by Paul Finch
Some looked relieved by that. There were several murmurs of gratitude. The inhabitants of Cragwood Keld had got quite used to Mary-Ellen in the relatively short time she’d been here; they admired her spirit and enjoyed her sense of humour, but they also liked that she was a toughie who could look after herself and, if need be, them.
However, one person who didn’t seem relieved was Burt Fillingham.
‘But this man’s got a gun,’ he said. ‘If that’s the case, he could force his way into any building. He could force his way into the police station. There’d be nothing you or PC O’Rourke could do then.’
This thought had crossed Heck’s mind too, but the last thing he wanted now was an unofficial evacuation of the village. Despite the limited numbers, it could still turn into a stampede, and in these conditions that would be fraught with difficulty and danger, and it was probably unnecessary in any case.
‘The firearms issue’s being taken care of.’
‘How?’
‘Well … I’m hoping to get a couple of firearms officers posted here for the next day or so. I haven’t had time to organise that yet, but I’m going to sort it at the first opportunity.’
‘We didn’t mention that before because we didn’t want to alarm you,’ Mary-Ellen explained.
‘What about Cragwood Ho?’ Sally O’Grady asked in a shrill tone. ‘That’s much closer to the Cradle Track than we are. And those poor people don’t even know …’
‘We’ve already made contact with Bessie Longhorn and Bill Ramsdale and have given them exactly the same advice we’re giving you,’ Heck answered.
In actual fact, that was a little white lie. They hadn’t yet been able to personally warn the folk who lived at the north end of the tarn. Mary-Ellen had tried to call, but as Bessie Longhorn didn’t even have a landline, she’d been forced to concentrate on Bill Ramsdale – from whom there’d been no reply, despite her trying three times. This wasn’t a cause for knee-jerk concern; Ramsdale was known as a guy who wouldn’t bother answering his phone if he was busy or in a mood. On the third occasion, she’d left a detailed voicemail, with a request that he pass the info on to his neighbour as well.
‘PC O’Rourke will be setting off to Cragwood Ho very soon,’ Heck added. ‘Just to check everyone there is okay.’
This wasn’t quite as much of a lie. First and foremost, Mary-Ellen had to take the police launch back across the tarn, to mark out the one crime scene they so far knew about with tape and a tent, and to preserve any potential exhibits she might find. She then had to return the launch to its shed and retrieve the Land Rover which was still sitting in the car park up at the Ho, so she’d be visiting that end of the tarn in due course anyway. Of course, this would take a little longer than they’d prefer, but there was nothing else they could do.
‘Any questions, guys?’ Heck said.
‘Yeah,’ Hazel said from behind the bar. He turned, looking at her closely for the first time since he’d made the announcement. She had noticeably paled in the cheek. ‘You haven’t told us much about this attack up in the fells. What’s the reason for it?’
‘We don’t know,’ Heck said.
‘You said the victims were two girls. I mean, was … was it sexual?’
‘Yet again …’
‘He doesn’t know,’ Burt Fillingham replied on Heck’s behalf.
‘Whether it is or isn’t, the same rules apply,’ Heck said. ‘Keep your doors and windows locked and everything will be fine.’ He turned to the rest of the pub. ‘If any of you are really worried, there’s nothing to stop you doubling up for the night. You know, sleeping in others’ houses – set up a camp bed downstairs, or whatever. Strength in numbers, as they say.’
They absorbed this quietly, which wasn’t always a good sign. But sometimes there was no alternative but to give people the facts. If there was the slightest danger, the public needed to be put on their guard.
‘We’ve also got these.’ Heck laid a bunch of contact cards on the bar-top. ‘Everyone take one, please. They’ve got direct lines to Cragwood police office and the radio suite down at Windermere. It’s also got mine and Mary-Ellen’s mobile numbers.’
‘Lot of good mobile phones are up here,’ Burt Fillingham grunted, as if the rest of them didn’t already know that.
‘It’s only until tomorrow,’ Mary-Ellen said again. ‘Seriously folks, there’s no need to be upset.’
