Dead Man Walking (29 page)

Even now, Gemma still wondered if she could have been nicer to him that day. A bit more understanding that he too had been badly shaken. It had passed without either of them really noticing at the time, but he’d said something revealing – ‘that’s what I love about you’. Up to that point, though they’d loosely been planning a future together, he’d never used words like ‘love’ and ‘you’ in the same sentence. Neither had she, for that matter. It wasn’t that they weren’t very close; they’d been exceedingly close. It wasn’t that they weren’t happy together; they’d been happy, too. That said, Gemma had often wondered if that happiness might ever become strained if she, as she hoped and expected, had begun to rise through the ranks, while Heck – thanks to his always playing fast and loose with the rulebook – had progressed more slowly. Even so, after a few months of seeing each other, she was more than willing to move in with him, and not just for the sex. She’d shared all her confidences with him, her thoughts, her desires. Oh yeah, she’d been smitten, and was more than content to play those games that only real lovers play, sometimes even falling out with him to test him, teasing him in the process, tormenting him, but always ultimately rewarding him. She’d cheerfully indulged in all those highs and lows and in-betweens of feeling – and soon she’d known she was ready to build a life with him.

Maybe it was just that words like ‘love’ had still seemed incongruous in that rather tough environment. Incongruous, maybe even melodramatic. And perhaps a little risky – because, like it or not, people had a habit of dying in their line of work.

Of course knowing that, the fact the word had slipped out of Mark in the honest heat of the moment had made it all the more credible. Little wonder that forever after Gemma had wondered how she’d have responded if she’d picked up on it at the time; whether she would have moderated her exasperation enough to save the situation. But it was too late now, as she kept on reminding herself. It was way too late now.

Struggling to suppress a sigh, Gemma clambered over their fourth farm-gate of the night. ‘You certain you know where you’re going, Hazel? We seem to have been following this road for ages.’

‘I think so,’ Hazel replied, waiting on the other side.

‘We’ve not by some chance stumbled upon the one place on earth where roads actually lead nowhere?’

‘If it’s the road I’m thinking of, it leads to the other end of the Cradle. There’s a path from there, which dips down to the south end of the tarn. We should be able to get back to the Keld that way. It’s a long walk, mind.’

‘And do you
think
that too?’ Gemma wondered. ‘Or in this case do you actually
know
?’

Hazel shot her a look. ‘I’m doing the best I can, Superintendent Piper. I haven’t been up on these fells for quite a few years.’

‘I thought you were supposed to be a local?’ Try as she may, Gemma couldn’t keep the weary irritation from her voice.

‘You’re a Cockney … do you know every backstreet in London?’

‘No … but the difference is I wouldn’t go wandering them in the dark when there’s a madman loose with a pistol.’

They plodded wearily on.

‘You don’t like me very much, do you?’ Hazel eventually said.

‘I think you probably mean well.’

‘Oh … “probably”?’

‘Well, let’s not beat around the bush. Let’s say what we think. Going up to Annie Beckwith’s farm on your own was extremely reckless, and as a result one police officer is dead and the rest of us are in a raft of trouble.’

‘Was I supposed to ignore Annie’s plight?’

‘From what I saw, you people had done a pretty good job of ignoring her up ’til now.’

‘I …’ Hazel hesitated. ‘I can’t deny it, but I don’t think that’s the reason you dislike me. You were Mark’s girlfriend once, weren’t you?’

‘So he’s been talking, has he?’

‘No fury like a woman scorned, eh?’

Gemma glanced around. She opened her mouth, but a second passed, and thinking better of speaking, she strode on.

Hazel made sure there was a yard or so between them as she followed. ‘I see you’re not trying to deny it.’

‘You supposedly know where you’re going. Why don’t you concentrate on that, Ms Carter? And in the meantime do us both a favour, and zip it!’

‘Zip it?’ Despite her growing fatigue, Hazel was startled. ‘How bloody dare you! It may be such a new predicament for you that you can’t grapple with it, but I’m not under your command … okay? I’m not some junior bloody officer you can boss around all day just because it’s your time of the month.’

