The Fell Walker (31 page)

Ben moved forward, face contorted by the thoughts within.

Hector moved to his left, towards the edge, hands still in the surrender position.

Ben circled to his right, closing in, careful about the holes.

Hector shouted: ‘I’m glad you came.’

For a moment, Ben hesitated.

Hector kept on moving to his left.

Ben continued, closing.

Hector reached the eastern edge of the summit, stood right on it, his back to the sheer drop behind him. He waited for Ben to come near.

Ben approached, cautiously. He could see where Snodd stood, hands still up. He couldn’t attack - it was too dangerous.

He stopped within two paces of Snodd, still alert, ready for anything.

‘I’m glad you came,’ Snodd repeated, quietly.

Now, Ben was in trouble. He was standing in front of the man he had imagined for months. He was listening to his lilting voice, hearing him breath, seeing his size, feeling his presence, hating him, fearing him. Was this happening? Was this reality? He felt himself floating above the scene....

Hector sniffed.

Ben came back, forced himself to focus.

He looked into Snodd’s eyes. They were not alive. They were grey, blank. They had seen something terrible. They had retreated to another place, unreadable, un-contactable. This pathetic little man didn’t need to be killed. He was already dead.

Something in Ben’s eye’s relaxed, and, for a moment, a glint of life came into Hector’s. They looked deep into each other, and knew they were the same.

Hector said: ‘I’m sorry,’ and turned, and stepped off the edge.

Chapter 38

Ben swung his eight-iron in an uncertain arc. Again, the timing was bad. The hips went through before the hands, resulting in an ugly lunge. The dandelion, and most of its roots, flew into the air. It joined a swath of similarly exhumed dandelions on the unkempt lawn.

The backs of his knees still twinged. The specialist had told him to rest them for a few weeks. He had done irreparable damage to the knee linings, causing the joint’s synovial fluid to leak out and swell existing cysts. Rest was the only cure, and would continue to be, if ever he over-stressed them again. Three weeks had passed since their scramble up Barf.

In the first week they had managed the daily drive to Carlisle hospital to visit Helen. She had been lucky. After a few days’ treatment and observation of her head injuries, she had been given the all clear. Her whiplash neck injuries turned out to be no worse than that typically suffered in a minor car shunt. A neck collar and rest had been recommended, and she had been sent home to recuperate.

A few sleepless nights, and quiet, shaky, days had followed, but she was getting better by the day.

In that first week, Ben’s knees had also carried him to a meeting in a Penrith hotel with two high ranking, plain clothes police officers, and a third man, who was not introduced.

They had a deal to offer. They wouldn’t charge him with illegally being in possession of police and post mortem records, if (a) he gave them the name of the person or persons who had hacked into their computer systems, and (b) he accepted the story they were about to feed to the media - that the discovery of Hector Snodd’s bad habit, and his subsequent demise, had been the result of police investigations over a long period. If questioned by the media, he had to play the part of an innocent bystander whose wife had been kidnapped by the killer.

It was, of course, a bluff. There was no possibility that they would bring a case against him, and have a court and the nation hear that
he
had been responsible for Snodd’s discovery and demise, that the police had refused to listen or help, that it was possible for hackers to access police records.

When he had pointed this out to them, the third man had intervened and appealed to his sense of civic duty and, would you believe, patriotism.

After a lengthy diatribe covering the consequences of co-operating with them or being charged and going to court, he ended with: ‘Don’t you agree, Mr Foxley, it would be in nobody’s interest if any of this went into the public domain. We would all lose wouldn’t we.’

Behind the polished Oxford accent, Ben thought he heard a veiled threat. On the other hand, it might have been his overactive imagination.

It didn’t matter. He had already decided that he didn’t want to make headlines, get involved in a court case, or do anything that would drag Helen into a media circus. He had plans to take her away for a peaceful holiday, to the Mediterranean, lie on a beach, swim, read a book. They both needed the rest.

So, he had accepted their version of events, and in the following days marvelled at the ability of police spokesmen to lie so convincingly to the news cameras.

He had given them Sophie Lund’s name reluctantly. He couldn’t, of course, give them her address.

Strangely enough, the plea to his patriotism had worked. It couldn’t be right, he felt, that someone like Sophie, and her ‘boys’, should have access to the nation’s records.

He hadn’t bothered contacting her to let her know that Trade and Industry Minister, Jack Fraser, had been the victim of a serial killer, not a political assassin. He had no desire to speak to her again, and he assumed she would pick it up from the media.

*

He knew that, as soon as the police arrested Sophie Lund, she would know who had betrayed her. She would exact her revenge.

