The Killing Club (51 page)

Further terse orders came crackling over the airwaves.

Again, she ignored them. It occurred to her that maybe the suspect was wearing a vest and therefore not as badly injured as she’d thought. But if that was the case, why had he fled … why not use the advantage to go straight on the attack, ripping and mauling her in the car? No – she’d wounded him; she’d seen the pain in his posture. If nothing else, that meant there’d be blood.

Unless the rain came before the forensics teams did.

‘We need the lab-rats up here ASAP!’ she shouted, cutting across the frantic exchanges of her colleagues. ‘At least we’ll have his DNA …’

There was a choked scream from somewhere ahead.

She slowed to a near-halt. Fleetingly, she couldn’t see anything; liquid mist, the colour of purulent milk, ebbed on all sides. But had that cry been for real? Was he finally succumbing to his wound? Or was he trying to lure her?

There was another scream, this one accompanied by a strangled gurgling.

She now halted completely.

This was Dartmoor. A National Park. A green and hazy paradise. Picturesque, famous for its pristine flora and fauna. And notorious for its bottomless mires. The third scream dwindled to a series of choked gasps, and now she heard a deep sploshing too, like a heavy body plunging through slime.

‘Update,’ she said into her radio, advancing warily. ‘I’m perhaps three hundred yards west of the reservoir parking area, over the top of the ridge. Suspect appears to be in trouble. I can’t see him, but it’s possible he’s blundered into a mire.’

There was further insistence that she stop and wait for back-up. Again she ignored this, but only advanced five or six yards before she found herself teetering on the brink of an opaque, black/green morass, its mirror-flat surface stretching in all directions as the mist seemed to furl away across it. She strained her eyes to penetrate the gloom, but nothing stirred out there; there wasn’t so much as a ripple, let alone the distinctive outline of a man fighting to keep his head above the surface.

There was no sound either, which was worrying. Dartmoor’s mires could suck you down with frightful speed. Their bowels were stuffed with sheep and pony carcasses, not to mention the odd missing hiker or two. But all she could identify now were the twisted husks of sunken trees, their branches protruding here and there like rotted dinosaur bones.

Even Detective Inspector Gemma Piper, of the Metropolitan Police – wilful, fearless and determined – now realised that caution was the better part of valour. Especially as the mist continued to clear on the strengthening wind, revealing, despite the darkness of night, how truly extensive this mire was. It lay everywhere; not just ahead of her but on both sides as well – as though she’d strayed out onto a narrow headland. It was difficult to imagine that even a local man could have lumbered this way, mortally wounded, blinded by vapour, and had somehow avoided this pitfall. And if nothing else, she now knew their suspect was not a local man – but, by origin at least, from the other end of the country.

Voices sounded behind her, torches spearing across the undulating landscape. Within an hour, the Devon & Cornwall Police, with assistance from Scotland Yard, had cordoned off this entire stretch of moor, were searching it with dogs, and had even brought heavy machinery in to start dredging the mire and its various connected waterways.

At the reservoir car park, the conscious but weakened form of DC Maxwell was loaded into the rear of an ambulance. Gemma Piper meanwhile sat side-saddle in the front seat of a police patrol car, sipping coffee and occasionally wincing as a medic knelt and attended to her torn, bloodied feet and swollen face. At the same time, she briefed Detective Superintendent Anderson on the events of the evening.

The hard-headed young female DI, already impressive to every senior manager who’d encountered her, had just assured herself a glowing future in this most challenging and male-dominated of industries. But of the so-called Stranger, the perpetrator of ten loathsome torture-murders – so spoke the
Dartmoor Advertiser
: ‘These crimes are abhorrent, utterly loathsome!’ – there was no trace.

Nor would there be for some considerable time.

Chapter 1

Present Day

There was no real witchcraft associated with this part of the Lake District. Nor had there ever been, to Heck’s knowledge.

The name ‘Witch Cradle Tarn’ had been applied in times past purely to reflect the small mountain lake’s ominous appearance: a long, narrow, very deep body of water high up in the Langdale Pikes, thirteen hundred feet above sea-level to be precise, with sheer, scree-covered cliffs on its eastern shore and mighty, wind-riven fells like Pavey Ark, Harrison Stickle and Great Castle Howe lowering to its north, west and south. It wasn’t an especially scary place in modern times. Located in a hanging valley in a relatively remote spot – official title ‘Cragstone Vale’, unofficial title ‘the Cradle’ – it was a fearsome prospect on paper. But when you actually got there, the atmosphere was more holiday than horror. Two cheery Lakeland hamlets, Cragstone Keld and Sticklefoot Ho, occupied its southern and northern points respectively, while for much of the year the whole place teemed with climbers, hikers, fell-runners and anglers seeking the famous Witch Cradle trout, while kayakers and white-water rafters were catered for by the Cradle Boat Club, based a mile south of Cragstone Keld, near the head of the Cragstone Race; a furiously twisting river, which poured downhill through natural gullies and steep culverts before finally joining the more sedately flowing Langdale Beck.

