The Woodcutter (26 page)

He smiled as he spoke, so she decided he was making what in the Home Office passed for a joke and smiled back, and the conversation then moved on to young Harry’s imminent enrolment at university.

By the time of Hadda’s parole hearing, she entertained no doubts about his fitness to return to society, and her certainty carried the day with the panel. Nor did she feel any pang of unease as she saw him emerge from the jail and stand for a moment, looking up at the sky.

She got out of her Fiesta and advanced to meet him. Trapp had remained in his car.

‘Elf,’ said Hadda, ‘it’s good of you to come. Good to see you exist outside.’

‘That’s the point,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to know that my concern for you doesn’t stop at the prison gate. It never did.’

‘I appreciate that. And I know I thanked you inside, but now I want to thank you outside for all you’ve done for me. Without you . . . well, I don’t know what I’d be. I certainly know where I’d be! Thank you. And I’m sorry for all that crap I fed you.’

She shook her head and said, ‘You were in denial. Anyway, it was full of truths; not always the truths you imagined, but without them, I’d never have known how to move forward.’

This amused him enough for the transforming smile to flicker briefly across his lips, and he said, ‘So a diet of crap can do you good? Must remember that whenever I hear myself moaning about prison food. Now I’d best be on my way. I’m due at the hostel at ten. Don’t want to start my new life by being late.’

She knew he was booked into a halfway house, knew also that when he moved out of there after a couple of weeks, he planned to return to his family home in Cumbria.

She’d said, ‘Good luck. The probation service will keep me updated on how things are going, but if you ever feel the need to get in touch direct, don’t hesitate.’

He had smiled and for a moment she’d thought he was going to lean forward and kiss her goodbye. But in the event he only gave the kind of head bob men give to royalty, then went across to the old Toyota, got in and was driven away without glancing back.

A job well done, she’d thought. Not necessarily a job finished. When you’re dealing with the human mind, you can never say the job’s finished. But so far, so good.

And now there was this letter.

She made herself finish her meal and wine before she picked it up again.

Luke Hollins was worried and so was she. Even though the syndrome Hadda had presented with predicated great powers of deception, this firm evidence of their continuance was disturbing.

Even more than the source of the money, she shared Hollins’s concern about the missing four thousand.

A man with Hadda’s record spending that kind of money in a few months . . . her heart sank.

She knew what she ought to do and that was drop this lock, stock and barrel into the lap of the probation service. And she knew that the almost inevitable result would be a revocation of Hadda’s licence and a return to custody, at least until his case was reviewed.

These things she knew.

At the same time she realized that, without spending long hours in soul-searching and mental debate, she knew exactly what she was going to do.

9

Drigg Beach on the Cumbrian coast is a heavenly spot on a fine summer day. A couple of miles of level sand, skylarks above the dunes, oyster-catchers at the water’s edge, the Irish Sea sparkling all the way to the Isle of Man, to the south the bulk of Black Combe looming benevolently over the land, to the north St Bees Head staring thoughtfully out to sea, all combine to provide a setting in which even the prospect of Sellafield Nuclear Power Station slouching in the sunshine can attain something of a festive air.

But in the darkness of a cold December night with scorpion tails of sleet riding on the back of a strong nor’wester that drives the white-maned waves up the shore like ramping hosts of warrior horse, it can feel as remote and perilous as the edge of the Barents Sea.

Tonight, however, there was human presence here, on the shore and on the water.

A motor-powered rubber dinghy came riding up the beach till it grounded on the sand. Two men in wet suits jumped out carrying between them a large leather grip. At the same time two more men climbed out of a Toyota Land Cruiser parked on the shore and ran down to the water’s edge where the first pair deposited the grip. As they returned to the dinghy, the men from the Land Cruiser carried the grip to the car. They were ill matched in build, one large and lumbering, the other much slighter though with an athletic rhythm of movement that gave promise of strength. He certainly seemed to take his share of the load as they hoisted their burden into the Toyota’s load space.

Meanwhile the dinghy men had unloaded a second grip on to the sand. They then climbed into the dinghy, the helmsman put the engine into reverse for a few metres then swung round and accelerated out to sea.

