Dead Man Walking

by Paul Finch

  ‘Point-blank range,’ Hazel confirmed. ‘Or so Mark said. He saw it, we didn’t.’

  ‘And then the bastard chased you two all over the fells? How far?’

  ‘At least to the other side of the Via Ferrata.’

  Mary-Ellen looked astounded. ‘You climbed over that ancient thing? It’s a bloody disaster waiting to happen!’

  ‘Tell us about it.’

  ‘So … where’s Heck now? Do you think he’s in trouble?’

  ‘We’re all in trouble, PC O’Rourke.’ Gemma had started walking. The others followed. ‘And so are the people in Cragwood Keld. The best thing we can do is get back there now.’

  ‘So do we actually know what’s going on here?’ Mary-Ellen asked.

  ‘The only thing we can be certain of,’ Gemma said over her shoulder, ‘is there’s an extremely dangerous person loose, who’s decided to subject your local community to a vicious and prolonged attack.’

  ‘But why would anyone do that?’

  ‘They don’t all need a reason, PC O’Rourke. Just an opportunity.’

  A minute later, they approached the bridge. It was a flat-topped, slate-built structure, covered at its lower levels with moss and pondweed, but the tarn was higher than normal, so at present only a couple of feet of the arch underneath it was visible. A rusty iron grille, operated by a chain and pulley system, had been lowered down over this, and the water – brackish-green in the gloom – was pouring noisily through it. As they trooped over the top of the bridge, Gemma glanced left, catching her first glimpse of the Cragwood Race. It was a foaming torrent, plunging steeply down a narrow gully formed between jutting roots and heaped, slimy boulders.

  ‘People take their chances down there?’ she said.

  ‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ Mary-Ellen answered. ‘The channel widens out further down. In the right boat you’ll go all the way to the bottom, though Switchback Canyon, which is about halfway down, is a bit of a challenge. I won’t pretend it isn’t a pretty rough ride overall.’

  They walked on in desultory silence, the echoing roar of the Race falling away behind, until the only sound was the clumping of their boot-soles on the grit. Eventually, the trees thinned out as the path angled left. Gemma felt as if they were headed away from the tarn. But then, abruptly, it bent right again, keeping them roughly parallel to what she assumed must be the west shore. Without warning, they came to a T-junction, their route bisected by a smooth tarmac surface running south to north.

  ‘Cragwood Road,’ Mary-Ellen said. ‘It’s another couple of miles from here back to the nick, but at least it’s all flat. Anyone need a rest first?’

  ‘We’ve rested enough,’ Gemma said, striding on.

  There were a few more nervous moments as they passed between thick belts of trees, where the fog seemed to linger at its absolute deepest. Mary-Ellen shot her light several times into the roiling depths. The faintest noise set them on edge, whether it was the patter of an autumn leaf belatedly falling or the whisper of frosty sedge as a fox needled its way through. At one point, a lesser road, made from compacted dirt, branched away on the right, vanishing not just into the fog but down a tunnel formed beneath tangled skeletal branches.

  ‘That leads to the Boat Club,’ Mary-Ellen said, anticipating Gemma’s question.

  ‘Don’t suppose there’s anyone down there?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘Not between October and March.’

  ‘There’s a spare set of keys to it behind the bar at The Witch’s Kettle,’ Hazel added. ‘But that’s only in case of emergency. It’s closed for the off-season.’

  They clumped on. Soon the trees and undergrowth were pushed back from the road by dry-stone walling, grassy verges replacing them. When they reached another turn, a single road-sign pointed right.

  Cragwood Keld

  They’d just started down Truscott Drive when they were hailed by a voice.

  Shocked, they spun around. An indistinct male figure had turned into the road from the opposite direction. By his slouched posture, he too was exhausted. But instantly Hazel recognised Heck. Tearfully, she dashed the forty yards towards him, and threw herself into his arms with such force that he almost toppled.

  ‘Hey … hey,’ he said, hugging her. He saw Gemma and Mary-Ellen approaching. ‘What a bloody night this has been. At least you’re all okay.’ He focused on Mary-Ellen. ‘I’m particularly glad to see you.’

  ‘And me you,’ she replied, looking startled by his appearance. ‘At what point of the evening did you get the chance to change clothes?’

