Dead Man Walking

by Paul Finch

  Hazel had to fight down a pang of revulsion. The place was clearly unfit for human habitation as it was, but if it was crawling with rats as well …

  A furry, grey body scuttled along the mantel, casting a huge, amorphous shadow as she followed it with her torch. Stubs of candles went flying to the floor, their ceramic holders shattering. The rat leapt after them and moved in a blur of speed down the passage towards the kitchen.

  There was no question, Hazel decided – they had to get the social services onto this. Annie would hate them for it, but what choice did they have?

  But this was assuming Annie was still alive.

  At least there was no sign of forced entry, or that there’d been any kind of struggle in here. Not, if Hazel was totally honest, that it would be easy to tell.

  Hazel glanced at the brown-stained ceiling, realising with a sense of deep oppression that she had yet to check the upstairs. So unwilling that it was difficult to set her legs in motion, she advanced across the room to a square entry in the facing wall, which led to other rooms, as well as the foot of the main stair. She approached it and gazed up. Even without fog, the darkness at the top was impermeable. It seemed to absorb the glow of her torch rather than retreat from it. Hazel hesitated before placing the basket of food on a side-table and, with shotgun levelled in one hand and torch extended in the other, slowly ascended. The hair was stiff on her scalp. It was actually a terrible thing she was doing here; she’d entered someone’s home uninvited, and was now processing from one area to the next with a loaded firearm. But she couldn’t leave. She’d called out and no one had responded, and with the house unlocked, implying someone was at home, she knew there was some kind of problem here. The temptation to call again was strong, but now some basic instinct advised her that stealth was a better option.

  Hazel reached the top of the staircase. The landing was all cobwebs, bare floorboards and plaster walls, the plaster so damp and dirty that it was falling away in chunks, revealing bone-like lathes underneath. Various doorways opened off it. The doorway to the room that Hazel thought Annie might use as a bedroom was at the end of a short passage on the left. When she directed her torch in that direction, the door was partly open, more blackness lurking on the other side. Someone could easily be waiting in there, watching her, and she wouldn’t see them from here.

  Despite this, Hazel trod slowly forward, only halting when she was right in front of it. Even close up, the room was hidden from view. There was insufficient space between the door and its jamb for her torch to illuminate anything beyond. But now there was something else too – a faint but rather fetid smell, like open drains.

  Hazel knew she was going to have to say something. It wasn’t the done thing to barge unannounced into someone’s private room, especially with a gun, not even if you were concerned for their wellbeing. Steeling herself in the face of an urge to hurry back downstairs and leave the building, she spoke loudly and clearly.

  ‘Annie? Are you alright in there? It’s Hazel Carter … you know, from The Witch’s Kettle down in Cragwood Keld.’

  Again there was no response, but the silence was beyond creepy. It was intense, weird; a listening silence. Despite every molecule in her body telling her to flee this odious place, Hazel propelled herself forward, pushing against the door, and as it swung open, entered with torch in one hand and shotgun balanced over the top of it.

  What she saw in there had her blinking with shock.

  And then screeching with horror.

  Chapter 12

  Heck made no attempt to conceal his annoyance. ‘She’s gone up to Fellstead Grange? On her bloody own?’

  ‘You know how stubborn Hazel can be,’ Lucy protested, almost tearfully. She’d never seen Heck shout before, so only now was it dawning on her how serious this might be. ‘She’s all sweetness and light usually, but when you try to stop her doing something, she just won’t listen.’

  ‘And you tried?’

  ‘Course I tried!’

  ‘Great! Just bloody great!’

  He’d have said more – he felt like bellowing the pub down – but what purpose would that serve? In addition, he sensed they had an audience. They were standing at the bar in The Witch’s Kettle. Having driven past the police station, where they spotted McGurk and Heggarty’s Astra patrol car parked outside, and at least one of the two uniforms moving about inside, Heck and Gemma had driven on to the pub so that she could book in, take a quick shower and get changed. The villagers were still gathered around the fire, but all conversation between them had ceased as they listened in fascination.

  ‘Let’s go somewhere private,’ Heck said.

  Lucy, looking more than a little worried, lifted the hatch on the bar and moved to the kitchen door.

  ‘Do you have an update for us, sergeant?’ Burt Fillingham asked loudly.

