The Fell Walker (29 page)

Now he wrapped the tea towel around her neck, tucking it into the collar of her blouse. This, to avoid rope marks showing on her neck. He tied the long piece of rope around her neck, on top of the tea towel, making sure it was fairly tight so that she would respond to his pull on it. Like taking a dog for a walk, he thought. Finally, he tore off a piece of plastic tape and forced it over her mouth.

He picked up the long piece of rope in his left hand and jerked it upwards, making Helen rise to her feet. With his right hand, he picked up the wrench and showed it in a threatening manner. ‘Keep pace with me,’ he ordered.

He walked backwards, out of the studio, keeping the rope between them taught. Helen followed, carefully, trying to relieve the pressure on her neck. Her legs felt weak.

Through the waiting area, along the passage, up the stairs, they travelled, in slow, silent procession. At the top of the stairs, Hector caught the back of his heel on the final step, and stumbled backwards into the lounge, causing Helen’s head to jerk forward as she followed him. She let out a nasal cry of protest.

‘Shut up bitch,’ Hector snapped, as he brought his stumble to a standstill. They stared at each other across a few paces - predator and prey, alive as never before, knowing it of each other, sharing it, each drifting momentarily to their better worlds where the nightmare wasn’t happening.

Hector broke the reverie. He backed out of the lounge, and into the hall. Along the hall to the open front door, glancing at the monitor as he passed it - all clear. Reversing down the outside steps, warily; she might try a jump from the top. On to the gravel, so far so good.

A few paces and they arrived at the rear of his car, boot lid already open.

‘Inside,’ he ordered, backing away to the side, to give her room to climb in. She made a pleading look with her eyes. He ignored it and motioned her to get on with the job.

Helen placed her tied hands on the boot rim, and prepared to climb in. As she shuffled her feet into position, she placed the toe of her right shoe on the heel of her left shoe, and held it down while she slipped her left foot out. She kicked the shoe under the car, but didn’t make very good contact.

She had to hitch her skirt up, using the inside of her elbows, to allow her to cock her leg up and over, into the boot. Taking the weight on her hands, on the rim, she then lunged forward and rolled into the boot, banging her trailing leg on the boot rim.

Hector moved closer, still holding the rope. He bent down, reached under the rear of the car, and re-appeared holding her discarded shoe. He didn’t notice the word scrawled on it. He threw it into the boot.

‘You’ll need that,’ he said. ‘There’s a bit of walking to do.’

He threw the rope in on top of Helen, and watched her cower down as he slammed the boot lid shut.

He walked back towards the house, and up the main steps. He had all the doors to close - the studio doors, the trapdoor, the main door.

He stepped inside the main door, glanced at the monitor, and saw a police car coming through the main gates. The adrenalin knocked his hangover to one side, primed some fast thinking.

Choices - stay or run. If he stayed he could have the studio hidden before they arrive, hope she didn’t attract their attention from the boot, answer their questions, might, or might not, get away with it. If he ran, they would find the studio, he could never go back, but he would be free.

He’d been thinking about moving on after number 10, it was getting riskier; the police don’t come back without good reason. He would run.

He ran back outside, down the steps, into the car. A burst on the accelerator and, within a few seconds, he was on the left side of the drive’s dual carriageway, leading out of the grounds. The separating yew hedge kept him out of sight of the incoming police car. He immediately slowed to a stop so they wouldn’t hear his engine.

Two seconds later, he heard the police car race past on the other side of the hedge. He waited two more seconds, then drove off, quietly.

*

As they approached the Manor, Bill spotted the open main door. ‘Right, Murphy, I’m going in the main door. You stay with the car. Tell them I’ve gone in. Watch the cottage...don’t go in on your own. Hit the horn if you need me. You stay in the car, Ben, this is police work’

‘Try and stop me,’ Ben snapped, opening his door as they slithered to a halt on the gravel.

Ben was up the steps and through the main door before Bill, braking at the sight of the monitor.

Bill joined him. ‘I’d forgotten about those things,’ he hissed with annoyance. He must have seen us coming...’

‘He’s made a run for it...’

‘If he left in a hurry, Helen might still be here. Search every room. You take the right.’

Ben raced to the first door, the dining room, head in, quick look around, behind the door, out. Next door, serving room, head in, quick look around, behind the door, out. Next door, kitchen, head in, quick look around, behind the door, out.

Bill was just ahead now, having done the cloakrooms and toilets on the left side. They entered the lounge together, saw the open trapdoor, Bill started to say something, Ben brushed past him and hurtled down the stairs into the darkness, a light went on, Bill had found it, along the passage, into an open space, through an open doorway, a mattress, a bucket, photographs...
my God...
Helen...not here, nothing here, behind the door...scrawled on the back of the door in big black letters B A R F... ‘that’s my girl’, crashing into Bill as he enters the room, showing him the back of the door, nothing said, both back up to the lounge, along the hall, running, jumping the steps, into the car.

‘Drive very fast, Schumacher. He’s got about five minutes start on us. Head for Thornthwaite on the other side of the lake...go the Castle Inn way.’

‘Right Sarge.’

‘K3 urgent’...‘Go ahead K3’... ‘Leaving Scarness Manor...suspect with victim has decamped. Now believed to be in car, make and registration unknown, headed for Barf fell summit...Bravo, Alpha, Romeo, Foxtrot. It’s on the west side of Bassenthwaite lake...we’re heading there now...request urgent assistance...’...‘Copy K3....’

