Though it was only a journey of twenty-five miles, it took the ambulance two hours to arrive at Cragwood Keld from Kendal. The last few miles saw it crawling along Great Langdale and uphill into Cragwood Vale at less than a snail’s pace. It was the worst fog any of the ambulance crew had seen, but you didn’t play Lewis Hamilton on these roads even in blazing sunshine. It would be similarly slow progress heading back to Kendal; despite having a seriously injured person on board, there would be no police escort to clear the way – Mary-Ellen’s Land Rover was still at Cragwood Ho, and though Heck intended to travel down to the hospital in his own car at the first opportunity, there were a couple of things he needed to do up here first. But at least Tara Cook would now have health professionals alongside her and could be drip-fed painkillers.
Heck stood in the doorway of the nick and watched as the ambulance pulled slowly away, its tail-lights dwindling like fish-eyes sinking into ocean gloom. Only now, outside in the cold again, did it occur to him that he was still wearing damp, musty clothes. He turned to Mary-Ellen. She’d already got changed. Organised to a tee, there always seemed to be a second uniform pressed and ready in M-E’s wardrobe for occasions such as this.
‘I’m nipping to the Section House to get some dry togs,’ he said. ‘Can you knock on a few doors … get everyone over to the pub?’
‘Sure, but I thought you were going down to Kendal with the ambulance.’
‘I’ll follow the ambulance. I want to speak to everyone else first.’
‘No probs,’ she said, eagerly, still enjoying the unaccustomed action. ‘I’ll get up and at ’em.’ She strode off across the road.
It had often struck Heck as odd that an all-action character like Mary-Ellen had consciously sought reassignment to Cragwood Keld. He didn’t buy into her glib explanation that the moment she heard Heck was being posted here, she wanted to hook up with him because she’d read about his antics in the police press. It was a complex deal, swapping forces; the paperwork alone was off-putting. Heck knew, having done it several times. Plus, he couldn’t imagine what kind of action she’d thought she was going to get up here. Then again perhaps, as she’d also once said, she just loved the great outdoors.
‘I should have been a park-ranger, me, sarge,’ Heck remembered her once sniggering. ‘Gimme a horse, some buckskins and a whole range of empty mountains, and you can shag me any time you want.’
Promises, promises, he thought as he headed down a ginnel opposite the station which connected with the village green. So long as she got the villagers together, that would do for the time being. On the right, at the end of the ginnel, was ‘the Section House’, as they called it – a one-up/one-down built of whitewashed stone, which, as it had had no permanent occupant for years, had been refurbished and taken on a long-term rental by Cumbria Constabulary. As police digs went, the Section House was actually pretty good. Okay, it was a bit compact – split-level, with the lounge, diner and kitchen all crammed into a single space downstairs, while the ‘bedroom’ was actually a timber balcony, accessible only by a loft-type ladder. But it was double-glazed and centrally heated, and it had all the mod cons Heck could need.
He scrambled ‘topside’, as he thought of it, stripped off, towelled down, and then pulled on jeans, trainers and a hooded blue sweatshirt. As a rule, Heck tended not to view himself in mirrors anymore than he needed to. He was only in his late thirties, so he was hardly old, but his face had taken more than its fair share of kicks and punches over the years, and these days looked … well, ‘lived-in’ would be a polite way to describe it. At least he still had a full head of black hair, even if it was its usual unruly mop. He dragged a comb through it, before grabbing his phone, his radio and his cuffs, locked up and crossed the leaf-strewn green to The Witch’s Kettle, in which several of the villagers were already waiting.
Hazel and Lucy stood behind the bar, regarding him curiously. As Hazel was the only person offering bed and breakfast accommodation in the vicinity, Heck had rung her shortly after getting back to the nick with Tara, to check no visitors had arrived unexpectedly. The reply had come in the negative, but he hadn’t had time to elaborate further.
‘We got everyone?’ he asked, approaching the bar.
‘What do you mean?’ she said.
‘Where’s Mary-Ellen?’
