The Fell Walker (17 page)

Three laborious hours later, as he continued through the pile in datal order, occasionally recognising fatal incidents in the Keswick area he had already reported on, he came across another likely case.

The incident had occurred 11 months ago, on Glaramara fell in Borrowdale valley, about six miles from Keswick. At the time, he remembered reporting it as a ‘routine’ fall tragedy. Now, the deaths of Mr and Mrs Harris, on holiday from Lincolnshire, warranted a different, sinister, category.

The photographs said it all. Found at the foot of Bull Crag’s steep cliffs, after a three-day search, the bodies had been visited by the birds. All four eyes were missing. Three had been taken cleanly by the birds. Mrs Harris’s left eye region was severely damaged. Her left ear hung on a dry sliver of flesh. Mr Harris had no similar injuries. Again, the eye; again, the woman.

Ben found his CLUES list and wrote: ‘8. Mrs Harris (11 months ago) left eye/ear damage’. He moved up the page to No. 7 and changed it from ‘All three female so far’ to ‘All four female so far’.

Towards the end of the day, Ben’s own eyes were struggling. He left his desk and moved to the window. A flock of the lake’s geese were wheeling in the sky, ready to land in a lakeside field. Outlined against a multi-coloured sunset over the western fells, they were a gloriously normal sight.

He had found one other possible case that after-noon. But the body of the lone woman had been found face down, and no photographs had been taken at the post-mortem. However, the post-mortem report spoke of left eye and ear damage. So, he had added the documents of Miss J Hudson to the separate, small, pile on the right side of the desk, and noted her as No. 9 on his CLUES list.

Rubbing his tired eyes, he returned from the window and started to put the documents back in their hiding place. As he did so, he noticed that the next set of reports were from Scotland. He had covered over a year of Lake District incidents and was now moving back in time to the information he had picked up from the Torridon Mountain Rescue headquarters and sent to him by Alec Gordon of the Assynt team.

They would have to wait until tomorrow. He was about to go for a stroll down to the lake before the sun disappeared, to see the red sky reflected in the still water, to watch the mallards glide and squabble, to see the fishermen measure their catches, to watch a buzzard take its final hover of the day, to listen to...silence. He would count his blessings and eventually stroll back to the cottage to prepare the evening meal, and wait like a lovesick teenager for the return of Helen.

*

For the next three days Ben maintained this routine. A few hours for the Tribune, the rest of the day studying the incident documents, ending with an evening stroll to the lake.

At the end of the third day he had read through the entire pile of documents. He had found four more cases in Scotland, two in the Torridon area and two in the Assynt area.

The two cases in the Torridon area had occurred 18 months and 21 months ago. In both cases, couples had been found at the foot of crags on Beinn Eighe and Liathach. In both cases the women had suffered left eye and ear damage, while the men, though severely injured in other ways, did not have the same left eye damage.

The two cases in the Assynt area had occurred 26 months and 30 months ago. The first case involved a couple being found on Conival. As usual, only the women had suffered left eye damage. The second case involved a man found at the foot of An Caisteal; the only man to show relevant left eye and ear damage.

At the end of it all, Ben felt totally drained and very depressed. He was, of course, gratified that his theory was looking increasingly plausible, but the horror he believed he had unearthed swamped any feeling of satisfaction. Out of the 43 deaths that had occurred in the three regions over the past three years he had extracted 15 that he believed had been perpetrated by a murderer. One man and eight women, whose left eyes and ears were severely damaged, and six accompanying husbands or boyfriends.

The fact that the men did not show any particular pattern of damage, left the door open to the possibility that other men, apart from those husbands and boyfriends, had also been murdered, but it was not obvious. And though he had gone back through three years of records to the times of increased fatalities in the three regions, how could he be sure that this was the full extent of the killer’s range and time. The thought that there could be more than 15 victims only added to his sadness.

Ben battled against his tiredness as he took a breather at the window. There could be no stroll to the lake tonight; there was thinking to do.

With the first attacks taking place over a 12-month period in Assynt in the north of Scotland about three years ago, followed by attacks over the same period in the Torridon area approximately two years ago, the killer had probably lived in those areas and then moved on to the Lake District.

He had apparently now been in the Lake District for over 15 months, and had killed at least eight people in that time compared to seven during two years in Scotland. Clearly, he was speeding up. Or was it that there was a greater supply of the kind of people he liked to kill in the Lake District compared to the small population and number of visitors in the north of Scotland?

What was particularly worrying to Ben was that all the Lake District deaths had been within a ten mile radius of Keswick, and it had to be assumed that the killer was still in the area. What was it that was holding him here?

