The Fell Walker (13 page)

‘A serial killer?’ Helen gibed, incredulously. ‘You must be joking.’

‘I wish I was. I think we have a murderer who believes he is committing the perfect crime time after time. He beats his victims to death on a mountain top, then throws them off, knowing that the fall injuries will disguise the attack. He also knows that the body will be picked up routinely, without suspicion, by mountain rescue teams, and that the murder scene will not be visited by the pathologist carrying out the post mortem, (a) because no crime is suspected and (b) because of inaccessibility.’

‘How on earth have you made the quantum leap from Tessa’s slightly suspicious death to mass murder?’ Helen queried, disbelievingly. ‘I think it’s time you went back to a proper job. You need to occupy your mind...stop that imagination of yours....’

‘Look,’ Ben interrupted firmly. ‘One thing I learned when I had a proper job was that statistics don’t lie, contrary to what Mr Disraeli is supposed to have said. Here’s a few: a marked increase in the mountain rescue teams’ fatality figures in the last year and a half, an increase in crag fatalities, an increase in couples’ fatalities, deaths in unexpected places, of unexpected people...’

He stopped suddenly. He knew it was a hell of a leap from statistics to where he was, and that Helen was sure to point out there could be any number of innocent explanations for the statistics. No doubt, she would go on to ask how murders on a mountain top could possibly be premeditated. How could anyone know that their victim was going to be on top of a mountain at a given time. Then she would ask what could be the motive to kill such a diverse group of people.

He had already asked himself these questions many times, and failed to find an answer. The reality was that he was working mostly on intuition aided by a fertile mind, and Helen was on to him.

Nevertheless, he had faith in his intuition, and now that he had something to go on in Tessa’s case, he intended to pursue it as far as humanly possible.

However, it was time to disengage Helen. He had never wanted her to become involved; she had enough on her plate. And, anyway, she was far too pragmatic to accept his intuitive theories. She needed hard facts to convince her of anything.

‘Forget the statistics,’ he said, eventually. ‘You’re right, apart from this thing with Tessa’s eye, I haven’t got much to go on. Let’s forget the whole thing. Let’s drop it...it’s your day off. Let’s enjoy the rest of the walk. Then, how about driving round to that pub at Loweswater for a pint and a bar meal. And because I’ve spoiled your day, I’ll treat you to a sticky toffee pudding.’

‘You haven’t spoiled my day,’ Helen squeezed his hand. ‘But I’ll hold you to that pudding. Come on, let’s go.’

She stood up and offered her hand to help Ben rise. As always, she was only too glad to see the end of dark tunnels.

*

The next day, having seen Helen off to work, Ben went to see Tony Williams. He always enjoyed the mile walk to see his neighbour - down to the lake, along Scarness Bay shore, skirting the grounds of Scarness Manor, back up the fields to the farmer’s beautiful 18
^th
century dower house, overlooking the lake.

He found Tony in the large barn where he used to winter his cattle. Last year he had given them up for economic reasons and concentrated on his sheep herd. He now brought his sheep down off the fells at lambing time and watched them deliver in the barn, to the accompaniment of middle-of-the-road pop music echoing from speakers placed in two corners.

He reckoned the music relaxed them while they gave birth, and he knew that he was increasing his yield by not losing lambs to death on the fells from weather and predators.

In spite of losing his cattle and in spite of having his sheep destroyed during the foot and mouth epidemic, Tony Williams always seemed cheerful.

‘Morning Tony!’ Ben shouted, as he moved towards him through the mud and straw.

Tony’s large, overall-clad frame turned, a beaming smile already in place. ‘Ah! Mornin’ Ben; what can I do you for today?’

Ben usually bought eggs and pheasant food from him, but today was different. ‘It’s information I’m after today, Tony,’ he said. I wonder if you can help me. I’m doing a bit of research for an article I’m writing. It might seem a bit strange, but can you tell me what happens when a raven takes the eyes from a dead sheep. I mean...is it slow or quick...do they take anything else...’ He paused, not wanting to put words into Tony’s mouth.