In the back seat, Ben recalled his walks to Barf. He’d always gone around the flanks of the massif which contained Barf and other fells, and approached it from the north, via Wythop valley; the access from the east, alongside the lake, being too steep.

Bill interrupted his thoughts, shouting over his shoulder. ‘We can’t be sure he’s going to Barf, can we. If he saw us coming, he knows we’re on to him. He might be heading for the motorway, get as far away as he can.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Ben shouted back, as he braced himself for a sharp corner. ‘These people work to a pattern, they don’t deviate much. He’ll still feel safe, in control. Anyway, it’s our only hope. If he goes anywhere else, we’ve had it....’ He had to pause as they leaped a hump back bridge. His head hit the roof. ‘...How is he going to get to the top of Barf with Helen?’ he continued. ‘She isn’t going to go willingly. And if she’s unconscious’ …
don’t dwell on it
…
‘he won’t be able to carry her far. He’ll have to get the car close to the top. Is there any way he can do that?’

They held on as Murphy swerved to avoid an oncoming car on the narrow stretch to Dubwath. Mud and stones splattered underneath, tree branches scoured the windows.

Bill waited until they were back on the road, then turned his head. ‘If he drives to the south end of the lake, and goes over Whinlatter Pass towards Lorton, he can cut back into Whinlatter Forest, and use the forestry commission dirt roads. One of them climbs to within a hundred yards of Barf’s summit. I was up there a few months ago, looking for cars stolen from Workington …joyriders sometimes dump them there.’

Ben suddenly remembered his Wainwright Guide in his anorak. It was always there, in the outside chest pocket, his constant companion on local walks. Hurriedly he undid the zip, and dragged out the small, well-worn, handbook.

A quick flick through told him there were ten pages on Barf, including Wainwright’s superb hand-drawn maps and sketches. On the third map, headed ‘Ascent from Thornthwaite’ (1220 feet of ascent), he found the forest road Bill had mentioned. Wainwright had added small dashes from the end of the road to the summit of Barf, indicating a regular footpath. No doubt, this was where Snodd was headed.

Ben noticed that the dashes also continued, almost in a straight line, down the page, ending at the road they were approaching, near the Swan Hotel. This marked a footpath up the very steep eastern slope.

He turned back to the introduction, and read: ‘Insignificant in height............ There are few fells, large or small, of such hostile and aggressive character, for unrelenting steepness is allied........ Passers by look up at Barf with no thought of climbing it.’

He skipped back through the pages, stopped at the sixth map headed: ‘Ascent from Thornthwaite (1200 feet of ascent) Direct Route.’ Here was another path, straight up the steep eastern slope, direct from the road to the summit. A footnote at the bottom of the map read: ‘Not a walk. A very stiff scramble, suitable only for people overflowing with animal strength and vigour.’

They were now on that road, hurtling south, alongside the lake, approaching Barf’s abrupt eastern flank.

‘Bill,’ Ben shouted. ‘How long will it take him to drive from here to the top...on the route you said...over Whinlatter Pass... back through the forest?’

Bill paused, adding the miles up in his head. ‘About half an hour. It’s not that far, but the forest roads will slow him down.’

‘Drop me near the Swan Hotel,’ Ben said, decisively. ‘I’m going to climb up from there...try and beat him to it...’

‘It’s too steep, Ben...’

‘Wainwright’s marked a track...I’ll follow it...’

‘It’s a young man’s climb, Ben...’

‘I have to try. You two keep after him...just let me out and get after him...catch the bastard...’

A few moments later, Murphy hit the brakes outside the Swan Hotel, depositing yards of rubber. Ben jumped out, and started to run, heard wheels spin in violent acceleration.

He ran across the road, up a short lane to Beckstones farm, over a stile, across a field, to the foot of Barf - a scree slope dotted with gorse and bracken. He started up, grabbing the vegetation to pull himself up, standing on it to aid his feet grip. Soon his hands were punctured, bleeding, painful. Where there was no vegetation, his feet slipped on the scree, sometimes two steps down for one step up. His heart knocked in his ears, his breath snorted like blacksmith’s bellows. ‘Ignore it, keep going.’

He veered to the left, towards The Bishop’s platform, as directed by Wainwright’s map.

Gasping, clawing, pushing, he finally reached the small platform of slate on which The Bishop stood. He leaned against the seven feet tall landmark, chest bursting; hands stinging. He looked at Wainwright’s map and then his watch. He had covered the first 400 feet in nine minutes. He had to go faster.

The next 100 feet, which narrowed into a gully, was even slower, as the scree became steeper, with no vegetation to hang on to. He had to seek handholds in rotten rock. Sometimes it fell apart or pulled out, leaving him clinging on with one hand. His arms started to tremble as the exertion took its toll. He fought on, ignoring the fear in his heart, the sweat in his eyes.

With a mighty effort, he pulled himself out of the gully, on to a small arête. A few more paces, and he was on to an easier, heather-covered slope. He collapsed on its welcome cushion and lay gasping. Every part of his body told him to stay there, told him not to move until he had recovered. He had to ignore them.

He tottered to his feet, and climbed up the heathered slope. Passing a solitary rowan tree, he reached the base of a sheer faced crag.

He checked the map again and read Wainwright’s instructions on how to negotiate Slape Crag. Angling to the left, he crossed another scree, then traversed across the rock face, above a small oak tree.