by Paul Finch
‘Go on?’ Mary-Ellen said.
‘This has been bugging me for the last hour or so, but I’ve not really had time to sit down and give it any thought …’
‘Go on!’ Gemma said impatiently.
‘How did he know that when we were up at Fellstead Grange we only had two shotgun cartridges?’
Gemma frowned. ‘Are we sure he knew that?’
‘Absolutely. Hazel fired one shot through the door, and he still didn’t launch a frontal assault. That only happened after he used that mannequin to fox you into loosing off the second and final round.’
Mary-Ellen, who hadn’t been present during the fight at Fellstead Grange, listened to this in bafflement. ‘So what exactly are we looking at here?’
Heck sat back. ‘The only person I can think who could conceivably have known about that is Hazel’s ex-husband.’
‘Who no longer lives anywhere near here,’ Gemma said.
‘So? Does that mean he doesn’t harbour grudges?’
‘From what Hazel’s told me, he’s a long way from being athletic enough to get up into the fells,’ Mary-Ellen said. ‘What about someone else she might have told? Some punter maybe?’
Gemma shook her head. ‘She’d have to be a real flake to trust that info to blokes she doesn’t know, and a flake is one thing Hazel isn’t.’
‘Someone Lucy might have told? An old boyfriend? A college pal?’
Heck mused. ‘If it does turn out to be someone from round here, that kicks my theory into touch about Gemma being the target.’
‘We’re all basically targets,’ Gemma said. ‘Whoever he’s really got it in for, the rest of us are going to cop it as collaterals if we don’t do something. So perhaps we should save the theorising for later, and concentrate now on saving the lives of everyone here.’ There was a brief silence, which she finally broke herself. ‘I hate saying this, but I think M-E’s right. It’s going to have to be that quad-bike.’
Heck didn’t immediately reply.
‘I don’t like it either,’ Gemma added, ‘but the way things are looking, that’s our only option. We’ve got to try and get the word out that we need help right now, not in two or three hours.’
‘I agree,’ Mary-Ellen said firmly.
Reluctantly Heck nodded. ‘Okay, okay … if we don’t have any other choice.’
‘How far is Bella McCarthy’s house from here?’ Gemma asked.
‘On a good day, if you weren’t worried about getting shot, you could make it in under a minute,’ Mary-Ellen said.
They pondered this glumly. In their collective mind’s eye, the idyllic Lakeland village had transformed into a dystopian landscape, its blanket of fog tainted by brackish, semi-toxic smoke, a yawning, burning wound at its heart, the fallout from which had rained across the surrounding properties, smashing windows and roofs, strewing the paths and gardens with unsightly debris. And if that wasn’t enough, they now knew for a fact the unseen menace that was lurking there. The question was, where exactly? Around a corner, behind a dry-stone wall, in some darkened niche, or leeward of some rickety old outbuilding? In any of those cases, they wouldn’t see him until he’d lined them neatly in his sights.
‘This time I’ll go,’ Gemma said. ‘You guys have taken your share of risks.’
She stood up, only for her face to etch with agony. She promptly sat again.
‘The only place you’re going is X-ray,’ Heck said. ‘Soon as we get you out of here. Looks to me like you might have fractured a vertebra.’
‘I’ve got full movement,’ she said. ‘It can’t be that serious.’
‘You’re still staying put.’ He turned to Mary-Ellen. ‘It’s me and thee again.’
‘Hurray.’
‘Hey, we can’t always choose the tasks fate sets before us.’
‘Very Tolkienesque.’
‘I like Tolkien.’
‘So do I,’ she said. ‘See … you’ve inspired me again.’
He smiled tiredly.
Outside, the fog waited.
They went out the same way as before, through the back. It was now quarter past six in the morning, and the temperature was still hovering just above freezing. The cobblestones at the rear of The Witch’s Kettle glistened with frost. Heck and Mary-Ellen’s breath hung in dense, white clouds. It might have been Heck’s imagination, or the result of sheer exhaustion – he’d been on duty now for more hours than he could count – but despite the all-pervading dark, the fog itself seemed to be paler.
This time they followed a different route through Cragwood Keld, intending to come around on the McCarthy house by circling the village clockwise. Without speaking, they darted along the access lane between the pub and the shingle beach, where the humped forms of boats and kayaks lay. The village jetty jutted away into dimness, the dark waters of the tarn lapping sluggishly around its pilings. Past the jetty, they diverted southwest across the green, the grass of which was sparkling with frost. Beyond the green, they skirted the Section House, scaled its rear fence and approached what remained of the police station from the south end of Hetherby Close. All the way, they saw extensive rubble and damage: the holiday lets had been bombarded; the road surface itself was gashed and broken.
Even when they stood alongside the black, smoking hole where the nick had formerly been, the last of the petrol fires having burned themselves out, Heck found it difficult to comprehend that the office where he’d been posted since he’d transferred up here no longer existed. Fortunately, there hadn’t been much inside it of value. His laptop, he supposed, but he could always get another of those; all its files were backed up. His scrapbook of faces would be harder to replace; not that its absence would matter very much if none of them made it out of here.