There was a brief contemplative silence, during which the fire in the hearth crackled and spat. The thick grey mist hung so close to the window it was like a layer of dirty cotton wool pinned on the outside of the glass.
‘Okay,’ Heck said. ‘That’s it.’
With subdued murmurs, the less-than-happy band broke up, some talking together quietly, others shuffling to the door.
‘What now?’ Hazel asked Heck. ‘We can double up for the night, lie low and all that, but what are you going to do?’
‘I’ve got to go down to Kendal,’ he replied. ‘Get a report from the hospital.’
‘Okay.’ She nodded glumly.
‘Hey … M-E’s nearby. I mean, she’s got a few jobs to do first, but she’ll not be too far away. And believe me, she’s as good in a fight as any bloke I’ve ever met. On top of that, I’ll be back by tea-time, I’m sure.’
‘It’s just that I think there may be another problem.’
‘Go on.’
‘You haven’t mentioned Annie Beckwith.’
‘Beckwith?’ The name didn’t ring any bell of familiarity with Heck.
‘Oh shit, yeah,’ Mary-Ellen said quietly. ‘That’s the old lady who lives at the top of the Cradle Track.’
‘Someone lives at the top of the Track?’ Heck was astonished. He had some vague idea there was an old farm building up there, but he didn’t know someone lived in it.
Mary-Ellen nodded. ‘Bit of a local character. At least, she would be if she wasn’t so reclusive. She’s very self-sufficient. Grows her own food, makes her own clothes, keeps a chicken or two. She lives in Fellstead Grange, which was built sometime in the 1700s and hasn’t been renovated since. There’s no power, no phone, no computer, nothing. The Track leads to it, but no actual road. And she’s completely alone.’
Heck wasn’t quite sure how he was supposed to respond to this.
Hazel looked even more worried. ‘That puts her in the danger zone, doesn’t it?’
‘How far up the Track does she live?’ Heck asked.
‘About fifteen minutes’ walk. And it’s all uphill.’
‘You say she’s an old lady. How old exactly?’
‘Must be nearly eighty,’ Hazel said.
‘Seriously, and she lives up there alone?’
‘It’s her farm – she came into full ownership when her parents died.’
‘Which was about five decades ago, if I heard rightly,’ Mary-Ellen added.
‘Yeah, and now she won’t leave the place,’ Hazel said. ‘She’s been offered the market value loads of times, but she won’t sell. And why should she, Mark?’
‘Why should she? Well … how about no heating, total isolation, working the land at that age, next to no money …’
‘It’s her life,’ Mary-Ellen shrugged.
‘Well …’ He rubbed his chin. ‘She may not be in as much danger as we think. First of all, like I say, this guy might have left the area. Secondly, he may not even know she’s there. Thirdly, if he does, she may not be his type …’
‘His type?’ Hazel said. ‘So he is going for more victims?’
‘It’s way too early to make that assumption,’ Heck replied.
‘Even though you clearly have?’
‘Hazel, it’s my job to prepare for the worst. Annie Beckwith’s in a vulnerable position, and we’ll get up there at some point to check, but I’m not sure there’s anything we can do for her right at this moment.’
‘Why don’t I go up there?’ Hazel suggested.
‘What?’
‘You two have got things y
ou need to do. I know Annie better than you two, anyway. I can drive to the Ho, and walk up the Track.’
‘I’m really not sure that’s a good idea,’ Heck said. He didn’t elaborate, but his head was suddenly full of images from the Stranger enquiry back in the West Country all those years ago: ‘Police Eyes Only’ photos of female victims lying in the back seats of cars, stabbed multiple times, genitals torn, eyes gouged.
Mary-Ellen may have been thinking the same. ‘I don’t reckon it’s a good idea either, Hazel.’
Hazel glanced from one to the other. ‘Well … you can’t actually stop me.’
