Dead Man Walking. Paul Finch

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      ‘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 СКАЧАТЬ