  ‘No, I’m sorry everyone,’ Heck replied. ‘Except to say that no news is good news, eh?’ That didn’t sound convincing even to his own ears, and Heck was an expert at lying to himself. ‘If it’s any consolation, folks, this is Detective Superintendent Piper … from Scotland Yard. She’s one of the top homicide investigators in Britain, and we’ve got her for the duration of this enquiry.’

  Gemma, cool and unruffled as always, nodded politely.

  ‘And does that make us any safer?’ Bella McCarthy asked, her voice made brasher than usual by the number of G&Ts she’d plied herself with over the last hour.

  ‘You’ll be perfectly safe as long as you do what I tell you,’ Heck replied. ‘Which is to stay together behind locked doors.’

  ‘Stay together in here, you mean?’ Ted Haveloc asked. He too was beside the bar, having ordered his sixth pint of Buttermere Gold. ‘Seems like a plan.’

  ‘It is a plan, actually,’ Heck said, glancing at Lucy, implying they were all likely to be a lot safer together in here, rather than dispersed through their own cottages. ‘How late were you planning on staying open for?’

  She shrugged. ‘Hazel’s the boss, and she’s not here.’

  ‘Well, everyone stay in the pub for the time being,’ Heck said. He circled the bar with Gemma, and followed Lucy into the kitchen. ‘What happened?’ he asked, once they were out of earshot of the others.

  Lucy still looked scared. ‘I don’t know why she suddenly decided she was going up there. I think she’s been worried about Annie for some time.’

  ‘Funny how it all came to a head tonight.’

  Lucy’s cheeks coloured. ‘Well, there is a killer on the loose …’

  ‘We don’t know that,’ Gemma interjected calmly. ‘So far we’ve got one case of GBH, and it wasn’t fatal. Why don’t we all just relax a little, eh?’

  ‘On the subject of which,’ Heck said quietly, consciously making an effort to calm himself down, ‘it might be a good idea to close the bar.’

  Lucy looked surprised. ‘But you just said …’

  ‘Let them stay in the pub, by all means. But it’s not going to do us any good if they all get smashed out of their communal tree.’

  ‘There isn’t much to do in The Witch’s Kettle if you can’t drink,’ Lucy said. ‘Hazel’s never had a telly in here.’

  ‘Obviously your granddad never took you around the pubs when you were a nipper.’ Heck headed back to the door. ‘Give them some dominoes and a few bags of crisps … they’ll be fine.’

  ‘Where are you going now?’ Lucy asked, dismayed they were leaving so soon.

  ‘Back to the nick to see what’s been happening,’ Heck replied. ‘And then up to Fellstead Grange to bring your bloody auntie back, hopefully with Annie Beckwith in tow.’

  ‘Just be careful … Hazel’s got that shotgun. You know … the one she’s not supposed to have.’

  The two cops halted and glanced at each other. Lucy’s cheeks turned even pinker as she wondered if she’d spoken out of turn.

  ‘That’s something, I suppose,’ Heck finally said.

  ‘Yeah, but there are only two shells for it,’ Luc
y said.

  ‘Let’s hope she doesn’t fire them off willy-nilly.’

  ‘Let’s hope she doesn’t fire them at all,’ Gemma stated, ‘if she’s not supposed to have this weapon.’ She eyed Heck closely. ‘Did you know about it?’

  ‘Hazel’s a special case,’ he said. ‘She’s not a criminal. But I’ll give her a damn good telling off when I see her. Should be fun.’ He glanced at Lucy. ‘I don’t suppose Mary-Ellen’s been in during our absence?’

  ‘I haven’t seen her since she left here with you around lunchtime.’

  ‘Didn’t look like she was at the nick, either,’ Heck said, as he and Gemma left the pub together, the door slamming closed behind them. ‘She had a lot to do, I suppose. Cordoning off that crime scene on the east shore. After that, she was going up to Fellstead Grange. Even so, I’d have expected her back by this time.’

  ‘Why not give her a call?’ Gemma threw her bag back into the rear of his Citroën.

  ‘There’s no mobile phone network at all in the Cradle.’

  ‘No … silly me. Why would I have expected otherwise?’ She glanced around. Aside from the pub’s entrance and front windows, everything else was obliterated by murk. ‘I understand there are people who like to get away from it all, Heck … but this place is like something from a Vincent Price movie.’

