The Long Kill

by Reginald Hill

  He said, ‘Would it be possible to come back this afternoon? It’s hard to take everything in at a single viewing. You can often get mistaken impressions at a single encounter, can’t you?’

  He glanced at Annie Wilson as he spoke, but got nothing in return.

  Miss Wilson regarded him thoughtfully, then turned to her niece.

  ‘Well, I daresay we can put up with you trampling round again, can’t we, Annie? But give us time to enjoy our lunch. Three o’clock, let’s say.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Jaysmith. ‘Three o’clock.’

  The old lady showed him out, Annie Wilson having disappeared with a perfunctory farewell into the kitchen.

  ‘One thing,’ said Miss Wilson on the doorstep. ‘You’ve not asked me price, young man. It may be too high for you.’

  He rather liked her directness. It also occurred to him that he would rather like her good opinion.

  He said, ‘If you really think of me as a young man, Miss Wilson, then I’ll be happy to accept any estimate of the house’s value based on the same principle.’

  A sunbeam of amusement warmed the old face. Then she closed the door. There was a little red Fiat in the drive, presumably belonging to Annie Wilson. Carefully he backed the BMW past it and drove down the hill to the Crag Hotel.

  Chapter 4

  Jaysmith ate a snack lunch in the hotel bar and told the openly curious Parker that he had liked Rigg Cottage, but needed a second look.

  ‘Quite right, old boy,’ said Parker. ‘Never rush into these things. On the other hand, don’t hang about either. There is a tide and all that.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ said Jaysmith, finishing his beer. ‘By the way, who is Wainwright?’

  ‘Wainwright? You mean the walking chappie?’

  ‘Probably.’

  Parker was regarding him with considerable surprise.

  ‘How odd,’ he said.

  ‘Odd?’

  ‘That someone as keen on the Lakes as you hasn’t heard of Wainwright! He’s the author of probably the best-known series of walkers’ guides ever written. You must be pulling my leg, Mr Hutton. Every second person you meet on the fells is clutching the relevant volume of Wainwright!’

  ‘Of course, I know the books you mean,’ lied Jaysmith. ‘Me, I’ve always managed very well with the OS maps.’

  He left the hotel a few minutes later and strolled through the sun-hazed village to a bookshop he had noticed on a corner. There he found shelves packed full of the Wainwright guide books. He bought Book Three, entitled The Central Fells, which included much of the terrain around Grasmere. A glance through it explained its popularity: detailed routes, pleasing illustrations, lively text; there was possibly something here even for the man who lived by map and compass.

  It was after two-thirty. Slipping the book into his pocket, he set out to walk up the hill to Rigg Cottage. It was a good distance and a steepish incline and he found himself admiring the old lady for having stayed on so long.

  At the house he was relieved to see the little Fiat still in place, but there was no sign of Annie Wilson as Miss Wilson showed him round the ground floor once again.

  ‘Has your niece gone?’ he asked casually.

  ‘No, she’s out in the garden.’

  ‘You mentioned a boy, Jimmy. Are there any other children?’

  ‘You’ve got sharp ears and a long nose, young man,’ said Miss Wilson reprovingly.

  ‘If I’m going to become an inhabitant, I need to adapt to local customs,’ smiled Jaysmith.

  His impudence paid off.

  ‘No, just the one,’ said the old lady abruptly. ‘They’d been married barely seven years when Edward died. It was just before Christmas last year.’

  Nine months and still grieving. Grief could last forever unless life wrenched you out of its course. And even then you could not be certain if you were really living or just escaping.

  ‘You look around upstairs by yourself,’ instructed Miss Wilson. ‘I don’t bother with the stairs unless I have to.’

  He spotted the younger woman from the window of the room with the mountaineering pictures. She was reclining in a deck chair at the bottom of the garden with her feet up on an ornamental wall, her eyes closed against the slanting sun. He stood for a while, watching, till she shifted slightly. Suddenly fearful she might glance up and see him at this particular window, he turned away and went downstairs.