Suddenly, he experienced a feeling of panic. It was all up to him. He was the one who had to sort it out. Either that, or take it back to the police and have Helen find out about Sophie Lund and the stolen records. That would have to be the very last resort.

Yet, who was he to gamble with people’s lives. If the killer struck again, before Ben had discovered his identity, he would find it impossible to forgive himself for not going to the police. But, was there any guarantee that the police would take up the baton again, and if they did, was there any guarantee that they would be successful in finding the killer before he struck again.

Perhaps he was the best bet after all. He now felt totally absorbed in the matter; he had read through every incident; he had felt empathy with the victims, being a fellow lover of the high places. Maybe this closeness he felt to the victims and the mountains on which they perished gave him a better chance of finding the killer than an uninvolved detective brought in from the city.

He was going around in circles again. He had to make a decision. Just then, he heard Helen’s voice from downstairs. She must have come home early. Or had he forgotten the time? He glanced at his watch. He had forgotten the time. He bundled the documents out of sight and went downstairs.

Helen smiled her usual warm hello as they kissed. He held her a little longer than usual. The softness of her cheek matched the tenderness of her nature. She was all that was good in his life. She must not come to harm. The decision was made. He would go it alone. If someone died in the future because he hadn’t gone to the police, so be it. It would be him that suffered, not Helen

Chapter 26

He stares out of the window. The grey evening light is fading to darkness. A passing cormorant spreads its gothic wings against the sky. Another day’s work is over. He doesn’t feel so bad tonight.

He has fed her and emptied her bucket and even pecked at some food himself. Maybe, tonight, he can get through without drink. He has yet to put on his walkman earphones; enjoying, while he can, a rare blankness in his mind. Maybe some light Mozart will see him through. Maybe a piano concerto.... A noise from outside the window; a cat is meowing. A mournful cry against the passing of the day? A cry for a mate? Hungry? To Hector, it sounds like one thing only: the cry of a baby.

He rushes for his tapes. Only Mahler can cope with this. Soon he has the achingly poignant sound of the adagietto from the fifth symphony glowing in his head. He knows where it will, inevitably, take him. He takes a bottle from the cupboard and settles into his rocking chair.

*

Leni had smiled when she said: ‘I think I’m pregnant, Hector.’ He had been shocked to silence. In his naivety; in the magic whirl of his first few months with Leni, he had never even thought of children, of fatherhood. That was something that happened to other people, to normal people. Not to misfits like him; to someone so uncertain, nervous, frightened, that he still felt like a child himself.

‘Are you not pleased?’ Leni said, querying his silence with a frown.

‘Yes...yes,’ Hector hurried, hating himself for causing the frown. It’s...wonderful.’ He had never used that word before. It didn’t sound right…try again. ‘It’s magic.’ That sounded better. He just wanted to say the right thing to please her. He didn’t know what his feelings were; he didn’t have any yet.

 
Somehow he muddled through the next few hours, trying to say the right thing, agreeing with everything Leni said, trying to match her excitement. She was obviously thrilled and couldn’t wait to let Mama and Vilma know her incredible news. In his mind, Hector could picture Vilma leaping up and down, dancing around, laughing and shouting, and then crying because she was not with her best friend to share the moment.

Days later, when the full implication of fatherhood had finally sunk in, though exceedingly nervous about the prospect, he decided, emphatically, that this would be the best cared-for baby in the world. It would never have to suffer the neglect he had. Even now, the thought of those years of loneliness, and lack of affection, brought tears to his eyes. He couldn’t remember anyone touching him in the first 20 years of his life.

Leni had changed all that and brought him the joy of physical contact, and more than that, made him feel he was worthwhile. When the child came, he decided, he would look after it as he looked after Leni - with complete devotion. It would be kissed and cuddled from dawn to dusk.

The lonely house on the windswept headland heard the baby’s first cry at ten o’clock on a fine spring morning. Like most babies, it had wanted to arrive during the night. At Leni’s request, Hector had phoned for the midwife at 5.30 a.m. He wouldn’t allow her to go into hospital; he didn’t want her out of his sight. Yet, when the delivery started, he had to leave the room because he couldn’t bear to see Leni in pain.

When the midwife came out of the room and placed the tiny bundle in his arms, he almost fainted. It was so small he could have held it in his hands. The tiny face had been blessed with its mother’s large eyes and generous lips, and he was glad there was none of his own ugliness to be seen.

‘It’s a girl,’ the midwife smiled.

Hector stared at the angelic little face, and worried and swallowed hard. This little miracle was his. She was already depending on him...
him!
He would try not to let her down. He lifted her slowly to his face and kissed her gently on her brow, then, with his quivering lips trying to smile, he carried her back to her mama.

