by Paul Finch
‘PC McGurk,’ Heck said, ‘you okay holding the fort?’
McGurk shrugged. Which seemed to be his answer to almost everything.
‘Obviously report developments down to Windermere by the landline,’ Heck said. ‘Keep your eye on the pub too. It’s just the other side of the green, but that’s where the locals are gathered at present. And make your presence visible. Go round there once in a while. It’ll reassure them.’
McGurk nodded.
‘Keep the Astra too,’ Heck said as an afterthought. ‘PC Heggarty, you can ride with me and DSU Piper in the Citroën. Okay, everyone … let’s get cracking.’
Heck and Gemma filed back out of the station, Heggarty tagging at the rear, looking vaguely disconsolate as he re-donned his hat and hi-viz coat.
‘Thanks for the magnificent amount of help by the way,’ Heck said quietly.
Gemma didn’t look at him. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘When Citizen Smith back there was having a pop.’
‘Easy, sergeant. He’ll probably end up being Chief Constable.’
‘So will you, ma’am … most likely. But you weren’t exactly chucking your weight about when I needed it.’
‘And would it really have helped if I was? You know these guys. I don’t.’
‘I don’t know these guys.’ Heck unlocked the Citroën. ‘Not really.’
‘Anyway …’ Gemma slid into the front passenger seat. ‘You seem to have everything well in hand. Including the local landlady.’
He realised she’d spotted the calendar hanging next to his desk. It was a locally produced piece of promotional work on behalf of The Witch’s Kettle, depicting both Hazel and Lucy, looking uncharacteristically glamorous in bright make-up, short, tight dresses, high heels and fancy hair-dos, posed outside the hostelry on a glorious summer day; the tarn lay like a flat mirror behind them, vividly reflecting the azure sky and purple/green mountainsides.
‘Don’t tell me that’s bugging you?’ he smirked. ‘I mean … for real?’
‘No, but it’s interesting. In your former life there was never much time for love.’
‘Yeah, well in this life there’s plenty of time for everything. Until these last few days of course.’
Heggarty now clambered into the back seat, and they pulled away from the kerb, prowling west to Cragwood Road, and then heading north towards the Ho. As before, they could only advance at a frustrating crawl.
‘What’s that for?’ Heck asked, noticing through the rear-view mirror that Heggarty was inscribing something on a clipboard.
‘I don’t like to work directly into my pocketbook,’ Heggarty replied. ‘His eyes flirted towards Gemma, and he flushed. ‘Sorry about that, ma’am … it’s just to make sure I get everything right before it goes down on official paper.’
‘It’s okay, PC Heggarty,’ she replied. ‘They may not teach you that when you’re being puppy-walked, but I think it’s a good idea.’
‘I’m dead keen on good paperwork,’ Heggarty added. ‘Only like to hand mine over for inspection at the end of each shift when it’s bang-on. Every i dotted, every t crossed, spelling and grammar all present and correct.’
‘Like there’s not enough writing in this bloody job,’ Heck grunted.
‘You’d rather we ran around being totally unaccountable?’ Heggarty asked.
‘It’s not that,’ Gemma said. ‘It’s just that in his eighteen years in the job, DS Heckenburg’s form-filling skills have never been better than execrable. I know … I’ve had to sign most of them off.’
‘Paperwork’s a pain in the arse, I’d agree,’ Heggarty said. ‘But it’s a necessary evil and we’ve got to be professional.’
‘And what are you being professional about now?’ Heck asked him.
Heggarty tapped his clipboard. ‘We’ve already got a number of offences to look into. Obviously the assault on Tara Cook is the main subject of the enquiry. But there may be care and neglect issues around this old lady, Annie Beckwith. And then we’ve got the unlicensed shotgun, not to mention the fact it’s being carried around in public and may be loaded.’
‘The important thing, though, is to remember why we’re here,’ Gemma said.
‘Of course, ma’am.’
‘And not let ourselves get side-tracked.’
‘No … I understand that …’
‘It’s also important we get there in one piece.’ She glanced at Heck. ‘So why don’t we slow down a bit?’