  ‘It has its charms.’

  ‘They’ve just been put away for the off-season, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, yeah, that’s exactly the case.’ As he climbed in behind the wheel, Heck supposed Gemma was hardly seeing his new home at the ideal time. The apparent harshness of Cragwood Vale was more than a little deceptive. Things were so much different here on a fine summer’s day. When the rising sun bathed the encircling summits rose-pink and the last threads of night mist dissipated over the mirror-still waters of the tarn, a deep tranquillity lay on this high, pristine valley. As the day ascended, the thickly treed shores would turn a lush, vibrant green and the higher, heather-clad slopes shimmer with purple. Picturesque didn’t always mean perfect, of course. Wildness and isolation did not suit everyone, but the wildness of Cragwood Vale was not the wildness of Siberia, or Colorado, or even the Cairngorms. It was a homely, folksy kind of wildness. A safe wildness. Usually.

  Gemma climbed into the back seat and closed the door, while Heck fastened his seatbelt and started the car. Only then did he notice that she’d kicked her shoes off and was in the process of unbuttoning her blouse.

  ‘What’re you doing, ma’am?’

  ‘What does it look like? I’m getting changed.’

  ‘In here?’

  ‘Well there’s clearly no time for me to get settled into my room. Eyes front, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘We’re only two minutes from the nick.’ He turned the ignition and put the car in gear.

  ‘Drive slowly then.’

  Not that there was much option about that. Thanks to the fog, they cruised laboriously up Truscott Drive, the rapid rustling of clothes from the back seat suggesting Gemma was working at a faster pace.

  ‘If you adjust that rear-view mirror one more time, sergeant, I’ll have you on a disciplinary,’ she snapped.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am. But I need to know what’s going on behind me.’

  ‘Yeah, I bet you do. Does this nice lady, Hazel, whose own crimes you’re mysteriously cuffing, know what she’s getting into, I wonder?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  By the time they’d rolled up at the police station, Gemma had changed into jeans, walking boots, a hooded black sweat-top, and a black waterproof jacket. The nick was unlocked, Heggarty behind the front desk, stripped to his shirt-sleeves. He buzzed them through into the back office. Heck introduced Gemma, but the PC regarded her blank-faced – clearly the name ‘Gemma Piper’ meant nothing to him, though he acknowledged her rank with a curt, if surprised, nod. Half a second later, introductions were made again as Mick McGurk arrived.

  ‘Taken a turn around the village,’ he said, removing his hat and unzipping his hi-viz coat. He used a thick, hairy forearm to mop a sheen of sweat from his brow. ‘Nae’n around anywhere.’

  ‘No sign of Mary-Ellen either?’ Heck asked. ‘I see no Land Rover.’

  McGurk gave a laconic shrug. ‘Didn’t see her, sarge.’

  ‘I don’t know where she is either,’ Heggarty said, though his tone implied this was a more complex question than Heck realised. ‘Is she still on shift, for instance?’

  ‘Shift?’ Heck replied.

  ‘Me and PC McGurk are officially on overtime now. I presume PC O’Rourke is too, but I see no overtime charts on the walls here. And as you’re her skipper …’

  ‘And is that your priority at present, PC Heggarty? How much you’re getting paid?’

  ‘People need to go home sometime, you know, sarge.’

  ‘This is Mary-Ellen’s home. She rooms in the flat upstairs.’

  ‘She’s nae there either,’ McGurk said. ‘We checked up there soon as we got here.’

  Heck eyed Heggarty warily. On closer inspection, the rangy young constable didn’t just look the sort who’d be a stickler for procedure, but probably for workplace fairness as well; which would be reasonable enough in normal circumstances – there were far too many middle-aged, middle-management skivers in the police – but it was hardly a consideration at present.

  Heck pushed past him and hit the playback button on the messaging machine. There were several missives waiting from Windermere Comms, none of which told him anything he didn’t know, apart from the last one.

  ‘DS Heckenburg … we’ve had a Met Office update. The fog’s definitely set to clear by mid-morning tomorrow. Maybe earlier. Mountain Rescue are going up into the Pikes at first light. The chopper will be in the air as soon as it’s safe. Probably around the same time …’

  ‘Jane Dawson will have been missing about thirty hours by then,’ Heck muttered, unable to contain his frustration.

