Dead Man Walking (32 page)

This gave them new heart, Hazel hurrying ahead, albeit with an awkward, limping gait.

‘It’s only a few hundred yards to the bridge from here,’ she said.

‘No problem.’ But Gemma then glanced over her shoulder, wondering if she’d just heard a crackle of foliage. She flicked her torch on.

‘Something wrong?’ Hazel asked.

Gemma didn’t immediately reply. The pall of rapidly dimming light – her torch’s battery was finally failing – speared into the gloom, but revealed nothing. ‘Let’s keep moving, eh?’

They walked on, Gemma glancing over her shoulder several times more. The lapping of wavelets soon gave way to an ongoing rumble of rushing water.

‘Hear that?’ Hazel said. ‘That’s the Race. There’s actually a barred gate they lower from the bridge to stop people going over the top of it by accident. They only raise it for competitions.’

‘Okay …’ Despite her better judgement, Gemma allowed Hazel’s increasingly upbeat mood to affect her. As the torch now emitted little more than a weak, yellow glow, she switched it off and shoved it into her pocket. ‘I don’t suppose anyone lives near the bridge? There are no houses or anything?’

‘No. As I say, even from here it’s still a couple of miles to the Keld.’

The rushing of water was now thunderous, as if it was pouring in a waterfall. The direction from which it emanated appeared to have changed; it no longer came from their right, but from somewhere to their left, just ahead.

Then Gemma heard something else. And this time there was no error.

It was another crackle of twigs, from close behind.

She spun around, by instinct going for her torch and thumbing its button, but the bulb failed; the battery had finally died. She kept hold of it nevertheless, clamping it in her left fist. It wasn’t especially heavy, but anything would do that felt like a weapon.

Hazel hobbled up beside her.

They were silent for several seconds, their breaths pluming in milky clouds.

‘Do deer ever come down to the water’s edge to drink?’ Gemma asked quietly.

‘I suppose … I’ve known sheep do it too.’

What Gemma would have given at that moment for a loud and reassuring
baaa
! But the lakeside woods remained silent.

‘Keep walking,’ Gemma murmured, turning and steering Hazel along the path. ‘And don’t look back.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Go over the bridge if you want to. Act like there’s nothing unusual.’

‘You sound like
you
won’t be with me.’

‘Like I say, don’t look back.’ Gemma edged towards the left side of the path. ‘If you hear anything bad, start running.’

‘You can’t hide!’ Hazel hissed. ‘Mark said this guy might have some kind of heat-vision device.’

‘We don’t know anything about him. We don’t even know if this is him. If it was, I’m sure he’d be whistling his happy tune …’

‘So why are you …?’

‘Don’t argue, Hazel, okay!’

They strode on, Gemma still veering casually left and then, without warning, darting away into the fog-shrouded undergrowth. Hazel almost whimpered aloud, but managed to suppress it, and strolled on alone as calmly as she was able.

In the brush, Gemma dropped to a crouch, and waited. Pine needles and cones were scattered around her feet, but no heavy stone lay close to hand, no broken branch she could wield as a club. She hefted the torch again, this time in both hands, and strained her ears as Hazel’s stumbling footfalls receded.

Seconds passed as she tried to subdue her breathing, which wasn’t easy – her throat was sore and her lungs ached from the frigid air and constant exertion. She knew she wasn’t particularly well concealed. Only a few clumps of naked foliage separated her from the path. But hopefully she was close enough to hear the footsteps she now confidently expected to come crunching along it. Until it occurred to her that what she’d heard had been the crackling of
twigs
. Which did not signify someone proceeding along a path – but through undergrowth.

She spun around. The figure standing directly behind her was a black outline in the gloom. Before she could move or even shout, a torch flicked on and searing light glared over her. If Gemma hadn’t just walked so far and over such rough ground, she might have been able to respond more effectively. As it was, her legs were cramped and cold, so she wasn’t able to leap to her feet and go into her unarmed combat routine. The blinding light rendered her opponent all but invisible anyway, so, though she flung the torch, it flew wide, the figure easily able to step aside.