Heck eased his foot off the gas, having not noticed they’d slowly accelerated to thirty miles per hour. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘if we meet Hazel coming the other way, or Mary-Ellen, I’ll be a happy bunny. Even if we hit them head-on.’
‘Well, writing cars off has always been a habit with you. At least this time it won’t be coming out of my budget.’
Gemma said this without humour, her eyes roving the turgid blackness enshrouding the car, occasionally narrowing as she caught fibrous hints of foliage along the roadside. In all the years they’d been work colleagues, and especially when they’d lived together as boyfriend and girlfriend, Heck had seen every kind of emotion from Gemma. This aloof ice-maiden was the image she reserved for television interviews or appearances before public inquiries, while the human spitfire was the one he and his fellow officers were more familiar with – Gemma did not suffer fools lightly. But he’d never seen her look afraid or even unnerved, and she’d faced down dozens of hardcore criminals in the past. Now however, perhaps for the very first time, she looked a little uneasy. It was possible that as an officer who’d seen most of her service in the big city, she was feeling like a fish out of water in this country wilderness, but perhaps she was also bewildered to have discovered that such conditions as these could actually exist in the real world.
‘We’re high up, here,’ Heck said by way of explanation. ‘If it’s not fog, we get low cloud. And then there’s the tarn. It’s ultra-deep and always freezing cold. We’ve had mist lying in this valley for hours after it’s cleared everywhere else.’
‘By the sounds of it, it hasn’t cleared anywhere just yet,’ she replied.
‘Fifteen hours to go, the Met Office reckons, ma’am,’ Heggarty piped up.
‘Hmmm,’ she agreed. ‘Sounds quick when you say it like that, doesn’t it?’
Chapter 13
The first thing they noticed on arrival at the Cragwood Ho car park were the two empty vehicles sitting side-by-side: Hazel’s Renault Laguna and Mary-Ellen’s police Land Rover. Heck jumped out, checking all around both cars, but there was no sign of damage. They had simply been parked and locked. That was probably reassuring, though once again the strength of his concern for Hazel discomforted him slightly. It wasn’t like she was his wife, or even his girlfriend. They had an informal arrangement; that was all. Or so he kept telling himself.
‘So the question is, are they together or separate from each other?’ Heggarty asked.
‘I’m hoping Hazel ran into Mary-Ellen when she arrived here, and that they’ve gone up the Track together,’ Heck said. ‘Course, we won’t know unless we go up there ourselves.’
‘Perhaps there are other residents down here she wants to check on,’ Gemma said.
‘Only two,’ he replied. ‘One of whom has some keys to the boatshed. We’ll have a look down there afterwards if she’s not up at Fellstead Grange. Annie and Hazel have got to be our priority at present.’
They zipped up and pulled on gloves, as the temperature had dropped significantly. Furls of smoky breath hung from their lips, adding to the general miasma, which was now so thick it was like something from the early days of TV sci-fi. The dull, echoing silence only added to this. Heck could sense the immense, towering rock forms that rose on all sides at this end of the Cradle. It wasn’t just eerie, it was otherworldly. He had to struggle to remind himself how normal this place was in ordinary times. How, with fine conditions prevailing, there’d be climbers on the overlooking cliffs, hot sunshine pinpointing them l
ike tiny blue and orange beetles as they made their cautious way across the ancient, weathered faces. Bands of student backpackers would joke and shout to each other as they yomped ahead, ascending the flinty Track with preposterous energy, while families would stick to the lower levels, laughing and calling out while they explored the lakeside nature trails, throwing sticks into the water for their yapping pooches. And at the end of it all, with the azure sky turning indigo and the sun melting in embers on Harrison Stickle, spilling its dazzling glimmer across Witch Cradle Tarn, they’d all reconvene in The Witch’s Kettle beer garden to eat trout and chips, and join in a rousing, ribald chorus that would be heard as far south as Cragwood Race. Heck didn’t like admitting it, but he wished he was there now, doing exactly that.
