Bolt-hole (15 page)

Helen fleetingly glanced at me, her face bearing a look of surprise. “You’re considering it then? I thought she was just an admin person.” 

“Well, she is, but Bob’s expanding the job; I’ll do her job and continue teaching the undergraduates, but also with the big assessment this year I’ll coordinate all the preparation.” 

She still appeared less than convinced. “But what about your research, all you’ve worked for?” 

“I know, I know, it’s a big decision.  I’m just sick of the grant-writing, and in any case I could be out of a job in a few months if I don’t get a successful application.  It’s just not worth the stress anymore.”  I felt I was trying to sell the job to her and it certainly wasn’t prudent to mention that I’d already accepted it.  “It’ll be a decent salary, as much as I get now but with regular hours, home at 5:30, longer holidays.  I just can’t imagine it.” 

For the first time Helen looked up from the magazine and I suspected that already she’d started to see the potential benefits.

I went into the kitchen and poured the tea.  When I returned Helen was still reading her magazine.  I desperately wanted to bring up Kentish and the fact that I’d seen them together at the B&B.  I was still angry and hurt, of course, but it wasn’t because I wanted her to be uncomfortable or feel guilty: more a need to have everything out in the open.  I sat down opposite her and took a sip of the hot tea, not quite knowing where to begin.  “There’s, erm ... something important I wanted to talk to you about actually.” 

She looked up from her magazine with a flicker of anxiety in her face.  Maybe I was imagining it, but it was almost as if she suspected what I was about to say.  It was quiet for a second while I tried to find the right words, but they wouldn’t come.  Suddenly I had cold feet; perhaps I should wait … yes, wait until I’d formally been offered the job and things had started to settle down “… erm, it’s … it’s about my Dad’s sixty-fifth. We need to decide what to do about a party and what present to get.” 

She appeared relieved. “Yes, I’ve been thinking about that as well, your mum said he’s broken his watch doing the gardening.  What about getting a nice one and have it engraved on the back.”

“Okay, that sounds good, I’ll go and have a look during my lunch break tomorrow.  I was thinking that we could just go out for a meal on his birthday, just the six of us; we’ve left it a bit late to organise anything else and I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t want a surprise party or anything like that.” 

Helen nodded. “Yeah, I think that’ll be fine. I’ll speak to your mum tomorrow and see if she’s happy with it.”

The following morning I arrived in the department early. Not because of my normal obsession with work, but to prepare my CV and application for the new job.  For the first time in months it actually felt good to be in the building where I’d spent so much of my adult life.  Bob arrived shortly after nine and we spent close to an hour discussing the remit of the new post.  The more I heard, the more I liked the sound of it; yes, there would be a lot more paperwork and basic administrative-type duties, but there would still be time to write grants and attend conferences if that was the direction I wanted to go.  He went on to explain that they were short-listing by the end of the week and interviewing early the following week.  I left the meeting feeling upbeat and confident that I’d made the right decision, and pleased that I wouldn’t have to wait long to hear whether I’d got the job.

----

Later that week, the Friday afternoon, I was packing my bag about to leave for home when Bob Andrews stuck his head round the door off my office. “Good news, Julian, we’ve had no more applicants, I’ve already spoken to personnel, you’ve got the job ... if you still want it.” 

I was stunned.  Not wanting to leave anything to chance, I’d spent much of the week preparing for an interview.  Clearly that wouldn’t be necessary. “That’s great, Bob, I’m really pleased, I’ll take it,” I said beaming. 

He leaned over the desk and we shook hands. “Why don’t you take next week off then you can start afresh a week on Monday, how’s that?”  “Cheers, Bob, I appreciate it.”

On the way home I called in at the shops and bought champagne, not the supermarket kind but the expensive stuff Helen liked.  I sensed that things were very definitely starting to look up.

Chapter 15

Christmas Day morning in
the Kinder Scout bolt-hole and with another twenty minutes to go before my 6:00 a.m. alarm I’ve already been awake for several hours.  My thoughts are concentrated on a year ago, trying to remember the Christmas when I still had my beautiful boys and Helen.  Perhaps for the first time I can now think of them without spiralling into a deep melancholy and can focus on the many good times we had.  I’m sure a psychologist would describe it as an essential step in the recovery process, but to me it’s just a relief to feel better.  Over the previous few weeks my mood has gradually improved and my depression of the early days of incarceration has slowly lifted.  Although it is still another four months until I leave the bolt-hole and my flight to Brazil, I begin to get the sense that long-term freedom beckons and I’ll reach my ultimate goal.               

There’s no particular logic to it. I could go five minutes earlier, I could go five minutes later, but I like routine, and as always I leave the bolt-hole at 6:00 a.m. precisely.  As I crawl out of the entranceway, the sun is just beginning to rise into a grey, cloud-filled sky.  Despite the gloom and the rain that begins to fall, nothing can dissuade me from leaving the dark and dreary bolt-hole.  After a minute of stretching out my stiff limbs, I follow my usual jogging route as my running shoes squelch in the increasingly sodden and muddy path.  For the next half an hour I run hard and complete a couple of loops of my circuit before taking a seat on my favoured rock overlooking Ashop Moor.  Out of breath, and with sweat and rain water dripping off me, I marvel at the views, which are undiminished by the driving rain.