‘Whoah!’ came a sharp voice, with a distinct Irish twang. ‘Do that again, miss, and I’ll break your fucking arms!’

‘PC … PC O’Rourke?’ Gemma said warily.

There was a brief, surprised silence. ‘Who are you? Hey … keep your hands where I can see them!’

‘I’m a police officer too … from Scotland Yard.’

The figure behind the torch regarded her with prolonged suspicion.

‘If you’ll let me,’ Gemma said, lowering her right arm again. The wallet containing her warrant card was inside her jacket.

‘I said don’t fucking move!’

The tone was attack-dog aggressive. If this was the famously tough and resourceful Mary-Ellen O’Rourke, she sounded highly on edge. But then, even the most affable officers were likely to be out of sorts tonight. Gemma’s eyes had now adjusted to the bright light. She detected a sturdy stature, black clothing and a luminous slicker of some sort. A pale face hovered just above the torch. By the looks of it, the officer had drawn her extending baton, and held it at her right shoulder, ready to strike.

‘You say you’re Scotland Yard …?’

‘Yes.’ Gemma kept her arms outstretched. ‘And I’m guessing you’re PC Mary-Ellen O’Rourke, from Cragwood Keld police office. If it helps, my name’s Detective Superintendent Gemma Piper … from the Serial Crimes Unit. I came here at the request of DS Heckenburg.’

There was another long, near-eerie silence from the figure behind the torch. Then the light was inclined downward, so it no longer shone into Gemma’s face. The newcomer emerged fully into view. It was indeed a policewoman.

‘I’m sorry, ma’am.’ She offered a hand to assist.

Gemma waved this away and rose stiffly to her feet. She reached under her coat and produced her ID. Mary-Ellen only gave it a cursory examination.

‘Heck mentioned your name, but …’

With wild shrieks, a third figure lurched from their left, carrying an enormous knotted tree limb, which it swung like a baseball bat. Gemma fell backward and rolled. Mary-Ellen dodged nimbly aside, the limb whistling harmlessly past the pair of them. Their female assailant staggered, and almost fell herself. Mary-Ellen jumped forward before she could strike again.

‘Easy, Hazel! It’s me! Mary-Ellen!’

‘Oh my God!’ Hazel stammered, half-collapsing. She sank to her knees. ‘I’m sorry … I, I didn’t realise …’

‘So one of you is lying in wait for me,’ Mary-Ellen said. ‘The other comes at me with a shillelagh. Who needs enemies with friends like you lot?’

Gemma got slowly to her feet. ‘You can’t totally blame us, PC O’Rourke.’

‘What you doing this end of the tarn?’ Mary-Ellen asked.

‘What are
you
doing here?’ Gemma retorted. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be on the east shore, marking out a crime scene?’

‘I was there a few hours ago. But I kept hearing noises. Like there was someone circling around. Eventually I went and looked. I couldn’t find anything. I was about a hundred yards away when I heard the bloody boat start up. I ran back there, but by then the sodding thing had gone. So I’ve had to walk it back. It’s taken me ages just making it this far. The east shore’s pretty difficult to negotiate.’ Mary-Ellen displayed torn gloves and skinned fingertips. ‘Had to climb more than a couple of rock-faces. Soon as I got to this end, I heard voices. Didn’t have a clue who it might be, so I hid and followed you. The rest you know.’

‘Well … you won’t believe what’s happened to us,’ Hazel said.

Wearily, in faltering, disjointed fashion, she related their own experiences. Mary-Ellen listened, initially incredulous, her face visibly lengthening, her green eyes losing their lustre when she heard about PC Heggarty’s death.

‘Dan Heggarty?’ she said slowly.

‘I’m afraid so,’ Gemma replied.

‘Oh, Christ …’ Briefly, the Irish lass sounded too upset to speak. ‘I mean, he wasn’t a bad bloke, Dan Heggarty. Shit … who am I kidding? He was a total prick. But shot, you say? Through the head?’

‘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.’