by Paul Finch
Bessie gasped, sucking in the ice-edged air with such force that it briefly froze her throat and sinuses. None of this made sense. How could she be locked out? How could someone have been writing with blood in the boathouse? Why would they do it? What was wrong with them?
It had to be something to do with the missing girls. The ones Sergeant Heckenburg was looking for.
Then she heard the whistling.
She looked slowly around, her broad face bathed in sweat.
At first it was almost friendly, as if someone was whistling a nice song.
‘Sergeant Heckenburg,’ she said under her breath. ‘Sergeant Heckenburg!’ she tried to shout, but it came out as a cracked whimper.
Almost instinctively, Bessie realised that whoever this was, it was no friend.
She flicked her torch off. The only light now came from the window beside the front door, and was nothing more than a pale, grimy smear. Even so, she stepped aside so that she wasn’t framed in front of it. Now he, whoever he was, was standing in deep darkness – just like her. In fact, maybe the fog could help her. This wasn’t like they were standing in a room with the lights out; it was like they were standing in a room with the lights out and blankets thrown over them. He wouldn’t know where he was anymore than she did. In fact, things might be worse for him than they were for her – she knew her own garden very well.
Almost on cue, as though the whistler had been reading her thoughts, he stopped.
A piercing silence followed.
Did that mean he was approaching? Sliding towards her through the fog?
But he couldn’t be, because he didn’t know where she was. And yet – he might have seen her light, and she was still standing near the same spot.
Bessie lurched away to her left, only to stumble over a plant pot, managing by a miracle to keep on her feet but sending it clattering along the side path. Frantic, she tried to hush it, at the same time struggling to recollect what lay between here and the path leading up to the road. That would be the best thing, the path that led to the road. It was all flat paving-stones. She could walk up that in complete safety. And along the road it was only three miles to Cragwood Keld. She’d walked that distance lots of times. So she could easily run it now.
But maybe he could run it too. Maybe he was up there now, waiting on the road, because he knew that was the way she’d come. Instead, why not go to Mr Ramsdale’s house, which was the next one along? He hated her; he would doubtless shout at her again, but at least in his house she’d be safer than out here. That said, Mr Ramsdale’s house was a good sixty yards away. Would she be able to make it that far?
The whistling started again, now from somewhere on her right, whereas previously she’d thought it was to her fore. It also sounded a lot closer.
Bessie continued lurching left, almost running, kicking over another couple of plant pots. Away from the front window, it was so dark she could easily have bypassed the path leading up to the road, but by now she didn’t care. The outbuildings were on the south side of the house: two ramshackle old structures that she hardly used anymore. But there were lots of hiding places around there. He’d never find her, and once he’d moved on, she’d hurry on over to Mr Ramsdale’s. He had a telephone too, so they could call for help.
She reminded herself that however frightened she was, she shouldn’t make a sound from this point on. As such, she tried to make progress with stealth. But now she was in the uncut grass, amid bits of rubbish that had spilled from her dustbins – so her feet kept striking tin cans or crunching plastic cartons. It didn’t help that she whimpered each time and kept shushing herself.
And then she collided with the first outbuilding. Thankfully, her hands were in front of her again, so though it was noisy, at least she wasn’t hurt. It was the rotting old timber shed, the one she’d always thought of as ‘the stable’, though it had never been a real stable in her lifetime. The reverberations of the blow resounded through the night. Tears flooded Bessie’s cheeks as she groped her way to the eastern end of it. Beyond this point there was a gap, and then the building she always thought of as ‘the garage’, though again it had never been used as a garage, because neither she nor her mother had ever owned a car. This one was in an equally poor condition to the first, but built of bricks and covered with pebbledash, with a sagging tarpaper roof. She’d been planning to hide inside this, but now it occurred to her that there was only one way in – a single entrance around the back, which was also the only way out. It suddenly seemed a much cleverer plan to insinuate herself into the passage between the two; that way she’d have an exit at either end. The passage was about two feet wide, so she could work her way along it easily enough. It was filled with old thorns and weeds, which in summer reached to waist-height, but now they’d turned to desiccated bracken. At least it was damp though, so there was no loud crackling as she thrust her way along it. Bessie hunkered down somewhere around the middle of the passage, and waited, listening.
