south, but he took a whistle and compass everywhere with him. Before mobile phones, it could take days to find someone; this couple were lucky.

  He called the number on speaker as he drove along Ullswater’s eastern shore. He knew that was where he was even if he couldn’t see it. He couldn’t see anything. He’d have to rely on instinct tonight. He felt the anger of the lake, and hoped no one was out on it.

  He parked at St Martin’s Church. The car park was deserted as expected, except for one other car, which he assumed belonged to the lost walkers. He peered inside and noticed waterproofs and a map on the passenger seat. He shook his head.

  He began the ascent quickly, wasting no more time.

  Howe Grain Beck was a rapid, swirling mass of angry water, and Johnny assessed it as he crossed Christy Bridge. Within thirty minutes, he was on the summit of Winter Crag. The couple had described a place of large scattered rocks, and he figured this was where they were. He shouted into the grey bleakness and heard voices.

  ‘Help! Over here!’

  He dialled their number again, and it worked, thank God; it could be hit-and-miss up here.

  ‘On three, both of you shout as loudly as you can,’ he told them. ‘One, two, three.’

  ‘HELP! HERE!’

  Johnny closed his eyes. They were to the east. He dropped down a few feet and listened again.

  ‘HERE!’

  They were closer. He shone his torch, and the wind stopped briefly, allowing the noise to travel easier. There they were, behind a boulder, waving their arms. He walked over to them and introduced himself.

  ‘Johnny Frietz, mountain rescue. How are you? Anyone injured?’ he shouted over the wind.

  They were uninjured, but cold and thirsty, as well as terrified. There was nothing like getting lost on the fells to give amateurs a healthy respect for nature and her capabilities. He opened his backpack and gave them water. Next he got out two large waterproof jackets and two Tracker bars, which they devoured hungrily.

  ‘It’s all right, we’ll have you down soon,’ he said.

  The helicopter was busy on Skiddaw. A hiker had fallen down a gully and broken his leg. His friend had tried to reach him, only to fall too and break his foot.

  The night closed in and the sky grew darker. The couple shivered and held onto one another. Johnny instructed them to follow his every step, and tied a guide rope to both of them. Eventually they found lower ground and the gradient began to even out. They heard rushing water, and the light from Johnny’s torch made Howe Grain Beck look like an oily slick of waves.

  ‘Jesus!’ He halted. ‘Wait here. Don’t move. I just need to check the bridge.’

  The couple sat down and cradled a torch between them. This would be a story they’d share many times over from the safety of their flat once they were home.

  Johnny couldn’t be sure what it was, but he’d spotted something. Whatever it was, it didn’t belong here. He approached cautiously and saw it again. His heart raced, and as he shone the torch around, he saw a flash of red and white.

  It could be a mannequin. But mannequins didn’t have eyes like that. And they didn’t bloat like that. It was stuck under the bridge on the other side, and seemed to be wedged in by branches. Had it come from downstream?

  The wind changed and he caught the smell of rotting flesh. He’d smelled it in Iraq. It was sweet, and stuck to the inside of his nostrils.

  He called the desk.

  ‘Julie. Phone the police. The walkers? No, they’re OK. But I think I’ve found a body. A woman under Christy Bridge. No, I’m not fucking joking.’

  He made his way back to the shivering couple, and guided them across the bridge to St Martin’s and back to their car, taking care to keep them facing away from the corpse. They remained oblivious to what he’d just discovered.

  ‘You can follow me back down. Where are you staying?’ he asked.

  ‘Penrith.’

  ‘Well come back to the centre with me and we’ll get you checked over, then you can have a shower and something substantial to eat.’

  The last thing Johnny wanted to do was babysit, but he had a duty. He needed a stiff drink. He’d drop the walkers off at the centre and knock off for the night.

  But first he needed to call Kelly.

  * * *

  The nearest on-duty constable to St Martin’s Church received the call at three minutes before ten. He waited for a medic and they left Pooley Bridge together. Blues weren’t required on the narrow lanes, but a break in the weather would have been helpful.

  It was a hell of a storm. The constable parked at St Martin’s, and they grabbed torches and macs out of the boot then followed the path to Christy Bridge. They’d only gone ten yards and they were wet through.

  ‘Haven’t seen rain like this for a few years,’ sai
d the constable, who’d just been about to knock off shift. His girlfriend would be pissed off.

  ‘Was it a genuine call?’ asked the medic. He’d seen plenty of cases of dead bodies being sighted under bushes and in lakes, only to find them either hoaxes or bits of plastic.