‘Here,’ the PC said, coming in after him with another woman. This was Bella McCarthy, a former investment banker from the Home Counties who lived in the Lakes in early retirement with her husband, James. He was already present in the pub. She sat down alongside James at the foremost table, the pair of them in matching green wellies and waxed overcoats.
‘That’s everyone, sarge.’ Mary-Ellen sidled to the bar.
‘Good.’ Heck turned to face the crowd, who were also seated but watching him expectantly.
There weren’t too many of them actually. As well as the McCarthys, Ted Haveloc had arrived, along with Burt and Mandy Fillingham and a pair of spinster sisters, Dulcie and Sally O’Grady.
‘Hello, everyone,’ Heck said. ‘Thanks for dropping what you were doing and getting over here so promptly. By the way, does anyone here not know who I am?’
There was no reply. He was pretty sure he’d spoken to all of these people, for various reasons, over the past two and a half months. ‘Okay … I’ll get right to the point. I’m afraid there’s been an incident. A pretty vicious attack in fact, not too far from here. Two young girls were walking in the Pikes when they were assaulted. Just the other side of the tarn, in fact.’
The crowd listened in stony silence. But already, worried frowns were appearing.
‘I’m not saying there’s a specific threat to this community,’ Heck added. ‘But I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t at least warn you. We’ve no idea who the perpetrator is, but this was fairly serious violence. On top of that, we’ve got reason to believe he may be armed.’
‘You mean with a gun?’ Burt Fillingham said, looking uncharacteristically bewildered. He was a short, squat man in late middle-age, with thinning, straw-blond hair and a curious line in tank-tops, ties and tinted spectacles; he was normally a rather superior, disapproving character, who viewed himself as an authority figure. He certainly knew everybody else’s business, which sort of went with the postmaster territory, Heck supposed, at least in a rural enclave like this.
‘Yes,’ Heck said. ‘We don’t know what kind yet, or how much ammunition he’s got … or even how willing he is to use it. The thing is, this attack occurred sometime last night. On which subject, I don’t suppose anyone heard anything out of the ordinary?’
‘I heard what sounded like a gunshot?’ Sally O’Grady said in a querulous tone. Around fifty, she was the younger of the two sisters by about ten years, and by far the most nervous, but both were physically similar to each other; tall and thin, with short grey hair. ‘It was a long way off though, I thought.’
‘What time would that have been?’ Heck asked. ‘Early hours maybe? Four o’clock? Five?’
‘Oh no, much earlier than that. I’d say around midnight.’
‘Okay.’ Heck threw a discreet nod at Mary-Ellen, who nodded back, acknowledging that he wanted her to take a statement from Sally later.
‘You folks don’t need me to tell you how vast and empty the Lakes can be at this time of year,’ Heck said. ‘I mean, this guy … he could have legged it in any direction. He could be miles and miles away by now. He might even have left the county. We’ve no clue about his transport capability.’
‘If this attack was up in the Pikes in the middle of the night, he must be a robust sort.’ This came from Ted Haveloc, a rugged, sun-wizened character, whose tattoos, broken teeth and chaos of wiry grey hair indicated a life spent largely outdoors and made him look much older than his sixty-two years.
‘We can’t make assumptions about anything,’ Heck replied. ‘We don’t know the first thing about him. We haven’t even had a chance to get up there and look yet.’
‘The attack happened at around midnight, and you haven’t been up there looking?’ Burt Fillingham said.
‘The fog’s impeding our best efforts, but the latest forecast is that it’s due to clear by around midday tomorrow.’
‘That’s twenty-four hours off,’ Bella McCarthy said. ‘What do we do in the meantime?’ She was a tall, trim blonde of around fifty-five, always decked in the latest rural fashions and a famous local sportswoman, playing a prominent role at the Cragwood Boat Club. But at present she sounded so dismayed that her small-statured husband, who despite his dyed brown, crimped hair, was ten years her senior, took her jewellery-coated hand in his. James McCarthy was another boat enthusiast and one-time big noise in the City, and yet was inclined to extreme mousiness in his wife’s presence, which might explain why she seemed less than impressed by his attempts to comfort her.