By the time the shore men had carried the second grip to the Toyota, the dinghy had vanished into the darkness.

Once more the two men bent their backs to swing their burden up into the load space.

‘I shouldn’t bother,’ said a voice.

From the landward side of the vehicle stepped a figure. He was tall, broad-shouldered; his features were hard to make out but they could see that over one eye he wore a piratical patch; and in his hands he carried a long-handled axe.

The smaller man reacted first, releasing his hold on the grip handle, and reaching into his jacket. The shaft of the axe swung and caught him under the jaw and he collapsed to the ground without a sound.

The taller man had been unbalanced by having to take the full weight of the grip and by the time he let go and straightened up, he found the blade of the axe was six inches from his neck. It stayed steady even when the axeman took his gloved right hand off the shaft and reached down to pluck a gun from the unconscious man’s jacket.

‘Makarov,’ he said dismissively. ‘Just an old sentimentalist then.’

He tossed it behind him, then nodded down at the grip.

‘Open it,’ he said.

The big man obeyed.

The grip was full of transparent packs of white powder.

‘Lay them along the sand,’ said the axeman. ‘In a straight row.’

When that was done he pointed to the grip already loaded.

‘Again,’ he said.

The man repeated the process except that this time when there were only a couple of the packs left, the axeman said, ‘That’ll do. Now walk slowly along the row.’

The man started to walk. Suddenly he cried out in terror as the axe-blade whistled past his ear. Then it buried itself in the first of the packs, splitting it open so that the powder spilt out across his shoes.

The process was repeated till all the packs had been burst. By the time they returned to the car, the tide was already running up over the line.

‘The fish will be happy tonight,’ said the axeman. ‘See if you can revive your mate.’

He laid his axe on the sand, took an empty rucksack off his back and placed the remaining two white powder packs in it. The big man knelt by his companion.

‘Hey, Pudo, Pudo, you OK?’

There was no response, so the big man tried slapping his face. Perhaps he meant to be gentle, but he wasn’t built for refinement. With a scream of pain, the recumbent man tried to roll away from his companion.

‘I’d say if poor old Pudo’s jaw wasn’t broken before, it certainly is now,’ said the axeman. ‘See if you can get him on his feet without breaking anything else.’

He shrugged the rucksack on to his broad shoulders, retrieved his axe, raised it high and brought the broad back of the head down on the pistol barrel. He then picked up the weapon and chucked it into the back of the Land Cruiser.

‘I wouldn’t recommend trying to use it,’ he said. ‘But what I would recommend is for you to get your mate into your car and drive away as fast as you can. If you’re tempted to hang around this neck of the woods, just remember that, next time we meet, I may not be in such a generous mood. Tell whoever sent you that he should find himself another landing spot. This coast is out of bounds. You got that?’

The big man nodded. His injured companion was now upright. He still looked as if his knees would buckle without the support of the other’s arms, but the gaze that he fixed on the axeman was lively enough. His eyes were black and glittered with hatred. He tried to speak but the damage to his jaw made this impossible.

‘No need for thanks, Pudo,’ said the axeman. ‘Get him aboard.’

The big man half carried, half dragged the other to the passenger door and pushed him on to the seat. Then he walked round to the driver’s side. Here he paused by the door, looking round, as if expecting further instruction.

But the axeman had vanished just as completely as the white powder scattered along the beach had disappeared beneath the onward surging waves.

10

Imogen Estover arrived at Ulphingstone Castle four days before Christmas. She parked her sky-blue Mercedes E-Class coupé, sounded the horn, and strode through the main entrance confident that her mother’s well-trained staff would take care of her luggage without need of any further instruction.

‘Darling, you’re early. How nice,’ said Lady Kira, offering the double air kiss that was the nearest she permitted to physical contact when her make-up was on.

‘London’s hideous. You can smell the fug in Oxford Street three miles away,’ said Imogen. ‘I thought of the fells in the sunshine and had to escape. I can’t wait to get out.’

