Dead Man Walking (35 page)

‘Not likely,’ Heck replied, as they coated up, pulled their gloves on and stepped out into the yard. The other two women followed.

‘Hazel’s right,’ Gemma said quietly. ‘Be careful. Don’t even think about splitting up. Not for any reason.’

Hazel’s message was to embrace Heck and kiss him on the lips, even forcing her tongue between his teeth. Aware of Gemma watching, he gently resisted that. There was reproach in Hazel’s eyes as he pulled away.

‘Gotta go,’ he said.

She gave a short, terse nod.

He and Mary-Ellen slipped out through the back gate, which was closed behind them. A second later, they heard the pub’s back door slamming as well, and a double-thunk as its bolt was thrown and the barrel-lock turned. They moved one behind the other to the edge of the building, peering over the white picket fence and across the pub beer garden and the leaf-cluttered emptiness of its car park. On all sides, banks of curdled mist corralled their vision. The next nearest building from here was a vaguely visible slate structure housing the pumping equipment that processed water from the tarn.

They crouched to deliberate.

‘The way I see it, we make a circuit of the village anti-clockwise,’ Heck whispered. ‘Start in this northeast corner and work our way around.’

Mary-Ellen nodded.

They clambered over the fence, crossed the pub garden and car park, and circled around the back of the pump-house, following an east–west path which eventually brought them to the low wall at the rear of Dulcie and Sally O’Grady’s property. Here, they paused again – but heard nothing. The fog lay in a deep, motionless gloom. They jumped over the wall, and crept through Dulcie’s frost-hardened flower beds. Beyond that, around the right side of the house, was a car-port wherein sat Sally’s Volkswagen Polo.

All four of its tyres had been sliced to the core.

‘Shit,’ Mary-Ellen said. She hunkered down, fingering the brutal gashes. Before commenting further, she glanced sharply into the murk at the end of the drive.

‘Something wrong?’ Heck asked.

She rose to her feet. ‘Thought I heard something …’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘No, what did you …?’

‘Seriously, Heck. Nothing. Just getting a bit jumpy.’

He understood that, but couldn’t help wondering if she’d heard another of those faint whispers or nasty little snickers.

Be under no illusion … there are some very weird offenders.

They circled around to the front of the house, and crossed a paved area covered with potted plants, doing their level best not to kick any over, before taking a side entry hemmed on the left by spruce firs. This brought them to Dulcie O’Grady’s Mini One, which was parked on Lakeside Row, a gravelled cul-de-sac at the other side of the property. This car too was sitting on its trims, each tyre hacked clean through.

‘Bastard’s been thorough,’ Heck muttered.

Giving up on the O’Grady house, they nipped along a ginnel back to Truscott Drive, emerging at the village green’s northwest corner.

‘Where to next?’ he wondered.

‘Why not try the Fillinghams?’ Mary-Ellen suggested. ‘They’ve got a big Rover. If that’s running, we could probably get everyone out of here in one go.’

This made sense. They headed west up Truscott Drive, bypassing the entrance on their left to Hetherby Close – no lights from the police office were visible, as McGurk had agreed – and moved to the next road on their left, Highview. All the way, the thick vapour retreated ahead of them but filled in the emptiness behind. It was impossible to shake off the sensation they were being watched, but both were experienced enough to know this was common in situations when danger was known to be close by.

The Rover was parked in a narrow entryway at the back of the small terraced cottage/corner shop where the Fillinghams lived. It sat there, lopsided, its tyres again sliced and its bonnet forced open, the engine inside trashed. The Rover belonged to Burt. His wife, Mandy, had a Renault Clio, which was parked at the other end of the alley. But this too was out of service, all four tyres punctured – they saw that before they even reached it.

And they saw something else, too. Or rather, Mary-Ellen did.

Without warning, she grabbed Heck’s shoulder, dragging him down behind a low back wall. They crouched there face to face, barely breathing.

‘Okay, what is it?’ he asked quietly.

She struggled to contain her excitement. ‘There’s someone in Ted’s cottage.’

‘You sure?’

‘I just … I just glanced right. Totally by accident. And his downstairs curtain was twitching. Heck, Ted’s down at the pub. There shouldn’t be anyone in there. It’s
got
to be him. It’s
got
to—’

‘Wait a minute.’ He clamped a hand on her shoulder. ‘Remember, if it is him, he’s armed.’