‘That’s what I’ve gathered you all for,’ Heck said. ‘As I say, I’ve no reason to assume this man will come down to Cragwood Keld. Most likely he’ll be far away by now. But it’s not impossible. I mean, the Cradle Track is the most direct route up into the Pikes. It’s also the most direct route down.’
‘But would he really come this way?’ Mandy Fillingham – Burt’s plain, dumpy wife – asked, evidently seeking reassurance. ‘I mean, knowing there are villages here and people … and that he’s wanted by the police?’
‘I don’t know,’ Heck said. ‘The best advice I can give you at present is to go home and lock your doors and windows. Report anyone wandering the village who you don’t know, and certainly don’t admit anyone to your house. In fact, don’t even open the front door until you’ve looked through your peephole or living-room window and established who it is.’
‘So we’re prisoners in our own homes?’ Bella McCarthy said.
‘Kind of,’ Mary-Ellen agreed.
‘Oh my God!’ Sally O’Grady looked appalled to hear it in such bare terms.
‘Sally!’ her sister said warningly.
‘But only until tomorrow,’ Mary-Ellen added.
‘Assuming the fog clears tomorrow,’ Bella retorted. ‘I mean this is the Lake District, you know. And it is November.’
‘Bella, there’s zero chance of this guy coming here,’ Mary-Ellen said.
‘How can you say that if you don’t know anything about him?’
‘The thing is, Mrs McCarthy,’ Heck said, ‘you’ve got a police office right in the middle of Cragwood Keld. I can’t stress how unusual that is in this day and age. It exponentially reduces the chance of an offender setting up shop here. You’ve got officers right on the spot.’ He indicated Mary-Ellen. ‘PC O’Rourke and I will remain permanently on duty until this guy is arrested or until we can be absolutely sure he’s left the area.’
Some looked relieved by that. There were several murmurs of gratitude. The inhabitants of Cragwood Keld had got quite used to Mary-Ellen in the relatively short time she’d been here; they admired her spirit and enjoyed her sense of humour, but they also liked that she was a toughie who could look after herself and, if need be, them.
However, one person who didn’t seem relieved was Burt Fillingham.
‘But this man’s got a gun,’ he said. ‘If that’s the case, he could force his way into any building. He could force his way into the police station. There’d be nothing you or PC O’Rourke could do then.’
This thought had crossed Heck’s mind too, but the last thing he wanted now was an unofficial evacuation of the village. Despite the limited numbers, it could still turn into a stampede, and in these conditions that would be fraught with difficulty and danger, and it was probably unnecessary in any case.
‘The firearms issue’s being taken care of.’
‘How?’
‘Well … I’m hoping to get a couple of firearms officers posted here for the next day or so. I haven’t had time to organise that yet, but I’m going to sort it at the first opportunity.’
‘We didn’t mention that before because we didn’t want to alarm you,’ Mary-Ellen explained.
‘What about Cragwood Ho?’ Sally O’Grady asked in a shrill tone. ‘That’s much closer to the Cradle Track than we are. And those poor people don’t even know …’
‘We’ve already made contact with Bessie Longhorn and Bill Ramsdale and have given them exactly the same advice we’re giving you,’ Heck answered.
In actual fact, that was a little white lie. They hadn’t yet been able to personally warn the folk who lived at the north end of the tarn. Mary-Ellen had tried to call, but as Bessie Longhorn didn’t even have a landline, she’d been forced to concentrate on Bill Ramsdale – from whom there’d been no reply, despite her trying three times. This wasn’t a cause for knee-jerk concern; Ramsdale was known as a guy who wouldn’t bother answering his phone if he was busy or in a mood. On the third occasion, she’d left a detailed voicemail, with a request that he pass the info on to his neighbour as well.
‘PC O’Rourke will be setting off to Cragwood Ho very soon,’ Heck added. ‘Just to check everyone there is okay.’