The icy mist oozed around them as they struck a diagonal path across the top of Truscott Drive. The whistling had fallen silent, at least for the time being, but that in itself was no solace. For one thing, it meant they didn’t know where the madman was. Okay, they couldn’t pinpoint him exactly even when he was whistling, but when he wasn’t he could be following three yards behind and they wouldn’t know about it.
More fog eddied past them as they entered Baytree Court. Rather than walking along the centre of the small cul-de-sac, they nipped up a drive and proceeded via the empty holiday homes’ front gardens. These too were strewn with bricks and bits of blackened timber. At the end of the Court, they accessed the McCarthy property by slithering through an evergreen hedge.
Here, at the front of the palatial residence, they paused, bodies damp with sweat.
‘If we can get it started, just get your foot down and go,’ Heck said quietly.
Mary-Ellen nodded.
They’d agreed that she would make the journey, while he remained behind. It would be no soft option for her. Miles through the fog on a quad-bike was a big ask, and there’d be no guarantee the killer wouldn’t launch himself at her before she’d left the vicinity.
‘Don’t worry about trying to reach Windermere,’ Heck reminded her. ‘Just get yourself down to Chapel Stile and start knocking on doors.’
‘No problem.’
‘Okay. You ready?’
Mary-Ellen nodded again, tense. It seemed pretty transparent that if the killer knew they’d spotted the quad-bike, he could easily be using it as bait with which to lure them, but as so often on this night of nights it was a case of needs must.
‘Same as last time?’ she whispered. ‘Me around the left, you around the right?’
Heck nodded. ‘No heroics. You see or hear anyone, you holler, okay?’
She winked and moved away through the mist, heading to the entry-passage that led to the rear of the premises on its far side. Heck took the right-hand passage, conscious of his feet echoing and so attempting to tread stealthily, constantly glancing overhead. Mary-Ellen had mentioned earlier that she’d thought she’d heard movement on the roof, but there were plenty of broken slates and bits of guttering strewn underfoot.
&nb
sp; Then his progress was halted.
He was almost at the rear of the house when the passage was suddenly blocked by a tall gate made from oak planks. He pressed against it, but it was solid and wouldn’t budge.
‘Fuck,’ he said under his breath, backing away, only to hear a clanking of metalwork on the other side. Involuntarily, he backed away further. He glanced behind him. The far end of the entry was filled with fog, but there was nowhere to actually take cover. With a clunk, a bolt was disengaged. Heck continued to back away as the gate swung inward.
And Mary-Ellen stood there.
‘You okay?’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ he replied, relieved, walking forward.
‘Sorry … forgot about this gate.’
‘It’s okay. All clear?’
‘Seems to be.’
Despite the gloom, they were confronted by the broad expanse of the rear lawn, the mud-caked shape of the quad-bike sitting in the middle section of it, which now was churned to slurry where the vehicle had spun to a halt. They scanned all surrounding parapets before striding out towards it. The quad wasn’t leaning or slumped over, and at first glance looked to be in working order – until a scent of petrol assailed them. Before they’d reached it, Heck spotted what looked like the handle of a screwdriver jutting from the fuel tank located beneath its handlebars.
‘Crap!’ He dropped to a crouch. The soil and grass underneath the machine was slick, glimmering with greasy liquid. What remained of the tank’s contents was still stringing out, albeit slowly.
‘Bastard beat us to it, eh?’ Mary-Ellen said.
‘Yeah. Left us a present though.’ Using only his gloved left thumb and index finger, Heck waggled the screwdriver loose. When he held it aloft, its tip had been machine-honed to a pencil-like point. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got an evidence bag?’
‘Think that could be one of the murder weapons?’
‘It’s exactly the kind of weapon the Stranger was believed to have used – not just to stab his victims, but to gouge their eyes.’
‘Well, as it happens, I do have evidence bags.’ She unzipped a pocket on her tunic’s upper sleeve and whipped out a roll of clear sterile sacks. ‘Take your pick.’
He peeled one loose, and slipped the screwdriver inside, before sealing it and shoving it into one of his own pockets.
‘Okay …’ Mary-Ellen stood up. ‘If there’s no way out of here, we should get back to the pub, shouldn’t we, and dig in? I’m sure we can make it through ’til dawn …’
‘Hang on … whoa.’ Heck reached down into the tangle of wires and circuitry their opponent had left behind after jacking the machine to life. ‘Looks like he may have left us more than one present.’
Very carefully, he extricated a long, pale, rubbery object, which at first resembled a deceased earthworm. Mary-Ellen leaned down, none the wiser.
‘I don’t … I don’t bloody believe this,’ Heck muttered, as he rose to his feet. ‘I know we said no torches, but give us some light, eh?’
She switched her torch on – and there was no mistaking what he’d found. It was a rubber wristband, beige in colour, torn at one end. A Help For Heroes logo was imprinted on it. They turned to face each other, their expressions mirroring disbelief.
‘Please tell me Mick McGurk was still wearing his wristband when we carried him back to the pub,’ Heck said.