  ‘Mountain rescue guy called it in, so it sounds legitimate.’

  The sky was oily black and the water loud. They were close. The constable’s radio crackled, but he barely heard it. He knew the area and was familiar with the bridge but they couldn’t see anything from this side. As they crossed the bridge, they spotted her. She was trapped inside a tangle of branches.

  The medic would have to get close enough to pronounce her dead. They had waders in the car, and the constable went back to get them. He also radioed HQ in Penrith. They wouldn’t be able to touch the body until forensics came. He prayed that someone was on shift, otherwise he might be shafted with staying with the body for hours. He needn’t have worried; he was told that DI Porter was almost there.

  He returned to the beck and they both put on waders. The water was fast, but not too deep, and so they found a footing easily. When they reached her, it was clear that the body was human, and that she was very dead. It wasn’t the first dead body the constable had seen, but it was the first victim of murder. He wasn’t being fanciful, nor was he jumping to conclusions: she had deep wounds around her wrists, and a large amount of bruising to her face. She was naked apart from a grubby sweater that was half hanging off her body. She hadn’t gone for a late-night swim and drowned, that much was clear. He didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off her.

  The medic pronounced life extinct, and they made their way back to dry land. Back in the car, they filled out paperwork and waited. The vehicle steamed up and the constable wished he’d thought to bring coffee. He kept the car running so they could listen to the radio, and stay warm.

  In the distance there was the familiar flash of an ambulance car, followed by an unmarked car, making their way to the car park. A medic and a forensic officer jumped out and strode across. Behind them, a plain-clothes officer got out of her vehicle. Blimey, that was quick, thought the constable.

  ‘Night shift is on its way so you can go home soon. We’ll make a start.’ The officer flashed her badge. DI Kelly Porter. ‘Have you got waders?’ she asked the medic and his forensic colleague.

  ‘Yup.’ They carried large boxes full of equipment for processing a crime scene, and though much could be done by torchlight, they’d have to come back tomorrow. Pity the poor sods who got to guard her tonight, thought the constable. He’d had a lucky escape as he’d only finished nights two days ago. Result. Which was more than could be said for the deceased, who was going nowhere.

  DI Porter asked for a pair of waders.

  ‘Ma’am, do you think that’s a good idea?’ He looked at her skirt.

  She held out her hands. One of the medics walked to the back of the vehicle and handed her waders and a waterproof.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, slipping them on over her skirt suit.

  * * *

  They waded into the water. Even through the thick insulated plastic, Kelly could feel the piercing cold of the rushing water.

  They’d have to wait until daylight to free her, and forensic information would be difficult to collect. Collecting crime-scene information on dry land was bad enough, but from water it was a nightmare. Kelly doubted there’d be anything left at all. But she wasn’t here to see a factory operation of bagging and tagging for the lab. She was here to see the face of the victim.

  ‘Jesus,’ one of the officers said quietly. Even hardened investigators were capable of shock.

  ‘She’s badly swollen,’ the other said.

  Close behind, Kelly got her first glimpse of the body and sighed when she saw the state of it. The dead, staring eyes and the contrast between the girl’s naked white flesh and the soiled sweater made her clench her fists. They’d need DNA and family ID, but there was no doubt in Kelly’s mind: she was looking into the face of Freya Hamilton. The top she wore had once been red, and she could make out the familiar lettering where it was folded and smeared with mud: GAP.

  Chapter 42

  The Howtown campsite was shrouded in darkness.

  Jack Sentry had got rid of his last campers this morning, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before the detectives came back with a warrant for his office, if not his own arrest. They’d worked out his connections with the Peak’s Bay and it wouldn’t take much digging to find out just how much time he’d spent with Freya Hamilton and Abi Clarence. It had started as a bit of fun. All these girls were the same: desperate for more money to spend on fake nails and hair highlights. The drugs were a fringe benefit. Christ, they’d got higher than Helvellyn in that place, and he was sure the uniforms would soon be breathing down his neck.

  He’d had a feeling it might end like this.

  He packed quickly and checked his passport. He’d cleaned up, he was sure. But he regretted the fact that he’d snooped around in the girls’ tent and taken a few keepsakes. The odd bra and pair of panties wasn’t enough to nail him for their disappearance, but the British judicial system had a nasty habit of favouring little girls who were exploited by sexual predators. Not that he was one of those! But he was taking no more chances.

