The Long Kill

by Reginald Hill

  ‘On business,’ he said vaguely.

  ‘What precisely is your business, Mr Hutton?’ she asked rather sharply, as if provoked by his vagueness.

  ‘To tell the truth it’s almost non-existent,’ he said. ‘I ran a little management consultancy firm, almost a one-man show, but the recession’s been too much. I’ve sold out to a competitor while there’s still something to sell out. So now, like thousands of my fellow citizens, I’m drifting into early retirement. Just a few loose ends to tie up, that’s all.’

  ‘None of these loose ends could affect your purchase of Rigg Cottage?’ she asked, suddenly alert.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve been making some sound investments against this day for years. The sale is secure, believe me.’

  She said, ‘At the moment it’s only as secure as your handshake, isn’t it? I don’t mean to be offensive.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ he said, slightly piqued, a feeling he knew he had no entitlement to, since, if she had given him the brush-off yesterday, he might already have reneged on the deal. ‘It takes two to shake hands, you know. And tell me this; if someone turned up today, cash in hand, with a better offer, how would you advise your aunt to react?’

  She frowned a little, then smiled.

  ‘Even your brief acquaintance with Aunt Muriel must have taught you she’d feel no need to ask for advice from me,’ she said.

  He said, ‘They don’t by any chance let women become Jesuits nowadays, do they?’

  She smiled again and turning away from him said, ‘I spy with my little eye something beginning with H.’

  He let his gaze drift to the horizon.

  ‘Harrison Stickle,’ he said promptly.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Your turn.’

  ‘B,’ he said.

  ‘Bow Fell,’ she replied.

  ‘You know you can’t see Bow Fell from here,’ he chided. ‘The Langdales get in the way.’

  ‘So they do,’ she said innocently. ‘I give up then.’

  ‘Blea Rigg. There.’

  He pointed.

  ‘So it is,’ she said. ‘Well done.’

  ‘I pass the test then?’

  ‘Do you? My marking scheme is, to say the least, eccentric.’

  ‘But it was a test?’

  ‘A tiny one,’ she smiled. ‘When I saw that brand-new Wainwright fall out of your pocket, I did wonder if you mightn’t be shooting a line with all that great fellwalker stuff.’

  He complimented himself on having studied both his Wainwright and his OS map carefully for a good hour that morning. But perhaps it was time for a bit of truth to get himself a rest from those searching eyes.

  ‘You’re right to some extent, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘I was trying to project a good image. To be honest, my Lakeland walking was all done when I was a mere lad. So any expertise I’ve got’s a bit dated.’

  ‘Those boots don’t look like they’ve been in the coal hole for twenty years. Or do you use them to garden in?’

  ‘No. They’ve been around a bit.’

  ‘Where, for instance?’

  ‘Oh, here and there. Alps, Andes, Pyrenees, very low down in the Himalayas, rather higher in the Harz. Yes, here and there, you could say.’

  She looked at him darkly.

  ‘Well, that’s me put in my place, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘And finally, overcome by age, you’ve returned to these undemanding hillocks, is that it?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said easily. ‘One thing I learned early was that any hilly terrain that takes you more than half a mile off a road in uncertain weather deserves great respect.’

  ‘What a wise man you are, Mr Hutton. Though I’m glad to say the weather doesn’t look at all uncertain at the moment.’

  ‘No it doesn’t,’ he agreed looking out across the sun-gilt landscape. Was it only a week since he had greeted the forecast of a settled spell of fine autumn weather with a coldly professional gratitude that it would bring the target out into his garden and make the long kill possible? He turned his gaze onto the woman. For the moment her company was like this late reburgeoning of summer. How long it would last, how far it might take him, were not yet questions to be asked. For the moment her presence was to be enjoyed like the autumn sunshine without threat or complication.

  ‘What shall we do this afternoon?’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I thought we might go on to Calf Crag then back to Grasmere down Far Easedale.’

  She sat upright and said, ‘Whoa, Mr Hutton! Our appointment was for lunch, not a day’s outing. I’ve got things to do this afternoon. I ought to be on my way back down now.’