The sweat beading her face slowly turned cold. It was amazing, she thought – the fog even penetrated into this narrow space. She couldn’t see the entrance ahead of her. Or, when she craned her neck around, the one at her rear. And this was good because he wouldn’t be able to see in here either.
He wasn’t whistling anymore, she realised. In fact suddenly she couldn’t hear anything. Did that mean he’d gone? Had he given up?
Bessie knew better than to take such a chance at this early stage. So she waited, clutching the torch tightly, the moisture on her palms seeping through her woollen mittens, making its handle slippery. The heart was banging in her chest so loudly it was more like a drum. But aside from that, there was no sound at all. She couldn’t even hear the gentle lapping of the tarn, which was kind of a pity. She’d always loved that sound; it had never failed to remind her she was home. But what sort of home was this now, where people she didn’t know could come in whenever it suited them and write strange, horrible messages? And then, five seconds later, she did hear something – a dull, hollow thud.
Bessie stiffened where she crouched.
Now she heard another thud, followed by a low scraping sound.
Slowly it dawned on her that these sounds were issuing from the stable, which was just on her right. Still she didn’t move.
He couldn’t know she was here. He was probably just bumping around in the fog, like a silly idiot, or some daft, spoiled lad kicking at doors and stuff, angry that he couldn’t find her. But the next thud sounded as if it came from the stable roof. As did the one after that, which was much louder and heavier, and the one after that, which was heavier still – and much closer.
Bessie stood up, but before she could get out of there, she sensed movement directly above her. She gazed up, her face drenched with sweat, and saw a bulky form – it looked like a man’s head and shoulders in heavy clothing and a hood – leaning out over the edge of the stable, peering intently and silently down at her. With duck-like squawks, Bessie turned and fled along the narrow passage. On exit, she fought her way through briars and thickets. There was only one thing for it now. She had to make a run for it. With luck, she could still make it to Mr Ramsdale’s. As Bessie scrambled forward through the sodden undergrowth separating their two properties, she realised there was an old fence somewhere around here. She wouldn’t see it until she ran into it. But it was flimsy and decayed, and indeed, when she struck it thighs-first, the whole thing collapsed. Of course there was a strand of barbed wire in there too, which half-tripped her and tore at her duffle-coat as she climbed over it. But she didn’t care about any of that. She just ran, kicking through more tussocky grass, and then slipping and tottering over what had once been an ornamental rockery. The angular shape of Mr Ramsdale’s house loomed in front of her, blurry light shimmering from its windows. From the first one she ran to, she could see straight into the downstairs living area. And she could see him as well.
He was sitting at his table, with his back turned, working on his computer
.
‘Mr Ramsdale!’ she shouted, banging on the mullioned glass.
He didn’t look around, too engrossed in his work.
A rotten twig snapped somewhere behind her.
With more squawks, Bessie buffaloed along the side of the house and around the corner to the front door. Mr Ramsdale would hear that for sure. He had a knocker, and she would bang it loudly – so loudly he would get angry. But she didn’t care, so long as it brought him out to see her.
And yet, when she got there – wonder of wonders – the door was open. Only a little bit, slivers of light shining around its edges, but so what? Without waiting for an invitation, Bessie pushed the door open.
‘Mr Ramsdale!’ she panted. ‘Mr Ramsdale?’
He was still at the desk with his back turned. She stomped across the room in heavy, uncoordinated fashion. She was exhausted now, her throat raw, breath ripping in and out of her lungs. But she was here, she’d made it – she didn’t care if he shouted and bellowed. She was safe, and the relief flooded through her.
‘Mr Ramsdale!’ Midway across, the stone floor turned slippery; she skidded a couple of feet but somehow kept her balance. She grabbed at his right shoulder, shaking it hard. ‘Mr Ramsdale!’