Hazel was a sweet woman, very patient, very quiet in her manner, but only now was Heck starting to detect the iron at the core of her independent spirit. Hazel ran her own business and led her own life. She’d been manipulated in the past by a worthless philanderer of a husband, but she couldn’t be pushed around any longer, it seemed. And yet Heck was surprised at how disquieted, not to say alarmed, this suddenly made him feel. He and Hazel had no formal arrangement together. From the outset, they’d agreed to see each other purely on a casual basis – whenever they felt like company, whenever they needed sex, with no emotional entanglement. It had suited them both, he’d thought.
Irritated, he tried to put this from his mind. ‘I can’t stop you,’ he agreed. ‘But I can ask you not to go up there … for the sake of your own safety. And because as the police officers on the scene, we’d be even more worried and distracted if you did this … which would not be a help.’
Briefly it seemed as if Hazel’s quiet but innate wilfulness would defy even this earnest request. But eventually she nodded.
‘You promise?’ Heck said.
She nodded again, though a little half-heartedly, he thought.
‘You can be more useful to us running the pub,’ Mary-Ellen said, adding a welcome dose of practical common sense. ‘People are going to feel lonely and scared this next twenty-four hours. Might be a good idea if they all pile in here, have a drink, sit round the fire together …’
‘I won’t close,’ Hazel said. ‘But I don’t think it’s going to be much of a party.’
‘Yeah, but just think of the one you’re going to have when this is over.’ Heck winked, then took her hand and squeezed it.
She greeted this with a brave smile.
‘There’s something else I want you to do,’ he said. ‘Keep your ears open.’
‘Of course …’
‘No, I mean if someone you don’t know comes into the pub. Treat them as normal, serve them ale, whatever. But if they show a propensity to whistle, take note of it.’
‘Whistle …?’
‘Don’t spread that around by the way,’ Heck added, going on to describe the harmonious whistling heard by the two hikers just before they were attacked.
‘Strangers in the Night?’ Hazel looked perplexed.
‘It may be nothing,’ Mary-Ellen said. ‘A complete red herring … but we can’t take any chances.’
‘But seriously … Strangers in the Night? That’s a love song, isn’t it?’
‘Takes all sorts, I’m afraid,’ Heck replied.
He glanced out of the window. The fog was dense and silent. Already, as instructed, everyone else had retreated to the safety and security of their homes.
‘What do you really think about Annie Beckwith?’ Mary-Ellen asked after she and Heck had stepped outside together.
He blew out a long breath. ‘Depends on our boy’s motivation, doesn’t it?’
‘You mean if he’s after a bit of crumpet, some scrawny old octogenarian’s not going to do it for him?’
‘The Stranger tended to go for the younger end of the market. Mainly went after doggers and courting couples, when the girls were dressed like porn queens. You wouldn’t have thought he’d get much of that up on the tops, especially from old ladies in run-down cottages … then again, his first known victim was an old fella living alone.’
‘A fella? The Stranger was bi?’
‘No, that wasn’t a sex attack; it was like a trial run or something. Profilers at the time theorised the offender was a wannabe killer and was testing himself, seeing if he could actually take a human life … so the old man was a target of convenience. You know: vulnerable, isolated, easy. Personally, I’m not so sure. When I’ve read the case notes, I’ve always wondered if Devon and Cornwall might already have had a seasoned killer on their hands, who happened to be between MOs.’
‘That happens?’ Mary-Ellen sounded fascinated. That was something else about her: she was always willing to learn. Heck didn’t think she’d ever asked him the same question twice.
‘Yeah, but it’s rare,’ he said. ‘Usually it’s because the law is getting close, so the offender needs to change his pattern to throw them off. Likewise, he might force himself into a prolonged fallow period, to try and make everyone think he’s gone away. You’ll have heard the phrase “he’s either left the area, died or gone to prison”?’ He chuckled grimly. ‘If only it was that simple. Course, he’d have needed a lot of self-control to pull that off, and it may have been that he was trying his best, but then came across an easy target, perhaps by accident, and couldn’t resist taking another life. That could have been the trigger that started the whole thing off again. Who knows?’