This wasn’t quite as much of a lie. First and foremost, Mary-Ellen had to take the police launch back across the tarn, to mark out the one crime scene they so far knew about with tape and a tent, and to preserve any potential exhibits she might find. She then had to return the launch to its shed and retrieve the Land Rover which was still sitting in the car park up at the Ho, so she’d be visiting that end of the tarn in due course anyway. Of course, this would take a little longer than they’d prefer, but there was nothing else they could do.
‘Any questions, guys?’ Heck said.
‘Yeah,’ Hazel said from behind the bar. He turned, looking at her closely for the first time since he’d made the announcement. She had noticeably paled in the cheek. ‘You haven’t told us much about this attack up in the fells. What’s the reason for it?’
‘We don’t know,’ Heck said.
‘You said the victims were two girls. I mean, was … was it sexual?’
‘Yet again …’
‘He doesn’t know,’ Burt Fillingham replied on Heck’s behalf.
‘Whether it is or isn’t, the same rules apply,’ Heck said. ‘Keep your doors and windows locked and everything will be fine.’ He turned to the rest of the pub. ‘If any of you are really worried, there’s nothing to stop you doubling up for the night. You know, sleeping in others’ houses – set up a camp bed downstairs, or whatever. Strength in numbers, as they say.’
They absorbed this quietly, which wasn’t always a good sign. But sometimes there was no alternative but to give people the facts. If there was the slightest danger, the public needed to be put on their guard.
‘We’ve also got these.’ Heck laid a bunch of contact cards on the bar-top. ‘Everyone take one, please. They’ve got direct lines to Cragwood police office and the radio suite down at Windermere. It’s also got mine and Mary-Ellen’s mobile numbers.’
‘Lot of good mobile phones are up here,’ Burt Fillingham grunted, as if the rest of them didn’t already know that.
‘It’s only until tomorrow,’ Mary-Ellen said again. ‘Seriously folks, there’s no need to be upset.’
There was a brief contemplative silence, during which the fire in the hearth crackled and spat. The thick grey mist hung so close to the window it was like a layer of dirty cotton wool pinned on the outside of the glass.
‘Okay,’ Heck said. ‘That’s it.’
With subdued murmurs, the less-than-happy band broke up, some talking together quietly, others shuffling to the door.
‘What now?’ Hazel asked Heck. ‘We can double up for the night, lie low and all that, but what are you going to do?’
‘I’ve got to go down to Kendal,’ he replied. ‘Get a report from the hospital.’
‘Okay.’ She nodded glumly.
‘Hey … M-E’s nearby. I mean, she’s got a few jobs to do first, but she’ll not be too far away. And believe me, she’s as good in a fight as any bloke I’ve ever met. On top of that, I’ll be back by tea-time, I’m sure.’
‘It’s just that I think there may be another problem.’
‘Go on.’
‘You haven’t mentioned Annie Beckwith.’
‘Beckwith?’ The name didn’t ring any bell of familiarity with Heck.
‘Oh shit, yeah,’ Mary-Ellen said quietly. ‘That’s the old lady who lives at the top of the Cradle Track.’
‘Someone lives at the top of the Track?’ Heck was astonished. He had some vague idea there was an old farm building up there, but he didn’t know someone lived in it.
Mary-Ellen nodded. ‘Bit of a local character. At least, she would be if she wasn’t so reclusive. She’s very self-sufficient. Grows her own food, makes her own clothes, keeps a chicken or two. She lives in Fellstead Grange, which was built sometime in the 1700s and hasn’t been renovated since. There’s no power, no phone, no computer, nothing. The Track leads to it, but no actual road. And she’s completely alone.’
Heck wasn’t quite sure how he was supposed to respond to this.
Hazel looked even more worried. ‘That puts her in the danger zone, doesn’t it?’
‘How far up the Track does she live?’ Heck asked.
‘About fifteen minutes’ walk. And it’s all uphill.’
‘You say she’s an old lady. How old exactly?’
‘Must be nearly eighty,’ Hazel said.
‘Seriously, and she lives up there alone?’
‘It’s her farm – she came into full ownership when her parents died.’
‘Which was about five decades ago, if I heard rightly,’ Mary-Ellen added.
