by Paul Finch
‘Sure.’
‘Why are you here?’
Despite her previous comment, which had felt like a deliberate barb designed to irritate him, Heck was more curious about her interest in this case than hostile. He supposed he ought to feel hostile. At the end of the day, he was the one who held the moral high ground. At least, in his own mind he did.
‘Surely the real question is, why did you contact me?’ she replied.
‘As a courtesy.’
She peered through the windscreen. Fog eddied past. ‘Since when have you shown me any courtesy, Heck?’
‘Just seemed the right thing to do, to let you know what was going on. And … well … I was maybe thinking about picking your brains.’
‘You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?’ Gemma pursed her lips in that stern, humourless way of hers when approaching a problem she’d already figured out. ‘That tone you used on the phone. I’ve heard it before. About a thousand times. It was your tally-ho tone.’
‘My what?’
‘Your eager-beaver tone, your raring-to-go tone, your “we’re onto something here, ma’am” tone.’
‘Well if it was … I’ve had more time to think about it since.’
‘So now you don’t think we’re dealing with the Stranger?’
‘That was my first idea, but I’m still undecided. You must admit, it seems unlikely.’
‘Well, just in case it’s worrying you, I still won’t consider this a wasted trip. This is what we do in Serial Crimes, Heck … I didn’t think you’d have forgotten so soon. One of the criteria for the murder cases we consult on is odd. You know … unusual, weird. And now we’re looking at what … a dead man walking? They don’t come much weirder than that.’
‘This isn’t officially a murder case.’
‘Do you believe it isn’t?’
‘No ma’am, I certainly don’t believe that.’
Tara Cook’s description of the attack on her friend, Jane Dawson, had been pretty graphic, even if her view of it had been obscured by fog. She’d talked about repeated blows with a heavy stone. She’d also placed special emphasis on that eerie whistling, which she’d said had persisted for ages as they were trailed across the fell. It was difficult to imagine that had all been part of some workaday mugging.
‘Doesn’t matter anyway,’ Gemma said. ‘I’ve already spoken to Detective Chief Superintendent Wilcox. I called him while I was on the train.’
Heck realised he ought to have expected that. Alan Wilcox was senior supervisor at Cumbria Crime Command. It was typical of Gemma to go straight to the top.
‘He doesn’t see that me being on the plot can hurt the investigation,’ she added.
‘So long as SCU are writing your cheques, eh?’
‘See … you do have a grasp of the job’s political dimensions, after all.’
‘It still begs the question, ma’am, why you’re here? As in you personally. I mean, if this was just another SCU dig-out, you’d have sent some of your minions. Gary or Shawna, or whichever DS you’ve got in to replace me.’
‘I got no one in to replace you, Heck. As of now, that post is still open.’
For some reason that pleased him, though he didn’t quite know why. Several weeks ago he’d finally – after a few days of introspective self-brutalisation – admitted to himself that he was missing the Serial Crimes Unit. Not just the action, but the whole thing: the chaos, the noise, the frenetic atmosphere of life at the sharpest tip of British law enforcement. But he was damned if he was going back to the bastards, cap in hand. He was bloody damned if he was! As far as Heck was concerned, his absence from Scotland Yard was punishing Gemma. It wasn’t the other way around.
‘The question stands,’ he said.
‘Does it really?’ She glanced sidelong at him. ‘You were more aware than most, Heck, that I was one of the investigators on the Stranger taskforce? That I got closer to him than anyone else – intimately, in fact. Bearing that in mind, would it make sense to send someone else instead? Someone who wasn’t even there?’
Regardless of this eminently reasonable explanation, Heck persisted. ‘I was wondering if it was more to do with this being the one that’s always bugged you … you know, if this was the one that got away?’
‘Rather like you and the Nice Guys, you mean?’
‘Not to put too fine a point on it, yes.’
The whole crux of Heck’s bitter argument with Gemma two and a half months ago had concerned the hunt for the Nice Guys. A team of ex-military personnel with severely blotted copybooks, the Nice Guys had set themselves up as a professional rape club. Heck had hunted them down on two different occasions, obsessively refusing to give up the chase until he’d put an end to their operations in the UK, several times flouting the very laws he’d first joined the police to uphold. But now he was fascinated to know if Gemma had a few obsessions of her own.
‘The Stranger can’t be regarded as anything other than the one who got away,’ she grudgingly said. ‘As you’re perfectly well aware, I shot him in the chest. From point-blank range. It’s a mystery he made it any distance at all, let alone completely vanished.’
‘A mystery it’s long been your personal ambition to crack, eh?’
‘It’s a bit more than just personal ambition, Heck. This was one of the worst murder cases in British history, and though it’s now officially closed, not many of us who worked on it actually feel that way.’
‘You suspected he was still alive then?’
‘No … I just didn’t know where he was, or what had happened to him. None of us did. It was a very dissatisfying way for the enquiry to end.’
‘All that work, eh? All that worry and risk … for no tangible result?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘If only you’d been given a bit more time and space to look it over, eh? To see if there was something you’d missed? Some way to bring closure?’
