by A. J. Oates
Chapter 15
Christmas Day morning in the Kinder Scout bolt-hole and with another twenty minutes to go before my 6:00 a.m. alarm I’ve already been awake for several hours. My thoughts are concentrated on a year ago, trying to remember the Christmas when I still had my beautiful boys and Helen. Perhaps for the first time I can now think of them without spiralling into a deep melancholy and can focus on the many good times we had. I’m sure a psychologist would describe it as an essential step in the recovery process, but to me it’s just a relief to feel better. Over the previous few weeks my mood has gradually improved and my depression of the early days of incarceration has slowly lifted. Although it is still another four months until I leave the bolt-hole and my flight to Brazil, I begin to get the sense that long-term freedom beckons and I’ll reach my ultimate goal.
There’s no particular logic to it. I could go five minutes earlier, I could go five minutes later, but I like routine, and as always I leave the bolt-hole at 6:00 a.m. precisely. As I crawl out of the entranceway, the sun is just beginning to rise into a grey, cloud-filled sky. Despite the gloom and the rain that begins to fall, nothing can dissuade me from leaving the dark and dreary bolt-hole. After a minute of stretching out my stiff limbs, I follow my usual jogging route as my running shoes squelch in the increasingly sodden and muddy path. For the next half an hour I run hard and complete a couple of loops of my circuit before taking a seat on my favoured rock overlooking Ashop Moor. Out of breath, and with sweat and rain water dripping off me, I marvel at the views, which are undiminished by the driving rain.
The time passes all too quickly and it is already 8:02 a.m. I know I need to return to the bolt-hole before the first ramblers arrive to enjoy a Christmas Day walk, but I struggle to drag myself away and, like hitting the snooze button after a dreaded early morning alarm, I repeatedly promise myself another five minutes. I watch as a low-flying plane appears momentarily through a gap in the clouds, heading away from Manchester airport forty or so miles to the west. As I try and imagine the plans and destinations of the passengers on board, a voice from behind me shockingly interrupts the silence. “Good morning … oh, and Merry Christmas to you, young man.”
I spin around instantly, almost falling off the rock, praying that I’d imagined the voice. But no such luck: I’m facing an elderly man, probably mid seventies, just ten metres or so away as he walks on the path towards me. Wearing the latest waterproof all-weather gear, expensive rucksack and walking pole, he looks like he’s stepped out of an Outward Bound catalogue. “Good morning,” he repeats.
I struggle to respond, shocked that my solitude has been shattered. Eventually, after a few seconds, I manage to mutter, “Morning.”
Catalogue man slows his pace, and then stops, now less than a metre away. Staring at me inquisitively, he bends at the waist, looking at me through the thick lenses of glasses. With an arrogant and slightly condescending manner, as if I’m being reprimanded by an old-fashioned schoolmaster, he addresses me. “Do I know you? … You look very, very familiar, young man.” You moron, Julian, you moron, flashes through my thoughts, furious as I am at my stupidity for breaking my routine and not returning to the bolt-hole sooner.
Desperately trying to compose myself and not appear suspicious, I answer casually, “I don’t think so … erm, at least not that I remember anyway.”
The man isn’t convinced and continues to stare intently while waiting for a flash of inspiration. Finally he turns to face Ashop Moor. “I think I’ll join you. The walk up Crookstone Hill almost killed me. It is a bit grim this morning, but I come here every Christmas Day, rain or shine. I used to come with my good lady wife, but she’s passed on now.”
Before I have chance to respond, he sits next to me on the boulder and turns again to face me. “You’re an early riser, young man, where’ve you come from.”
Trying to gain some composure and think on my feet, I answer immediately, “Hagg Side,” but instantly regret it as I feel his stare burning into the side of my face.
“Oh, I’ve just come from there. I didn’t see your car.” I don’t respond but attempt to feign distraction at something in the distance. After a few seconds he continues, “Are you sure we’ve not met before?”