  ‘I ended up in the tarn again,’ he said. ‘Don’t ask how.’

  ‘Did you find the launch?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s back at the Ho. But it’s been sunk.’

  ‘Fuck,’ she said.

  ‘That’s not the only thing. Your Land Rover, M-E, your Laguna, Hazel, and my Citroën have all gone to that great scrap dealer’s in the sky. Same with Bill Ramsdale’s Honda Civic. But listen, there’s worse. Let’s get back to the nick. I’ll tell you on the way.’

  They walked down the road as he described the abattoir at Ramsdale’s house. With Hazel present, a civilian, he tried to omit some detail – but not much, as Gemma had witnessed the Stranger’s original crime scenes for herself and was their resident expert. She listened in grim silence. Even Mary-Ellen looked shaken by what Heck told them, especially when he mentioned the fate of Bessie Longhorn, while Hazel clapped a hand to her mouth and wept softly.

  ‘There’s a message too,’ Heck said, before elaborating on the graffiti in the boatshed.

  Gemma nodded and contemplated this. Ahead of them now, the first houses of the village arose through the mist.

  ‘“Remember me?”’ Heck reiterated. ‘I know we can’t necessarily read too much into that, ma’am,’ Heck added. ‘But whoever this guy is, it’s pretty obvious that he’s playing for keeps.’

  Gemma nodded again. ‘From this point on, DS Heckenburg, so are we.’

  Chapter 23

  PC Mick McGurk was sitting in the main office at Cragwood Keld nick as if it was any ordinary night shift. In fact he was dozing, slumped in the chair alongside the radio, his brawny arms folded. But he jumped to his feet when two people entered noisily through the personnel door. It was Heck and Gemma, Mary-Ellen having accompanied Hazel back to The Witch’s Kettle.

  ‘Nothing tae report,’ he said with a shrug. Any normal copper would have had the good grace to look sheepish, but PC McGurk didn’t seem to do emotions.

  He listened in stoic, stony silence as Heck explained what had happened on the fell. Even the news about PC Heggarty made little immediate impact on McGurk, as he hadn’t known the guy that well. However, his expression sagged when he learned about Bessie Longhorn.

  ‘That wee daftie who used to come down to Bowness to see her ma?’

  ‘It wasn’t an easy death for her,’ Heck said, able to give a fuller description of the crime scene now that Hazel was no longer with them.

  ‘Christ preserve us,’ McGurk said slowly.

  ‘Christ preserve us indeed.’ Gemma banged the telephone receiver back on its cradle. ‘This landline’s dead.’

  Heck glanced at McGurk, who suddenly seemed to remember something. ‘Internet went down some time back. I presumed it was the network. Was gonna give it half an hour …’

  ‘And then you fell asleep,’ Heck interrupted.

  ‘Hey, sarge,’ McGurk replied in a flat tone. ‘I’ve been on all day and it’s now after three in the morning, okay? And you lot were gone God knows how long. I had nae idea there was any kind of emergency. I didna know the phone was dead because I had nae call to use it.’

  They tried to reboot the internet but got no change from it, which was no surprise if the phone line was at fault.

  Mary-Ellen now entered the nick. ‘All the villagers are still down at the pub,’ she said. ‘Most of them are asleep, or dozing …’ Her words tailed off as she saw their faces. ‘What’s the matter?’

&nbs
p; ‘He’s been here,’ Heck said. ‘First he did the phone lines in the Ho. Now he’s done them in the Keld.’

  ‘What … all of them?’

  ‘It would make sense. The easiest way would be that telephone mast at the top of the green, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘That’d be the only way,’ Mary-Ellen said.

  ‘You’ve got a couple of messages left from earlier,’ Gemma said, having checked the station answering-machine.

  In fact there was only one they hadn’t already listened to. It was an update from DI Mabelthorpe, pointing out that the firearms team were only making slow progress from Penrith. It wasn’t just the fog apparently; it was constant hold-ups on the motorway due to a lengthy procession of accidents. At one point they’d veered off and tried to progress via the back-lanes, but that had been even worse. It didn’t require a crashed HGV to block a narrow mountain road – a three-wheeled milk float would do it – and in those isolated spots there’d likely be no response from the rescue services all night. So now they were back on the motorway, sitting again in gridlocked traffic.