  He must have looked disappointed for she smiled faintly and added, ‘You mustn’t take things for granted, Mr Hutton, not with me anyway. I have a tendency to the pedantic. I expect people to mean what they say and I prefer them to say what they mean. You should have been more precise in your proposal.’

  ‘And if I had been?’

  ‘Then very probably I would have come with you. It’s not every day a little Lake District mouse has the chance to scurry in the wake of a Himalayan Yeti!’

  She started packing the lunch debris into her rucksack. He followed suit, saying, ‘Then let me be precise about two things. One: would you please stop calling me Mr Hutton? Two: will you spend tomorrow, or as much of it as you can, walking with me?’

  ‘What shall I call you?’ she said.

  ‘Jay,’ he said after a fractional hesitation. He should have been prepared, indeed he had thought he was. William was out of the question. Hutton he had conditioned himself to respond to, but he would probably walk right past anyone addressing him as William or Bill. His real name belonged with the old years; he might yet come full circle and touch them again but for the moment the gulf was too deep, too wide. Which left Jay, the closest familiarity he permitted those few who came close to being friends. But he didn’t like giving it to this woman, didn’t like the cold breath of his previous life it brought into their relationship. Hence the hesitation.

  ‘Jay? Why Jay?’

  ‘My middle initial,’ he said easily. ‘It was used at school to differentiate me from another William Hutton, and it stuck.’

  ‘All right. Jay.’ She tried it doubtfully.

  ‘And I’ll call you Annie if that’s all right.’

  ‘No!’

  She was very emphatic.

  ‘Anya,’ she said. ‘My name’s Anya. Too outlandish for good Cumbrian folk like Aunt Muriel, but Anya’s my name.’

  She spoke lightly but Jaysmith caught a hint of something deeply felt. Perhaps her husband, being presumably good Cumbrian folk too, had called her Annie and she didn’t like to hear the name on another man’s lips.

  ‘All right, Anya,’ he said. ‘Yes, it suits you better. Annie is too …’

  ‘What?’ she challenged him.

  ‘Buxom,’ he said.

  They laughed together.

  As they began the descent, Jaysmith reminded her, ‘You haven’t answered my second very specific request.’

  ‘I was thinking about it. To tell the truth I could do with a good walk after a week in London. But I couldn’t start till, say, ten AM and I must be down again by half past three.’

  ‘Five and a half hours,’ he mused. ‘Let’s say … what? Eighteen to twenty miles?’

  She looked at him in horror then saw the amused twist of his lips.

  ‘Thank heaven you’re joking,’ she said. ‘I was wondering what kind of mountain goat I’d fallen in with! Two miles an hour is quite rapid enough for me, thank you very much. I like to be able to stop and admire the view from time to time. Perhaps I’d better pick the route.’

  ‘Accepted,’ he said.

  ‘What? No macho resistance at all?’

  ‘When I was a young man faced with the choice between scouting for boys or being guided by girls, I knew which side my bread was buttered on,’ he replied.

  ‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘That�
��s the impression I get of you, Jay. A man who knows which side his bread is buttered on.’

  In the Crag Hotel, Jaysmith had been very noncommital about his encounter with Miss Wilson, partly because of his own ambivalence of feeling but also because he reckoned the old lady was entitled to be her own gossip in Grasmere. But that night Parker greeted him with a broad smile, outstretched hand and hearty congratulations on his purchase of Rigg Cottage.

  ‘So the news is out?’ he said.

  ‘Out? Trumpeted abroad, old chap! Everyone in the village knows. And they’re all dying of curiosity about you.’

  Even with allowance made for Parker’s hyperbole, this news did not please Jaysmith. After a professional lifetime of not drawing attention to himself, even this very mild and local limelight was distressing. A half bottle of champagne appeared on his table at dinner with Parker’s compliments.

  He said to Doris Parker who had delivered it, ‘Really, I should be paying you a commission.’

  She smiled in her placid down-to-earth way and said, ‘Bring a few friends in for dinner occasionally and that will do nicely. You’d rather just have your Chablis, I suspect?’