“No, I’m sorry but I think you’ve made a mistake,” I respond, this time more forcefully.
But he wasn’t about to let it drop so easily. “No, I never forget a face. The names Stead, David Stead, Chief Inspector Stead. S-T-E-A-D,” he helpfully spells out in case I should want to take notes. “A memory like an elephant – that’s what my missus used to say. Twenty-five years as a bobby in the Met, moved up here fifteen years ago after I retired. No, never one to forget a face. Trust me, son, I’ll remember,” he says belligerently.
I begin to feel my hands shake and my heart-rate increases again after only just beginning to settle after the run, and without thinking I pick up a small rock from the ground next to me. I grip it tightly and the sharp surfaces dig into my hand, the pain almost therapeutic.
For the next few minutes Stead proceeds to lecture me on the local fauna and flora. Unsurprisingly I have no interest in his knowledge of wildlife but I’m grateful that he’s distracted from the issue of my identity. Passing his binoculars to me, he asks me to name a bird that swoops in front of us, quizzing me on his recent lecture material. As I lift the binoculars to my eyes he takes a sharp intake of breath, and I immediately turn to face him. For the first time he appears lost for words, and it’s several seconds before he finally speaks. “I know who you are, I know who you are, you’re Scott … You were in the paper a few months ago. You’re that Julian Scott.”
I stare back at him unsure how to react or what to say. He gets up to leave, and then almost as an afterthought he grabs the binoculars from my hand and glares intently at me. “You’re a murderer.” It’s only now that he sees the rock gripped in my hand, and a look of fear crosses his face. I drop the rock immediately but it’s too late, he’s already turned and is running back in the direction of Crookstone Hill.
I follow him a few paces behind. “Wait, please, please, I just want to talk, I’m not going to hurt you.”
My pleas clearly fall on deaf ears as he continues on, his rucksack swinging wildly on his back. After a hundred metres or so, and with no sign of him relenting, I try to slow him down by gently pulling on the strap on his rucksack. He stops abruptly, and then glares at me before defiantly pushing me back and shouting at me, “I’ll not give up without a fight you know, I’ll not give up without a fight, sonny,” as he raises his walking pole and shakes it at me.
I put my hands up. “I don’t want to hurt you. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk.”
“Talk? Talk? Is that what you wanted with the other fella whose head you chopped off? Don’t get me wrong, it was terrible what happened to your family but you can’t go round killing people … you can’t take the law into your own hands.” I step towards him, desperately trying to placate him but he’s not having any of it, and he turns and starts running again.
His panic is contagious. It crosses my mind that I should head back to the bolt-hole, collect my stuff and make a run for it. But it was never part of the plan – where would I go?, what would I do? Before I’ve a chance to make any sort of decision, just a few metres in front of me his foot catches in a deep rut, he falls heavily to the ground, and his forehead crashes onto a boulder with a sickening thud. For several seconds he lies motionless, before slowly and awkwardly getting to his feet. Blood is already beginning to drip down through his hairline and into his eyes. Again I try to calm him, but, disorientated, he turns to run. He struggles over the uneven ground and almost immediately falls again. I kneel on his back, attempting to subdue him while I have the chance to reason, but with a strength that shocks me, he wriggles free, turns over, and swings his elbow, forcefully catching me in the groin. I’m left winded, and within a split second he’s on his feet and running again. I’m amazed by his tenacity. He’s lik
e a terrier after a rabbit and determined not to give up. I follow as he approaches the edge of the plateau, the steep rocky drop beyond. His running is increasingly erratic and he’s continually close to falling.
After another thirty seconds of running I’ve got him cornered. In his confusion he’s stepped out onto a rocky ledge, with me blocking the way to the front and at least a twenty-metre drop behind him to the rocks below. I begin to feel more relaxed, knowing that he’s got nowhere to run and I’ll have a chance to reason with him. But to my amazement he turns to face me, then gets on his hands and knees, then onto his belly, and begins to shuffle backwards. “What are you doing?” I scream. “You’ll kill yourself. Look, listen to me, I just want to talk, that’s all, just talk.”