Bessie stood bewildered as, with the creaking of the chair’s oily pivot, he turned slowly around, jerking to a halt when he faced her. The expected foul-mouthed tirade didn’t come. It would never come. Mr Ramsdale’s head was slumped stiffly to one side, his white face twisted into a rigid rictus of horror. And only now did it strike her that the mysteriously slippery floor was red, that her neighbour’s desk and computer were red, that the entire front of his clothing was red, that the streaks running down from his empty eye-sockets were red, and that the sickle-shaped, double-edged cleft where his throat and larynx had been crudely butchered was monstrously red.
She spun around, screaming hoarsely, slipping and sliding back across the greasy, gore-clotted floor – to be confronted by a rectangle of fog where the open doorway stood, and that whistling again, from somewhere on the other side of it.
This brought her to a slithering halt. Frantic, Bessie tried to hobble backward, this time losing her feet properly and landing hard on her front, her chin smacking the floor with such force that sparks shot before her eyes. For seconds Bessie lay dazed – until approaching footfalls drew her attention to a pair of heavy boots tramping in from the fog. Her dimmed vision roved upward, catching a momentary glimpse of a stocky body dressed all in black, and of a black leather-gloved hand clasping and unclasping around the hilt of a large, hook-bladed tin-opener. Too groggy and feeble even to moan, she lay helpless as those feet came thumping towards her.
Chapter 11
Rather to Hazel’s surprise, the pub drew custom that evening. She’d intended to keep the front door locked, but had told all the locals she’d still be open for business – they needed only to knock.
The first knock came shortly after six; Burt and Mandy Fillingham. This was perhaps expected. Fillingham, as a gossip merchant, would hear a lot less sitting behind locked doors at home than he would in The Witch’s Kettle. Half an hour later, Ted Haveloc showed up. In this case, it was more of a surprise. For a grizzled sixty-two-year-old, Haveloc was the most robust occupant of the Keld, a long-term outdoorsman with the gnarled hands and cracked black fingernails to prove it. But he lived alone of course, so perhaps even he felt more vulnerable than usual on a night like this. The O’Grady sisters, Dulcie and Sally, lived together, socialised together, did almost everything together, and yet they turned up a short time later too, having made the quick trip across the green at a scurry and knocking frantically and continually on the pub’s heavy oaken door until Lucy opened it. Half an hour after that, Bella McCarthy and her husband did exactly the same thing. In their ones and twos, the customers settled around the fire, drank alcohol and conversed in quiet, subdued tones.
‘Strength in numbers, I suppose,’ Lucy said, as she and her aunt stood behind the bar.
‘Yep,’ Hazel replied. ‘Do me a favour, Luce. Go upstairs, check all the windows are locked … yeah?’
Lucy nodded and trotted away. Hazel glanced at her watch. It was just after six-thirty.
‘Is there anything to eat, Hazel?’ Ted Haveloc called across the taproom. ‘I haven’t had a meal all day, and I’m famished.’
‘Erm, yeah … sure,’ she said, unable to think of any reason why the normal menu wouldn’t be operating. They had plenty of food in the larder, and neither she nor Lucy would have much else to do for the rest of the evening. ‘Give us a minute, okay?’
She breezed through into the kitchen, turned the ovens on and, as an afterthought, opened the top panel in the window over the sink. It was a relatively small kitchen and would quickly get hot and stuffy when they started cooking.
Then Hazel heard the ululation – the distant, eerie ululation.
Astonished, she turned to the window.
Several seconds passed as she wondered if she’d imagined it. Because it had sounded like no human cry she’d ever heard, and yet some disconcerting inner sense told her that was exactly what it was.
Beyond the window lay the yard where her maroon Renault Laguna was parked, and various crates and barrels awaited collection by the drayman. Even with the gates barred, as they were now, someone could get in there easily enough – the walls were only seven feet high. But briefly, that didn’t matter.
Hazel knew what she’d heard.
She opened the back door and stood on the step, listening. The air was bitter, the fog thick, grimy and fluffy as cotton wool. Was it possible there was some kind of error here? Had someone been fiddling around with the jukebox in the taproom? But now she heard the cry again – this time prolonged for several seconds longer than before. Weird, ululating, so filled with angst and torment that it barely sounded human. Abruptly, it snapped off.