  ‘They’re on their way, Heck, but there’s nothing moving at present,’ Mabelthorpe concluded. ‘Could be another two … maybe three hours. Sorry about that.’

  That message had been left on the answering-machine at quarter-past midnight.

  Heck turned to McGurk. ‘Why didn’t you take this call?’

  ‘I’ve nae just been sitting in here,’ McGurk explained. ‘You asked me to check around the village and the pub.’

  ‘Yeah, suppose I did … okay.’

  ‘The main thing is they’re en route,’ Mary-Ellen said brightly. ‘Even if it’s taken them three hours, they should be here anytime now.’

  ‘Well that’s the first good news we’ve heard all night,’ Heck said. ‘At least then we’ll have an armed response available right on the spot should the bastard decide to show his face. In the meantime, I want to find out what’s happened to the phone.’

  Mary-Ellen had been in the process of opening her anorak, but now she zipped it back up. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  She and Heck exited the station, crossed Hetherby Close and rounded the corner to the edge of the village green. The mast in question was located at its northwest tip. Telephone wires spanned out from it in every direction, servicing all the houses and businesses in the village – or at least, ordinarily they did. Though it was a tall mast, Mary-Ellen only needed to shine her torch up there to expose a distinct absence of cabling. Nearby, an extendable aluminium ladder lay in the leaf-littered grass.

  ‘The bastard just climbed up there and chopped them down?’ she said, amazed. ‘Tell me it’s not that easy to take an entire community off the grid.’

  ‘It looks like it was that easy tonight,’ Heck said, feeling visible again despite the fog. ‘Back to the nick, quickly.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we tape off the ladder …?’

  ‘If it was going anywhere, it would have gone. Which means it’ll probably be no use to us. Come on, quickly.’

  Before re-entering the station, they quickly checked the Astra brought up by Heggarty and McGurk. It was the only police vehicle they now had at their disposal, but it was big and spacious, and, if necessary, would serve the purpose of transporting at least four of their charges back to safety. But the Astra was beyond use; the glistening pool of brake fluid underneath its belly was proof of that.

  ‘No mangling of the engine in this case, like we saw up at the Ho,’ Heck observed. ‘No banging, no hammering … too noisy with McGurk just inside the nick. So our boy did a bit of quiet surgery underneath instead – sliced the brake cables. What are the odds he’s done the same to every other vehicle in the village?’

  ‘He can’t have,’ Mary-Ellen said. ‘Can he?’

  ‘There’s only a handful, and all the owners are cooped up in the pub.’

  ‘Bloody glad those firearms lads are coming. At least all we have to do now is wait.’

  ‘Let’s get inside,’ Heck replied. ‘We can count our chickens when we’re behind locked doors.’

  They hastened up the station path, and entered again through the personnel door. Heck explained what they’d found.

  ‘So wha’ is this, a siege?’ McGurk wondered, blank-faced.

  None of them bothered to reply. They hadn’t thought about it in those terms, but now that McGurk mentioned it, a siege seemed to be exactly the predicament they faced.

  ‘We need to get over to the pub,’ Gemma decided. ‘We’re still police officers, even if we are deaf, dumb and blind. Protecting those civilians should be our priority.’

  ‘Plus it’ll be more easily defensible,’ Heck said. ‘It’s the sturdiest building in the village. It’s got smaller windows than the nick as well.’ He indicated the glass door opening into the police office porch and the front desk, and the large plate-glass window alongside it. ‘We can close the blinds, but let’s not pretend this guy isn’t armed. From what I saw, he had a Colt Python. That’s a .357 Magnum revolver, which explains why it sounds like a cannon. Dirty Harry eat your heart out, and all that. The main thing is he can easily shoot his way into here.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Mary-Ellen said. ‘If we all go down to the pub, the firearms team won’t know where we are.’

  Heck gave this some thought. ‘Suppose we could leave a note …’

  ‘And have the killer remove it as soon as our backs are turned?’

  Heck glanced at Gemma.

  ‘She’s right,’ Gemma said. ‘Someone should stay behind. This is a police station, after all. We shouldn’t just abandon it. Whoever it is, we can lock them in … they’ll be reasonably safe in the short time between now and the shots arriving.’

