Dead Man Walking (21 page)

With the basket over her left wrist and the shotgun cradled under her right arm, Hazel felt her way across the rickety bridge. Fellstead Beck gurgled past underneath, having circled around the farm from the waterfall plunge-pool. A few dozen yards to her right somewhere, it dropped down a narrow gully into the lower valley, eventually at some point – Hazel wasn’t sure exactly where – flowing into the tarn.

On the other side of the bridge, beyond a pair of moss-clad gateposts, she entered the farmyard proper, her feet clipping on aged paving stones as she approached the darkened structure just vaguely visible in the fog. When she halted again, the only sound was the distant rushing of water. Meanwhile, not a single light shone from the eerie edifice. In the icy murk, it resembled an abandoned Viking long-hall; the remnant of some Nordic nightmare rather than a family home. Disconcertingly, the darkness beyond its windows seemed even darker than the darkness outside. Annie Beckwith had no electricity, no gas … but surely she would keep a fire in her living room? Didn’t she even have candles?

Hazel checked her phone again. It was now after seven-forty. Too early even for Annie Beckwith to go to bed. She approached the front door. If the old lady was sleeping, Hazel didn’t like the idea of disturbing her. But she’d not come all this way to turn back without at least trying to make contact. She knocked several times on the warped, scabby wood. There was no thunderous echo inside; the door was too thick and heavy. Likewise, there was no reply.

Hazel tried again – the same.

She fumbled for the handle, a corroded iron ring, which, when she twisted it, turned easily. There was a clunk as the latch was disengaged on the other side, and the door creaked open an inch. To open it the rest of the way, she had to put her shoulder against it, grating it inward over the stone floor.

This was also a tad discomforting. It wasn’t common practice for folk in this part of the world to keep their doors permanently locked, but surely a lone OAP like Annie would do so at night, especially living all the way out here?

‘Hello!’ Hazel called into the blackness.

Again, there was no response.

She sidled through, unbidden, and was hit with an eye-watering stench, the combined aromas of grime, mildew and decay.

Hazel shone her torch around the room, which was so cluttered with broken and dingy furniture that it was more like a lock-up crammed with rubbish than an actual living space. Dust furred everything, so that colours – the fabrics in the upholstery and lampshades and the many drapes and curtains – were indiscernible, each item a uniform grey-brown. And yet, evidence of the fine old farmhouse this had once been was still there. The fireplace was a broad stone hearth, elaborately carved around its edges with vines and animals, though currently filled with cinders, burnt fragments of feathers and what looked like chicken bones. The mantel above was a huge affair, again constructed from Lakeland stone and heavily corniced, and yet dangling with tendrils of wax from the multiple melted candles on top of it. A mirror was placed above the mantel, so old and tarnished that only cloudy vagueness was reflected there. Ancient sepia photographs hung in cracked, lopsided frames, the faces they depicted lost beneath films of dirt. These added to the house’s melancholy air, but also created the eerie sensation that eyes were upon her. Hazel turned sharply a couple of times, imagining there was someone hidden in a corner whom she hadn’t previously noticed, perhaps peering out through one of those veils of dust-web, eyes bloodshot, yellow peg teeth fixed in a limpid, deranged grin.

‘For God’s sake, woman, what’s the matter with you?’ she said to herself in a tight voice. Her and her bloody imagination. ‘Annie?’ she called out. ‘Annie, it’s Hazel Carter! You know, from The Witch’s Kettle!’

There was no answer, but her voice echoed in various parts of the house. Immediately on her left, an arched doorway led into a passage that Hazel thought connected with the kitchen and dining room, but the blackness down there was so thick it was almost tangible. She ignored it, moving into the centre of the lounge, only to freeze at a skittering, rustling sound. She turned, just as a whip-like tail vanished beneath the web-shrouded hulk of an age-old Welsh dresser.

Hazel had to fight down a pang of revulsion. The place was clearly unfit for human habitation as it was, but if it was crawling with rats as well …

A furry, grey body scuttled along the mantel, casting a huge, amorphous shadow as she followed it with her torch. Stubs of candles went flying to the floor, their ceramic holders shattering. The rat leapt after them and moved in a blur of speed down the passage towards the kitchen.

There was no question, Hazel decided – they had to get the social services onto this. Annie would hate them for it, but what choice did they have?

But this was assuming Annie was still alive.