The single pub at the heart of Cragstone Keld only added to this homely feel. A rather austere looking building at first glance, all grey Westmorland slate on the outside, it was famous for its smoky beams and handsome oak settles, its range of cask ales, its crackling fires in winter and its pretty lakeside beer garden in summer. Its name – The Witch’s Kettle – owed itself entirely to some enterprising landlord of decades past, who hadn’t found The Drovers’ Rest to his taste, and felt the witch business a tad sexier, especially given that most visitors to the Cradle were always awe-stricken by the deep pinewoods hemming its two villages to the lakeshore, and the rubble-clad slopes and immense granite crags soaring overhead. Its inn-sign, which was regularly repainted and re-framed in black iron, was a landmark in itself, depicting a rusty old kettle with green herbs protruding from under its lid, sitting on a stone inscribed with pagan runes.

It was just possible, visitors supposed, that current landlady, Hazel Carter, might herself be a witch, but if so she was a far cry from the bent nose and warty lip variety.

At least, that was Heck’s feeling.

He’d only been up here three months, but was already certain that whatever magic Hazel wove, it was unlikely to be the sort he’d resist easily. Not that he was thinking along these lines that late November morning, as he entered The Witch’s Kettle just before eleven, made a bee-line for the bar and ordered himself a pint of Buttermere Gold. It was early in the day and there were few customers yet. Only Hazel was on duty. Like Heck she was in her late thirties, but with rich auburn hair, which she habitually wore very long. She was doe-eyed, soft-lipped, and buxom in shape, a figure enhanced by her daytime ‘uniform’ of t-shirt, cardigan and jeans.

They made close eye-contact but only uttered those words necessary for the transaction. However, as she handed him his pint and his change, the landlady inclined her head slightly to the right. Heck pocketed the cash and sipped his beer, before glancing in that direction. Beyond a low arch lay the pub’s vault, which contained a darts board and a pool table. One person was present in there: a young lad, no more than sixteen, with tousled blond hair, wearing a grey sweatshirt, grey canvas trousers and white trainers. He looked once, fleetingly, in Heck’s direction as he worked his way around the pool table, ignoring him thereafter. All the youth had seen, of course, was a man about six feet in height, of average build, with unruly black hair and faint scars on his face, wearing jeans, a sweater and a rumpled waterproof jacket. But he’d probably have paid more attention had he known that Heck was actually Detective Sergeant Mark Heckenburg of the Cumbria Constabulary, that he was based very near to here, at Cragstone Keld police office, and that he was on duty right at this moment.

To maintain his façade of recreation, Heck found a seat at an empty table, pulled a rolled-up
Westmorland Gazette
from his back pocket and commenced reading. He checked his watch as he turned the pages, though this was more from habit than necessity. He felt he was following a good lead today, but there was no great pressure on him. Ever since being reassigned from Scotland Yard to Cumbria as part of ACPO’s new Anti-Rural Crime Initiative, Heck had been well-placed to work hours of his own choosing and at his own pace. Ultimately of course, he was answerable to South Cumbria Crime Command, and in the first instance to the CID office down at Windermere police station; he was only a sergeant when all was said and done. But as the only CID officer in the Langdales – the only CID officer in twenty square miles in fact – he was out here on his own as far as many colleagues were concerned: ‘Hey pal, you’re the man on the spot’, as they’d say. There were advantages to this, without doubt. But it was never a nice feeling that reinforcements were always a good forty minutes away.

His thoughts were distracted as two other people came down the stairs into the taproom. It was a man and a woman, both in their mid-twenties, both carrying bulging backpacks. The woman had short, mouse-brown hair, and wore a red cagoule, blue cord trousers and walking-boots. The man was tall and thin, with short fair hair. He too wore cord trousers and walking-boots, but his blue cagoule was draped over his narrow, t-shirted shoulders. Neither of them looked threatening or in any way unwholesome; in fact they were smiling and chattering brightly. At the foot of the stair, they separated, the man heading to the bar, where he told Hazel he’d like to ‘settle up’. The woman turned into the vault and spoke to the youth, who pocketed his last ball and grabbed up a backpack of his own.