The time passes all too quickly and it is already 8:02 a.m. I know I need to return to the bolt-hole before the first ramblers arrive to enjoy a Christmas Day walk, but I struggle to drag myself away and, like hitting the snooze button after a dreaded early morning alarm, I repeatedly promise myself another five minutes.  I watch as a low-flying plane appears momentarily through a gap in the clouds, heading away from Manchester airport forty or so miles to the west.  As I try and imagine the plans and destinations of the passengers on board, a voice from behind me shockingly interrupts the silence. “Good morning … oh, and Merry Christmas to you, young man.” 

I spin around instantly, almost falling off the rock, praying that I’d imagined the voice.  But no such luck: I’m facing an elderly man, probably mid seventies, just ten metres or so away as he walks on the path towards me.  Wearing the latest waterproof all-weather gear, expensive rucksack and walking pole, he looks like he’s stepped out of an
Outward Bound
catalogue.  “Good morning,” he repeats. 

I struggle to respond, shocked that my solitude has been shattered.  Eventually, after a few seconds, I manage to mutter, “Morning.” 

Catalogue man slows his pace, and then stops, now less than a metre away.  Staring at me inquisitively, he bends at the waist, looking at me through the thick lenses of glasses.  With an arrogant and slightly condescending manner, as if I’m being reprimanded by an old-fashioned schoolmaster, he addresses me. “Do I know you? … You look very, very familiar, young man.” 
You moron, Julian, you moron,
flashes through my thoughts, furious as I am at my stupidity for breaking my routine and not returning to the bolt-hole sooner. 

Desperately trying to compose myself and not appear suspicious, I answer casually, “I don’t think so … erm, at least not that I remember anyway.” 

The man isn’t convinced and continues to stare intently while waiting for a flash of inspiration.  Finally he turns to face Ashop Moor. “I think I’ll join you.  The walk up Crookstone Hill almost killed me.  It is a bit grim this morning, but I come here every Christmas Day, rain or shine.  I used to come with my good lady wife, but she’s passed on now.” 

Before I have chance to respond, he sits next to me on the boulder and turns again to face me.  “You’re an early riser, young man, where’ve you come from.” 

Trying to gain some composure and think on my feet, I answer immediately, “Hagg Side,” but instantly regret it as I feel his stare burning into the side of my face. 

“Oh, I’ve just come from there.  I didn’t see your car.”  I don’t respond but attempt to feign distraction at something in the distance.  After a few seconds he continues, “Are you sure we’ve not met before?” 

“No, I’m sorry but I think you’ve made a mistake,” I respond, this time more forcefully.

But he wasn’t about to let it drop so easily. “No, I never forget a face.  The names Stead, David Stead, Chief Inspector Stead.  S-T-E-A-D,” he helpfully spells out in case I should want to take notes. “A memory like an elephant – that’s what my missus used to say.  Twenty-five years as a bobby in the Met, moved up here fifteen years ago after I retired.  No, never one to forget a face.  Trust me, son, I’ll remember,” he says belligerently. 

I begin to feel my hands shake and my heart-rate increases again after only just beginning to settle after the run, and without thinking I pick up a small rock from the ground next to me.  I grip it tightly and the sharp surfaces dig into my hand, the pain almost therapeutic.

For the next few minutes Stead proceeds to lecture me on the local fauna and flora.  Unsurprisingly I have no interest in his knowledge of wildlife but I’m grateful that he’s distracted from the issue of my identity.  Passing his binoculars to me, he asks me to name a bird that swoops in front of us, quizzing me on his recent lecture material.  As I lift the binoculars to my eyes he takes a sharp intake of breath, and I immediately turn to face him.  For the first time he appears lost for words, and it’s several seconds before he finally speaks. “I know who you are, I know who you are, you’re Scott … You were in the paper a few months ago.  You’re that Julian Scott.” 

I stare back at him unsure how to react or what to say.  He gets up to leave, and then almost as an afterthought he grabs the binoculars from my hand and glares intently at me. “You’re a murderer.”  It’s only now that he sees the rock gripped in my hand, and a look of fear crosses his face.  I drop the rock immediately but it’s too late, he’s already turned and is running back in the direction of Crookstone Hill. 

I follow him a few paces behind. “Wait, please, please, I just want to talk, I’m not going to hurt you.” 

My pleas clearly fall on deaf ears as he continues on, his rucksack swinging wildly on his back.  After a hundred metres or so, and with no sign of him relenting, I try to slow him down by gently pulling on the strap on his rucksack.  He stops abruptly, and then glares at me before defiantly pushing me back and shouting at me, “I’ll not give up without a fight you know, I’ll not give up without a fight, sonny,” as he raises his walking pole and shakes it at me. 

I put my hands up. “I don’t want to hurt you.  I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk.” 

“Talk? Talk? Is that what you wanted with the other fella whose head you chopped off?  Don’t get me wrong, it was terrible what happened to your family but you can’t go round killing people … you can’t take the law into your own hands.”  I step towards him, desperately trying to placate him but he’s not having any of it, and he turns and starts running again. 