Tony came straight back, without querying the strange question. It wasn’t often he was made to feel like an expert.

‘It’s the carrion crows more than the ravens,’ he started. ‘They take the eyes in seconds. And it’s not just dead sheep. At lambing time they attack the newborn lambs. If a mother sheep has twins, while she’s looking after one, they’ll attack the other. If the mother isn’t quick enough, they’ll kill it. I used to lose quite a few.’

‘And do they do any other damage? Ben asked.

‘Oh aye! They attack the tongue, and the navel and the rear end. Anywhere that’s soft.’

‘What about ears?’

‘No, they’re too hard.’

‘You said they take the eyes in seconds. Do they attack around the sockets afterwards?’

‘No...they’re only interested in the soft tissue... anything that can be removed and eaten quickly. They don’t hang about.’

‘So the eye sockets are usually left untouched?’

‘Aye. But it’s just usually the one. The dead lamb is usually lying on its side. The crow can only get at one eye.’

Ben thanked Tony for the information and made an excuse to get away quickly. Normally, he would have stayed for a chat. He enjoyed learning about life on the farm, and usually came away thinking how lucky he was to have such an easy life compared to Tony Williams. But today, having had his hypothesis about Tessa’s eye sockets confirmed, he wanted to get over to Glenridding to talk to someone in Patterdale Mountain Rescue team about the recent deaths on Place Fell. His enthusiasm for the hunt was beginning to return.

*

Ben’s luck was in. A phone call to Patterdale HQ found the team leader. Dedicated as ever, John Simpson was working at the HQ during a school holiday period. He was a teacher at the village junior school who Ben had met on a number of occasions, when all the Lake District teams get together for a major search. ‘Pop in anytime this afternoon,’ John had said.

The drive to Glenridding was a joy as ever; the first, breathtaking, view of Ullswater as you crest a brackened hill, never failing to make Ben slow down to gaze in wonder. Such beauty almost demanded that you slow down, then continue in quiet respect.

At the foot of the hill, across the serene water, Ben took in the familiar sight of Place Fell, towering above the lake. It had been climbed by thousands of tourists because it was relatively easy and afforded wonderful views. But now it had claimed two lives. Once again, the combination of walkers, not climbers, falling off a relatively safe fell, raised doubts in Ben’s mind.

Arriving at the team headquarters in Glenridding, he found John Simpson busily heaving gear about in the equipment store. After exchanging a few niceties, John took him into the control room and hunted out the relevant Place Fell incident file.

Ben sat at the long table, used for team meetings, and opened the file. Regrettably, he noted that the photographs had already gone to the police. He started to read.

It was all routine stuff - date, time, location, weather conditions, personnel present - until he came to injuries sustained.

Among other things, he read of ‘a tree branch protruding through Mrs Metternich’s neck, and heavy facial damage in the region of the left cheek and eye.’ No mention was made of the right eye. Presumably, if it was still intact, she must have been lying so that the birds couldn’t get at it, or, because the team had found her quickly, the birds hadn’t yet got to her. Ben cursed to himself. If only he could see the photographs.

Professor Metternich had not, evidently, suffered such severe external injuries. Heavy facial abrasions, cuts and bruises were noted, as well as an apparent broken right leg. Eyes were not mentioned, and therefore presumably intact.

Towards the end of the report, Ben suddenly became aroused when he read that the professor was still warm when found, and that a defibrillator had been used in an attempt to re-start his heart.

When he read that the professor had momentarily recovered and said ‘summer sniffs’ before dying, he was positively excited. Here was something to work on - a clue at last. Or was his overactive imagination simply running away with him again? They could be, and probably were, meaningless words dredged from a childhood memory - they say you revert to childhood when you are about to die. Certainly, there was nothing in the words themselves to suggest that they were a clue.

However, Ben knew that from that moment he would assume they were, and that he would be spending an inordinate amount of time trying to solve it, just like he did with difficult crossword puzzles, when he would work on an irritating clue in his head for days, not wanting to be beaten by it.