Stead mumbles incoherently and shuffles backwards, his legs hanging over the edge as he continues to move away from me, almost as if he’s trying to lower himself down the massive drop. Fearing the worst, I lunge forward onto my knees and grab both his wrists to pin him to the ground. But he squirms violently, and with his hands covered in slippery blood I struggle to maintain any sort of grip. For the next twenty seconds or so I battle with him, desperately trying to hang on and prevent him slipping backwards. He begins to shout, swearing at me and screaming, “Murderer!” Then it happens: my grip finally gives way and I make a final desperate attempt to grab him by the collar of his jacket. Our gazes lock and I don’t know who is the more scared.
Should I let him drop? It could solve all my problems and in all probability the police would treat it as an accident. I can almost picture the headlines in the local paper, probably tucked away in the middle pages: an elderly hiker, walking alone, falls to his death in a tragic accident. He screams at me again but this time the realisation of his plight appears to dawn. "Pull me, please, pull me back up.” Again it flickers across my consciousness that I should just let him drop. But what sort of person am I? Am I really capable of killing an innocent man? Thankfully his thick jacket is zipped and buttoned all the way to the neck line, and by gripping onto his collar I’ve just got enough purchase to support his weight – but for how much longer? With a final massive surge of effort and with my fingers burning, I dig the heels of my boots into a shallow groove in the rock, and with all my strength I drag him back onto the ledge.
Stead’s near-death experience has brought a certain clarity to his thinking, and presumably the understanding that I’ve no desire to hurt him. We sit on the ledge as he stares at me open mouthed, struggling to gain his breath. Eventually he speaks, his voice cracking. “You saved me, why did you save me?”
I don’t answer and just shrug. I soak my handkerchief in a puddle of rainwater and gesture for him to wipe away the streaks of blood from the side of his face. After a few minutes his breathing starts to settle and the colour returns to his complexion as he turns to face me. “What happens now? … Are you going to let me go?”
I nod back to him. “Of course, I never wanted to hurt you. It’s not the kind of person I am.”
For several seconds all is quiet again before he responds: “What sort of person are you then? ... You saved me but why did you kill that Musgrove fella?”
For the next few minutes I tell him about my problems at work, the depression, Helen’s affair and then my inadvertent run-in with Musgrove in the Earl of Arundel pub and the deadly consequences. I talk freely; presumably my hope is that he’ll see me as a normal person who just got caught up in an extraordinary situation. He nods periodically but never interrupts, and, perhaps like a good detective, lets me talk. Eventually I stop, probably after thirty minutes of monologue, and with my throat dry I waited for some kind of response. “But you still haven’t explained why you killed him – was it just revenge? Why didn’t you just go the police?”
What's the expression – in for a penny in for a pound. So I press on, starting with the day I first planned to Murder Musgrove.
It was 7:00 a.m. the morning after I’d met Bosworth and Musgrove in the New Inn. I’d slept fitfully on the floor of my parents’ house, all the time obsessing over the realisation that Musgrove had been responsible for the hit-and-run and that unwittingly I’d initiated his actions. A number of times after Helen and the boys’ deaths, I’d thought back to Musgrove’s bizarre drunken offer to kill Helen, but I’d always quickly dismissed the idea, putting it down to the words of a deluded junkie. Clearly I’d misjudged him though, and now, compounding my grief and guilt, I had the added worry of Musgrove’s blackmail threat.
With my parents’ house now sold and the last box of their possessions in storage, I’d arranged to hand over the keys to the estate agents later that morning. In the previous few days, in fact pretty much since I’d accepted the offer on the house, I’d been worried about how I’d react to leaving my childhood home and the many happy memories. But following the run-in with Musgrove, my sole preoccupation was his blackmail attempt; my previous anxieties appeared trivial.