Mary-Ellen looked agog with shock, but shook her head. ‘He wasn’t. I noticed it was missing when we laid him on that couch. I just assumed he’d lost it in the explosion. But, hang on, Heck … this maniac can’t be Mick McGurk! Can he?’
Heck didn’t want to believe it either, but wanting to and being forced to were nearly always different things. He dangled the band gingerly, as if it was something vile. ‘He must have lost this when he was hotwiring the quad-bike on Fiend’s Fell. That’s the only explanation.’
‘And he’s a Scot too, isn’t he?’ she said. ‘Good Christ …’
‘Not only that,’ Heck added. ‘He’s had the time. I mean, most of tonight he’s been on his own. He was supposedly manning the nick, but there was no one there to check. He could have got up to all sorts … he’s had hours and hours.’
‘No, no …’ Mary-Ellen shook her head. ‘Mick McGurk’s a copper. A bona fide copper. He’s been in Cumbria Constabulary for years.’
‘Which means he knows the lie of the land.’ Heck’s mouth dried as the hideous idea grew on him. ‘He could have scoped out Cragwood Vale a dozen times. He might even have known about Hazel’s ammo …’
‘Yeah, but wait a mo … why would he do all this? Why would Mick McGurk have it in for DSU Piper?’
Heck didn’t reply. Initially he couldn’t.
With indecent speed, his certainty of a half-second ago was replaced by the inevitable flood of doubt. On the face of it, it was surely preposterous to think Mick McGurk could be the guy. For all these possibilities and odd coincidences, what Mary-Ellen said was true: he was a bona fide copper; before that he’d had a career in the military, and it must have been hassle-free, else he wouldn’t have been accepted into the police. What would he have to gain by all this?
But then, what would anyone have to gain by this?
That thorny question remained unanswered. And then there was the evidence – the wristband. In any normal circumstances, that clue alone would be sufficient for Heck to make an arrest. Which, if he was honest, was what they were going to have to do now. Or something along those lines. Perhaps they shouldn’t be too hasty – because if McGurk was the guy, injured or not, he could easily be packing concealed firearms.
‘We’re going to have to play this carefully, M-E,’ Heck said. ‘Very, very carefully.’
They bagged the wristband and set off back to the pub, circling the house and darting through Bella McCarthy’s front garden and along Baytree Court.
‘The more I think about this, the more I think it’s him,’ Mary-Ellen said.
Heck was still trying to weigh everything up.
‘Mind you,’ she added, ‘he was inside the nick when it exploded. Shouldn’t that rule him out?’
‘Not necessarily. From what Gemma said, McGurk led the way down there, he opened the door that lit the fuse … and then at the very last second he closed it again, providing himself with a shield.’
‘It could still have killed him, Heck.’
‘A risk he was prepared to take to put himself in the clear? And look how it all actually happened. Like you say, McGurk’s been part of Cumbria Police for years, and yet he needed an officer on a daytrip from London to show him where the cellar was? He must’ve visited a hundred mountain villages like this one.’
‘Yeah, but he said he didn’t want Gemma to go with him. He even got vexed.’
‘There are subtle forms of coercion, M-E. McGurk’s out there in the cold, shivering, while Gemma’s in a nice warm pub. I know Gemma. It wouldn’t have taken much more to prick her conscience, to make her go and offer help.’
‘So you think it’s McGurk … for sure?’
‘We have to suspect it’s him. We can’t just assume …’ Abruptly, Heck stopped talking; halted in his tracks. They were now on a level with the turn into Hetherby Close. Heck peered past it, towards the blast site.
‘What?’ Mary-Ellen asked.
‘What about the whistling we heard after the explosion? We were carrying McGurk down the road to the pub at the time.’
‘Shit … we did, you’re right!’
Heck headed urgently over there. Mary-Ellen followed. The heaped rubble was still smouldering as they sidled around it, picking through the gutted shell that once had been the station garage; most of its corrugated roof had caved in, owing to the weight of debris on top.
‘What exactly are we looking for?’ she asked.
‘That whistling sounded as if it was coming from around here,’ Heck said.
‘Yeah … so?’
‘So … maybe McGurk is our boy, but maybe he’s got an accomplice, s
omeone who whistled at us out of the smog to try and cover for his mate.’
‘You said earlier you didn’t think it could be a hit-team …’
‘And I stand by that,’ Heck replied. ‘A team of professional assassins would have done for us all by now. But if you recall, I didn’t discount the possibility of a couple of guys, non-pros maybe.’
Though they kicked their way around what had once been the storage yard, it was little more now than a heap of burnt, twisted junk.
‘We’ll be lucky to find evidence anyone was hanging around here,’ Mary-Ellen said. ‘Who could the other fella be, anyway? Who’d join a serving copper on a mindless murder spree?’
Heck shook his head as he scanned the wreckage. ‘It’s only a theory. But an awful lot went on last night that needs explaining. Was Mick McGurk even up here in the Cradle when Bill Ramsdale and Bessie Longhorn got murdered? The first time I saw him yesterday was down at Westmorland General Hospital just before five p.m.’