  ‘Well?’ said Miss Wilson. ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘We haven’t talked about a price,’ delayed Jaysmith.

  ‘I thought you said you’d leave that to me,’ she replied, her lips crinkling. ‘Well here’s what the agent reckoned he’d advertise it for if I put it with him, which I’m going to do tomorrow if it’s not sold today.’

  She mentioned a figure. It was hefty, but, from the little bit of expertise Jaysmith had had to gather to keep up his end in conversations with Phil Parker, it seemed reasonable.

  Miss Wilson added, ‘But for the pleasure of not paying an agent’s fee and not having hordes of strangers and more than a few nosey local devils tramping around the place, I’d knock a thousand off that, Mr Hutton.’

  He scratched his chin and whistled softly.

  ‘That’s very generous of you,’ he said. ‘Very generous.’

  He hoped that Annie Wilson would materialize at some point to show a protective interest in her aunt. But he saw now that the old lady would not take kindly to being protected and that the niece would remain determinedly absent till negotiations were concluded.

  And if the conclusion were no sale, he would be politely shown the door and his chance would have been missed.

  His chance for what? He wasn’t quite sure, but Parker’s words rang in his ears … there is a tide in the affairs of men …

  He said, ‘On the other hand, I rather feel that for a cash sale, no property chain to worry about, no pressure to complete, or delay when you are ready either, all this guaranteed, you might come down a little lower.’

  ‘How much lower did you have in mind, Mr Hutton?’

  ‘Oh, another couple of thousand, I’d have thought.’

  She looked outraged but he also saw behind the outrage what he had already guessed at – the haggler’s spirit burning bright.

  They went at it hard for another fifteen minutes.

  ‘I’ll need to go out and talk to Annie,’ she said at one point.

  She was gone a couple of minutes only. Shortly after she returned they settled for a reduction of the agent’s price by fifteen hundred pounds.

  She offered her hand. He took it. Her grip was firm and warm.

  ‘That’s settled then. You’ll have a drink. Come into the garden.’

  He followed her out. Another deck chair had appeared alongside Annie’s.

  ‘It’ll be whisky to seal a bargain,’ said Miss Wilson, returning to the house. ‘Sit down.’

  She went back inside. Annie opened her eyes.

  ‘You’ve bought it then,’ she said neutrally.

  ‘It is irresistible,’ he said.

  ‘Did you knock her down?’

  ‘Only as far as she had decided to go. Probably not as far as that,’ he said ruefully. ‘I think she was very gentle with me. If she’d really tried her hardest, I suspect I’d have been raising her price. She’s rather formidable, isn’t she?’

  He had struck the right note. She smiled at him now and nodded.

  ‘When she came out to see you just now, what did she say?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘She just came out, got that deck chair you’re sitting on from the shed and set it up, then she went back inside. Why?’

  ‘She told me she was coming to consult with you,’ he said.

  Slowly she began to laugh and he laughed with her. It felt like a long time since there had been such a moment of shared pleasure in his life.

  ‘You two sound very jolly, I must say,’ said Miss Wilson, returning with a tray on which stood a decanter and t
hree glasses.

  Jaysmith struggled to his feet to offer her the deck chair but she said, ‘No, I find them things too awkward for me nowadays. I’ll sit on the wall here if you’ll shift your feet.’

  Obediently Annie removed her feet from the ornamental wall and her aunt sat down.

  ‘Take your jacket off, man, and enjoy the sun,’ exhorted the old lady.

  Obedient in his turn, Jaysmith removed his jacket. As he draped it over the back of the deck chair, the Wainwright guide fell out of his pocket. Quickly he picked it up and replaced it, wondering if Annie Wilson’s expression of amusement only existed in his mind.

  He stayed for half an hour, deftly fielding questions about his background. At the end of this time the younger woman said, ‘I really must be off now, Aunt Muriel. I promised I’d pick Jimmy up from school.’

  ‘You’ll spoil him.’

  ‘First day back. After this, it’s the bus and a nice healthy walk. I’ll bring him round this weekend.’