For almost two weeks now, he had waited anxiously for the inevitable parcel, addressed to Helen, containing that tape, telling her of his adultery. How he was going to handle it, he didn’t know. Why it hadn’t arrived, he didn’t know. Perhaps the police were having trouble finding her.

In the past two weeks, Ben’s knees had also taken him to the Armathwaite Hall Hotel where he’d treat Sergeant Bill Unwin and Constable Alan Murphy to a special meal, in appreciation of their efforts. To mark the occasion, he presented Bill with a silver tankard for his ale, and gave Alan a replica of a red Ferrari.

After dinner, sitting in the elegant lounge, where the great novelist, Sir Hugh Walpole, had waxed lyrically about the stunning view down the length of Bassenthwaite lake, they waxed lyrically about the local ale, got drunk, and had to be taxied home.

Ben had invited Ian Smith to the dinner. It was Ian he wanted to thank most of all. Ian had said it wasn’t his kind of thing. Ben had asked him how else he might be able to show his appreciation. Ian had selflessly suggested he make a donation to the mountain rescue team.

Ben had taken the cheque to Ian at the team’s headquarters, shared a coffee, apologised again for the thump, thanked him profusely, tried to get to know him better, failed.

For the remainder of the last two weeks, Ben’s knees had been under his computer desk, where he had written an account of events, based on the police version, for Sue Burrows. He had also sweet-talked her into letting him disappear with Helen for a couple of weeks.

The rest of his time had been spent domestically, looking after Helen, reading brochures, arranging their holiday.

*

One more swing, and he’d call it a day. This time, the dandelion flew, but not so many leaves and roots. A bit better.

He walked off the lawn, through the conservatory, into the kitchen. Helen was standing, baking, humming in-tune to some light music on the radio. She had taken the neck collar off that morning, determined to get back into her routine.

Ben walked behind her, pausing to kiss her neck.

‘Tea or coffee?’ he whispered in her ear.

‘Tea please.’

He walked to the adjoining worktop, listening to the hourly news bulletin, which had replaced the music on the radio. He checked for water in the kettle, then switched it on.

As he reached for cups, the radio newsreader said: ‘The well known journalist and television personality, Sophie Lund, was found dead in her London flat last night. She had been shot a number of times. Her flat had been ransacked. Police believe she may have been the victim of burglars, but will not be issuing an official statement until further investigations take place....’

‘Burglars my arse,’ Ben thought.

He pondered for a while, then walked into the hall. He came back into the kitchen, wearing his anorak.

‘Now, where are you off to?’ Helen asked, as he walked past her.

Ben turned in the kitchen doorway. ‘I’m going down to the lake to talk to my fishing friends. Then I’ll probably go on to bring about the government’s downfall, and possibly save the world from a nuclear disaster.’

‘Very good dear,’ Helen smiled, glad that he was being silly again, glad that things were getting back to normal.

Epilogue

The post-mortem on Hector Snodd revealed that he had suffered from Rhinitis. The pathologist’s notes stated that the inflammation of his nasal membranes was consistent with continuous exposure to fine cement powders. (The cement powder reacts with moisture in the nose, forming a corrosive solution.) He had not worn the protective face masks supplied by his employer, finding them uncomfortable.

*

Hector Snodd was buried beside Leni and Grace. Callum McDonald, who arranged and paid for the burial, watched alone, as a butterfly landed on the lowered coffin, and stayed there while the grave was filled.

*

British authorities flew the body of Vilma Tapales back to her family in the Philippines, where she was laid to rest close to her recently deceased uncle.

*

On the island of Mindoro, Mrs Carla Gonzalez received a parcel containing photographs of her beautiful daughter. She looked at them with eyes too tired to cry.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the following people for their assistance in the research of this novel:

Andrea Caddy of British Nuclear Fuels and Nick Hance of the United Kingdom Atomic Energy Authority for their information on the nuclear industry.

Mick Guy, Chairman of Keswick Mountain Rescue Team, and Willie Marshall, Team Leader of Assynt Mountain Rescue Team for a detailed insight into their wonderful service.

Dr David Rivett and Mr Robert Thomson for their medical expertise.

Police Officers Ron Starkey and Ken Cropper for information on police procedures.

Phil Matthews of Soundmaster Recording Studios for studio layout.

Alan McKim, Tony Wilson, Nick Graham and Professor Manfred Judt also made significant contributions, and I thank them all.

Finally, a special thank you to Dorothy, my partner in crime, for her support and encouragement.

Note: The names of the mountains in the novel are all factual. However, for the purposes of the story, I took some liberties with their positions and configurations.

About the Author

Michael Wood has combined a career in industry with that of a freelance writer, contributing feature articles and short stories to a variety of journals and magazines.

The Fell Walker
is his first novel. He has also written a second novel called
Climate Change
.