The crazy thing was, there was still no evidence to suggest the deaths of the professor and his wife were not accidental. Maybe that was the reality. Maybe all these deaths were perfectly innocent. It was him that was going crazy.

Chapter 20

He is remembering. That is all he does these days. He has tried to stop. He has tried everything to make it go away. But it won’t. It is unrelenting. Sometimes he remembers a fragment, sometimes the whole thing. When it gets too much he needs special relief.

As soon as he is unoccupied, the memories begin, as though on a screen in front of him. Then, on go the earphones, and out comes the whisky to drown the pain. Tonight, sitting alone in his high back rocking chair, he is at the beginning...again.

It is a cold, grey, day at Inverness airport. But it isn’t the cold that makes him shake as he stands watching the plane taxi in, close to the terminal building. He has been excited and terrified ever since she phoned to say she was coming, giving him the flight numbers.

The door of the plane opens. Passengers come down the steps, hugging their coats, turning their collars up. Then she is in the doorway, small and dark in a large white frame, hesitant as the colour of her over-washed dress.

Across the tarmac she marches, carrying her hand luggage, head high, shoulders back.

She enters the terminal building, shivering, eyes searching. He steps forward, trembling. She sees him and smiles, nervously. He tries to smile as he holds out his hand to take her hand luggage. She mistakes the gesture and takes his hand in hers, and, dropping her luggage, dutifully slips in close to hug him.

He can feel her shivering in his arms. He can feel her softness through the thin dress, her hair against his cheek. He must stop trembling. He is holding a beautiful woman in public. She is his wife. She is Mrs Snodd. Dare he kiss her? He turns his head and kisses her gently on the cheek. Suddenly, she moves and kisses him on the lips. How can this be happening to
him
- Snoddy the body! He can’t believe it. If only they could see him now. He hugs her fiercely. He doesn’t want to let go. He will never let go.

*

Now, after a car journey of awkward silences and nervous laughs, they are in the croft house. He had spent two weeks tidying and cleaning, making it ready for her.

Leni smiles a lot as she moves around exploring, hiding her dismay at the bleak, treeless, landscape showing through the windows. Hector sits watching her. He can’t take his eyes off her, forgets to offer her the soup and bread he had prepared.

Eventually, Leni stops prowling and stands in the small kitchen.

‘Can I make you a drink?’ she asks.

Hector leaps from his chair. ‘I’ll get it. I’ve got some food ready for you. You sit down.’

Leni, puzzled at the role reversal, does as she is told.

At the table, hesitant small talk accompanies the meal. Hector insists on washing the dishes, and while doing so, is relieved to see Leni move to a chair at the fireside, and quickly fall asleep.

Soon, he is sitting in the chair opposite, watching her, captivated by her beauty. The perfect contours of her body show through the flimsy dress. She doesn’t seem to have anything else underneath. He remembers the present he has bought her, a quilted, red dressing gown to keep the cold out, fetches it from the bedroom, and lays it across her.

Back in his chair, he throws some more peat on the fire, settles back to watch her, and feels the tension of the day gradually drain out of his body. He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

*

Now, it is the next night. Leni has spent most of the day apologising for falling asleep. She is ashamed that she was not available for her husband on their first night together. Hector can’t understand her anxiety. He is thrilled just to be in the same room as her, to be able to see her, to say her name, to know that she belongs to him.

That night, as they sit facing each other, sharing the fire as an arctic wind rattles the windows, Leni stands up and undresses in front of the fire. Her movements are routine and business-like rather than erotic. Hector is spellbound.

She puts on her red dressing gown, and takes Hector by the hand and leads him to the bedroom. Here, she kisses him, slowly undresses him, and holds back the bedcovers for him. Soon, she joins him in bed, and places his trembling hand on her breast. Then she put into practice the sexual instructions given to her by her mother, who had taught her and her sisters how important it was to give your husband satisfaction in bed.

That was the night, Hector remembered, he was taken into a new world. A world of ecstasy.