The Fell Walker (12 page)

‘Listen, Ben,’ Sophie had switched to her conciliatory tone. ‘Now that we know where we stand, why don’t we forget all this sniping and try to help each other. I understand that the police won’t or can’t give you the information you’re after. My hackers can get it for you. If it’s on a computer system, and most things are these days, then my boys can access it, anywhere in the world. As long as it leads to the cause of Jack Fraser’s death, I don’t mind how much time they spend on it. That would be your intention, wouldn’t it? You seem to have been sidetracked by these other deaths’?

‘I think they might be linked.’

‘So tell me. What have you got,’ Sophie pried, patiently.

‘Very little,’ Ben said. ‘There’s nothing concrete. Just theories based on statistics and something I can’t put my finger on. That’s why I needed all that information, to help me test my theories, try to find the links.’

‘You wouldn’t be holding back on me, Ben?’

‘Why should I?’

‘So let’s talk turkey. What kind of info are you looking for?’

She was doing it again, trying to control him.

‘Look, you couldn’t possibly get all the information I’m looking for. I need police records, autopsy reports, photographs, mountain rescue reports,
concerning people and places scattered all over Britain.’

‘You haven’t been listening, Ben. If it is recorded on computer systems, we can get it, and fast. My boys have already found the trapdoor in the Metropolitan serious crime system. They have already checked the national BADMAN database.’

She was indomitable. He would try another tack. ‘How can your hackers cope with the new Anti-Cyber Crime Unit set up by the Home Secretary recently. What was it...40 officers specifically employed to fight against hackers?’

‘Bureaucratic plodders,’ Sophie scoffed. ‘ Oh, they’ll sort out a few criminals and virus freaks, but they are no match for my boys! I have the cream. My boys are interested in becoming legends, not plodding wage earners in a government department.’

She had an answer to everything. He decided to humour her and, hopefully, call her bluff. ‘Okay, you win. Let’s give it a go. But I can’t do it over the phone. I need to sit down and write a list, and then I’ll e-mail it to you, or wherever you want me to send it. If you don’t want to give me your e-mail address over the phone, send it by e-mail. My address is: [email protected].’

Sophie sighed. ‘That’s more like it. Now we’re getting somewhere. I’ll send an e-mail contact address as soon as I put the phone down, and I expect to have your list within 24-hours. Let’s get cracking on this thing. I think you’ll be surprised at how much we can help you. And I really do need to get this Jack Fraser thing sorted, Ben. It’s not just about me, it’s about our country’s future.’

‘Pompous bitch,’ Ben thought. ‘I’ll start on the list now,’ he said.

‘Good. Bye,’ Sophie concluded.

‘Goodbye,’ Ben concluded.

He left the conservatory, where he did his painting because of the light, and walked upstairs to the spare bedroom, which doubled as an office. All the communication paraphernalia of the immediate age sat on a black desk in the corner, looking incongruous in the high ceilinged, corniced surroundings of an unhurried age.

He dropped into the well-padded swivelling chair, switched on the computer in the same movement, and started to type.

He was about to bombard Sophie Lund and her ‘boys’ with a list so long it would be impossible to cope with. He would ask for every conceivable report, statistic, photograph, compiled by every police force, MRT, doctor, coroner, pathologist, for every fall victim in every area, including Scotland, over the past three years.

It would look as though he was trying, and although he was aware of his vulnerability as long as she had that tape, he was sure it would call her bluff, and get her off his back once and for all.

Chapter 18

He sits in a dark room, Walkman earphones clamped to his head. He has to have the music, can’t be without it; has to feel it throbbing against his skull, filling his mind, drowning his thoughts. Sibelius’s fifth is doing the job at the moment, shaking him with emotion. When it finishes, he knows the seventh will start immediately.

The fleshiness of contentment that filled his face during the first few blissful years has gone. Skeletal looks have returned, gaunt cheeks, thin lips barely covering large teeth, sunken eyes. The eyes are glazed; an empty whisky bottle on the floor claims responsibility.