  ‘We can’t control the weather, sarge,’ Heggarty replied.

  ‘There are also several search parties headed your way first thing tomorrow, though some are going up via Dungeon Ghyll as well. They include PSUs, off-duty officers, members of the public who’ve volunteered and even some Territorial Army lads who’ve been camping in the Kirkstone Pass, so we won’t be short on numbers. The low-level search will be under the control of Chief Inspector Dewhurst from Kendal. DI Mabelthorpe will be on his way up to Cragwood Vale first thing as well, with dog units, photographic and SOCO. The MIR’s down here at Windermere, but he wants to open a subsidiary Incident Room at the Cragwood Keld office … can you call us back and let us know if you don’t think that’s practicable?’

  Heck glanced around the narrow confines of his small workplace. ‘Practicable, no … possible, probably.’

  Heggarty was duly shocked. ‘They’ll be like sardines crammed in here, sarge.’

  ‘It’ll only be temporary …’ Heck glanced to Gemma for support, but she was now poking casually around the office, oblivious to the conversation.

  ‘Temporary or not,’ Heggarty said, ‘HR’ll go mad if the conditions aren’t conducive to …’

  ‘We’ve got a cellar too,’ Heck interrupted him. ‘Plenty of room down there if we chuck all the junk out.’

  ‘A cellar!’

  ‘Look, we’ll find somewhere. There’re cottages-to-let up at the Ho. We’ll commandeer one of those. Plenty light and ventilation there.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘I’m not doing CID admin’s job for them,’ Heck retorted. ‘If they can’t be arsed calling the Force Buildings Officer and checking the blueprints, that’s not my fucking problem. I’m much more concerned about the situation at Fellstead Grange.’

  ‘Perhaps it would help if you enlightened the two constables,’ Gemma suggested. Apparently she’d not been quite as distracted from the conversation as Heck had thought, though she’d now taken a dog-eared scrapbook down from the shelf above his desk; it was the scruffy old tome in which he k
ept mug-shots of all those murder victims he’d gained convictions for during his career. She leafed through it. ‘Put them in the picture, like …’

  ‘Erm, yeah, of course.’ In the whirlwind of recent events, Heck hadn’t stopped to consider there were some folk here who knew even less than he did. He filled the PCs in as quickly as he could, emphasising how vulnerable Annie Beckwith was, and how vulnerable Hazel probably was too, even though she’d gone up there gun in hand.

  ‘In that case, we should wait for armed support,’ Heggarty stated flatly. ‘I mean, if there are guns on the plot …’

  ‘There are guns on the plot anyway,’ Heck reminded him. ‘Our suspect has already shot someone … which is why SFOs are en route. Just don’t ask me when they’ll get here. They’ve got to travel all the way down from Penrith.’

  ‘But if this bloody madwoman’s carrying a loaded shotgun …’

  ‘Hazel is not a madwoman.’

  ‘It’s foggy, sarge … there could easily be a misidentification.’

  ‘So we proceed with caution. At the end of the day, she’s only got two slugs. If it’s really bothering you, Heggarty, make sure you’re the third man in.’

  ‘So you aren’t going to make any kind of formal risk assessment?’

  ‘I already have,’ Heck lied. ‘And it’s acceptable.’

  ‘Acceptable?’

  ‘We’re the police, Heggarty. Sometimes it’s beholden on us to take risks.’

  ‘It won’t look good if one of us gets injured …’

  ‘It’ll look even worse if two women die because we’re too busy watching our own arses.’ There was a long silence at this, Heggarty’s face tingeing bright red.

  Gemma shoved the scrapbook back onto the shelf. ‘Anymore questions?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah.’ This time it was McGurk. ‘We all going?’

  ‘Not this time,’ Heck said. It was tempting – strength in numbers again, but the landline at the nick was the only working phone they had, so it needed manning. The question was, who did he take? He assessed the two uniforms. Heggarty was the prig, and clearly the most likely to query instructions. In addition, he was young, inexperienced and a physical beanpole. Leaving him here, where he was out of the way, would be ideal. By contrast, dour combat-veteran McGurk would be much more use up on the fells, though he’d also be useful protecting the villagers here at Cragwood Keld. If something kicked off here and civilian lives were put in danger, did they really want Heggarty in charge?