Deep Fear

by Deep Fear (retail) (epub)

  ‘We haven’t told the press everything, but what we have told them is that we think the women were tortured because they were being punished for something – essentially taught a lesson. The nickname came about from a leak; we think someone on the inside has leaked the information about the poems. Some clever dick at the Evening Echo came up with it and will probably win some journo award for it. I suppose it’s better than The Lakeland Lunatic, or the Punisher. They can call him what they like, as long as it plays to the ego of the killer and he takes one risk too many, so I can catch the bastard.’

  Kelly didn’t mind the name tag. It meant that it had caught the attention of the nation, and that meant more people on the lookout for pieces of the puzzle. Newspapers always did it. Headlines were what sold papers, and handy epithets and scary rhyming slang were the bread and butter of news desks everywhere. ‘The Teacher’ had a certain ring to it, and it suited the MO. It wasn’t too offensive, although someone had suggested that it might actually be a teacher – Cane had received complaints from the Department of Education citing gross incitement to hatred against teachers. Kelly insisted that it hadn’t come from her office; inside the confines of four walls, they actually called him ‘The Poet’. But he wasn’t a poet, he was a thief, using someone else’s work to brag. It did give a nod to the literary aspect of the murders and Kelly knew that, secretly, DC Emma Hide was intoxicated by the whole poetry angle and her insights were fascinating. Kelly believed that the young DC’s hypotheses could very well turn out to be pivotal to the case, but she hadn’t told her directly. After learning about the Yorkshire killer; and his calling card, Kelly’s intuition told her that the words used to communicate via the deceased, were fundamental to threading all the missing pieces together. As she’d found a hundred times before at this point, Kelly believed that all they needed was right in front of them. The exposure meant more phone calls to the incident room that turned out to be absolute bullshit, but it had to be done and one day, when they least expected it, it’d be worth it. But what niggled her was the leak: they had to find out how the press had discovered the poetry.

  ‘Is that what you think? That he’s watching all the news and actually enjoying it?’ Johnny asked.

  ‘Yep. That’s exactly what I think. If he didn’t want the attention, he’d hide the bodies, not leave them to be discovered.’ She’d probably said too much if it was anyone else, but Johnny was a private man, not given to sensationalism. She was pretty sure that he’d keep things to himself.

  ‘I’ve seen some pretty fucked up stuff, but this guy sounds like he’s sick – I mean really sick in the head. You deal with society’s best don’t you?’

  ‘Yep, which is why, when we catch him, he’ll probably get Broadmoor.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll catch him?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said and lowered her sunglasses to look at him, dead in the eye. Kelly would dearly love to get Johnny to go over what they had: he had just the right combination of cynicism, stomach and judgement to cope with the piles of information being generated by her office on an hourly basis.

  ‘Are you sure it’s the same guy who did both?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re sure,’ she replied. His inquisitiveness diverted her, and she enjoyed it.

  ‘Don’t psychos like that usually go through some kind of shit childhood or something?’

  ‘Normally, yes. But it’s no excuse.’ Johnny had hit upon something that she’d already planned to explore with her team: their killer, like the Yorkshire killer, had grown into the monster he’d become, and he’d once been a novice – perhaps in a children’s home or care home of some sort. There might be medical records about juvenile delinquency – possibly cruelty to animals, for example – that had been flagged up years ago, waiting to be discovered, and linking their killer to a job, a doctor, a family. A past. Whitehaven was their newest lead.

  ‘I’m not saying it is, it just always surprises me what people do to one another. I once went down a street in Sierra Leone and a woman was lying in the middle of the road, writhing around in agony, it looked like she’d been run over. A vehicle pulled up and reversed over her a couple of times until she stopped moving, then drove off. I don’t know why I remember that, but it’s one of the things that sticks. Look at ISIS throwing gay men off the roofs of buildings, and you see what we are capable of.’

  ‘We? Johnny, we’re not the same as ISIS.’

  ‘Yes we are. If you take away our land, invade us, kill our families, brainwash us from birth and arm us, then most of us would react the same way.’

  ‘Really? Would you? I don’t think so. Besides, I don’t think that my killer has gone through any of that. I don’t think this is some kind of deranged dropout, he’s more likely to be inside society than on its periphery.’

  ‘Maybe he went through worse. All I’m saying is that humanity and compassion are all relative.’