A bridging passage in the third movement allows the attention to drift - even Sibelius isn’t perfect. For a moment he is in reality, aware of his surroundings, the time of day.

‘Have I fed her’, flashes into his mind. He can remember leaving her food and drink in the morning, but did he do it when he came in that night, or did he head straight for the bottle. ‘Better check.’

He sways as he stands and moves the chair to one side. An unsteady flick of the right foot and the rug concertinas across the floorboards. He grasps the steel handle of the trapdoor, and swings the door up and over, and lowers it again to the floorboards.

He steps down into the faintly lit void. At the foot of the stairs, he moves along a dark passage towards the source of light. He reaches a large door. Before opening it, he takes a few steps to the left and looks through a window into a well lit room

She lies on a mattress on the floor, her back to him, as usual.

Her nakedness is well concealed by her foetal position and her long, tangled, waist length hair.

In the shadows he can see the breakfast leftovers and her bucket. He was getting worse. He had forgotten to feed her that evening. It was unforgivable; he would see to it straight away.

He moves to the door and turns the key. While opening it, he removes his earphones. An explosion of sound greets him. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he smiles. The love duet from Madame Butterfly always makes him smile...initially.

He moves into the room and picks up the breakfast things and the bucket. He holds it at arms length
while he stares down at her. Light and shadow highlight her buttocks. He doubts if he will hold them tonight. It is getting late and he is tired, and there is still a meal to make.

For a moment, he puts the bucket down, and bends and gently strokes her hair, and whispers ‘Leni’, and feels the pain move in. He rises quickly, picks up the bucket and leaves the room.

Outside the door, he takes one more glance through the window. She hasn’t moved.

Chapter 19

Two days after e-mailing his ‘mission impossible’ list to Sophie Lund, Ben has forgotten about it. He is walking among his beloved fells, the weather is fine, and best of all, Helen is with him.

She is having one of her rare days off from any kind of work. As always, she leaves the choice of walk to Ben, being delighted to stretch her desk-bound legs along any route he takes her.

They are heading for Dale Head along one of the Newlands Valley routes. He can’t get Tessa Coleman’s death out of his mind. He keeps re-living the moment when he saw the photographs, when he felt that something was wrong. He still can’t find it.

He has given up on Jack Fraser and the others, but Tessa won’t let him rest. He knew her; he liked her. Somehow he feels it is his responsibility to find out what happened to her. ‘So, if I’m heading out for a day’s fell walking, why not head for the place where she died,’ he had reasoned.

Following the footsteps of the old miners, the first two miles along the flat valley floor is easy, yet spectacular. All around, the amphitheatre of the famous Newlands Valley Horseshoe encompasses them - Hindscarth Fell to the right, Maiden Moor to the left; Dale Head straight ahead at the end of the valley.

Past the site of the old Castlenook mine, where the main path rises
to the left to take in the tarn before reaching Dale Head summit, Ben veers to the right and searches for an ill-defined path he last trod many years ago, on his own.

‘Where are you taking me now,’ Helen shouts with mock horror, being well used to Ben leading her off the normal tracks.

‘It’s the old path to Dale Head mine.’ Ben leans on his thumb stick as he pauses to explain. ‘It was made by the copper miners centuries ago. It hasn’t been used for over a hundred years, but you can still just make it out if you look up to your right, and then follow it as it zigzags up and along Hindscarth to the mine, just to the right of that main crag on Dale Head.’

Helen screws up her eyes and follows his directions. ‘Yes...I think I can see bits of it.’

‘Can you believe it,’ Ben enthuses. ‘Miners used to drag horses and sleds up there. That’s why it zigzags so much.’

‘Looks a bit tough to me! Why do you want to go up there?’

Ben wished that she hadn’t asked. He wanted her to enjoy a normal, mind-emptying, walk. He always tried to keep her precious days off as mindless as possible, allowing the physical challenge and great beauty of their surroundings to work their restorative magic.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Ben started, apologetically. ‘There’s a shelf above the mine called Bilberry Shelf. That’s where Tessa Coleman was found. I still think there’s something strange about her death....’