At least there was no sign of forced entry, or that there’d been any kind of struggle in here. Not, if Hazel was totally honest, that it would be easy to tell.

Hazel glanced at the brown-stained ceiling, realising with a sense of deep oppression that she had yet to check the upstairs. So unwilling that it was difficult to set her legs in motion, she advanced across the room to a square entry in the facing wall, which led to other rooms, as well as the foot of the main stair. She approached it and gazed up. Even without fog, the darkness at the top was impermeable. It seemed to absorb the glow of her torch rather than retreat from it. Hazel hesitated before placing the basket of food on a side-table and, with shotgun levelled in one hand and torch extended in the other, slowly ascended. The hair was stiff on her scalp. It was actually a terrible thing she was doing here; she’d entered someone’s home uninvited, and was now processing from one area to the next with a loaded firearm. But she couldn’t leave. She’d called out and no one had responded, and with the house unlocked, implying someone was at home, she knew there was some kind of problem here. The temptation to call again was strong, but now some basic instinct advised her that stealth was a better option.

Hazel reached the top of the staircase. The landing was all cobwebs, bare floorboards and plaster walls, the plaster so damp and dirty that it was falling away in chunks, revealing bone-like lathes underneath. Various doorways opened off it. The doorway to the room that Hazel thought Annie might use as a bedroom was at the end of a short passage on the left. When she directed her torch in that direction, the door was partly open, more blackness lurking on the other side. Someone could easily be waiting in there, watching her, and she wouldn’t see them from here.

Despite this, Hazel trod slowly forward, only halting when she was right in front of it. Even close up, the room was hidden from view. There was insufficient space between the door and its jamb for her torch to illuminate anything beyond. But now there was something else too – a faint but rather fetid smell, like open drains.

Hazel knew she was going to have to say something. It wasn’t the done thing to barge unannounced into someone’s private room, especially with a gun, not even if you were concerned for their wellbeing. Steeling herself in the face of an urge to hurry back downstairs and leave the building, she spoke loudly and clearly.

‘Annie? Are you alright in there? It’s Hazel Carter … you know, from The Witch’s Kettle down in Cragwood Keld.’

Again there was no response, but the silence was beyond creepy. It was intense, weird; a listening silence. Despite every molecule in her body telling her to flee this odious place, Hazel propelled herself forward, pushing against the door, and as it swung open, entered with torch in one hand and shotgun balanced over the top of it.

What she saw in there had her blinking with shock.

And then screeching with horror.

Heck made no attempt to conceal his annoyance. ‘She’s gone up to Fellstead Grange? On her bloody own?’

‘You know how stubborn Hazel can be,’ Lucy protested, almost tearfully. She’d never seen Heck shout before, so only now was it dawning on her how serious this might be. ‘She’s all sweetness and light usually, but when you try to stop her doing something, she just won’t listen.’

‘And you tried?’

‘Course I tried!’

‘Great! Just bloody great!’

He’d have said more – he felt like bellowing the pub down – but what purpose would that serve? In addition, he sensed they had an audience. They were standing at the bar in The Witch’s Kettle. Having driven past the police station, where they spotted McGurk and Heggarty’s Astra patrol car parked outside, and at least one of the two uniforms moving about inside, Heck and Gemma had driven on to the pub so that she could book in, take a quick shower and get changed. The villagers were still gathered around the fire, but all conversation between them had ceased as they listened in fascination.

‘Let’s go somewhere private,’ Heck said.

Lucy, looking more than a little worried, lifted the hatch on the bar and moved to the kitchen door.

‘Do you have an update for us, sergeant?’ Burt Fillingham asked loudly.

‘No, I’m sorry everyone,’ Heck replied. ‘Except to say that no news is good news, eh?’ That didn’t sound convincing even to his own ears, and Heck was an expert at lying to himself. ‘If it’s any consolation, folks, this is Detective Superintendent Piper … from Scotland Yard. She’s one of the top homicide investigators in Britain, and we’ve got her for the duration of this enquiry.’

Gemma, cool and unruffled as always, nodded politely.

‘And does that make us any safer?’ Bella McCarthy asked, her voice made brasher than usual by the number of G&Ts she’d plied herself with over the last hour.

‘You’ll be perfectly safe as long as you do what I tell you,’ Heck replied. ‘Which is to stay together behind locked doors.’