His panic is contagious.  It crosses my mind that I should head back to the bolt-hole, collect my stuff and make a run for it.  But it was never part of the plan –
where would I go?, what would I do
?  Before I’ve a chance to make any sort of decision, just a few metres in front of me his foot catches in a deep rut, he falls heavily to the ground, and his forehead crashes onto a boulder with a sickening thud.  For several seconds he lies motionless, before slowly and awkwardly getting to his feet.  Blood is already beginning to drip down through his hairline and into his eyes.  Again I try to calm him, but, disorientated, he turns to run.  He struggles over the uneven ground and almost immediately falls again.  I kneel on his back, attempting to subdue him while I have the chance to reason, but with a strength that shocks me, he wriggles free, turns over, and swings his elbow, forcefully catching me in the groin.  I’m left winded, and within a split second he’s on his feet and running again.  I’m amazed by his tenacity.  He’s like a terrier after a rabbit and determined not to give up.  I follow as he approaches the edge of the plateau, the steep rocky drop beyond.  His running is increasingly erratic and he’s continually close to falling. 

After another thirty seconds of running I’ve got him cornered.  In his confusion he’s stepped out onto a rocky ledge, with me blocking the way to the front and at least a twenty-metre drop behind him to the rocks below.  I begin to feel more relaxed, knowing that he’s got nowhere to run and I’ll have a chance to reason with him.  But to my amazement he turns to face me, then gets on his hands and knees, then onto his belly, and begins to shuffle backwards. “What are you doing?” I scream. “You’ll kill yourself.  Look, listen to me, I just want to talk, that’s all, just talk.” 

Stead mumbles incoherently and shuffles backwards, his legs hanging over the edge as he continues to move away from me, almost as if he’s trying to lower himself down the massive drop.  Fearing the worst, I lunge forward onto my knees and grab both his wrists to pin him to the ground.  But he squirms violently, and with his hands covered in slippery blood I struggle to maintain any sort of grip.  For the next twenty seconds or so I battle with him, desperately trying to hang on and prevent him slipping backwards.  He begins to shout, swearing at me and screaming, “Murderer!”  Then it happens: my grip finally gives way and I make a final desperate attempt to grab him by the collar of his jacket.  Our gazes lock and I don’t know who is the more scared. 

Should I let him drop?
  It could solve all my problems and in all probability the police would treat it as an accident.  I can almost picture the headlines in the local paper, probably tucked away in the middle pages: an elderly hiker, walking alone, falls to his death in a tragic accident.  He screams at me again but this time the realisation of his plight appears to dawn.  "Pull me, please, pull me back up.”  Again it flickers across my consciousness that I should just let him drop
.  But what sort of person am I? Am I really capable of killing an innocent man?
Thankfully his thick jacket is zipped and buttoned all the way to the neck line, and by gripping onto his collar I’ve just got enough purchase to support his weight –
but for how much longer
?  With a final massive surge of effort and with my fingers burning, I dig the heels of my boots into a shallow groove in the rock, and with all my strength I drag him back onto the ledge. 

Stead’s near-death experience has brought a certain clarity to his thinking, and presumably the understanding that I’ve no desire to hurt him.  We sit on the ledge as he stares at me open mouthed, struggling to gain his breath.  Eventually he speaks, his voice cracking. “You saved me, why did you save me?” 

I don’t answer and just shrug. I soak my handkerchief in a puddle of rainwater and gesture for him to wipe away the streaks of blood from the side of his face.  After a few minutes his breathing starts to settle and the colour returns to his complexion as he turns to face me.  “What happens now? … Are you going to let me go?”

I nod back to him. “Of course, I never wanted to hurt you.  It’s not the kind of person I am.” 

For several seconds all is quiet again before he responds: “What sort of person are you then? ... You saved me but why did you kill that Musgrove fella?” 

For the next few minutes I tell him about my problems at work, the depression, Helen’s affair and then my inadvertent run-in with Musgrove in the Earl of Arundel pub and the deadly consequences.  I talk freely; presumably my hope is that
he’ll see me as a normal person who just got caught up in an extraordinary situation.  He
nods periodically but never interrupts, and, perhaps like a good detective, lets me
talk.  Eventually I stop, probably after thirty minutes of
monologue, and with my throat dry I waited for some kind of response. “But you still
haven’t explained why you killed him – was it just revenge?  Why didn’t you just go the
police?”

What's the expression –
in for a penny in for a pound
. So I press on, starting
with the day I first planned to Murder Musgrove.

It was 7:00 a.m. the morning after I’d met Bosworth and Musgrove in the New Inn.  I’d slept fitfully on the floor of my parents’ house, all the time obsessing over the realisation that Musgrove had been responsible for the hit-and-run and that unwittingly I’d initiated his actions.  A number of times after Helen and the boys’ deaths, I’d thought back to Musgrove’s bizarre drunken offer to kill Helen, but I’d always quickly dismissed the idea, putting it down to the words of a deluded junkie.  Clearly I’d misjudged him though, and now, compounding my grief and guilt, I had the added worry of Musgrove’s blackmail threat.