‘Okay … alright.’

Very warily, Heck peeked up and over the wall. Mary-Ellen did the same, removing her hat in the process. Before them stood the rear of a row of three small, detached cottages. Two of these, those at either end, were holiday lets and currently empty. But the one in the middle belonged to Ted Haveloc, who, as Mary-Ellen had said, was currently ensconced in The Witch’s Kettle. His downstairs curtain now hung very still – almost too still, if such a thing was possible.

‘The main question is, did he spot us?’ Heck whispered.

‘I dunno … I just glimpsed a fraction of movement. What do you think?’ Mary-Ellen asked him.

Heck held his crouch as he pondered. The house was ten yards away from them. If someone had been looking out, surely all he’d see was a darkened, foggy alley. But there was no way to be sure.

‘Was he even looking?’ Mary-Ellen wondered. ‘Or just drawing the curtain? Could be he’s taking five in there. It’s been a long night for everyone.’

Heck chewed his lip.

‘You’re the one giving the orders,’ she reminded him. ‘How do you want to play it?’

Ultimately, it wasn’t a difficult decision. For the first time that night, they felt empowered; they finally knew where their opponent was. Not only that, he was indoors while they were out; now
he
was the one who’d been cornered.

They were going to have to go in there, but still they waited.

‘You don’t suppose …?’ Mary-Ellen began. ‘Nah …’

‘Go on.’

‘You don’t suppose he’d go to all this trouble … I mean, having us running around like blue-arsed flies, thinking the most heinous killer in Britain is here, and all the while it’s just a fucking burglary? It’s a ploy to strip the houses while we’re hiding in the pub?’

Heck didn’t take this idea completely seriously, but he gave it some thought, again wondering what the real motive behind this crime-wave might be. It was so out of the blue – and yet so unremittingly brutal. Was it really possible some schizoid had been wandering the Lake District fells and had happened across this little settlement, which he’d immediately fixed on and had devised a strategy to depopulate, for no real reason? And that wasn’t even considering the possibility it was the Stranger.

‘None of this makes sense,’ he said to himself.

‘I know,’ Mary-Ellen agreed. ‘If he’s got it in for us, why is he sitting in some cottage, letting the minutes tick by?’

‘I don’t mean that. I mean … never mind. Look, I’ll do the back, you do the front.’

‘What, just knock on the door?’

‘Well … maybe check the property out first. He’s obviously found a way in, so there must be a loose window or something. But come and find me before you go in the same way.’

She nodded and scuttled off. Heck waited until she’d vanished from sight, and then waited another couple of minutes just for good measure, before heaving himself up and over the wall, dropping down the other side into another semi-frozen flower bed. From here, he crawled alligator-style across the lawn. It was a slow, cautious process, and all the way his eyes were fixed on the curtained window. When he was halfway across, the hanging material twitched slightly. Not dramatically, but he saw a ripple pass through it. Heck froze on the grass – slow seconds dragged past before he glimpsed movement again, but this time it was to the left, in the corner of his vision.

Mary-Ellen had appeared in the side passage. She signalled to him.

When he reached her, she grabbed his combat jacket, hauling him into the passage. Halfway along it, the rear entrance to the house stood open by a couple of inches, blackness skulking on the other side.

‘Like this when you found it?’ Heck whispered.

She shook her head. ‘Closed, but not locked.’

He slid his gloved fingers around the edge of the door, pushing it slowly open, dreading that it should suddenly creak. Fortunately the hinges proved to be well-oiled, and they slipped inside. They found themselves in a short, slant-roofed corridor under the main stair. There was an immediate scent of must and human sweat; vaguely rancid – outdoorsman Ted wasn’t the cleanest chap in Cragwood Keld.

The gap at the end of the corridor opened into the hall. A pair of work-pants hung on the radiator opposite, while a donkey jacket was draped over the newel post at the foot of the stairway. Beyond that, mist swirled behind the frosted glass panel on the front door. To their right, at the other end of the hall, stood the entrance to the kitchen – and something else. A dim form, which at first looked like a motionless figure, though they soon recognised it as the shadow of a coat stand. Also on the right, on the far side of the passage, was another open door, which they expected would lead into the lounge, where the curtain had twitched.