  A box underneath the desk containing cash deposits he’d hidden from HMRC over the last three years had around three thousand pounds in it. His hands shook slightly. He looked at his computer: he needed to destroy it. He decided he’d break it down and throw the parts into motorway café bins.

  He took a final look around, wiping prints from any smooth surface as he went, then heaved a large rucksack onto his shoulder, making sure his hunting knife was where he’d packed it. He left the office and looked up at the black sky. It was time to move on. The phone call from Cheryl Gregory had been the last warning. She hadn’t called him in months. He no longer had any use for her – she was a dull shag anyhow – but there was no doubt in his mind that they’d got to her.

  He started his car and pulled out of the car park as slowly and quietly as he could, without any lights. The road that led to Pooley Bridge was deserted, and soon he’d be on the M6, heading south from Junction 40. His thoughts had been of only one thing since DI Porter and her sidekick thug had last interviewed him: where he should go.

  He’d come upon the ruin one beautiful sunny afternoon. It was off the beaten track, and had probably been there for a few hundred years. It was perfect. Hidden amongst millions of years of rock formation and glacial shift, noise muffled easily and they’d partied hard. Too hard perhaps, but ecstasy came at a price. He thought about Cheryl again. He’d grown bored of her quickly; she wasn’t really his type, but she’d been convenient at the time, when he’d had a dry patch. He knew where she worked now, and he’d seen her a couple of times in Penrith. She still looked nervous. He toyed with the idea of driving over there just to make sure.

  As he pulled away, his thoughts turned to Freya and Abi. He’d taken them both up there. Whacked on volumes of substances that made even his toes curl, they’d both been fit for nothing but a few high-stake games. The place was warm and remote, and he’d taken hotel bedding for their comfort, not that they noticed. No one seemed to lay claim to it, but the fireplace was clean and the chimney stable, and he’d built a fire. They’d got loaded in front of it and he’d got carried away.

  Not his problem. Any girl already hooked on smack was a disaster waiting to happen, and they should have taken more care. The photographs shown to him by the detectives were a revelation: both taken way before the drugs had wreaked havoc. A less keen eye wouldn’t have spotted their addiction as easily as he, but he was an old hand and knew what they craved.

  Now, he had two options: hide or be caught. He couldn’t afford the latter.

  There was no choice.

  The M6 was quiet. He hated it normally. It was the longest and dullest road in Britain; no wonder people fell
asleep at the wheel. The odd lorry with foreign number plates hugged the middle lane, and he overtook them, gesturing a wank as he passed. At this rate he’d be on the M25 before breakfast. He considered his options, running through countries in his head and thinking about the ones that had poor relations with the UK, or dodgy extradition agreements: Turkey, Egypt, Argentina. Fuck the Middle East; he dismissed that outright. He also had to balance it with who would let him work. He had to survive, after all. With his knowledge, he could disappear into any wilderness, but it would be tricky in a foreign country, and he would struggle to avoid detection. He wasn’t a spy, and he only had one passport.

  He slowed the car. He was being stupid; he was leaving the place he knew better than anywhere in the world. He could easily hide in the Lakes and keep himself going. He knew enough farms, dairies and fishing lakes to stay alive, and he could butcher. A motorway café was advertised for a mile ahead. He’d pull off and think it through. He’d grown his beard, and his hair was shaggy; he wore bulky clothes to hide his athleticism, and glasses with clear lenses. Mr Ordinary.

  He ordered coffee, bought a prawn-mayo sandwich and sat with his back to the seating area. His computer lay in pieces in the bin in the car park. Next, he’d have to dump his car. If he left it near an airport, they’d think he’d gone abroad, and that would give him more time. He wasn’t far from the Manchester junction. He could hitch from there.

  He felt calm now he had a plan. As long as he stayed ahead of the detectives, he could remain safe and anonymous. He would love to be around to see DI Porter’s face when she found out she’d missed him. That would be almost as satisfying as going back and doing it all again.

  Chapter 43

  Zachary couldn’t sleep. He was scared to.

  He got out of bed and took his dressing gown from behind the door. The house was cold. As yet, he had no idea as to the state of his finances. He’d never got involved, and why would he? Grandpa had taken care of all of that. He had still been as sharp as ever at ninety-five, and showed no signs of slowing down. The solicitor in Penrith had called and asked Zac to come to the office, but he hadn’t gone. That would be an acknowledgement that Grandpa was never coming back. Then there was the funeral.