Gemma brought him back to reality, her boots crunching as she moved to the gate. ‘How come neither car was taken up to Fellstead Grange?’
‘Even in the police Land Rover, the Cradle Track isn’t for the faint-hearted,’ Heck said. ‘You’d be taking a horrendous risk. No one will chance it in this fog. M-E doesn’t spook easily, but trust me, ma’am, you see this route and you’ll understand what I’m talking about.’
They clambered through the stile, and with all three torches spearing ahead of them, set off up the Track side-by-side. It steepened steadily, and soon they were huffing and grunting with the exertion, their torchlight flickering over the various ghostly totems erected alongside it.
‘Looks like someone had nothing better to do,’ Gemma commented.
‘Artists,’ Heck said. ‘Of one kind or another.’
They proceeded for several more minutes, then, at Heck’s insistence, they stopped. When Heggarty queried this, Heck signalled for silence.
They listened, but heard nothing.
‘What?’ Gemma finally asked.
‘Thought I heard a voice. Only briefly, but it sounded like … laughter. Some way off though, I must admit.’
‘These gullies and canyons can amplify sound,’ Heggarty said. ‘Whoever it was, they could be miles away. Climbers maybe, campers.’
They listened a little longer. Still nothing.
‘You couldn’t have been mistaken?’ Gemma wondered.
‘Maybe,’ Heck said thoughtfully. ‘When I found the injured girl on the shores of Witch Cradle Tarn, I thought I heard something then. Whispers … laughter. But there was no one there.’
‘Weird kind of offender,’ Heggarty said. ‘Hanging around at the scene of the crime, laughing.’
‘Be under no illusion, PC Heggarty,’ Gemma advised him. ‘There are some very weird offenders.’
They pressed on, and about ten minutes later they reached the right-hand turn leading into Fellstead Corrie. Despite the cold, all three were now damp with sweat and breathing hard. Again they halted and listened. Heck gazed up the remainder of the Track, which, though they couldn’t see much of it, from this point was no more than a scant footpath. He turned, looking back down the section behind them.
‘More laughing?’ Heggarty asked.
‘No … nothing.’
‘Okay. Good.’
But to Heck’s mind it wasn’t good. Like so many detectives who’d spent years and years investigating serious crime, he’d developed an internal alarm system for when something didn’t feel right. It was that old hunch thing so popular in the era before the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, when time-served coppers worked largely on instinct. And it was real. There was nothing magical or mystical about it. Years of experience taught you, particularly in a job like this where observational skills were vital, to subliminally checklist everything your five senses were absorbing, and to stick up a red flag if there was anything that didn’t seem kosher.
He thought he’d heard laughter up here; he thought he’d heard laughter down near the tarn. So did that mean he’d been mistaken twice? It seemed unlikely. As Heggarty said, there could be a normal explanation. Climbers or campers, but in this weather that seemed unlikely too.
‘Well?’ Gemma asked him.
Heck shrugged. ‘Nothing. Let’s check the farm out … but let’s turn these lights off first. And no talking either, unless it’s absolutely necessary. This guy’s armed, remember … he doesn’t need to see us to be able to shoot at us.’
They crossed the bridge, their feet unavoidably thudding on the hollow timbers. For several seconds after that they had no reference points at all, and advanced through a world of pure anonymity. It was difficult even to imagine they were progressing forward. Then they passed a gatepost on their left, connected to a tumbledown stone wall covered in desiccated brambles; after that, the rugged ground gave way to old, uneven paving. A few seconds later, the angular shape of a house heaved itself out of the murk.
They halted, stunned.
‘Remember that block of hellhole flats in Salford where I found Ron O’Hoorigan’s body, ma’am?’ Heck eventually asked. ‘After he’d been disembowelled alive?’
‘Yeah,’ she said.
‘I wish we were there now.’
Fellstead Grange was easily the gauntest, most desolate structure they had ever seen. From its silent, featureless bulk, it might have been a derelict ship emerging from an ocean-fret, or an ancient, rusted sub on the floor of a sediment-filled sea.