‘Where would his murders before the West Country have occurred?’ she asked.
Heck shrugged. ‘Like I say, I don’t know … I wasn’t even involved in the Stranger enquiry. The other thing is we can’t just assume it’s the same guy. The Stranger got shot, ten years have passed, yadda yadda. The chances are much higher it’s just some wandering fruitcake.’
‘Either way, it puts Annie Beckwith in danger.’
‘Not saying it doesn’t.’ Heck dug his car keys out. ‘But I’ve still got to get down to the hospital. I need to interview Tara Cook again … properly, when she’s more comfortable and coherent. Plus, I’ve got to run this lot by DI Mabelthorpe. All of which is going to take time.’
‘Well look, don’t worry about Annie,’ Mary-Ellen said. ‘I’ll go and check on her as soon as I’ve secured the crime scene and taken the boat back to the Ho. Won’t take me long to get up the Track.’
Briefly, Heck doubted that, wondering if for once her enthusiasm might have outstripped her actual abilities. It would be a tall order getting through that list of jobs before the late-autumn darkness descended. Securing the crime scene alone would be a complex task for an officer flying solo – first checking for any clues they’d missed, such as bullet fragments that might have bled out from the wound, not to mention the basics: deploying the incident tape, erecting the forensics tent, establishing a common entry point – which in its turn would necessitate finding an anchorage on the lake shore a sufficient distance away from the scene to prevent contamination, and so on. And that was assuming Mary-Ellen was able to find the right place, which wouldn’t be easy in this murk, and then get ashore with all the correct gear. The mind boggled. But at the end of the day, someone had to get up there, so it might as well be the young power-pack he was so fortunate to have at his beck and call. Of course, despite Mary-Ellen’s fearless approach and physical super-efficiency, Heck still wasn’t completely comfortable sending her over there alone. It was difficult to imagine the assailant would still be hanging around on the east shore after all this time, if he’d even come down from the fells in the first place. But even a small percentage chance was something to worry about. And yet what else could they do? It was needs must; the crime scene had to be secured, and at present they could only spare one officer to take this duty on.
‘Okay …’ He started walking. ‘Don’t mess around though. Once all that’s done, we need you back at the nick.’
‘We wanted big crime, didn’t we, Heck?’ she called after him. ‘The real deal?’
‘I always do,’ he replied, glancing back. ‘And then, when it happens, it always scares the crap out of me.’
Chapter 7
Don�
�t be a dick.
It was a simple, straightforward concept; nothing vague or ambiguous about it. It was also the tenet by which professional people, authors especially, were supposed to lead their lives. As a professional author you could never rely on your talent alone. The fact you had talent was only the start point. Beyond that, you required the skills of a good agent, a good editor, a good publisher, and a good bookseller. And it was these individuals, in whose equal interest it was that you be successful, whose instincts you had to take consideration of and not live in a constant state of hostility towards, or behave as if you were only tolerating their involvement under extreme sufferance. It also helped if you were nice to your readers. Okay, it might be disappointing that there weren’t millions of them, but even a few thousand could trumpet your cause effectively these days thanks to social networking, so it rarely paid to be disdainful of them, or rude and dismissive whenever they managed to make contact.
Of course, on reflection, most of this could be filed under Common Sense.
Hence that oft-quoted phrase: ‘Don’t be a dick.’
The problem was that Bill Ramsdale rarely adhered to this rule, as he rarely adhered to any rule, for the simple reason he considered himself above the mundane conventions of normal life. He knew that such rebellious notions would do him no good long-term, and it infuriated him. But then lots of things infuriated Bill Ramsdale. As Professor of English Language and Literature, formerly of Birkbeck College, he knew he ought to have a deeper insight into the human condition than he actually did. But that had never been the case, even when he was teaching. If students hadn’t been annoying him, it was his wife, Joan, or his mistress, Tamsyn, a third-year student who’d become increasingly demanding of his time and attention – and all the while, he’d been trying to write that novel, which he eventually had done, though no thanks to those around him.
