The fog had cleared by two o’clock.
Not a wisp of it remained, not even on the highest peaks. Once it had gone, the eerie, almost mystical atmosphere went with it, leaving behind another drab November day, cold and damp, autumnal-brown hillsides lowering under a slate-grey sky. Yet this was still the busiest afternoon in Cragwood Keld’s history, at least as far as Hazel could remember.
Helicopters lofted by overhead, while search teams – police, military and civilian – were trawling the surrounding fells. Rescue and emergency vehicles of every description were parked in numerous parts of the village, though mostly in those areas that hadn’t been taped off by groups of men and women in forensics garb. The air crackled with radio static and echoed to the yipping of police dogs. Hazel didn’t think she’d ever seen as many officers, either uniformed or in plainclothes, at one time. It all seemed terribly chaotic, though she supposed there must be some level of organisation.
It still seemed incredible to her that all this appalling mayhem – life-changing events in so many ways, afflicting so many people – could have taken place in just twenty-four hours. At roughly this same time yesterday morning she’d arisen as usual, yawning, stretching, expecting another easy, uneventful day in the Lake District off-season. If it wasn’t for the grim detritus littered on all sides of her, it was possible she could still be persuaded that it had been an unreal dream.
That was evidence perhaps that she was still in shock, although she’d been looked over by a senior paramedic first thing that morning. She’d assured him she didn’t need it, and that she didn’t feel too bad – in fact that she didn’t feel anything at all. His response had been that this was abnormal and that in due course she’d realise this and would take the pills he recommended.
Maybe. For the moment though, she continued to wander what remained of the village, finally finding Heck at the bottom of the crater where Cragwood Keld police office had once stood. Both the Bomb Squad and the Fire Brigade had now cleared it for inspection, and apparently Heck had been one of the first ones down there. That had been half an hour ago, and he was still burrowing through the rubble.
The scraping of bricks as she descended alerted him to her presence. He turned, brushing his grubby hands on his sweatshirt, and half-smiled when he saw the big ginger tom-cat in her arms.
‘Gemma’s in hospital, I hear,’ Hazel said.
‘Damaged disc. No surgery required. Just rest. She’ll be fine.’
‘And how are you?’
‘The usual … bit frazzled round the edges, but I think I’ll be okay. How’s Buster?’ he asked, indicating the cat. With Ted Haveloc gone, it would now be minus one very caring owner.
‘Lost … a bit sad.’ In truth, the cat didn’t look either of those things, snuggling against her bosom as she squeezed him. ‘Not to worry, we’ll house him at the pub from now on.’
Heck smiled, and went back to his rooting and digging. She saw that he’d already retrieved one item; what looked like an old scrapbook. Its cover was badly charred, but the edges of the pages inside looked to be intact. She’d never seen his photo-record of all those murder victims he’d gained results for, and she’d never wanted to – but it seemed a reasonable guess that this was it.
‘How did you find the Race?’ she asked.
‘Wet.’
‘Me too. So did everyone else. Burt Fillingham had a heart attack going through Switchback Canyon.’
Heck glanced up. ‘I heard that. How is he?’
‘He’ll recover. Something to tell his grandkids … a red badge of courage from the battle of Cragwood Vale.’
Heck brushed his hands again, surveying the scorched rubble. ‘Sure looks like a battlefield.’
‘And yet you’re still here, Mark … right in the middle of it.’
‘Just salvaging what I can.’
She nodded at his scrapbook. ‘Looks like the important thing survived.’
He picked it up, flicked its pages. Many had browned in the heat and smoke, but the images they contained were just about identifiable. ‘None of these poor people survived the attacks that really mattered, I’m afraid.’
‘You know, Mark … you have to draw a line somewhere. You can’t live this job like you seem to.’
‘That’s been said,’ he agreed.
‘It’s going to send you to an early grave.’
‘That’s been said too.’
‘By Gemma, no doubt. But if you won’t listen to it from her, what’re the chances you’ll listen to it from me?’
He didn’t reply, just regarded her guiltily.
‘You know I can’t go with you, don’t you?’ she said.
‘And that means …?’
‘When you return to the world.’
‘I’m not returning to …’
‘Don’t lie to me, please. We’ve been through an awful lot together this last day and night. I’m just about still on my feet. But I don’t think I could take it if you started lying to me.’
‘Okay … I won’t.’
‘That world you yearn to be part of is not mine, I’m afraid. And don’t tell me you need to be part of it, because that isn’t true. If you need anything, Mark Heckenburg, it’s a clip around the ear from time to time, from a woman who loves you. But you’re a grown-up. You have to make this decision for yourself.’
‘You know, Hazel …’ Heck kicked the last few bricks he’d been searching back into place. ‘You’ve been the only nice thing that’s happened to me in an awfully long time.’
‘But not nice enough, is that it?’
‘In some ways you’ve been too nice. I’d say you’re too good for me, but that would be a cliché. What I actually mean is … you’d make it very difficult for me to do the job the way I do it.’
‘You mean you wouldn’t be able to risk your life every day?’
‘I don’t risk my … well, not every day.’
‘Just now and then?’
‘Yeah, now and then.’ He shrugged. ‘Most of the time I’m buried in routine stuff. Hours and hours of it.’
‘You’re telling me you’d never come home?’
‘I would come home because I’d have to, but that’d be the problem … it would reduce my effectiveness as an operator.’
She shook her head. ‘So not only are you not prepared to stay here, in this place, you’re not prepared to be with me? Not in the long term anyway.’
‘Look, I’ve always known I have this problem with commitment …’
She pointed at his scrapbook. ‘But you’re committed to those people, who are actually dead. They can’t be hurt anymore than they already are, can they?’
‘Hazel, come on …’
‘But maybe that’s what you like about them.’
‘That’s a low blow.’
‘Sometimes low blows are deserved. And required.’ She turned and headed back up the slope. ‘I’m reopening the pub in half an hour, if you fancy a drink. A few of your colleagues have been commenting about what thirsty work all this is.’
‘Hazel … for what it’s worth, I’m really sorry.’
She glanced down from the top. ‘You’ll get over it, I’m sure. Life goes on, the future beckons and all that. Who knows what it holds, Mark. For either of us.’