‘Yeah, and now she won’t leave the place,’ Hazel said. ‘She’s been offered the market value loads of times, but she won’t sell. And why should she, Mark?’
‘Why should she? Well … how about no heating, total isolation, working the land at that age, next to no money …’
‘It’s her life,’ Mary-Ellen shrugged.
‘Well …’ He rubbed his chin. ‘She may not be in as much danger as we think. First of all, like I say, this guy might have left the area. Secondly, he may not even know she’s there. Thirdly, if he does, she may not be his type …’
‘His type?’ Hazel said. ‘So he is going for more victims?’
‘It’s way too early to make that assumption,’ Heck replied.
‘Even though you clearly have?’
‘Hazel, it’s my job to prepare for the worst. Annie Beckwith’s in a vulnerable position, and we’ll get up there at some point to check, but I’m not sure there’s anything we can do for her right at this moment.’
‘Why don’t I go up there?’ Hazel suggested.
‘What?’
‘You two have got things you need to do. I know Annie better than you two, anyway. I can drive to the Ho, and walk up the Track.’
‘I’m really not sure that’s a good idea,’ Heck said. He didn’t elaborate, but his head was suddenly full of images from the Stranger enquiry back in the West Country all those years ago: ‘Police Eyes Only’ photos of female victims lying in the back seats of cars, stabbed multiple times, genitals torn, eyes gouged.
Mary-Ellen may have been thinking the same. ‘I don’t reckon it’s a good idea either, Hazel.’
Hazel glanced from one to the other. ‘Well … you can’t actually stop me.’
Hazel was a sweet woman, very patient, very quiet in her manner, but only now was Heck starting to detect the iron at the core of her independent spirit. Hazel ran her own business and led her own life. She’d been manipulated in the past by a worthless philanderer of a husband, but she couldn’t be pushed around any longer, it seemed. And yet Heck was surprised at how disquieted, not to say alarmed, this suddenly made him feel. He and Hazel had no formal arrangement together. From the outset, they’d agreed to see each other purely on a casual basis – whenever they felt like company, whenever they needed sex, with no emotional entanglement. It had suited them both, he’d thought.
Irritated, he tried to put this from his mind. ‘I can’t stop you,’ he agreed. ‘But I can ask you not to go up there … for the sake of your own safety. And because as the police officers on the scene, we’d be even more worried and distracted if you did this … which would not be a help.’
Briefly it seemed as if Hazel’s quiet but innate wilfulness would defy even this earnest request. But eventually she nodded.
‘You promise?’ Heck said.
She nodded again, though a little half-heartedly, he thought.
‘You can be more useful to us running the pub,’ Mary-Ellen said, adding a welcome dose of practical common sense. ‘People are going to feel lonely and scared this next twenty-four hours. Might be a good idea if they all pile in here, have a drink, sit round the fire together …’
‘I won’t close,’ Hazel said. ‘But I don’t think it’s going to be much of a party.’
‘Yeah, but just think of the one you’re going to have when this is over.’ Heck winked, then took her hand and squeezed it.
She greeted this with a brave smile.
‘There’s something else I want you to do,’ he said. ‘Keep your ears open.’
‘Of course …’
‘No, I mean if someone you don’t know comes into the pub. Treat them as normal, serve them ale, whatever. But if they show a propensity to whistle, take note of it.’
‘Whistle …?’
‘Don’t spread that around by the way,’ Heck added, going on to describe the harmonious whistling heard by the two hikers just before they were attacked.
‘Strangers in the Night?’ Hazel looked perplexed.
‘It may be nothing,’ Mary-Ellen said. ‘A complete red herring … but we can’t take any chances.’
‘But seriously … Strangers in the Night? That’s a love song, isn’t it?’
‘Takes all sorts, I’m afraid,’ Heck replied.
He glanced out of the window. The fog was dense and silent. Already, as instructed, everyone else had retreated to the safety and security of their homes.
‘What do you really think about Annie Beckwith?’ Mary-Ellen asked after she and Heck had stepped outside together.