Lady Kira wrinkled her nose. Though occasionally she might affect nostalgia for the great swathes of Caucasian wilderness her family had allegedly once owned, or even join a shooting party on the estate – usually proving herself a better shot than most of the men – she was no lover of the Great Outdoors. Fell walking was, in her vocabulary, a euphemism for trespass, and all that could be said for rock climbing was that from time to time it killed one of the idiots who indulged in it.

Her daughter’s enjoyment of these pursuits she treated as a sort of venereal infection resulting from her marriage to the woodcutter’s son. But if the years of motherhood had taught her anything it was that Imogen had a will as strong as her own, so she passed no comment but said, ‘Where’s Toby?’

‘Probably clearing his desk so he can roger his fat secretary on it,’ said Imogen. ‘He’ll be up tomorrow on the train.’

Kira screwed up her mouth and for a surprised moment Imogen thought the reference to Toby’s infidelities had disconcerted her, but she was quickly reassured.

‘On the train?’ said Kira in disbelief. ‘Pasha’s driving up tomorrow, or rather being driven up in that lovely Bentley of his. I’m sure he’d be delighted to give Toby a lift.’

‘I think Toby would prefer the train.’

Her mother frowned.

‘Prefer travelling with hoi polloi rather than with someone who is his very important client, my relative, and everyone’s friend?’ she said. ‘Why would he prefer that?’

Imogen said, ‘I really can’t imagine, Mummy. Can you?’

Her father appeared.

He said, ‘There you are, my dear. Saw the car,’ and gave her a hug.

‘Hello, Daddy,’ she said. ‘You’re looking well.’

‘Am I?’ said Sir Leon doubtfully. ‘Nice of you to say so. Staying long?’

‘Well, till after Christmas anyway.’

‘Ah, Christmas. Toby with you?’

‘He’s coming tomorrow. And I gather we’re having the pleasure of cousin Pasha’s company too.’

‘What? Oh yes. Nicotine,’ said Sir Leon with no sign of enthusiasm.

‘
Nik-EE-tin,
’ said his wife in an exasperated tone.

Imogen smiled at her father and patted his arm gently.

‘I’ll go and get unpacked,’ she said.

Her parents watched her leave the room then Sir Leon said, ‘She know that Wolf’s back at Birkstane?’

‘I expect so,’ said his wife.

‘But you didn’t mention it?’

‘If she knows, why would I remind her?’ asked Lady Kira. ‘And if she doesn’t, why would I tell her?’

They stood and looked at each other, she with indifference and he with the blank incomprehension that had quickly replaced that now almost mythic sense of pride he had felt when, aged forty, he had turned to see his beautiful eighteen-year-old bride processing up the aisle towards him.

Upstairs, their daughter stood in the wide bay of her dressing room and looked out over the lawn to the forest. Frost still sparkled on those shaded areas of grass that the sun couldn’t reach. The air was so clear she could pick out the individual branches and trunk markings of the first line of trees and in the distance she could make out some of the great Lakeland fell tops whose names were as familiar to her as those of most of her friends.

She knew her Cumbrian weather. Meaning she knew there was no way of knowing what was going to greet her when she woke the following morning. When you see what you want, don’t hesitate, had long been her philosophy. Ignoring her unopened cases, she went downstairs to the drying room where she’d dumped her gear last time she was here. Boots, cleaned and waxed, stood neatly on low shelves, jackets and waterproofs hung from their pegs. Who was responsible for the cleaning and tidying she’d no idea, except that it was unlikely to be her mother. She slipped on a pair of lightweight boots, grabbed a jacket at random and went out of a side door.

She met her father at the corner of the terrace.

‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘Off for a stroll?’

‘Shame to waste this weather,’ she said, not pausing in her easy, deceptively fast stride.

He watched her go. She had matured into an elegant, shapely woman, but as she walked away from him now, she didn’t look all that different from the young teenager who’d run wild around the estate a quarter of a century ago. The thought took him somewhere he didn’t care to go. Suddenly it was his granddaughter he was seeing . . . Ginny . . . lovely lost Ginny. At her christening he’d sworn to himself that he’d do everything in his power to protect her, and he’d failed. As usual, the women in his life had had their way and she’d been whisked out of his sight to France . . . and finally out of his sight for ever . . .