The Fell Walker (2 page)

Chapter 3

In the lounge bar of the Keswick Hotel, Ben carried his pint of Cumberland ale to a corner table beside an ornate marble fireplace. Its ostentation was matched by extravagant ceiling mouldings and chandeliers, but not by the green seating which was showing signs of wear.

He was soon able to pick out the journalists from the tourists. The old stereotype had been replaced by young men and women who had taken the trouble to shower, and dress casually smart, before putting themselves on parade.

There was something disturbingly clone-like about them. Many were glued to their mobile phones. Most of their drinks were non-alcoholic. Nobody smoked. The days of cigars, sweat, and whisky were over, apparently. He caught hints of soap, deodorant, and scent. It was all very depressing.

‘Poor bastards,’ Ben muttered to himself. How miserable their world had become. Efficiency was today’s god. ‘Thou shall not be old, individual, or unavailable,’ was today’s first commandment. There was no place left for the idiosyncratic, the eccentric, the comedic.

On each of his visual sweeps of the earnest gathering, he had been brought to a halt by the striking looks of a woman, sitting on her own, nursing what appeared to be a gin and tonic. It was hard to tell whether she was 25 or 45. Her straight black hair framed a pale face in which large sparkling blue eyes supported too much eye shadow, and generous lips, too much dark lipstick. She looked familiar, though he may have been confusing her with a young Elizabeth Taylor.

He was finding it difficult to muscle in on a conversation, though he did overhear that the police were only treating the deaths as suspicious because Jack Fraser was a government minister and all ministers were regarded as possible targets for terrorists. Had they been ordinary members of the public, then it would have been treated as just another unfortunate mountain accident.

But this merely confirmed the information he had already been given by Sergeant Bill Unwin, who had also told him that detectives would be visiting Sellafield nuclear plant to investigate the disgruntled worker theory, and searchers had still not found Mrs Fraser’s missing ear.

*

He was draining his second pint, feeling disappointed, and thinking of calling it a night, when Elizabeth Taylor appeared in front of him.

‘Can I buy you another,’ she offered, in a voice as deep as her eye shadow.

Ben sat up straight, blinked himself alert again. ‘...Yes...thanks...a pint of Cumberland ale...’

She turned to go to the bar.

‘Now there’s a turn up,’ Ben thought, as he watched a barman rush to serve her. ‘I came to pick their brains - now they come to pick mine. We’re like vultures, gathering at the scene of death, picking, probing, devouring. Maybe that’s what being a journalist is....’

Elizabeth Taylor sat down opposite him, placing his beer and her gin carefully on the table. She picked up her glass. ‘Cheers Ben,’ she smiled, studying him intently as she raised the glass to her lips.

‘How do you know my....’

‘The barman told me.’

Ben glanced over to the barman. ‘I don’t know him.’

‘Journalists tend to be better known than barmen, even in small towns,’ she explained. ‘My name’s Sophie Lund.’ She paused, as though expecting a reaction.

It was not surprising. Now he knew why her face was familiar. Years ago she had been the ‘enfant terrible’ of journalism. At the age of 25, she had established a regular ‘must read’ column in one of the broadsheets. At the age of 30, she was a tabloid editor, and a celebrity. She appeared on television - on late night political discussions, panel games, and even trendy fashion and pop programmes where she was seen as an icon of anti-establishment youth - her open promotion of drug use no doubt facilitating her reputation. Then she had disappeared, apparently giving it all up to help her French lover grow grapes in the south of France.

Ben held out his hand. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Sophie,’ he said.

‘You must be wondering...’ she started. ‘I could see you were not one of those.’ She turned her head indicating the journalists over her shoulder. ‘Wrong clothes, wrong drink, aged but innocent,’ she observed.

Ben swallowed. ‘I take it those are compliments,’ he countered.

Sophie smiled enigmatically. ‘Do you mind if I ask you some personal questions, Ben?’ she asked.

‘Go ahead,’ Ben said easily, the alcohol providing bravado.

‘Okay, here goes,’ Sophie announced, as though she was about to jump from a high building. ‘When did you last have a bath, are you married, would you like to sleep with me?’

Ben took a long drink of his ale. He was always surprised at how calmly he reacted to unusual situations, when he could be driven to distraction by the minutiae of everyday life. Perhaps it was in his genes. Perhaps he had been pre-programmed to eschew the prosaic, cherish the poetic.

He knew that he was being tested. She was looking into his eyes, waiting. How he answered was obviously very important to her. This was not just a casual pick up.

As a young man, he had promised himself never to forego any experience, providing it didn’t endanger his life. He hadn’t gone looking for excitement or kicks, but when a new experience was offered, he never turned it down. He decided to match her directness.

‘Answers,’ he announced confidently. ‘Last bath - two weeks ago, but shower every morning, I’m extremely married, I would like to sleep with you.’

‘Good,’ she said simply, never taking her eyes off him. Her closed hand came out of her pocket and reached across the table to him. She lowered her voice. ‘Here’s my room key. Please take a bath and help yourself to the mini bar. I’ll be up in 30 minutes.’