Grace had brought them truly together. No longer two individuals trying to please each other, they became a team, two acting as one in the shared joy of caring for their offspring. Leni had chosen the name Grace in memory of her sister who had died in childbirth. A perfect name, Hector often thought, as dotingly, he watched his baby grow into a graceful, happy little girl.

*

Hector pours himself another drink, then slumps back in the rocking chair, and closes his eyes as he recalls those blissful early years.

A keen swimmer, Leni had persuaded him to take them to Thurso pool to teach Grace to swim as soon as she could walk. He had been reluctant at first, not only because he couldn’t swim, but also because it meant other people coming into contact with Leni, in a swimming costume. His initial reaction, to show her off when she first arrived, had long since been replaced by a desire to keep her to himself, away from lustful eyes. He worried also that Leni would tire of him and be tempted by a more attractive man.

But he need not have worried. With great patience and a thousand smiles, Leni had taught them both to swim, and she seemed totally unaware of the admiring glances of those around her. Always, her eyes were either on Grace or himself.

The daily trip to the pool, either early morning, or after work, had become a highlight of each day. He could still see Grace shouting ‘Daddy’ as she jumped from the poolside into the water beside him. He could still feel her wet little arms around his neck.

Lost in sweet recollection, he is suddenly startled by the searing finale of the adagietto. Now his head is swimming with heartbreaking thoughts and music. His face contorts its resistance, his body shakes with tension, but nothing can stop the bottomless pit of grief from erupting again.

The desperate, painful, sobbing leaves him exhausted and shivering, as though he has a disease. Vaguely, he wanders how much more he can take before he must seek special relief. Shakily, he fills his glass and replaces the fifth with the fourth hoping that Mahler’s lighter and most tender slow movement will take him to a better place.

The glorious music starts, like a waltz in slow motion, and soon has him sailing over the headland as though on a cloud. Leni is with him, holding his hand, smiling as always. They are looking down on the beach, the cliffs, in the distance - Dounreay, his place of work, over the fields to hover over the house, the door of the house opens and a little girl runs out and waves up at them, quick, away from there, inland to the mountains - ah yes - the mountains!

Again, Leni had been the instigator. Whereas he had been content to relax or potter around the house at weekends, Leni, after being in the house all week, was eager to spread her wings. Used only to overcrowded houses, streets and cities, she was tempted by the vast emptiness that lay inland from the house. She wanted to visit the bare hills and the peaked mountains. As usual, with a smile and a kiss, she got her way.

Carrying Grace in a special harness on his back, and later walking by his side, Hector had grown to love the empty mountains he had ignored as a child. He loved them because Leni had shown him how. She was so happy there, enjoying the space, the freedom. With Grace trying to keep up, she ran and climbed like a child. She never complained when the weather was bad, and made lots of hot soup, which they hugged when they huddled together for a picnic. She had even persuaded him to join the local mountain rescue team.

Ben Loyal, a corruption of the Gaelic Ben Laoghal, became her favourite mountain. ‘Big Ben’, she called it. With its five sculptured summits rising in complete isolation from the flat moorland, it compelled her to walk along its skyline ridge linking the five summits.

Although a long car ride from the house, they never tired of driving there, parking the car at Ribigill farm, and following the shepherd’s track that led to the foot of An Caisteal - the castle - the highest of its peaks.

From the summit, the view of Sutherland’s vast, empty, hinterland and the imposing Kyle of Tongue sea loch kept them captivated until sunset, which, in summer, didn’t take place until midnight. Then, a fast asleep Grace would have to be carried back down to the car. He could still feel her dead weight on his back. No! ...He mustn’t....

Clumsily, he removes Mahler’s fourth and grabs the nearest tape. Suddenly, the mighty music of Sibelius fills his head. The second symphony reveals its wondrous grandeur, as though heaven has been brought to earth. There had to be such a place. Sibelius had seen it, and was letting ordinary mortals know it was there. Nothing else could explain this sound, this mysterious majesty. Hector travels on its familiar journey, following every chord, every nuance.

It was a favourite of Leni’s as well as himself. Often, as they sat on a bench outside the house, watching the evening sunset, they would open a window and let it explode through and past them, to soar across the bleak headland, filling the emptiness of the scene, filling their hearts with emotion, confirming that heaven existed, that love was everything, that their love was true.

Now, the soaring strings rise to an immense, trium-phant, unbearable, finale. Its intensity wrenches the last ounce of sorrow from Hector’s trembling frame. His face contorts grotesquely as he lets out an ape-like scream, and he curls up into a foetal position, hugging himself and rocking himself into the night.