Dark Peak

by Adam J. Wright

  “It sounds like you want me to put a spin on this,” she told Glenister, “Accuse Michael Walker whether he was guilty or not.”

  “No, no, not at all,” he said. “I’m merely pointing you in a direction that could turn out to be profitable for us all.”

  “And Michael Walker’s family?” she asked. “How would they feel about this?”

  “Well, his wife and son did a runner after Sarah went missing,” Glenister said. “What do you think that was about? Maybe they knew something the police didn’t. There were probably plenty of dark goings-on behind closed manor doors.”

  “You sound like a reverse snob,” Elly told him. “This chap was rich and had connections therefore he must be a murderer?”

  Glenister shrugged. “I don’t know if that’s the case but you must admit, it would make a good book.”

  Elly put her fork down, her appetite gone. “Do you want me to write the truth or a bunch of lies?”

  “I want you to write what sells.”

  “Even if it points the finger at an innocent man?”

  “I’m not asking you to point the finger at anyone, Elly,” he said. “All I’m saying is that you have to look at this project with a view to writing something that has legs. If it means bending the truth here and there then so be it. All writers do it.”

  “I don’t,” she said. “Heart of a Killer was nothing but the truth.” She gestured to the papers on the table. “I can’t do this, Jack. I can’t lay the blame for these events, which probably aren’t even connected, at the door of a dead man who can’t defend himself.”

  Glenister sighed resignedly. “I have to say, I wasn’t expecting this. I thought you’d jump at the chance to do something new, be creative again. As soon as the publishers mentioned this assignment, you were the first person I thought of. You need this, Elly.”

  “I don’t need to build my career on lies,” she said, getting up. She felt a well of tears, borne of disappointment, rise in her eyes and she didn’t want Glenister to see her cry. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said, turning away from him and heading for the toilets.

  The Belanger was filling up as the day wore on and now most of the tables were occupied with families or couples enjoying a good meal and each other’s company on a lovely sunny day in London. Elly hurried her pace, feeling the first tears spill from her eyes. When she pushed through the door to the toilets, her cheeks were wet, her eyes stinging. Her breath hitched in her chest.

  She stood at the sink and looked at herself in the mirror. God, she looked a mess. Taking a tissue from her handbag, she dabbed carefully at her eyes, trying not to ruin her makeup. She had no idea what she was going to do next where her career or her personal life were concerned. Everything familiar and comforting had somehow slipped out of her grasp.

  Her phone buzzed in her handbag, telling her she had a text. She took it out and felt her heart sink even further when she saw Paul’s name on the screen. His text was simple: Coming round to the house Saturday morning to pick some stuff up.

  She remembered when his texts to her had been filled with emojis of hearts and smiley faces. He used to always end his messages with a large X. Now, after five years together, it had come to this; a plain statement of fact that was devoid of any emotion at all.

  Today was Thursday, which meant she’d have to face Paul the day after tomorrow. She wasn’t sure she could do it. She didn’t want to be sitting at home waiting for him on Saturday morning, as if she had nothing better to do than watch him collect his things and take them out of the door to his new life.

  Well, maybe she wouldn’t be there when he turned up on Saturday morning. He had a key, so he could let himself in. Elly would make sure she was somewhere else.

  The idea of two weeks in Derbyshire suddenly didn’t sound so bad after all. At least she’d be able to get away from the Paul situation, and maybe the break would be good for her mentally. Her problems might seem less significant if she were standing in the middle of a desolate moor or on top of a craggy hill.

  She’d have to do what Glenister and the publishers wanted, of course, but that was the price she was going to have to pay to put some distance between herself and her problems. Besides, maybe the late Michael Walker was connected to the murder of the nurse and the disappearances of the other girls, including his daughter. She couldn’t dismiss it out of hand before at least investigating the possibility.

  She began calculating the logistics. If she caught a train back home to Birmingham later today, she could pack a few things, get a good night’s sleep and drive to Derbyshire tomorrow. If she set off after lunch, she’d be there by late afternoon if the traffic was light.

  Deciding that plan was her best option right now, she returned to the table where Glenister was drinking a second glass of wine.

  “I’ll do it,” Elly said, sitting down. “I’ll go to Derbyshire and look into the disappearances of these girls. If I find that there’s a link between the disappearances and murder and a link to Michael Walker, I’ll report back accordingly.”

  “That’s all anyone is asking,” Glenister said.

  “I have one condition,” she said.

  His face darkened slightly. “What’s that?”

  “I want to start tomorrow. The publishers are going to sort out my accommodation.”

  He nodded. “I’m sure they can arrange that.”

  “Then I’m in.”

  “Excellent. I’m sure you won’t regret this, Elly. Who knows where this could lead? Shall we drink to it?” He held up his half full wine glass.

  “I can’t,” Elly said. “My glass is empty and I’ve got a train to catch.”

  3

  The Call

  It began to rain just as Mitch was finishing the Rileys’ hedge. As the first fat drops of water spattered down on him, he switched off the hedge trimmer and slid his ear defenders down so they hung around his neck. The smell of petrol from the trimmer’s engine hung in the air, tainting the fragrance of freshly-cut grass from the lawn Mitch had cut before attacking the hedge.