Gemma threw her another sharp glance, this one so threatening that Hazel edged away from her, though she continued her tirade.

‘Who do you think you are anyway … a queen? Because I’ve got news for you,
Ms Piper
… out here, you’re nothing. A spring lamb would have more chance surviving in this wilderness than you. So you can kick the bully-boy act. It might have worked with Mark … in fact it
did
work with him. He’s a lovely guy, but he’s miserable as sin up here. Which by the looks of it, is exactly what you wanted …’

‘Have you quite finished?’ Gemma asked, rounding on her.

Hazel held her ground defiantly.

‘Have you?’ Gemma asked again. ‘Because you’re making an awful lot of noise and not actually saying anything. Let me tell you what
I
know about
Mark
, shall I! Up here – in this bloody wilderness – is exactly where he needs to be. You understand that, I hope. He is in
totally
the right place. You see, once upon a time Heck was consistently the most productive officer in my department. But he was extremely difficult to manage, even for me. He doesn’t do subtle, he doesn’t do discreet, he doesn’t do politics … not even the office variety. He’s a wild-card and a supervisor’s nightmare. And where he is now, king of a castle no one else cares about, is the inevitable result of that.’ Gemma jabbed a finger. ‘And you can pretend to be outraged all you want, but the fact remains we almost died tonight, thanks to you. If you
were
under my command, Hazel, you can be damn sure I wouldn’t have left things at “zip it”!’ She turned and stalked on.

Hazel followed, disconsolate rather than angry. ‘And are you going to take him back with you? Because that’s what he wants.’

Gemma snorted with contempt.

You’re not my bloody gaffer. Or anything else.

‘You could’ve fooled me,’ she said.

The vegetation Heck was now trying to climb down through, though it was mostly dead, was still luxuriant, not to mention littered with fragments of cable from the collapsed bridge. In addition, the scree surface underneath it made treacherous footing. It could have been worse of course. Had the entire structure simply dropped, rather than swung over to this side of the canyon, he would have plummeted a thousand feet. He didn’t even like to contemplate the odds stacked against him when the aged metal had first given way. To say he’d been fortunate would be the understatement of all time.

That said, though it was a broad slope, so there was no danger of falling over a precipice, the descent was trickier than he’d anticipated. Heck had no light with which to guide himself, his torch having flown from his belt during the fall, and so ended up on his backside at least six times before the gradient at last began to flatten out. Long before he reached level ground, he heard the trickling of a beck, but only actually located it after descending a couple of hundred metres. It was clear and shallow and about twenty yards in breadth as it meandered along the valley bottom, weaving between embankments crammed with mature pines.

Heck was cold and aching all over, but he also had a raging thirst. He picked his way across loose, heavy cobblestones cluttering the water’s edge, and scooped it up in cupped hands. The icy refreshment cut sharply down his phlegmy throat. He threw a couple of handfuls over his head as well, washing the wound on his temple, and mopping back his hair. It probably wasn’t the most sensible move; the temperature was only just above freezing, after all. But the only real solution to any of this was to get back down into the Cradle as quickly as possible. Heck still didn’t have the first idea where he was, but following the course of the beck seemed like a plan. At present it only progressed in loops and whorls, but it was bound to spill into the tarn eventually. He tried his phone as he limped along, though that was an act of hope rather than realism, and as usual hope proved ill-founded.

Then he heard the whistling.

It was that same song, the one Heck now knew he’d never forget for the rest of his life. He darted to the nearest pine trunk, slamming his body upright against it. The whistling came from somewhere to his left; it sounded distant and higher up than he was. Could the lunatic still be perched on the platform, whistling his deranged tune to no one in particular? Or had he seen that Heck was alive down here and was he seeking to torment him again? Heck held his position for several minutes, fresh sweat forming in globules on his brow, stinging his wounded temple. Slowly, the whistling dwindled, as though the whistler was moving off into the distance. That didn’t prove anything of course – it certainly hadn’t done the last time.