  ‘Make sure you do.’

  Jaysmith rose too.

  ‘You can get in touch with me at the hotel when your solicitor’s ready,’ he told Miss Wilson.

  ‘You’re staying on then?’

  ‘A few more days.’

  He was wondering how to keep contact with Annie Wilson when she said, ‘Like a lift down into the village, Mr Hutton? I can’t see your car.’

  ‘No. I walked up this afternoon.’

  ‘Spoken like a real enthusiast. Of course, if you want to walk back …’

  ‘No. Uphill was enough. Downhill’s often much harder.’

  ‘There speaks an expert.’

  He folded himself into the tiny car, leaving the two women to take their farewells. A moment of panic hit him as he waited.

  What am I doing? he asked himself. I’ve promised to buy a house just so that I can talk a little longer with a woman I’ve only just met who may turn out to be dull as ditchwater, or reckon that I’m even duller!

  But the panic vanished like morning mist when she climbed into the driver’s seat.

  They hardly spoke on the short descent into Grasmere. She dropped him at his hotel. To invite her in for tea or a drink was manifestly absurd when he knew she was going to pick up her son.

  He held the car door open and said, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘A pleasure,’ she said, putting the car into gear.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’d like to see you again.’

  ‘If you’re coming to live up here, I daresay we’ll bump into each other,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘No. I mean sooner. What about tomorrow? Lunch, say.’

  She stopped smiling and studied him closely.

  ‘I don’t often eat lunch,’ she said. ‘Except when I go to auntie’s. Otherwise I just grab a snack.’

  ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘So why don’t we eat our snacks together?’

  She thought for a moment then nodded gravely.

  ‘All right. Why not? Half past twelve suit you?’

  ‘Fine. But where? What’s the best place round here? You’re the local. You name it.’

  ‘Best place?’ she echoed, letting in the clutch and beginning to move gently away. ‘Well, one of my favourites is the Lion and the Lamb. Let’s meet there, shall we? Twelve-thirty prompt. ‘Bye!’

  She smiled at him, her face suddenly alive with humour and mischief, and then she was gone.

  That night before dinner Jaysmith studied the Cumbrian telephone directory in the bar. There were only two Lion and Lambs listed. One was in Gosforth which a glance at his map told him was about fifteen miles to the west as the crow flew but a long drive along high, narrow winding roads as the car went. The other was in Wigton, thirty odd miles north and almost at Carlisle. Neither was what he would call local.

  ‘Can I help?’ enquired Parker who’d been observing his search from the bar.

  ‘It’s nothing really,’ said Jaysmith. ‘I just made a casual arrangement to meet a friend in a pub locally and I can’t remember its name. I thought it was the Lion and the Lamb, but I see there’s nothing nearer than Gosforth.’

  ‘I don’t know a pub of that name round here,’ said Parker. ‘What about you, dear?’

  His wife had just come into the bar to get some drinks. She shook her head when the problem was explained and said, ‘No, there’s only one Lion and Lamb round here that I know of.’

  After she’d gone, Jaysmith said casually, ‘What did she mean?’

  Parker gave him the same look of surprise he’d shown at his ignorance of Wainwright.

  ‘Up there, of course,’ he said.

  He pointed at the window. Evening was well advanced but there was still light enough in the sky to provide a foil for the massive outlines of the nearer fells. One in particular seemed to loom over the hotel.

  ‘Helm Crag,’ said Parker. ‘Home of Grasmere’s tutelary deities.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry, my mind was too much on pubs,’ smiled Jaysmith, not having the faintest idea what was being said to him.

  Later in his bedroom he made sense of it by looking up Helm Crag in his newly purchased guide book. He found it described as possibly the best-known hill in the country because of the rock formation on the summit whose silhouette was said to resemble a lion couchant and a lamb. The Lion and the Lamb!

  He cursed himself mildly. Such ignorance displayed a week ago when he was still planning the kill would have been a real error of security. It would have been too large a task for the police to interrogate every hotelier and guest house proprietor in the Lakes, but there would certainly have been media exhortations for them to report any oddities in their recent guests. Parker was just the man to volunteer his services.