Ben took the proffered key without question, and rose from the table. This only happened in Hollywood movies, this was exceptional. If she was Elizabeth Taylor, then he must be Cary Grant. This was quite...incredible. Incredible enough to make him leave his Cumberland ale unfinished.

*

In the bath his mind raced. Why had this well-known woman picked him out? Surely not just for sex? What about Helen? He didn’t feel as though he was cheating on her. His soul would always belong to her. It was the situation that intrigued him more than the prospect of sex, he told himself. And, he had to be true to his youthful promise. But he knew that Helen would never understand this. She must never be told.

His mind was still preoccupied when he walked, naked, into the bedroom.

‘Not bad at all.’

The voice made him jump, automatically cover himself with his hands.

Sophie Lund sat, smiling, in a chair beside the dressing table, now displaying a bottle of gin and two glasses.

‘You said 30 minutes,’ Ben objected.

‘I like to surprise people.’

‘You succeeded....’

‘Now Ben, be a good man, get dressed, and come and have a drink with me.’

‘But...what about?’

‘You didn’t expect me to sleep with you
now
did you Ben? We hardly know each other.’ She spoke with mock coyness. ‘Maybe later, when we’re good friends eh?’

‘You’re taking a bit of a risk aren’t you,’ Ben snapped, feeling angry and ridiculous in equal measure. ‘I’m damned annoyed. What if I was...’

‘But you are not going to be aggressive are you. Men without trousers are never aggressive, I’ve found. As for taking risks? Tell me something that isn’t risky. Living, I call it.’

‘So those questions downstairs?’ Ben queried, angrily.

‘Just my fun way of sorting the men from the boys, Ben. Believe it or not, most married men run a mile when propositioned like that. They’re the timid, unimaginative ones. I like brave, inquisitive, people around me. They call it ‘having bottle’ these days.’

Ben turned and headed for the bathroom. He was beginning to feel mentally as well as physically naked in front of this supremely confident woman.

*

In the bathroom, while putting his clothes on, he gradually began to see the funny side of things. ‘Caught with my pants down,’ he smiled to the mirror, as he fastened his tie. The whole embarrassing situation now appealed to his ironic sense of humour. And, somewhat reluctantly, he had to admire the nerve of the woman

He re-entered the bedroom in a calmer mood.

‘Feeling aggressive now?’ Sophie taunted, sipping her drink.

‘No,’ Ben smiled. ‘In fact I’ll probably laugh about this for weeks.’

‘Good. I knew you would see the joke. I’ve poured you a drink.’

She offered a glass to him, and indicated the chair on the other side of the dressing table.

Ben said ‘no thanks’ to the drink, as he sat down. ‘So what’s this charade all about?’ he asked, evenly.

‘I wanted to talk to you...’

‘You could have done that downstairs.’

‘Privately.’

‘What about?’

‘Jack Fraser.’

‘Why me?’

‘Because I need your help. You do work for the local paper?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you know the local scene, where to go, who to ask, I haven’t got time...’

‘Whoa!’ Ben interrupted. ‘Let me stop you there. I’ve just dropped out of one rat race and I’ve no desire to enter another.’

‘Dropped out?’ Sophie queried.

‘Yes, dropped out,’ Ben confirmed. ‘Industrial management; I hated it. I dropped out three years ago when the kids flew the nest. This thing with the Keswick Tribune is just part-time freelancing. Rest of the time I’m painting landscapes to sell to the tourists. I don’t make much money, but I love it. In fact, I’m a kept man. My wife, Helen, is the main breadwinner. She manages a leisure centre at Windermere.’

Sophie looked pensive for a moment. Then her eyes searched his face again. Then, apparently, she reached a decision.

‘Look, it doesn’t really matter how experienced you are as long as I can trust you. And I’m not asking you to join another rat race, just sniff around a bit and let me know what you find. It sounds as though you have plenty of time to do that, and I’ll pay you for your time.’

‘There’s no need for that,’ Ben replied. ‘I’ll be sniffing around anyway.’ The prospect of associating with the famous Ms Lund was starting to intrigue him.

‘I insist on payment,’ Sophie said, adamantly. It’s the only way to succeed. If I pay you, I can put pressure on you. Pressure gets results. And I need a result on this.’

Ben’s interest grew. If she was prepared to pay him for something he intended to do anyway, why not go along with her. ‘Tell me more,’ he said. ‘For a start - why me? You must have lots of contacts?’

Sophie took a gulp of her gin. ‘I don’t know many people in this neck of the woods, and anyway, I need a complete outsider. I’ve been out of circulation lately, and I’m not sure who I can trust anymore. I’ve made a lot of enemies in my time.’

‘What are you afraid of?’ Ben asked, still puzzled by the whole thing.

‘I can’t explain.’

‘You’d better, if you want my help.’

‘Look,’ Sophie sighed, as she leaned towards him across the dressing table. ‘I’m working on a book. It’s about the government’s connection with the nuclear industry. I’m here because Jack Fraser was deeply involved with both, and now he’s dead. I want to know who killed him. That’s all I can tell you.’

‘How can you be sure it wasn’t an accident?’ Ben asked the obvious question.