  He nodded.

  She said, ‘I’ll take this off your bill,’ and went away with the champagne.

  After dinner, in the bar, Parker showed a strong tendency to act as his mentor in the minutiae of Grasmere life so he escaped to the lounge and watched television for a while. The news was the usual mishmash of political piffle, royal baby rumours, sporting highlights and bloody violence. There’d been an attempt on the life of the Turkish Ambassador in Paris, a botched-up job by some idiot with a Skorpion machine-pistol leaping out from behind a potted palm and spraying the vestibule of the hotel where the Ambassador was lunching. A doorman was killed, an American tourist seriously injured, and the assassin himself cut down by a hail of security men’s bullets which also killed a lift attendant. The dead and the injured were all filmed in glorious technicolour.

  Jaysmith’s disgust must have shown. The female half of an elderly couple, the only other viewers, said, ‘It’s horrifying, isn’t it? Quite, quite horrifying.’

  He nodded his agreement, but did not explain that his disgust was merely at the sight of the carnage caused by amateurs. Was he himself an amateur now? No, only if he started killing people without getting paid for it and that wasn’t likely! Even then, he would still proceed in a professional way. That was what he was, a retired professional. Fully retired now. He had sent a coded telex to his Swiss bank instructing them how to pay back the last unearned fee. Jacob would not be pleased, but his displeasure would be professional not personal. He would have to find a new man to do the job, if the job still had to be done. He would not miss Jaysmith; there would be no farewell speech, no commemorative gold watch.

  It was only to Jaysmith himself that his retirement was of any real moment. It was a slightly disturbing thought.

  He watched the weather forecast. The Indian summer was to go on a little longer.

  He said goodnight to the elderly couple and went to bed.

  Chapter 6

  That night he dreamt, and the dream brought him awake. It was the first broken night he had had in more years than he could remember.

  He dreamt of Jacob, or rather of Jacob’s voice. Jacob’s face he could hardly recall, except for something faintly simian about it, like one of the great apes looking with weary wisdom out of its cage at the shrill fools beyond the bars who imagined they were free. It was many years since he had seen the face, but the voice was still fresh in his ears: dry, nasal, with its irritating habit of tagging interrogative phrases onto the end of statements, like little hooks to draw the hearer in.

  In his dream he picked up the phone expecting to hear Enid. Over the years one young Enid had replaced another as his route through to Jacob. What became of the old Enids? he sometimes wondered, but was never tempted to ask. In his relationship with his employer as with his targets, distance suited him best. With women too. Until now.

  Instead of Enid’s voice, Jacob had come instantly on the line. He spoke without emotion, without emphasis.

  ‘You’re Jaysmith,’ he said. ‘I invented you, didn’t I? You’re Jaysmith now and for ever, aren’t you? There’s nothing else for you. You’re Jaysmith, Jaysmith, Jaysmith …’

  Suddenly with the voice still in his ear he had been back in the gill on Wanthwaite Crags. Across the valley he could see the red roof of Naddle Foot. He brought his rifle up to his eye and the terraced garden leapt into close focus. The white metal chair was there and in it a sleeping figure. He traversed the weapon and adjusted the sight till the silvery head filled the circle, quartered by the hairline cross. Now the sleeper woke and slowly raised his head. But when the face was fully turned to the sun, Jaysmith saw to his horror that it was not the old man after all, but the woman he had just met, Anya Wilson. She smiled straight at the gun, though she could not possibly see it, and his finger continued to tighten on the trigger …

  With a huge effort of will he forced himself awake. If anything the waking was worse than the dreaming. It was four o’clock. He rose and poured himself a drink and sat by the window looking out into the night. It had all been a dream: that was the childhood formula which put such things right; but now fully awake he knew that this dream was true.

  He was Jaysmith. He should have been back in London days ago, packing his belongings, easing himself into one of the alternative lives he had prepared over the years. Where could it end, this lunacy of pretending to buy a house and running around after this child, Annie or Anya or whatever she liked to call herself? She was at least fifteen years his junior, recently widowed and not yet emerged from that unthinkable pain. Suppose he did worm his way into her affections? It would be as bad almost as making her a target with his rifle.