Hazel stood rooted to the spot, deep shivers passing down her spine.
When she finally went back inside, she ensured to lock the door behind her. Almost certainly the rare atmospheric conditions were partly responsible for her hearing that sound. She had no doubt it had travelled a long distance. The normal acoustics in the Cradle would also have assisted. Whenever the drag-hunt was around, she’d hear the yipping of the hounds and the drone of the hunting horn when the pack was way up at the north end of the valley.
Two words formed in her mind – for about the twentieth time that day.
Annie Beckwith.
Hazel seriously doubted that even on a night like this, noises at Fellstead Grange would be audible in Cragwood Keld. But that poor old dear was such a long way from help should she need it, and of course she had no idea she was in danger. Lucy reappeared in the kitchen doorway, so abruptly that Hazel jumped.
‘Ted Haveloc’s still asking if there’s any food on tonight?’
‘Erm, yeah, yeah … sure. Give them the menus. Listen, Lucy …?’
Lucy glanced back in.
‘You’ll have to cook it yourself. That okay?’
Lucy looked briefly puzzled, but then shrugged. ‘No problem.’
While Lucy went back out into the taproom, Hazel crossed the kitchen and retrieved one of the police contact cards. The first number she tried was Heck’s mobile. Predictably, there was no response. Following that, she tried Mary-Ellen. That gained no reply either. She went out into the bar and tried the police station from the landline, but it was the same outcome.
‘Anyone up at Cragwood Keld police office, Ted?’ she asked Ted Haveloc. As he lived closest to the police station, he was the most likely to know.
‘The lights were on when I came out, Hazel, but I didn’t see anyone moving around,’ he replied. ‘The Land Rover’s not there, nor Sergeant Heckenburg’s Citroën. At a guess, the place is still locked up and they’re out and about.’
‘Thanks.’
Cumbria prided itself on the sense of community preserved in its small, close-knit towns and villages. Hazel su
pposed this had developed naturally in an environment where all occupants were lumped together. Encircled by bleak moors, fathomless forests, and high, wind-riven mountains, there was a sense of embattlement, and of course they had terrible winters here – the worst rain, the worst snow, and now it seemed, the worst fog. Lake District residents needed to get on well together and look out for each other, just to endure.
As such, Hazel wondered when it was that she’d last seen Annie.
A couple of years ago, easily. The old dear had reluctantly come down to the pub to celebrate Ted Haveloc’s sixtieth, and even then she’d been all skin and bone, wearing ragged clothes. Ted, who knew Annie better than anyone because he occasionally went up to help with chores on her run-down farm, might have seen her more recently, but not, as far as Hazel was aware, in the last few months. The water company truck went up there reasonably regularly too, to empty the septic tank, but would its crew have any interaction with the old girl? Would they even know she was there while they were working?
None of this was good enough, Hazel decided. Mark had said they’d get up there at some point, but he hadn’t held out much hope it would be anytime soon, and it probably wouldn’t be because he and Mary-Ellen would have a lot to do. But in the meantime someone had to look out for that nice old lady.
Hazel slipped out around the bar to the foot of the stairs. Nobody noticed; they were all too busy giving Lucy their food orders. Upstairs in the flat, she put on her walking boots and her fleece-lined jacket. She decided that she’d try to persuade Annie to come back down here, offer to put her up for a few nights free of charge. If nothing else, the old lady could have a hot bath, get a proper night’s sleep, and sit out the crisis in relative safety. Failing that – because Hazel knew Annie, and she could be stubborn as an ox – she’d take her some supplies up; some eggs, milk, bread, some packets of tea and dried soup, some chocolate and biscuits. She didn’t know what Annie lived on half the time. She’d once kept cows and pigs. She’d even had a pony for her trap, though said trap was now most likely decaying in some forgotten outbuilding. Ultimately, Annie had become too infirm to tend her stock, though she’d often tell anyone who’d listen that they were her only real friends. Apparently, she still grew her own fruit and vegetables, but in all honesty how easy could it be to eke out your existence like that, especially when you were an OAP?