She shrugged, and they drove on in silence. Having reached the north end of Windermere, they were back on the A593, heading west towards Clappersgate and Skelwith Bridge. The scene of the major accident earlier had been cleared, but a sprinkling of glass and other detritus sparkled in their headlights as they rumbled past.
‘You know, Gemma,’ Heck said slowly, ‘you hauled me over the sodding coals because I felt exactly the same way about the Nice Guys Club …’
‘It’s not the same thing, Heck! Now stop right there!’ She aimed a warning finger at him. ‘You went AWOL on two occasions to catch the Nice Guys. That’s two occasions more than any other police officer in this country would get away with. And I covered your back both times.’
‘You couldn’t very well do anything else. The first time you signed off on it, the second time I could have gone to the newspapers and told them everything I knew.’
‘The point is you broke some of our most sacred rules, and in so doing endangered not just yourself but other police officers and members of the public.’
‘The only ones who died, ma’am, died because the Nice Guys murdered them.’
‘You were like a man possessed. You were at war.’
Gemma paused as the road ahead rose steeply. They hadn’t passed another vehicle for several minutes now – sure proof they were returning to the high country. As the streetlamps fell behind, the fog thickened until it was more like smog flowing from a hundred funeral pyres. Heck turned his full beams on, though the extra intensity made little headway through the sluggish vapour.
‘That’s not what’s happening here,’ she added. ‘I’ve travelled up to Cumbria to assess the evidence, such as it is, and then give you any assistance I can … on the basis I’ve spent many years as a homicide investigator, and that I have a unique personal experience of the so-called Stranger. Now, is that alright with you?’
‘You’ve got a bee in your bonnet.’
‘I have not got a bee in my bonnet!’ Her temper finally flared. ‘You say that one more time, DS Heckenburg, and I’ll have you kic
ked out of Cumbria too!’
‘You think they could get anyone else to work CID in this wilderness?’ Heck laughed without humour. ‘Due west from here it’s seventeen miles to the coast. The entire population that whole distance is probably no more than a hundred.’
‘You don’t seriously expect me to feel sorry for you?’
‘No, I suppose not. But I don’t feel sorry for you either.’
‘Loath though I am to ask … what do you mean by that?’
‘Well ma’am, you may think you’ll enjoy bringing the benefit of your experience to us carrot-crunchers, but look at this lot …’ By necessity, they’d now slowed to less than ten miles an hour. Only a few feet of road were visible in front. To either side, they caught hints of grassy, stony verges. The rest was obsidian blackness. ‘Whether you’re here to consult or actually investigate, you can trust me on one thing … this isn’t going to be fun.’
Chapter 10
Bessie was glad she didn’t have animals anymore. When her mother had lived up here with her, they’d kept a goat and some chickens. It had only been one of Bessie’s many duties to feed and look after those gentle creatures, but it had been the one she’d enjoyed the most. Now however, in terrible weather like this, it would have been quite difficult. It wasn’t that Bessie was too frightened to go outside. Fog was just fog – it was cold mist, and they got lots of it up here in the Cradle – but when you couldn’t see anything, even your own back garden felt different and strange. Despite having a torch to hand, she doubted she’d easily be able to find the coop where the chickens had once roosted, or the shed where she’d used to milk the goat.
At present, she was settled down in her cosy little living room in front of the television, with a nice fire in the grate and a pile of darning next to her on the couch. It wasn’t her favourite task – despite her mother putting in long hours trying to teach her, Bessie simply wasn’t very good with a needle and thread – but it needed to be done, and she was happy to get on with it, because keeping busy was very important. That said, it was still difficult to ignore the black-grey nothingness outside. She kept trooping to the little window next to her front door and peeking out, hoping for signs the fog was dissipating. She certainly hoped it would have gone by tomorrow, because she was due to make a trip to Cragwood Keld to see if there were any odd jobs she could do, while there were also some bits of shopping she needed to pick up. All that, and the weekly village bus service wasn’t due for another three days. The last thing she wanted was to walk down that lonely tarn-side road in a pea-souper like this. It was bad enough when it was so cold that the road was slippery with ice, but this was the worst – when you couldn’t see anything or anyone, and could only hear your own breathing and your own footsteps. She shivered just to think of it.
It pleased her that she’d be able to ask Constable O’Rourke when the fog was expected to clear. The police officers would be bringing their launch back at some point soon this evening, and they’d definitely know about the weather. It was quite unusual for the police to be out on the tarn for this long – by Bessie’s reckoning they’d had the boat almost the whole of the day. She glanced at the big wooden clock on the mantel, and was surprised to see that it was after six. Yes, that was a long time for the police to have their boat out, but Bessie knew it was an important job they had to do. Those poor missing lasses. Presumably the officers would have to keep looking for them, whatever had happened. It might be ages yet. And there was no reason to get worried either, because being the police, they weren’t likely to run into trouble. They would certainly know how to look after themselves, especially Sergeant Heckenburg.