  But now it didn’t matter. He enjoyed the feeling of perfect relaxation once more. It didn’t matter!

  Except, of course, for the fact that Annie Wilson might have been testing him.

  He examined the proposition and quickly dismissed it. As a test it was pointless. He must have been the only person within fifty miles who didn’t know what the Lion and the Lamb was. Such ignorance was scarcely credible and all too easily remediable.

  So, no test. Just an invitation to a picnic.

  He switched off the light and his thoughts simultaneously. It was a trick of mental discipline he had developed over twenty years. Usually he could fall to sleep within a minute. Tonight for some reason it took just a little longer but the sleep when it came was as dark and undisturbed as ever.

  Chapter 5

  The ascent of Helm Crag was a delight; not much over a thousand feet but full of interest and beauties. He had set off in plenty of time and it was not much after noon when he reached the summit.

  He removed his rucksack and laid it on the ground at the foot of the group of rocks which he presumed gave the fell its nickname. But that was not the only interesting formation; the whole of the summit ridge was strewn with shattered slabs and broken boulders among which he wandered for a while, musing on that sense of peace underpinned with menace which mountains always gave him.

  When he returned to his rucksack, it was gone.

  ‘Over here,’ called Annie Wilson.

  He looked around. She was sitting in a well-sheltered declivity looking westward. His rucksack lay at her feet with hers.

  ‘You move fast,’ she said approvingly. ‘I was barely five minutes behind you when you started climbing, but you must have gained ten on the way up.’

  ‘I never saw you,’ he said frowning.

  ‘Move like the old brown fox, that’s me,’ she said.

  He sat down beside her. The old brown fox; he recalled his first sense, quickly modified, of a certain foxiness in her features; still, the description fitted well enough, except for the old. Dressed today in a heather-mixture shirt and dark green slacks which clung a little closer than walking trousers really ought to, she reclined among the rocks like a creature of them rather than a visitor to them. Her long black hair hung free today and there wer
e some small green lichens in it picked up from the boulder behind her. The brown eyes in that narrow intelligent face had instantly registered his appraisal so he made no real attempt to conceal it.

  ‘Will I do?’ she asked.

  ‘You fit the occasion perfectly,’ he said. ‘And me?’

  She looked him up and down, her eyes lingering on his well-worn but beautifully maintained boots. Custom-made many years ago, they were a perfect fit, light and supple, with great reserves of strength, and with the lace lugs, like the lace tags themselves and all metal parts on all of his equipment, veneered a non-reflective brown.

  ‘You don’t stint yourself do you?’ she said touching the leather.

  ‘If a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing best,’ he said lightly. ‘I’ve brought tongue sandwiches and a piece of salmon quiche. What about you?’

  ‘Apple, cheese, and a bramble pie,’ she said.

  ‘We complement each other perfectly. Do you mind drinking Chablis out of a cardboard cup?’

  ‘As long as it doesn’t come out of a cardboard box first,’ she said.

  They began to eat. Conversation flowed easily, but shallowly too. She refused to let him penetrate far into her personal life, and as he was by need as well as nature reticent about his own background, he could hardly suggest a fair exchange.

  ‘When shall you move into Rigg Cottage?’ she asked.

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  On what happens between me and you, he thought but did not say. It was not that he was afraid to say it; simply that he was not yet ready. Her response might be indignation, but he did not think so. If it were, it would be on her aunt’s behalf, not her own. More baffling would be the simple question, ‘What do you want to happen between us?’

  The truth was, he didn’t know. He was attracted to her, but this might simply be a symptom of reaction to his decision to retire. He felt relaxed, able to enjoy himself, and the first attractive woman to come along was ipso facto in the right place at the right time. He was surely too old for love at first sight. He had even begun to think he was getting a little too old for lust at first sight. Indeed, this did not feel like mere lust, though desire was moving languorously through his veins as she brushed pastry crumbs from her swelling shirt and stretched her long slim legs.