‘Stay together in here, you mean?’ Ted Haveloc asked. He too was beside the bar, having ordered his sixth pint of Buttermere Gold. ‘Seems like a plan.’

‘It
is
a plan, actually,’ Heck said, glancing at Lucy, implying they were all likely to be a lot safer together in here, rather than dispersed through their own cottages. ‘How late were you planning on staying open for?’

She shrugged. ‘Hazel’s the boss, and she’s not here.’

‘Well, everyone stay in the pub for the time being,’ Heck said. He circled the bar with Gemma, and followed Lucy into the kitchen. ‘What happened?’ he asked, once they were out of earshot of the others.

Lucy still looked scared. ‘I don’t know why she suddenly decided she was going up there. I think she’s been worried about Annie for some time.’

‘Funny how it all came to a head tonight.’

Lucy’s cheeks coloured. ‘Well, there
is
a killer on the loose …’

‘We don’t know that,’ Gemma interjected calmly. ‘So far we’ve got one case of GBH, and it wasn’t fatal. Why don’t we all just relax a little, eh?’

‘On the subject of which,’ Heck said quietly, consciously making an effort to calm himself down, ‘it might be a good idea to close the bar.’

Lucy looked surprised. ‘But you just said …’

‘Let them stay in the pub, by all means. But it’s not going to do us any good if they all get smashed out of their communal tree.’

‘There isn’t much to do in The Witch’s Kettle if you can’t drink,’ Lucy said. ‘Hazel’s never had a telly in here.’

‘Obviously your granddad never took you around the pubs when you were a nipper.’ Heck headed back to the door. ‘Give them some dominoes and a few bags of crisps … they’ll be fine.’

‘Where are you going now?’ Lucy asked, dismayed they were leaving so soon.

‘Back to the nick to see what’s been happening,’ Heck replied. ‘And then up to Fellstead Grange to bring your bloody auntie back, hopefully with Annie Beckwith in tow.’

‘Just be careful … Hazel’s got that shotgun. You know … the one she’s not supposed to have.’

The two cops halted and glanced at each other. Lucy’s cheeks turned even pinker as she wondered if she’d spoken out of turn.

‘That’s something, I suppose,’ Heck finally said.

‘Yeah, but there are only two shells for it,’ Lucy said.

‘Let’s hope she doesn’t fire them off willy-nilly.’

‘Let’s hope she doesn’t fire them at all,’ Gemma stated, ‘if she’s not supposed to have this weapon.’ She eyed Heck closely. ‘Did
you
know about it?’

‘Hazel’s a special case,’ he said. ‘She’s not a criminal. But I’ll give her a damn good telling off when I see her. Should be fun.’ He glanced at Lucy. ‘I don’t suppose Mary-Ellen’s been in during our absence?’

‘I haven’t seen her since she left here with you around lunchtime.’

‘Didn’t look like she was at the nick, either,’ Heck said, as he and Gemma left the pub together, the door slamming closed behind them. ‘She had a lot to do, I suppose. Cordoning off that crime scene on the east shore. After that, she was going up to Fellstead Grange. Even so, I’d have expected her back by this time.’

‘Why not give her a call?’ Gemma threw her bag back into the rear of his Citroën.

‘There’s no mobile phone network at all in the Cradle.’

‘No … silly me. Why would I have expected otherwise?’ She glanced around. Aside from the pub’s entrance and front windows, everything else was obliterated by murk. ‘I understand there are people who like to get away from it all, Heck … but this place is like something from a Vincent Price movie.’

‘It has its charms.’

‘They’ve just been put away for the off-season, I suppose.’

‘Well, yeah, that’s exactly the case.’ As he climbed in behind the wheel, Heck supposed Gemma was hardly seeing his new home at the ideal time. The apparent harshness of Cragwood Vale was more than a little deceptive. Things were so much different here on a fine summer’s day. When the rising sun bathed the encircling summits rose-pink and the last threads of night mist dissipated over the mirror-still waters of the tarn, a deep tranquillity lay on this high, pristine valley. As the day ascended, the thickly treed shores would turn a lush, vibrant green and the higher, heather-clad slopes shimmer with purple. Picturesque didn’t always mean perfect, of course. Wildness and isolation did not suit everyone, but the wildness of Cragwood Vale was not the wildness of Siberia, or Colorado, or even the Cairngorms. It was a homely, folksy kind of wildness. A safe wildness. Usually.