Bessie blushed cherry-red just thinking of him. That warm feeling flooded through her again. She knew what it meant, and that it was probably a hopeless thing, but it was all new to her and very, very nice. It had happened the first time she’d seen him, two and a half months ago, and on all the occasions since. As such, Bessie took every opportunity she could to talk to him. And he always chatted back. He was never cold or stuffy with her, the way other people tended to be, even those she was looking to do chores for. Okay, maybe he was sometimes a little distant, like he had stuff on his mind, but that was understandable. He had lots to do. Especially today, with those two missing girls. That thought made her wonder again why they were so late getting back. It occurred to her that maybe Heck and Mary-Ellen had already got back and she hadn’t noticed, though normally she’d have heard the boat as it came chugging into the boathouse, and nearly always in the past Constable O’Rourke had knocked on the door to let her know and to give her the key.
Bessie crossed her cluttered living room to the window. On the other side, the fog was solid – as if a blank wall had been erected only a couple of feet away. She went through to her tiny kitchen to peer out of the small window over the sink. This one looked down towards the boathouse, but there was less chance of seeing anything down there. Even if the boat was docking at this moment, she was unlikely to notice, as its lights wouldn’t be able to penetrate the fog. She hung around for a minute or so before going back to the living room. She’d already made herself some peanut butter and jam sandwiches, but she wasn’t hungry yet, so she settled back in front of the telly to continue darning and watch the game shows.
These were the programmes she liked the best. She liked films too and most television shows, though some of those could get a bit scary, and that wasn’t ideal at this time of year, with the long dark nights and no holiday-makers in any of the other cottages. Winter could be a difficult time when she only had Mr Ramsdale to share it with.
There was a loud rapping on the door.
Though she’d been half expecting this, Bessie jumped off her sofa and hurried across the room. She lifted the latch and opened the front door, expecting the police officers to be on the step, but seeing only swirling fog.
Puzzled, Bessie stuck her head out, looking left and right. Nobody was there. It didn’t bother her too much. One of them had probably just nipped around the front to knock on the door and let her know they were here and had now returned to the boathouse. Bessie would meet them down there. She grabbed her duffle-coat, her mittens and her hat, and dashed through the kitchen, drawing the bolt on the back door and stepping out.
There was less light on this side of the house, so the fog was almost black. She took the torch from her coat pocket and switched it on. But the beam illuminated nothing.
‘Hello, I’m here!’ Bessie shouted as she blundered forward, feeling her way down the gentle slope of the garden with cautious steps.
In these conditions, she didn’t expect that she’d be able to see the lights from the boat, even though it was only about thirty yards away. But it surprised her that she didn’t hear anything. If the boat was already in the shed with its engine turned off, she’d have thought she’d at least be able to hear their voices.
But she heard nothing.
Puzzled, she pressed on, finally reaching the boathouse – walking right into it in fact, only her outstretched hands preventing her banging her nose on its rickety timber wall – and still she couldn’t hear anyone. She shone her torch the length of the building. The entrance door stood open. It wasn’t locked while the boat was out, but she was sure she’d closed it earlier. In fact, she knew she had. She moved forward curiously. This surely meant they were here. Yet, again, why could she not hear them? Why could she not see any lights from the open door?
‘Sergeant Heckenburg?’ she said, sticking her head through.
Bessie’s voice echoed from the hollow chamber. Her torchlight struck rippling liquid shadows from the muddy water in the docking bay – but then caught something else. To Bessie’s astonishment, the boat was in there, moored, and yet riding so low that it was partially submerged. In fact, it was largely submerged. Only the tops of its gunwales were visible above the surface. She couldn’t even think how this might have happened; she had a vague idea the craft must have sunk while it was in here, or else how would
they have brought it back? Another thing caught her attention.
On the opposite side of the boatshed interior was something completely new. At first she had to blink because she thought she was seeing things in the gloom – but it looked like big handwriting on the wall opposite; graffiti of some sort. She shone her torch over it.
REMEMBER ME?
Bessie was utterly bemused. The two words meant nothing to her. Remember who? And from when? And how had the graffiti artist even got in here?
But she didn’t stay bemused for long, before another emotion slowly took over.
The large spiky letters, which were at least half a foot tall each, were bright red. Crimson, even. And they’d dribbled a little.
Paint might dribble, or ink – but she knew without needing to be told that this message was composed of neither of those innocent substances.
All Bessie could think about as she stumbled wordlessly out through the boathouse door was those two missing lasses on the fells. Good God, what had happened to them? Oh good Lord … good, good Lord! Was the same terrible thing about to happen here?
The breath groaned out of her as she staggered blindly up the garden, stabbing the torch wildly in every direction. She ran into her back door the way she’d almost run into the boathouse, though this time she didn’t stop in time. Her nose smashed on the hard oak planking, spattering it with gore. She barked her knees as well, and yet none of this meant anything to her. Nor did the fact the door was now mysteriously closed and locked.
Bessie wheezed frantically as she toppled around the side of the house. It didn’t matter about the back door. The front door would still be open. She could get inside that way, and then she could lock it behind her, and she’d be safe.
But the front door wasn’t open either.
When she finally reached it, it too had been closed, its latch falling into place on the other side. She beat on it madly, squawking – making that terrible sound she’d tried to restrain for so long. That sound she’d only got on top of as a young teenager, when her mother had said it made her sound like Jemima Puddle-Duck.
