The Woodcutter (63 page)
Authors: Reginald Hill
Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #Thrillers., #General, #Suspense Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Ex-convicts, #Bisacsh, #revenge, #Suspense, #Cumbria (England)
‘Live, then, and be happy, dear children of my heart, and never forget, until the day arrives when God in his mercy unveils the future to man, all of human wisdom lies in these two words:
‘Wait and hope!’
Autumn 2018:
nothing changes; the world continues as mixed up as ever, the same mélange of comic and tragic, triumph and disaster, sweet and sour, as in every age since humanity hauled itself upright and put on pants.
Nine months after the drama on Pillar Rock, Wolf Hadda tasted both the sweet and the sour as he heard the Court of Appeal (Right Hon. Lord Justice Toplady presiding) declare his convictions of 2010 unsafe.
Outside the Royal Courts of Justice, bathed in the noontide sunshine of an Indian summer, he stood in mountainous silence as Ed Trapp read a short bland statement to the waiting reporters. Then, cocooned by policemen, the two men made their way through the exploding flashbulbs and the strident questions to a waiting limo that pulled away so quickly the pursuing press didn’t have time to register that there was already someone sitting in the darkened passenger compartment.
Nothing was said as the car sped along the Strand. As it approached Charing Cross, Trapp said, ‘This’ll do me.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah. I’m meeting Doll for a spot of lunch.’
‘Give her my love,’ said Wolf. ‘And Ed – thank you.’
The car pulled over, the two men shook hands as Trapp got out, then Wolf settled back in his seat as the journey resumed.
‘So all’s well that ends well,’ said John Childs. ‘Justice prevails.’
‘Justice!’ exclaimed Hadda. ‘Imogen dead, Arnie Medler dead, the Nutbrowns in jail for a crime they didn’t commit, Estover half-blind and crippled and facing God knows what kind of future, me winning my appeal on new evidence that was just about as dodgy as the old evidence that got me sentenced in the first place – and that’s what you call justice!’
‘
Exitus acta probat
,’ said Childs. ‘The end justifies the means.’
‘Does it? You once warned me about acting like God, JC. Maybe you should have listened to yourself.’
‘My way is not so mysterious. All I did to steer you to this safe haven was call in a lot of favours, so much so that the favour bin is rather empty now. I do hope you are going to behave yourself in the foreseeable future.’
Hadda laughed and said, ‘Worried in case I’m tempted to accept one of the tabloid offers for my unexpurgated memoirs?’
‘Well, since you were so energetic in making sure all the recovered Woodcutter misappropriations were returned to those who suffered from the crash, the money must be very tempting.’
‘Sure! And the Chapel would let me live to enjoy it? I don’t think so. No, I’ve got a job offer I’m thinking about.’
‘Your late lamented father’s job, you mean, looking after the Ulphingstone estate? Start as a woodcutter, end as a woodcutter. Neat, but hardly progress.’
‘Jesus! I don’t know why I bother to open my mouth when you could speak all my lines for me!’ said Wolf. ‘Yes, Leon is keen to keep me close. I really thought that after what happened, he mightn’t be able to stand the sight of me. Instead it seems to have brought us closer.’
‘Without you he has lost everything,’ said Childs. ‘Though I cannot imagine his parting with Lady Kira tore his heartstrings.’
‘Maybe not. I got her wrong, I think. Well, slightly wrong. She had a small stroke when she heard about Imo. But of course you know that. So she did care for someone more than herself. I only saw her once before she left for Switzerland. It was a shock. She’d put on thirty years; she looks older than Leon now.’
‘Will she come back, do you think? After the clinic has put her together again.’
‘Leon says no. She told him she hated the castle, and Cumbria, and England. “In the end the dreadful, drab English always win,” she said, “that is the lesson of European history.”’
‘I’m pleased to hear that she got something from her stay with us,’ said JC.
‘She got Imo. She got Ginny. She’s lost everything.’
‘It’s all right to feel sorry for her,’ said Childs gently. ‘Only, don’t let it turn into guilt. Not about her, or anyone. No one got more than they deserved.’
‘Even Arnie Medler?’
‘That was an accident, Wolf. Truly. These things happen. Think positive. Think of the good that has come out of all this. The Trapps, what friendship they’ve displayed. The estimable Mr McLucky who would never have met the delectable Morag without your intervention. Your good friend Luke Hollins who may yet bring religion to darkest Cumbria. And, of course, the wonderful Dr Ozigbo. Most relationships end in deceit. Yours began with it, so that bodes nothing but good.’
‘What makes you think there’s a relationship?’
‘Well, I know for a fact that when she decided to pursue her career in an academic setting, opportunities arose at Warwick University, and Bath, and there was even talk of Cambridge. But she’s opted for Lancaster.’
‘That’s because it’s handy for her family,’ Wolf asserted firmly.
‘Perhaps. But the M6 goes north as well as south. Talking of motorways, should you really drive back today? You’ve had a trying morning.’
‘Hardly that,’ said Wolf. ‘Not when so many favours had gone into ensuring the outcome. No, the sooner I’m out of this rat-run, the better. I’ll be home before dark.’
‘If you are sure.’
They relapsed into a silence that stretched till they pulled into the London Gateway service area at the foot of the M1.
There, parked in an area marked Staff Only, stood the Defender.
