The Fell Walker (19 page)

Arriving at the summit, ‘summer sniffs’ was temporarily abandoned as his eyes took in the familiar views. Though no lake or tarn could be seen, the panorama was still magnificent, with the northern prospect of Newlands Valley fading into the distance, to be stopped by the Skiddaw massif, being his favourite.

As he approached the summit cairn, dramatically perched on the brink of the great downfall to Bilberry shelf, he started his ‘impossible’ search for blood-stains, and any other clue that might reveal itself. The ground consisted of sharp upturned stones embedded in the surface and sharp, loose, stones that had obviously been prised from the ground by boots and weather. Any one of the stones could have been used to inflict Tessa’s terrible eye injuries.

After 15 minutes of bending and examining what he thought might be blood-stained stones, he knew he was wasting his time. Most of them had some kind of colour variation, which might have been inherent or caused by the weather, or even the spilled tea from a walker’s picnic. He would never be able to tell the difference. He did find a stained piece of paper stuffed into one of the gaps between the stones of the cairn. It read: ‘Tim loves Lisa - July 2002.’ Apart from that, there was nothing to attract his attention.

He wandered over to the edge of the drop into Newlands Valley and looked down. It appeared to be a sheer fall on to the vicious crags a few hundred feet below. Cautiously, he leaned forward slightly. Only now could he see Bilberry shelf jutting out from the sheer rock face. He could see why the killer had been fooled, and the search parties had missed it.... footsteps behind him. Adrenalin rushed to his heart, hitting like a hammer. He threw himself sideways, every sinew and muscle taught, mind flying. The killer must have followed him. Why had he been so careless?

As he hit the ground, he intended to do one of those kung fu rolls, bounce back on his feet, and take up a defensive stance. Instead, he roared with pain as the upturned stones dug into his body and caught him a glancing blow on his right cheek bone. He finished lying on his back, like a stranded seal, moaning and gasping. The figure of a man loomed over him, outlined against the blue sky. Instinctively, he crossed his arms in front of his face, waiting for the attack.

‘Good God!’ a cultured voice said. ‘Are you alright?’

Ben relaxed his arms and slowly propped himself up into a sitting position. He was looking at a grey-haired man with a concerned look on his benign face. For a moment his throbbing bruises took second place as a feeling of utter embarrassment took over. ‘I’m fine...I’m okay...’ he stumbled.

The grey haired man offered a hand to help Ben up. ‘You gave me such a shock,’ he panted, as he pulled Ben on to his feet. ‘I thought you were throwing yourself over the edge.’

‘Sorry...’ Ben hesitated, hurriedly searching for a half reasonable explanation for his bizarre behaviour, while rubbing the dirt and dust from his clothes. ‘It....it was just a reaction...I was so close to the edge...when I heard your footsteps...they distracted me.... and for a moment I thought I was going to overbalance...I tried to throw myself backwards, but I seem to have gone sideways...at least I’m still here to tell the tale.’ The laugh he finished the sentence with felt as weak as his explanation.

‘You’ve scratched your face,’ the man said, ushering Ben by the elbow away from the edge. ‘Come over here and I’ll take a look at it.’

They moved to a large boulder where Ben leaned back as the man examined him. He had the air of someone used to helping people. ‘Nothing too drastic old chap,’ he said comfortingly. ‘Just a graze…I’ll put a sterile dressing on it, and if you give it a good wash when you get home I’m sure it will be fine.’

As he spoke, and started to take off his backpack, Ben noticed a plastic identity tag on the man’s anorak. The name ‘P. Dawson’ was typed underneath the green logo of the Lake District National Park Authority, and underneath that were the words ‘Volunteer Warden’.

Ben relaxed when he saw the name tag, and slowly recovered his composure. He had once written a short article about these solid citizens who volunteer to watch over and protect their beloved fells and anyone on them. They each watch over a specific area, reporting on damaged paths or walls, picking up rubbish, giving advice to tourists, and generally being good Samaritans. A mixture of retired locals wanting to feel useful, and visitors who regularly travel long distances to get there, they do sterling work without pay.

Peter Dawson, retired army officer, introduced himself as he took a dressing from his small first aid kit, and applied it to Ben’s cheek.

‘Thanks...thanks a lot,’ Ben said sincerely. ‘You must think I’m a complete idiot?’

Peter Dawson didn’t reply. Slowly and methodically, he packed away his first aid kit. Then he straightened up, and leisurely put his backpack on. Eventually, he glanced up at the blue sky, then smiled at Ben. ‘Nice day for staying alive,’ he quipped, as he turned and walked away.

*

The dramatic views down Honister Pass and the soreness of his bruises occupied Ben’s mind as he shuffled back down the mountain to his waiting car. In the comfort of his car the soreness dissipated, and he hadn’t driven far down Borrowdale valley, when ‘summer sniffs’ insinuated its way back into his consciousness.

Eventually, after mentally going down another dozen blind alleys, he came up with ‘what if, in spite of the way the words appear to go together in one meaning, they didn’t. What if they were looked at as separate, unlinked words?’

Further mental gymnastics, at one point interrupted by a flock of sheep crossing the road, eventually brought him to ‘what if ‘summer’ was someone’s name, and they had the habit of sniffing? There would still be a linkage there, but the emphasis would have switched from the second word to the first.

Could Professor Metternich actually be naming the killer: a man called Summer? Someone who has a sniffing habit? But how could he possibly know the name of a stranger who appeared to pick his victims randomly? Surely the killer didn’t introduce himself before committing the murders? Or, maybe he did. It could be part of his ‘signature’.