In light of this, Heck was truly astonished Hazel had come up here on her own. He would never have called her timid, but he knew she was uncomfortable with stories about violence and crime. And yet she must have remarkable depths of strength and character. Either that, or she’d come here in company with Mary-Ellen. Either would be good, though he’d prefer the latter.
They regarded the house for several seconds, finally advancing to its gable wall, which had been built from rough stone and was covered in moss. They tracked along it, moving around the exterior, passing a couple of windows with curtains closed on the inside but fitted with glass so grubby they were impenetrable anyway. When they found what looked like the front door, it was standing ajar. Deep blackness skulked beyond. They slid through it one by one, their torchlight springing to life again, the beams criss-crossing as they flashed around the decayed room, illuminating the dirt and debris. Though they were indoors, there was no discernible change in the icy temperatures and yet despite this a stale fetor hit them; not quite the ‘urine’ stink of a long abandoned building, but a grotty, dank odour.
‘This old girl was living here?’ Heggarty said.
‘I’m hoping she still is,’ Heck replied.
‘The fact there are no lights on anywhere suggests she’s absent at present.’
‘Keep it down, eh? Everyone listen up.’
This time they heard something. Three heads turned to the arched black entrance on their left. What sounded like a piece of crockery had clattered somewhere down the passage beyond. Immediately, Heck and Gemma fell one to either side of the arch, left and right respectively. When they passed through, they proceeded down the passage by sliding along its walls.
Heggarty copied them, bringing up the rear behind Heck.
The passage was laid with an old carpet, dingy and gummy, curled along its edges. As they advanced, the stench worsened. Rotted food, Heck realised – they must be approaching the kitchen. But in one way that was good; it meant an occupant had prepared meals here relatively recently. He glanced across the corridor at Gemma, who nodded at the doorway approaching on the left.
Heck stopped alongside it. Only darkness lurked inside, but that was where the spoiled food aroma emanated from. There was another door on Gemma’s side of the passage, a yard past the kitchen door. Gemma indicated to Heggarty to keep an eye on that one. He nodded back, but didn’t look as though he fully comprehended. Of course, this whole process was flawed: they were dealing with an armed suspect, though none of them were armed themselves. But there was no real option. Police officers in Britain were routinely unarmed, and yet faced villains toting guns every day; it was part of their job description – all they could do when it happened was take action to min
imise the terrible threat. As such, Heggarty nervously extricated the baton from his belt, easing it open rather than ‘snapping’ it in the time-honoured style.
Heck glanced at Gemma. She nodded again.
He whirled across the left-hand entrance to its opposite side, his torch directed into the far left corner of the room beyond. Gemma darted over too, taking the other side of the door, driving her own beam to its far right corner.
‘Clear!’ Heck said.
It was indeed a kitchen, with a paved floor, a cinder-filled hearth, ancient oak fittings, and an age-blackened kettle-cum-teapot on the hob. Again, dust sheathed everything, and a canopy of webbing hung overhead, multi-limbed monstrosities scampering away from the light, seeking refuge in cracks or crevices. Directly facing them was a stone sink heaped with crockery caked in a detritus of dried food. Two rats, having presumably been digging around amid said crockery, leapt out and bolted in different directions. One scuttled through a broken lower panel in the window over the sink; the other hit the floor and streaked past them across the corridor and through the other doorway. Heck followed it with his beam – and shouted a warning at the sight of a human shape standing there in the recess.
The other two reacted as one, spinning to face this new threat – but just as quickly relaxed. It was a mannequin, the sort you’d find in a department store window or on a display pedestal. Probably sometime in the 1940s.
Heck approached it, bewildered.
It was made from the usual flesh-toned plastic. It had no hair, but its painted features had faded through age; the blue of the eyes and the pink of the lips were barely recognisable. How it had arrived in Annie Beckwith’s possession was anyone’s guess, though she’d clearly been making use of it. Heck now remembered that she’d designed and made her own clothes. By its short hair and V-shaped physique, it was supposed to be male, but it wore female garb – an old woollen cardigan with hooks instead of buttons, and what looked like a patched-up tweed skirt.