  ‘I’ll stay,’ McGurk offered. They all looked at him. He returned their gazes indifferently. ‘Sitting around in foxholes all night, waiting tae get sniped – won’t exactly be a new experience for me. Plus I’ve got body-armour on. You lot havena. Don’t worry, I’ll lie low with the lights out. He won’t see me.’

  ‘You’ll be on your own,’ Heck advised him. ‘Out of contact.’

  McGurk shrugged; that blank, stony-faced visage of the war veteran again. ‘Wha’s a few minutes between friends?’

  ‘Okay,’ Heck said, ‘but just remember … this guy’s got a gun and he’s not afraid to use it. If he tries to come in through the front door, you go out the back. No heroics.’

  McGurk gave a toothy half-smile; the first they’d seen from him, and a rather odd-looking thing it was. ‘Don’t worry, sarge … I’ll leave those tae you.’

  Heck, Gemma and Mary-Ellen circled around from Hetherby Close to the top of the green, and there halted.

  The grassy surface glistened with frost as it stretched away into dimness. At this deepest part of the night, there was no sound. The houses along either side were dark, vaguely definable shells, more like mausoleums than habitations. It was astounding how completely the grey shroud of fog had changed the look and feel of the place – it now stood silent and sepulchral, like some forgotten rural necropolis. And yet even by the standards of ever-scenic Lakeland, the Keld normally held ‘chocolate box’ appeal. Its permanent residents might number only a handful, but they were mostly retired, so they looked after it religiously. Its lawns were always mown, its verges trimmed, its fruit trees pruned. In summer, the cottage gardens were a riot of rainbow flowers.

  It was all still here, of course. It was only a matter of months until spring. But just surviving the next half-hour or so, while they waited for the firearms team to arrive, felt like a task in itself. They started forward, stepping softly as they progressed down Truscott Drive.

  ‘Why is this always the worst time?’ Mary-Ellen wondered quietly. ‘When it’s only a few minutes ’til the cavalry shows up?’

  ‘Human nature,’ Heck replied. ‘If you always expect the worst, it prevents you ever being disappointed.’

  ‘I’ll be honest, I’ve no clue what I’m going to put in my report,’ Gemma said
. ‘If this is the Stranger, I’ve no idea what script he’s working to.’

  ‘It’s a very different process from last time,’ Heck agreed.

  ‘Do you see any process here?’

  ‘These are opportunist killings. But there’s an element of organised planning too. This guy couldn’t control the actions of the people living in Cragwood Vale; he couldn’t pre-empt what they were going to do next. But he’s obviously been watching them and taking notes. He’s hung very close indeed, so he can make counter-moves at the drop of a hat. He’s hellishly organised, and he’s working to some kind of a plan.’

  ‘Still doesn’t sound like the Stranger to me.’

  ‘Not as you knew him in 2004 … but a lot may have changed since then.’

  ‘What’s his end-game, though?’ Mary-Ellen asked.

  ‘Isn’t that obvious?’ Heck replied ‘To kill us all?’

  Ahead of them, The Witch’s Kettle materialised through the vapour.

  ‘In which case, is it really a good idea we all pile into the pub at the same time?’ Gemma said.

  Heck considered this. ‘You mean is he waiting ’til he’s got us all in one place?’

  ‘Isn’t that what he did up at Annie Beckwith’s farm, hole us all up in one building, then herd us into a single room, before pouncing? It would make life easier for him when he’s got multiple targets.’

  Heck mulled that over. Such a thought was unnerving, primarily because it made good sense. But ultimately, the potential disadvantages of using the pub as a base of ops had to be weighed against its very real advantages. They kept on walking. Warm firelight now glimmered from the pub’s curtained windows. ‘The way I see it, we’ve no choice,’ he said. ‘I mean, we surely can’t send everyone back to their individual houses. He could pop them all just as easily that way. Probably even more easily. There’s still got to be safety in numbers.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Gemma replied. ‘But we’ve got to turn this place into a fortress.’

  Lucy answered the pub door when they knocked. She looked pale and sallow-faced. Inside, the fire had burned low, casting a dull reddish light which nevertheless filled the taproom and bar. The rest of the villagers, many of whom looked stiff and dazed as if they’d just been woken, were sitting where Heck had left them. One or two muttered together, but immediately on seeing the cops, sat up, alert again, watching and listening intently.