It still seemed likely the guy had some kind of thermal-imaging device. It was too much of a risk to assume anything else. Holding his breath, Heck dashed away from the tree, determinedly following the course of the beck. His body was briefly re-flushed with adrenaline, which helped him overcome his bumps and sprains, but the stony ground along the water’s edge proved difficult. He slipped and tripped, turning his ankles repeatedly. The beck snaked constantly from side to side, at some points narrowing, at others broadening until he couldn’t see the far bank. The fog was burdensome beyond description, hanging in dingy drapes. Again, it dulled Heck’s senses, reducing his ability to read position or distance. He’d been lumbering along the waterside for what seemed like minutes now, but with no idea how far he might have travelled, or how far he might still have to go. Again thirsty, he moved back to the water’s edge and knelt down to drink, at which point what he first thought was a twisted rock form on the far side appeared to resolve itself into a human outline.

Heck went rigid, his hair prickling.

Then he relaxed a little. He’d been caught out like this before, of course. Such conditions as these were ideal for optical illusions. He swigged another handful of water, then blinked twice, focusing on the shape again, trying to discern exactly what it was. And slowly turned numb as he realised he’d been right the first time.

Someone was standing on the other side of the beck. A strong, stocky figure, clad head to foot in black. Even as he gazed at the figure, it raised its right hand as though to point at him – but it wasn’t pointing a finger.

The muzzle-flash was blinding; the sound of the shot thundered between the valley walls, the impact on the tree beside Heck cacophonous as a slug kicked out a wad of splinters. He ducked away, running blindly, zigzagging through the trees. A second shot followed, equally loud. The missile whipped past, ricocheting from a boulder.

There was a loud splashing as someone waded across the beck.

Heck glanced over his shoulder. Briefly the fog screened them from each other. He changed direction, haring back towards the water, plunging in to his knees and wading in the opposite direction, barely breaking speed as he stumbled up onto dry ground again. On this side, the hillside was near enough sheer, so he had no option but to keep following the beck. At least the going here was softer, pillows of pine needles silencing his footfalls. A third shot roared behind him, but Heck couldn’t tell where this bullet went. The bastard might have thermal vision, but he clearly wasn’t the best marksman.

Not that it would matter if he managed to get close.

There was a renewed splashing. The guy was also coming back across, by the sounds of it at speed.

Heck lengthened his own stride. Now the strip of land he was following broadened out, the upward slope on his left furling away. The cover of the trees fell behind, and suddenly he was heading downhill onto open moorland. But even here there was no easy escape. The ground undulated, and was covered in tussocky grass that was slick with icy dew. He slid to a halt, desperately trying to get his bearings. His heart thudded in his chest, drowning out all other noise. He spun first to the left, then to the right, scanning the grey emptiness and seeing nothing. But this killer was adept at stealing up on people. It was impossible to imagine he wasn’t somewhere close by.

Heck dropped to a crouch.

And heard the whistling again.

That haunting, old-time melody drifted through the dead air, emanating from somewhere to his rear, perhaps thirty or forty yards away. Instead of running on in a straight line, Heck went left, keeping low. Some sixty yards further on, he stopped and sank down again.

The whistling had ceased, which somehow was even more eerie.

Heck scampered on, and half a second later the squat, angular outline of a single-storeyed building loomed into his path. He skidded to a halt.

It was actually less than single storey, and built in the familiar dry-stone style, indicating it was a farm outbuilding of some sort. He groped his way around its exterior. On the far side there was a small enclosure, a corral about twenty yards by thirty, fenced with old planking. A sheep fold, Heck realised. From this side, the building, which was nothing more than a shelter, stood wide open. He vaulted the fence and entered, digging out his phone to try and make use of its fascia light, wondering if he might be able to put his hand on a weapon: a pitchfork or scythe, though neither seemed likely, given that up here it was mainly sheep-farming.

What he did find, however, was even better.

In the dim green glow, there were two large, bulky objects shrouded by musty canvas. He lugged the first sheet away, exposing the tarnished metal frame of an ATV, or quad-bike. It was battered and dinted all over, caked with mud and grass-pulp, suggesting it was used for working rather than posing. But even at first glance he could identify a powerful model, most likely with a four-stroke engine. When he tore the second sheet away, there was a similar machine.