He blew out a long breath. ‘Depends on our boy’s motivation, doesn’t it?’
‘You mean if he’s after a bit of crumpet, some scrawny old octogenarian’s not going to do it for him?’
‘The Stranger tended to go for the younger end of the market. Mainly went after doggers and courting couples, when the girls were dressed like porn queens. You wouldn’t have thought he’d get much of that up on the tops, especially from old ladies in run-down cottages … then again, his first known victim was an old fella living alone.’
‘A fella? The Stranger was bi?’
‘No, that wasn’t a sex attack; it was like a trial run or something. Profilers at the time theorised the offender was a wannabe killer and was testing himself, seeing if he could actually take a human life … so the old man was a target of convenience. You know: vulnerable, isolated, easy. Personally, I’m not so sure. When I’ve read the case notes, I’ve always wondered if Devon and Cornwall might already have had a seasoned killer on their hands, who happened to be between MOs.’
‘That happens?’ Mary-Ellen sounded fascinated. That was something else about her: she was always willing to learn. Heck didn’t think she’d ever asked him the same question twice.
‘Yeah, but it’s rare,’ he said. ‘Usually it’s because the law is getting close, so the offender needs to change his pattern to throw them off. Likewise, he might force himself into a prolonged fallow period, to try and make everyone think he’s gone away. You’ll have heard the phrase “he’s either left the area, died or gone to prison”?’ He chuckled grimly. ‘If only it was that simple. Course, he’d have needed a lot of self-control to pull that off, and it may have been that he was trying his best, but then came across an easy target, perhaps by accident, and couldn’t resist taking another life. That could have been the trigger that started the whole thing off again. Who knows?’
‘Where would his murders before the West Country have occurred?’ she asked.
Heck shrugged. ‘Like I say, I don’t know … I wasn’t even involved in the Stranger enquiry. The other thing is we can’t just assume it’s the same guy. The Stranger got shot, ten years have passed, yadda yadda. The chances are much higher it’s just some wandering fruitcake.’
‘Either way, it puts Annie Beckwith in danger.’
‘Not saying it doesn’t.’ Heck dug his car keys out. ‘But I’ve still got to get down to the hospital. I need to interview Tara Cook again … properly, when she’s more comfortable and coherent. Plus, I’ve got to run this lot by DI Mabelthorpe. All of which is going to take time.’
‘Well look, don’t worry about Annie,’ Mary-Ellen said. ‘I’ll go and check on her as soon as I’ve secured the crime scene and taken the boat back to the Ho. Won’t take me long to get up the Track.’
Briefly, Heck doubted that, wondering if for once her enthusiasm might have outstripped her actual abilities. It would be a tall order getting through that list of jobs before the late-autumn darkness descended. Securing the crime scene alone would be a complex task for an officer flying solo – first checking for any clues they’d missed, such as bullet fragments that might have bled out from the wound, not to mention the basics: deploying the incident tape, erecting the forensics tent, establishing a common entry point – which in its turn would necessitate finding an anchorage on the lake shore a sufficient distance away from the scene to prevent contamination, and so on. And that was assuming Mary-Ellen was able to find the right place, which wouldn’t be easy in this murk, and then get ashore with all the correct gear. The mind boggled. But at the end of the day, someone had to get up there, so it might as well be the young power-pack he was so fortunate to have at his beck and call. Of course, despite Mary-Ellen’s fearless approach and physical super-efficiency, Heck still wasn’t completely comfortable sending her over there alone. It was difficult to imagine the assailant would still be hanging around on the east shore after all this time, if he’d even come down from the fells in the first place. But even a small percentage chance was something to worry about. And yet what else could they do? It was needs must; the crime scene had to be secured, and at present they could only spare one officer to take this duty on.
‘Okay …’ He started walking. ‘Don’t mess around though. Once all that’s done, we need you back at the nick.’
‘We wanted big crime, didn’t we, Heck?’ she called after him. ‘The real deal?’
‘I always do,’ he replied, glancing back. ‘And then, when it happens, it always scares the crap out of me.’