  Luckily, he’d already raked the grass cuttings up, or he’d be dealing with a damp mess right about now because the rain was pelting down harder and faster every second.

  He ran across the lawn with rain in his eyes and hedge trimmer in hand. He reached the front gate and sprinted onto the street where his orange Jeep Renegade was parked. After throwing the trimmer into his covered trailer, where it lay alongside the lawn mower and other tools that were already in there, Mitch clambered into the driver’s seat.

  Maybe he could go back and collect the hedge clippings when the downpour had passed over. He was already drenched, his T-shirt and jeans clinging to him and cold rainwater rolling down his face from his soaked hair.

  He dug into his jeans pocket and grabbed his phone. He might as well tell his afternoon clients that he wasn’t going to be coming to tend their gardens. Even if the rain stopped now, their lawns would be too wet to mow.

  There was a missed call from an unknown number on the phone. Probably someone calling to ask about his rates. He was about to bring up the contact list to get the numbers of today’s clients when the phone rang. This time, the caller wasn’t unknown; it was his ex-wife, Jess.

  He answered immediately, hoping she wasn’t calling with some reason why Leigh, their twelve-year-old daughter, couldn’t stay with him for the weekend. “Hey, Jess.”

  “Mitch,” she said, sounding worried. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine despite the heavens opening up on me. Is Leigh okay?”

  “She’s still at school. Looking forward to spending the weekend with you.”

  “Well, that’s good. So you’re not ringing to cancel?”

  “No, not at all,” she said. “Don’t forget you can pick her up in the morning tomorrow. The school is having an inset day.”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “The reason I’m ringing is because I was just wondering if you’ve
had a call from someone named John Mercer?”

  “I got a missed call. Why?” He watched the rain on the windscreen. The water moved in snake-like rivulets that raced down the glass.

  “He rang here earlier,” Jess said. “He wanted to get in touch with you. I gave him your number.”

  “Potential client?” he asked. “I’m not sure why he’d ring your house. Sorry about that.” If someone had rung Jess’s house to get in touch with him, they must have been looking at a very old ad for his gardening service. He hadn’t lived at the house in Monarch Gardens for over four years.

  “No, he’s not a client. He said he was a solicitor. Hang on, I wrote it down.” There was a pause, and then she said, “Mercer and Robinson Solicitors, Matlock, Derbyshire.”

  The wet clothes clinging to Mitch’s body suddenly felt very cold against his skin. He shivered. “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “No, he just said he wanted to contact you. I gave him your mobile number. I thought that since he was calling from Derbyshire, it might be about…” Her voice trailed off. She knew there was no need to complete the sentence.

  “Sarah,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t think of any other reason why someone from Derbyshire would be ringing me.”

  “I don’t think it’s bad news,” she said. “If it was something bad, surely the police would be trying to contact you, not a solicitor.”

  She was right about that. If the Derbyshire police had found Sarah’s remains, they’d be ringing him themselves, not getting a solicitor to do it. So who the hell was John Mercer?

  “I’ll call him,” he told her. “Otherwise, I’m just going to be wondering what he wants.”

  “Okay, see you later,” she said casually.

  “Yeah, see ya,” he said before ending the call. The way he and Jess spoke to each other now, it was as if they were nothing more than acquaintances. Yet she had been the woman who had made him want to settle down when he’d been living a nomadic existence.

  After Sarah’s disappearance, his mum moved herself and Mitch around the country constantly, as if she were running away from something, and that meant his education suffered. Most of the time, she had kept him out of school altogether.

  So, while she went to work doing whatever job she’d found in whatever town they were currently living in, he went from house to house in the neighbourhood and asked the neighbours if they’d like their lawns mowed, hedges trimmed, or leaves raked. He used their own tools at first but as he gradually earned more money, he had bought his own gear.

  What started as a way to earn a little pocket money and keep him occupied while his mum was at work became a lucrative business. He discovered he was good with his hands and he expanded his services to include repairing fences, fixing broken gutters, and rebuilding garden walls. He also had an eye for design and sometimes suggested to his clients how he could better reshape their borders and lawns.

  At the age of eighteen, he studied at night school for the English and Maths qualifications he’d missed out on and also began a qualification in horticulture.

  His mum never got to see him get those qualifications because she died of lung cancer before he finished his course. The cancer came out of nowhere and took her quickly, leaving Mitch alone in the world. Even after his mum was gone, he continued the nomadic lifestyle she’d drilled into him.

  It was only when he had met Jess that he thought about settling down. They met in a cafe in Banbury in 2002. It was late spring and he’d been fixing fences and gutters all day after a freak gale the night before had wreaked havoc on many of the local properties. Sipping a coffee and eating eggs and toast, he noticed that the girl at the next table was reading a paperback copy of Val McDermid’s The Wire in the Blood, the second book in a series about a clinical psychologist named Tony Hill who helped the police solve crimes, usually murder.