Mary-Ellen drew her baton. Instead of snapping it out, she eased it open with her fingertips. She nudged Heck, handed him her CS canister, and they padded down the hall together, stopping one to either side of the lounge doorway.

There was a faint noise in there – like a soft, slow breathing.

Heck glanced at Mary-Ellen, bemused.

She mouthed exactly what he was thinking: ‘Asleep?’

Heck was hardly able to believe it. But it sounded as if they were listening to someone snoring. He sucked in a deep breath and held it, then turned his body, stepping through into the room beyond. Mary-Ellen went with him, lithe and stealthy.

The room was so dark with the curtain drawn that it was initially difficult to see anything. They’d still expected to distinguish a humanoid form slumped in the low-slung armchair, or lying on the settee to their right.

But nobody was there.

Bewildered, Heck glanced left. Towards the front of the house, the lounge was being used as a dining room. There was a table there and some chairs, but also a few boxes, overflowing with discarded clothing. He squatted to check if someone was under the table, but spied only a forest of table and chair legs.

They could still hear it – the snoring, or breathing. Whatever it was.

Heck turned a full circle, and saw Mary-Ellen heading for the rear curtain. Immediately, it struck him that whoever was here, he’d stepped around that curtain the moment he’d heard them enter the house, and was now lying in wait.

Heck darted after her, but before he could stop her, she’d reached the material and dragged it back. With an ear-piercing squawk, Buster, Ted Haveloc’s scruffy old ginger tom, flew off the cushion positioned for him under the window radiator, and streaked past them into the hall.

Their own shouts still echoed through the house as, with a resounding crash, the cat exited by the rear door. They stared dumbly at each other, before Mary-Ellen collapsed in fits of guttural giggles. Despite everything, Heck laughed too. Briefly, all concerns about stealth absented themselves.

‘What a pair of pillocks,’ he said, slumping onto the settee.

‘Oh fuck!’ she cackled. ‘Your face. I’m surprised you didn’t mace the poor little sod.’

‘You can talk, I saw your staff go up … I thought you were going to brain him.’

‘Some chance. Fastest cat in the Cradle, that Buster … shit, I should have remembered. He always sleeps under that radiator.’

‘Yeah … well, let’s not forget what we’re here for,’ Heck said, pulling himself back together.

Mary-Ellen made an effort too. ‘Ted’s Volvo’s round the front. It’s kaput.’

Heck nodded, having expected nothing less. ‘Which just leaves Bella’s BMW X5. What’s the chance our resident maniac so admires expensive motors that he’s left that one intact?’

‘At a guess, not much?’

Heck sighed. ‘We’ve still got to check.’

The clock behind the bar in The Witch’s Kettle said it was eighteen minutes past four. Only three and a half hours before daylight, but maybe several more after that before the fog cleared.

Gemma pivoted on her stool. A couple of feet away, behind the bar, Lucy was slumped forward asleep, head resting on her folded arms. Across the taproom, only lit now by the faint green glow of the low-key emergency lighting, Dulcie and Sally O’Grady were asleep on the settle, huddled against each other. Ted Haveloc sat across from them in an armchair. His back was turned, but by his slouched posture, he too was sleeping. It was the same with Burt and Mandy Fillingham and Bella and James McCarthy, both duos reclining at opposite ends of the lengthy leather sofa near the door to the vault.

Gemma yawned and stretched, and wondered how long it was since any of these couples had actually slept in each other’s arms. They’d probably be surprised to find they were doing it now, but in her experience unspoken human instinct was an overriding factor in times of fear and stress, and thank God for that.

She dabbled her fingers in the glass of tap-water Lucy had served her earlier, and sprinkled it on her face. She’d been on the go now for over twenty hours, which included the torturous four and a half she’d spent on the fell. Almost certainly the arduous exercise involved up there explained the ache in her thighs, calves and back. Meanwhile, torpor was creeping up again. She was supposed to be on guard duty here. It was essential she stay awake in order to protect these people, but second by second her wakefulness was slipping away.

Gemma stood up, shook herself and rubbed more water on her face.