‘But what do you expect to find?’ Helen interrupted quickly, though her tone was not unsupportive.

‘I don’t know...I just want to learn as much as I can about where she died. Eventually, I might be able to put my finger on something...who knows.’

‘Well, let’s get going.’

‘Are you sure? It is pretty tough going. I could go up on my own another day....’

‘You heard me...let’s get going.’

It was typical of Helen. Never questioning. Always supportive. Always ready for a challenge.

*

A gasping hour later they reached the derelict buildings of the old mine, dramatically sited high on the fell-side, in the lee of precipitous Gable Crag. It was difficult to believe, and humbling to know, that men had daily climbed to work at this lonely place.

With the track now ended, they made their way up from the mine, walking and scrambling up a rough grassy slope, then traversing to the left, until they reached Bilberry Shelf. It was like a giant foothold in the upper slopes of Dale Head, being about twelve feet long and five feet deep.

Ben helped Helen scramble onto its flat, moss flecked, surface where she immediately helped him to offload the backpack containing their packed lunch.

As she started to lay things out, Ben examined their surroundings. There was nothing to indicate where Tessa’s body had lain. The moss, which, he remembered, had made a surreal background in the horrific photographs, seemed undisturbed.

He looked upwards. A wall of smooth rock travelled all the way to the summit of Dale Head, about 300 ft above him. Only the best climbers came here; the challenge being its lack of holds and its pure verticality, culminating in a slight outward lean near the summit. The lean probably explained why the search parties hadn’t spotted her from above.

Ben imagined poor Tessa’s terrifying plunge direct from the top to the shelf’s unyielding rock. He saw the photograph again, how she lay like a scarecrow; this time - spread-eagled at his feet. What was it that was wrong? He closed his eyes in concentration. But he still couldn’t find it.

He moved to the edge of the shelf and looked down. It was vicious crag all the way to the valley floor.

At least she was spared complete disfigurement, Ben thought, knowing what crag impact did to peoples’ bodies. The damage done by the birds had been bad enough, but it was nothing compared to what the crags below him would have done had she missed the shelf. Many fallers were unrecognisable.

He knew it was ridiculous for him to find consolation in this thought. Death was death, however it happened. Yet, somehow, it seemed better that someone so beautiful should not die unrecognisable. He returned to Helen’s side.

‘Find anything’, she asked, kindly, as he sat down beside her.

Ben shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’ He felt dejected, and found himself staring blankly at the ground between his knees.

‘Never mind,’ Helen said, cheerily. ‘At least you’ve been here. You now know the layout. You might be able to make use of it later. Come on, cheer up, have a sandwich.’

They ate their lunch in silence, small talk seeming inappropriate amongst such tragic surroundings. The only sound came from the ravens circling in the thermals above them, outlined against the blue sky, black as their deeds.

After lunch, they retraced their steps for a few hundred yards, then climbed left to the summit of Hindscarth. From here, a long gradually descending ridge would take them back to the floor of Newlands Valley.

As they started down, so Ben’s spirits went up. It was impossible not to be enchanted by the panoramic views and the delightful, heathery, track that lay ahead.

After a mile of blissful ridge walking, scanning distant fells he knew so well, watching miniature life in the valleys below, he was counting his blessings again. What beauty, what joy. He was in an earthly heaven and his angel walked beside him.

A mile later, as they passed the pan holes of the old Goldscope Mine, nearing the valley floor, Ben spotted a dead herdwick sheep lying among the boulders. He was particularly fond of this small, tough, yet gentle looking breed that was unique to the Lake District. As they roamed the fells in their thousands, the sight of a dead one was commonplace.

Even so, Ben could never pass a body without pausing to look. ‘Men’s morbid curiosity,’ Helen had called it. And she was probably right, it was a male trait; probably the child within them that never got round to leaving.

Helen stayed on the track as Ben tiptoed among the boulders to get a closer look. The smell was strong. The animal had been dead for some time. This time, one glance was enough to satisfy Ben’s curiosity. He was used to the empty eye sockets in the head, the birds having visited, but the sight of heaving maggots in its back passage was too much.