  He’d read the book himself and enjoyed it, so he asked the girl how she was finding it. That led to a conversation about a TV show based on the books that was supposed to be coming out later that year and then a lengthy discussion about murder mysteries. They ended up exchanging numbers. The rest was history. But it was a history that was cut short in 2013 when he discovered Jess was having an affair with Andrew Tomkins, her boss at the architectural firm where she worked.

  He wasn’t sure why he was still dwelling on that after four years had passed.

  He scrolled to the missed call on the phone and pressed it with his thumb. While it dialled, he put the phone’s speaker on. The sound of a phone ringing on the other end of the line filled the Jeep, clashing with the rhythmic drumming of the rain on the roof.

  There was a click and then a woman answered. “Mercer and Robinson. Jane speaking. How may I help you?”

  “Hi,” Mitch said. “Could I speak to John Mercer, please?”

  “Just a moment and I’ll see if he’s available. Who’s calling, please?”

  “My name’s Mitch Walker. Mr. Mercer has been trying to contact me.”

  Another click followed by silence. The falling rain ticked off the seconds and he counted them. After thirty-two, a man’s gruff voice came out of the speaker, “Hello, Mr. Walker, I’m John Mercer. Thank you for returning my call.”

  “I need to know why you were calling me,” Mitch told him. “I don’t usually get phone calls from solicitors.” The words came out more aggressively than he’d intended. He was mentally preparing himself for the worst.

  His earlier assertion that this couldn’t be bad news was crumbling away. If someone—anyone—was ringing him from the area where Sarah went missing thirty years ago, they had to be ringing about her. The police must have found her body in the woods, on the moors, or buried in a riverbed and this man was calling to tell Mitch the facts. So sorry, Mr. Walker, but your sister’s dead body has been discovered in an abandoned cave. Have a nice weekend.

  “I’m afraid I’m calling with some sad news,” Mercer said.

  Mitch felt a pain in his hand and looked down. He was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his fingers were white.

  “It’s about your father,” Mercer said.

  “My father?” Confusion hit him like a freight train. “What do you mean? I haven’t seen him since I was nine years old. Why are you contacting me about him now?”

  The confusion was crowded out by relief as Mitch realised this wasn’t about Sarah at all. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, relaxing his grip on the steering wheel.

  There was a pause while Mercer considered his words, then he said, “I’m afraid he’s passed away.” He spoke the words softly, as if they might have had some impact on Mitch and he was trying to lessen the blow. But Mitch felt nothing at all. Any emotions he had towards his father had disappeared years ago.

  He’d been gone from Mitch’s life a long time. The news that he was dead meant no more to him than hearing about the death of a stranger.

  When he said nothing, Mercer continued. “Your father came to my office five years ago and asked me to prepare his last will and testament. He named you as his sole beneficiary, Mr. Walker.”

  “What? Why would he do that?” He tried to imagine his father walking into a solicitor’s office and speaking his name after not seeing him for over thirty years. How did he even know Mitch was still alive?

  “You are his son, Mr. Walker,” Mercer said. “Surely you can see why he would leave everything to you.”

  “No, I can’t. I can’t see why he left anything to me at all. I haven’t seen him since I was nine.”

  “From what I understand, that wasn’t your father’s choice.”

  He was right about that. After Sarah disappeared, Mitch’s mum took him away from Derbyshire and kept the two of them constantly on the move.

  “He left you quite a sizeable estate, Mr. Walker,” Mercer continued, “including Edge House.”

  Edge House. The name conjured images of long hallways and large rooms with arched windows. And there h
ad been a walled garden with a black wooden gate in the rear wall that led to a steep incline and the moors beyond.

  Mitch had no desire to return to that house. Its walls housed too many bad memories. As well as those of Sarah’s disappearance, there were others that floated out of reach when he tried to remember them. Yet they haunted his dreams in the dead of the night when he wanted nothing more than to forget them.

  If he only had himself to consider, he’d tell Mercer that he wasn’t interested in his father’s estate. As far as he was concerned, he wanted nothing more to do with Derbyshire. But there was Leigh to think about too. Edge House probably had a lot of value, although he had no idea what condition the place was in now. And whether Mitch liked it or not, the house was part of her history.

  He’d promised Leigh that he’d take her hiking on the weekend. She’d been reading books about the S.A.S. and survival and had been watching Bear Grylls on TV. Wanting to encourage her interest in outdoor pursuits, Mitch had told her they could go to the Avon Valley and walk along the river with packed lunches in rucksacks. It wasn’t exactly a remote wilderness but it would be a good way to see if she really wanted to explore the great outdoors in person or just watch it on TV.

  The Peak District, where Edge House was located, was all rugged landscape. What better place for his daughter to experience the outdoors? They could stay at the house and then he’d arrange for Mercer to oversee its sale and they’d never see it again. Mitch’s final memories of Edge House would be happy ones.

  “All right,” he said to Mercer, “what do I have to do to get the keys?”

  “There are some documents to sign and then the estate will be passed over to you in its entirety.”

  “I’ll be at your office tomorrow afternoon,” Mitch said. He ended the call. The rain continued to bounce off the Jeep’s roof.

  He hoped visiting Derbyshire with Leigh would change his perspective on the place. Because right now, it was a place of ghosts and nightmares.