  His room faced east. After a while the false dawn began to push forward the great range of fells which runs from Fairfield to Helvellyn. He felt their advance, hard and menacing; it seemed that if he sat there long enough they would rumble inexorably onward to crush the hotel and the village and all its unwitting inmates. There was strength as well as terror in the thought. It confirmed his own certainties, silenced his own debates. In the morning he would rise early and pay his bill and leave, and that would be an end to Mr William Hutton and probably the beginning of a good half-century of speculation for the trivial gossips of this unimportant crease in the coat-tail of the universe.

  He went back to bed, the future resolved, and slept deep.

  When he awoke it was a quarter to ten.

  ‘Oh Christ!’ he swore, touched by a new terror in which the great threat was that she would not wait for him at their rendezvous point. So potent was this that he forewent both breakfast and shaving in his rush to get there.

  She looked at him with considerable disapproval.

  ‘The good burghers of Grasmere will expect a much better turnout from the new inmate of Rigg Cottage,’ she said.

  ‘I came out in a hurry,’ he said. ‘I had a bad night.’

  ‘And how did the night feel, I wonder?’

  He glowered at her and the mockery faded from her eyes and she murmured almost to herself, ‘Are we always so bad-tempered in the morning, I wonder?’

  He got a grip of himself and smiled ruefully and said, ‘I’m sorry. As for what I’m usually like in the morning, I don’t know. It’s been a long time since there was anyone to tell me.’

  ‘Anyone who dared, you mean?’

  ‘Or cared. And really, I did have a bad night.’

  He got in the car beside her. She had arranged to pick him up at the edge of the village on the road leading up to Rigg Cottage. He hadn’t queried the arrangement but just assumed that she didn’t care for a more public rendezvous under the eye of Mr Parker or her aunt’s many acquaintances.

  ‘What was bothering you? Not Doris Parker’s cooking, I hope?’

  ‘No. That’s fine. So’s she; I like her. She doesn’t come at yo
u like dear Phil.’

  She nodded. Another shared judgement to bring them closer. He’d guessed that was how she’d feel and though his opinion of the Parkers was precisely as stated, he felt a twinge of guilt at the element of calculation in what he’d said.

  So when she asked, ‘What then?’ he compensated with a dash of unsolicited confession.

  ‘To tell the truth I woke in a cold sweat wondering what the devil I was doing buying your aunt’s house.’

  He’d expected a very positive reaction to this: fear for her aunt’s sake – anger at this hint of masculine dithering – at the very least a demand for reassurance that he hadn’t changed his mind.

  Instead she nodded once more and said in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘Oh yes. The old four AM’S. They’re dreadful, aren’t they? You seem to see everything so clearly, and it’s all black, if that’s not contradictory.’

  ‘You’re speaking from experience?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘The four AM’S and the four PM’S too. Doesn’t everyone get them, the AM’S anyway?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘Last night was the first broken night I’ve had in years.’

  Broken from within, that was. There had been plenty of early risings and sudden alarums. But he could hardly explain this to the woman who was looking at him curiously, and he found he didn’t particularly want to press her to reveal the grounds of her own despair at this moment.

  ‘So, where are we going?’ he asked brightly.

  She responded to his change of mood, saying, ‘Well, I knew a Himalayan man wouldn’t want to waste his time on pimples, so I thought we’d do Bow Fell via the Crinkles, but to fit it into our limited time allowance I’ve decided to cheat by starting at the top of Wrynose.’

  He nodded as if this made sense to him while he worked it out on his mental imprint of the relevant OS sheets. They had climbed out of Grasmere, passing Rigg Cottage en route, and now they were dropping down again. He glimpsed the blue sheet of Elterwater before they entered its tiny village and left it on the Little Langdale road. Soon they were climbing again and now they were on a steep, serpentine single-track road, with intermittent passing places, and viciously demanding on bottom gear both for ascent and descent. This was Wrynose Pass.