He turned away quickly. Suddenly, the thing that had been trapped in the back of his mind bobbed to the surface. He looked back down at the sheep, then rushed back to Helen.

‘I think I might be on to something,’ he said, in a measured manner, trying not to get too excited.

‘What is it?’ Helen sensed his undertone.

Ben was silent, thinking. ‘Damn,’ he exclaimed. ‘If only I could get my hands on those photographs and autopsy reports.’

‘What is it, Ben?’ Helen repeated.

‘I need to check with Tony Williams....’ Ben mumbled, still deep in thought.

Helen gave up. She looked around and found a place to sit. Ben remained rooted to the spot, both hands on his thumb stick, his chin resting on his hands. What he needed to check with Tony Williams, their neighbouring farmer, was a mystery to her. But she knew that all would be revealed when he came out of his thinking trance.

Eventually, he returned, and moved to sit beside her.

‘It’s the eyes,’ he said, quietly. ‘I think I can prove that Tessa’s death wasn’t an accident. But I need access to information only the police have, and they won’t release it.’

‘What was that about Tony Williams?’ Helen asked, keen to keep Ben rolling.

‘I just want to confirm something with him...about how his dead sheep look after the birds have been at them. I’m pretty sure they remove the eyes cleanly...I mean they leave a clean socket...they don’t dig deeper...they’re only interested in soft, edible, tissue.’

‘And the significance of this?’ Helen prodded.

‘I saw photographs of Tessa lying dead on Bilberry Shelf.’ Ben explained. ‘Both of her eyes were missing. But I’m sure that one eye socket was clean and intact, whereas the other was severely damaged. I don’t think birds, not even ravens, do that type of damage. And, before you ask, it couldn’t have been crag damage. It’s a clean drop from the summit to the shelf...there’s no outcrops. And, judging by the photographs, she landed on her back. That’s why I need to see the autopsy reports...to confirm that the cause of death was due to impact to the back of her head and body, and not to the front.’

Helen was puzzled. ‘But even if the autopsy concluded that she did land on her back, and it caused her death, they would still have to show a reason for the damage to her eye, that’s their job.’

‘Exactly,’ Ben expounded. ‘My guess is that, because the pathologist didn’t visit the scene - remember nobody is suspecting a crime here, it’s a routine mountain fall - and because he is well aware of the damage mountain falls can cause, he will have theorised that the severe eye damage was caused by crags during the fall, just like many others, while the other eye was clearly the victim of bird attack. He is not to know that there are no crags on this fall.’

‘Wouldn’t mountain rescue have said something in their report,’ Helen queried.

‘It’s very unlikely. It would just be routine to them, however sad. Like the pathologist, they wouldn’t be expecting a crime. My guess is they would take their photographs, make some measurements and notes, then stretcher her off. Again, that’s why I need to see their reports and photographs. To make sure that I’m not barking up the wrong tree.’

‘So, how do
you
think Tessa came by those injuries?’ Helen asked, reluctantly, not keen to hear the expected reply.

‘I think she was attacked by somebody on the summit and was probably dead before she was thrown over the edge.’

Helen shuddered and frowned. ‘You mean a sex attack? There couldn’t be any other motive, could there? Perhaps she put up a fight. Maybe the man hit her with a rock or something, then panicked when he found she was dead, and threw her over, hoping the fall would hide the injuries he had inflicted....’

‘No,’ Ben interrupted. ‘I don’t think it is as simple as that. Her clothes were undisturbed. Sex wasn’t the motive. I believe we have something worse than an isolated sex attack gone wrong. I believe the attack was premeditated. But, yes, the killer did assume that the fall would disguise the injuries he had caused. In this case his luck ran out. He hadn’t spotted the shelf.... probably because of the outward lean....’

‘What do you mean ‘in this case’? Do you think there’s been others?’

Instinctively, Ben put a protective arm around Helen and took hold of her hand. ‘Believe it or not, sweetheart....’ he paused as he took in their beautiful surroundings.... ‘I think our little bit of heaven has been invaded by an habitual murderer...what do they call them these days...?’