He remembered reading that serial killers usually have a pattern of killing called their unique ‘signature’. They kill to satisfy an inner personal need, usually triggered by hatred or revenge at some perceived wrong. They strike when the heat of their rage is at its peak, and kill in a repetitive manner as if trying to stamp their personality on the victims. It is the nature of this repetition that marks them out as serial killers, and reveals their unique ‘signature’.

Ben continued his pondering as he drove along the shoreline of Derwentwater, approaching Keswick. Maybe the killer had introduced himself to all his victims before killing them, knowing that they would never survive to tell anyone: the professor being the one, unexpected, exception. Maybe that was his method of putting them at their ease, so that he could get close enough to attack. It made a lot of sense - there are few places to hide on the open fell tops - it would be difficult to approach someone without being seen first.

And yet, hadn’t he just been approached on Dale Head summit, from behind, without knowing it. And....his mind suddenly shot into overdrive...I came away knowing the name of the man who was behind me - Peter Dawson. Ben’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as his senses went into first gear. Had he found the answer? Was the killer putting his victims at ease by wearing the trusted name tag of the National Park Authority? Was he posing as a voluntary warden or even a full time National Park Ranger who also wore name tags? Could the killer actually be a warden or a ranger? They spend more time on the fells than anyone else, and know the fells better than anyone else.

It was the first rational scenario he had come up with since starting on the ‘summer sniffs’ trail. Buoyed up by his discovery, and convinced that his ‘vibration’ theory was starting to work again, he put his foot down along the A591 Keswick to Carlisle Road that took him most of the way to his lakeside cottage. He couldn’t wait to get home to use the phone.

*

‘What have you done to your face?’ Helen asked, concernedly.

Ben hadn’t expected to find her home at four o’clock in the afternoon.

‘Hello dear...been sacked?’ he joked, as he moved to kiss her.

‘I asked first,’ Helen insisted, as she withdrew from their cuddle.

‘It was them darned Apaches again,’ Ben explained in his best western drawl. ‘They dry-gulched me at Honister Pass. Just a glancin’ blow from a tomahawk, you understand. Nuthin’ to worry your perty little head about.’

He mentioned Honister Pass in case somebody might have seen him there, and innocently mention the fact in some future conversation with Helen.

‘I take it you won again,’ Helen went along, knowing he would never grow up, and that she would eventually get a proper explanation.

‘Sure did, honey. Picked ’em off one at a time with my trusty Smith and Weston. They bit that dust as offen as a whore’s drawers on a Friday night in Tombstone.’

‘Oh shush!’ Helen said, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. She then gave him one of her ‘looks’, and he knew it was time to be serious.

‘I was walking up near Honister Pass and I slipped and fell on some rocky ground. I think I’m going to have a few bruises. One of those volunteer wardens came by and put this plaster on. Nice chap…used to be a major...says me cheek’s just grazed and should soon heal up. Okay?’

‘No, it’s not okay,’ Helen countered. ‘You know you shouldn’t go walking up there on your own. One of these days...’ She abandoned her lecture. She knew he wouldn’t take any notice. ‘Be ca
reful,
you daft bat,’ she emphasised. ‘Now go and get in the bath, it will help ease the bruising.’

Ben was dying to get to the phone, but now knew it would have to wait until tomorrow when Helen was back at work. And the mention of the word ‘bruises’ seemed to have made them throb again. Helen was right, as always. An early bath was called for.

‘If I’m not down in an hour, send for the cavalry,’ he winced, as he took his leave, forgetting to ask Helen why she was home so early.

*

‘Lake District National Park Authority, Jane speaking; how may I help you?’

Ben tried to find a comfortable position in his swivelling chair. The bruises seemed to be touching everything. He wanted to reply: ‘By not making me listen to your ridiculously long, insincere greeting that you learned ad nauseam at some customer care course run by a sycophantic, money grabbing, suit clad prat who called himself a ‘marketing consultant’.

Instead, he tried to find comfort in the fact that he hadn’t been answered by an automatic answering system giving him five options, none of which he could be bothered to memorise, since on the few occasions that he had bothered, it had resulted in him listening to Mozart for 25 minutes, occasionally interrupted by yet another recorded voice telling him that he would soon be connected to one of ‘our customer service consultants’, who eventually turned out to be a 16-year-old girl called Sharon who knew damn all. He had nothing against Mozart, but preferred to listen to him for free on the radio.

‘My name’s Ben Foxley. I’m a journalist with the Keswick Tribune. I’m looking for some information about your voluntary wardens. I wonder if....’

‘Putting you through.’

‘Lake District National Park Authority, Public Liaison Department, Sarah speaking; how may I help you?’

Ben gritted his teeth. One more greeting like that and he would bark down the line like a rabid dog.

‘Hello, Sarah,’ he managed, calmly. ‘My name is Ben Foxley of the Keswick Tribune...’

‘Is that a newspaper?’

‘Yes it is, Sarah.’

‘How may I help you, Mr Foxley?’

‘I’m looking for some information about your voluntary wardens. I assume you keep a list of all their names and addresses....’

‘Yes, we do, Mr Foxley. But we can’t give them out over the phone...’

‘No....I know that.’ His fuse was getting shorter. ‘I just wanted to know if Mr Summer was still with you. He helped me a lot with an article I did about the wardens a couple of years ago. I’m planning a follow up and wondered if he could help me again. I just need to know if he is still working for you, and then I’ll drop him a line care of your office asking for an appointment to meet him.’