The trio left the pub together, still talking animatedly – a family enjoying their holiday. As the door swung closed behind them, Heck glanced over the top of his newspaper at Hazel, who nodded. Leaping to his feet, he crossed the room to the car park window, and watched as the trio approached a metallic green Hyundai Accent. He’d been informed by Hazel beforehand that this was the vehicle they’d arrived in two weeks ago, and had already run a PNC check on it, to discover that its registration number – V513 HNV – actually belonged to a black Volvo estate supposedly sold to a scrap merchant in Grimsby nine months earlier. Without a backward glance, they piled into the Hyundai and pulled out of the car park, heading south out of the village.

Heck hurried outside – it was only noon, but it was a grey day and there was already a deep chill. Thanks to the season, the village was quieter than usual. Beyond the pines, the upward-sweeping moors were bare, brown and stubbled with bracken.

Heck climbed into his white Citroën DS4, starting the engine and hitting the heater switch, but resisted the temptation to jump straight onto the suspects’ tail. At this time of year, with traffic more scarce than usual, it would be easy to get spotted. Besides, there was only one way you could enter or leave the Cradle: via the aptly named Cragstone Road, a perilously narrow single-track, which wound downhill over steep, rock-strewn slopes for several hundred feet, sometimes tilting to a gradient of one in three – so it wasn’t like the suspects could turn off anywhere, or even drive away at high speed. Of course, once the trio had descended into Great Langdale, the vast glacial valley at the heart of this district, it was another matter. So he couldn’t afford to hang back too far.

As such, he gave them a thirty-second start.

It was about three miles from the village to the commencement of the descent, and Heck didn’t see a single soul as he traversed it, nor another car, which was comforting – though it was useful to be able to hide among normal vehicles, an open road was reassuring in the event you might need to chase. As he began his descent, he initially couldn’t see his target, but he refused to panic. The blacktop meandered wildly on its downward route, arcing around perilous bends and through clumps of shadowy pine. But when he finally did sight the Hyundai, it had got further ahead than he’d expected. It was diminutive; no more than a glinting green toy.

He accelerated, veering dangerously as the road dropped, taking curves with increasingly reckless abandon. As he did, he tried his radio, receiving only dead-air responses. There was minimal reception in the Cradle, the encompassing cliffs interfering so drastically with signals that most communications from Cragstone Keld nick had to be made via landline. But it would improve as he descended into Langdale. In anticipation of this, he was already tuned to a talk-through channel.

‘Heckenburg to 1416, over?’ he repeated.

He’d descended to six hundred feet before he gleaned a response.

‘1416 receiving. Go ahead, sarge.’
The voice was shrill, with an Ulster brogue.

‘Suspects on the move, M-E … heading down Cragstone Road towards the B5343. Where are you, over?’

M-E, or PC 1416 Mary-Ellen O’Rourke, Cragstone Keld nick’s only uniformed officer – she was actually resident there, bunking in the flat above the office – took a second or two to respond.
‘Heading up Little Langdale from Skelwith Bridge, sarge. They still in that green Hyundai, over?’

‘Affirmative. Still showing the dodgy VRM. I’ll give you a shout soon as I know which way they’re headed, over?’

‘Roger that.’

As Heck now descended towards the junction with the B5343, he had a clear vision both west and east along Great Langdale. This was a vastly more expansive valley than Cragstone Vale, its head encircled by some of Cumbria’s most impressive fells; not just the craggy-topped Langdale Pikes, but Great Knott, Crinkle Crags, Bowfell and Long Top – their barren upper reaches ascending to dizzying heights. By contrast, its floor was flat and fertile, and perhaps half a mile across, much of it divided by dry-stone walls and given over to cattle grazing. Down its centre, in a west to east direction, flowed Langdale Beck, a broad, rocky river, normally shallow but running deep at present after a spectacularly soggy October and November. A hundred yards ahead meanwhile, at the end of Cragstone Road, the Hyundai passed straight onto the B5343 without stopping, following the larger route as it swung sharply south, crossing the river by a narrow bridge. Still hoping to avoid detection, Heck dallied at the junction, watching the Hyundai shrink as it ascended the higher ground on the far side. ‘Heckenburg to 1416?’