With several hours to wait before the estate agent’s opened for business, I made tea and with mug-in-hand did a final check of the house. I felt an emotional heaviness as I went to each room in turn, now completely empty of their cluttered contents, a shell that I barely recognised as my childhood home. I went into the back bedroom, my bedroom from birth to eighteen years, and looked through the window into the garden. Almost like it was yesterday, I remembered as a child playing football and swinging on the old climbing frame, now dismantled at the back of my own garage, my dad having always planned to paint and reassemble it for my boys.
I shook myself out of my melancholic reminiscences and moved through the rest of the house double-checking that the windows were closed and the lights switched off. After a final check I headed out to the garden. It was a space my parents had cherished. They’d spent hours tending the flowerbeds and rockeries, but just a couple of months after their deaths they were already overgrown with weeds. I began to pull out some of the more offensive culprits but after a few minutes there was little visible sign of any improvement and I knew my limited efforts were futile. In any case I had more pressing worries to concentrate my attentions. I went inside, washed my mug and put it in my rucksack, along with sleeping bag and overnight wash-bag.
Knowing that I would never return, I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled as I locked the front door for the final time. After again checking from the outside that the windows were closed, I set off on the five-minute drive to the estate agent’s. It was still only 8:30 a.m. by the time I arrived, and another thirty minutes before it opened. Parking directly outside, I phoned my solicitor, and with the phone ringing I said a small prayer that there would be no last-minute hitches with the contracts; I needed to move on with my life and I couldn’t face any delays or complications. To my irritation, after a few rings I was directed to the answer machine and a voice informing me that office hours were 9:00 a.m. until 5:30 p.m. I considered leaving a message, then thought better of it and pressed the cancel button.
I sat in the car waiting the thirty minutes for the solicitors to open. The radio was on in the background but I barely paid it any attention. My thoughts were focused solely on Musgrove and the events of the night before, and what, if anything, I should do about it. I was angry with Musgrove, of course, but I was also angry with myself for being so weak and pathetic. Why was I so scared of a piece of shit like Musgrove? I felt disgusted with myself.
At exactly 9:01 a.m. I phoned the solicitor’s office. This time a receptionist answered almost immediately and I was transferred to the conveyance department. To my relief the funds had cleared, the paperwork was all in order and I could hand over the keys. As I turned towards the estate agent’s, a young woman was just unlocking the front door and I got out of the car and made my way inside. Within a few minutes I’d signed the final piece of paperwork, handed over the keys, and was back in the car heading for my own home.
On the way, I stopped briefly at the supermarket to pick up some essentials; my cupboards at home were bare after the
weeks of staying at my parents’ house. Leaving the supermarket and preoccupied with Musgrove, I drove without thinking past the church and the site of the hit-and-run. Previously I’d always taken a detour to avoid the area, and it was the first time I’d been back to the stretch of road where my world had started to unravel. I pictured Musgrove from the night before, a smug grin plastered over his face, as anger and frustration raged inside me. You bastard, Musgrove, you fucking bastard, I hissed as I dug my fingers into the steering wheel, the nail-beds turning white. Driving well above the speed limit, I continued along the winding road with my anger simmering away. I imagined Musgrove standing in the middle of the road – how desperately I wanted to plough into him, in the same way he’d done to my boys.
Still fuming, within a couple of minutes I turned into our quiet cul-de-sac and was home a little after 10:00 a.m. I parked on the drive and stared at the house in front of me; my attachment to what had been our family home had long since faded and it didn’t feel like it belonged to me anymore. I remember how excited we’d been when we’d bought the house and planned to fill it with our children. Based on our salaries alone there was no way Helen and I could have afforded such a place, but Helen’s parents had died a few years earlier and she’d inherited close to £250,000, which we’d used as a deposit. Now I just wanted to get rid of it.