‘It’s been cleaned,’ said Hadda accusingly.
‘I’m sure by the time you get back to Birkstane it will have lost its shine,’ said Childs. ‘
Au revoir
, Wolf.’
He offered his hand. Hadda looked at it for a moment then grinned and leaned forward and kissed Childs on the forehead.
‘Let’s make that goodbye, JC,’ he said.
Childs sat and watched the Land Rover pull out of the service area, and continued to sit, still and silent, long after it had passed from his sight.
‘Where now, sir?’ asked his driver finally.
Childs considered for a moment before replying.
‘Give me a moment to make a phone call,’ he said. ‘Then, I think, Phoenicia.’
It was dusk when the Defender arrived in Mireton.
Wolf knew he should have taken a break on the long drive home, but a need stronger than reason had made him let the motorway carry him north till the familiar outline of his beloved Cumbrian fells became visible, and then it had seemed silly to stop.
He parked outside St Swithin’s and went into the churchyard. Something had changed since last he was here for Imogen’s funeral. The defensive metal paling around the Ulphingstone tomb had been removed.
As he approached the tomb he saw there’d been other changes. A young rowan tree had been planted before it, its handful of berries shining bright in the twilight.
And the inscription now read
Here lies Virginia, beloved daughter of Wilfred and Imogen Hadda, and granddaughter of Sir Leon and Lady Kira Ulphingstone.
Daughter.
That was right, whatever Imo had said. She’d been his beloved daughter all those years. Nothing could ever change that.
He stood there for a moment then turned away.
A voice called, ‘Wolf.’
Luke Hollins was standing in the church porch watching him.
‘Great news, Wolf,’ said the vicar. ‘I was delighted. I thought I might preach on the prodigal son on Sunday.’
‘Shouldn’t bother,’ said Wolf. ‘The talents might be more appropriate. I’ll see you, Padre.’
‘In church, you mean?’ said Hollins hopefully.
‘When you bring my Tesco order.’
He went out of the churchyard. Opposite the church the lights of the Black Dog were already burning bright in the gathering dusk. Three men were strolling towards the pub entrance. He recognized them all as local farmers. One of them was Joe Strudd, his nearest neighbour.
Strudd looked across the street and called, ‘How do, Wolf. What fettle?’
‘Middling. How’s yourself?’
‘Not si bad. Coming in for a pint and a crack?’
‘Later maybe.’
‘See you, then.’
The trio raised their hands in salutation and vanished into the pub.
Wolf smiled as he drove out of the village. Luke Hollins still had much to learn about his parish. They didn’t go in for fatted calves round here. An invitation to have a drink and a crack was as good as it got.
The turn-off down the lonning to Birkstane came into view. He swung the Defender into it without slowing and the judder of its wheels as it bumped over the old ruts and potholes felt like a caress. The gate was open and he could see a light in the farmhouse while out of the chimney a plume of grey smoke drifted across the star-studded sky.
Home. He recalled JC’s words, half mocking, half envious.
Start as a woodcutter, end as a woodcutter.
Is that what he really wanted? In fact, is that really possible after . . . everything.
He brought the car to a halt and started to climb out. The house door opened and Sneck came hurtling towards him, eyes blazing, teeth bared, as if intent on tearing out his throat. Then the dog’s paws were on his shoulders and its great rough tongue was sandpapering his face.
‘Get down, you slobbery lump!’ he commanded.
‘Is that what you’re going to say to me?’ asked Alva from the doorway.
Childs must have rung her. Bless you for that at least, JC! he thought.
What the future held, he didn’t know. What demons lay in wait to haunt him, he could only speculate. But this moment, this place, were too perfect for such considerations.
For the rest, wait and hope was all a man could do.
He went towards her, smiling, and said, ‘Well, let’s see, shall we?’
REGINALD HILL
is a native of Cumbria and a former resident of Yorkshire, the setting for his novels featuring Superintendent Dalziel and DCI Pascoe. Their appearances have won him numerous awards, including a CWA Gold Dagger and the Cartier Diamond Dagger Lifetime Achievement Award. The Dalziel and Pascoe stories have also been adapted into a hugely popular BBC TV series.
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The Stranger House
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Death of a Dormouse
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DALZIEL AND PASCOE NOVELS
A Clubbable Woman
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An April Shroud
A Pinch of Snuff
A Killing Kindness
Deadheads
Exit Lines
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Under World
Bones and Silence
One Small Step
Recalled to Life
Pictures of Perfection
Asking for the Moon
The Wood Beyond
On Beulah Height
Arms and the Women
Dialogues of the Dead
Death’s Jest-Book
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The Price of Butcher’s Meat
Midnight Fugue
JOE SIXSMITH NOVELS
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The Roar of the Butterflies
Jacket photography © Doug Armand / Getty Images
THE WOODCUTTER
. Copyright © 2011 by Reginald Hill. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
FIRST U.S. EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hill, Reginald
The woodcutter : a novel / Reginald Hill. — First U.S. edition
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-0-06-206074-7
1. Ex-convicts—Fiction. 2. Revenge—Fiction. 3. Cumbria (England)—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6058.I448W67 2011
823‵.914—dc22
2010053608
EPub Edition © 2011 AUGUST ISBN: 9780062060846
11 12 13 14 15
OV/RRD
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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