  ‘So you’re saying killers are made not born?’

  ‘I’m saying that we all have limits. There’s only so much a person can go through before we flip.’

  ‘I refuse to believe that all abusers have, at some point, been abused, but it’s a good point. Kids who get royally screwed up early enough go on to become evil bastards. Some, not all. Can we change the subject?’

  ‘Sorry. So when do I get to see the house?’

  Kelly watched him. His skin was honey-coloured from his work on the fells, and the hairs on his arms were blonde. His hair was flecked with blonde, as well as grey. His face was lined with deep wrinkles showing where he laughed and where he thought. The prosecco was going to her head.

  ‘Why don’t we go there now?’ They walked back towards the river and Kelly stopped in front of the house. Her house. Johnny’s arm brushed against her and he placed his hand on the small of her back as she unlocked the door. He stepped in and she closed the door.

  They made it to the foot of the stairs before they began tearing at each other’s clothes.

  Chapter 34

  Professor John Derrent was of slim build, and he wore faded khaki shorts and a beige shirt that had seen better days, reminiscent of a hunting party at the height of The Raj. But he wasn’t fazed by the state of his dress, and whether or not it was currently in vogue; he was more interested in two young college students who had decided to tag along with the afternoon’s walking tour.

  One of them wore shorts so short that he could see the crack of her buttock, when she bent over to check her back pack for water. Both giggled when he smiled and winked at them, as he popped his shades onto the top of his head. Despite his dress sense, and his advancing years, Derrent exuded a confidence only reserved for film stars and TV personalities. He wasn’t either, but fancied himself a minor celebrity around the halls and colleges of Lancaster University. When third year students graduated, he kept in touch with a selection of them on Facebook, and insisted on reunions at remote residences in the Lakes, lent to him by friends. A few ex-students kept coming, and John Derrent’s supply of willing conquests never seemed to dry up. His taste extended beyond student age too. He had no shortage of partners of a more contemporary background – lecturers mainly, married or not.

  His face was tanned and he’d had his teeth whitened at great expense. But he had no wife to pay for, and no kids to leech him dry, so he was free to spend his money on the things that occupied men half his age: women and drugs.

  Today he felt an excitement beyond that which normally inspired him. The Teacher had everyone talking, and John Derrent had a special tour planned. He did a quick head count and wrote down names. There was a good smattering of all ages, and it was quite a crowd. He counted seventeen people, including himself and the good reverend. Neil was an odd acquaintance but good for a pint and a natter about literature. The reverend was also partial to the occasional joint, and they’d spent plenty of balmy evenings laying by the lake, gazing at the stars, reciting poetry. Derrent fancied himself as quite the bohemian, and finally, he had something to brag about:
not only did he have a newly captive audience, thanks to The Teacher, but he also had insider knowledge, thanks to Sally.

  They’d gathered at Howtown jetty, and a steamer had just departed, leaving the place deserted, apart from their group. An elderly couple clicked their cameras, and it was obvious to the professor and the reverend that this was their first visit to the Lakes. Their keenness gave them away, as well as the awe with which they surveyed the view, which encased them from every angle. No matter where they looked, fell and lake assaulted the senses, and made people smile intoxicating smiles.

  ‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen!’ Derrent enthused. ‘Thank you so much for joining us! As you might well be aware, today’s tour is based on William and Dorothy Wordsworth’s many walks around beautiful Ullswater. But, sadly, the area where the tour is usually based – just across the lake there – is inaccessible to us today.’ He paused and pointed across to the north shore, towards Gowbarrow. ‘Sadly, the whole area is still sealed off, after the dreadful incident at the weekend. As we all know, a poor girl was found murdered at Aira Force, and, despite being a tragic tale, it was also one of Wordsworth’s favourite places.’ Derrent paused again, for effect, and allowed a ripple of sensationalism to travel around the group. The participants all felt as though they were living part of a macabre history, and each national reverted to type: the Japanese clicked their cameras, the Italians checked their sunglasses, and the British pretended not to be ruffled.

  A man on his own at the back of the group, quietly took notes, and Derrent felt distinguished in his perceived eminence – he was being taken seriously. Too often, participants gossiped and fidgeted when he was relaying vital information, but not today. Today, everyone paid attention.

  ‘And so today, ladies and gents, we are commencing the tour from the opposite bank: no less significant, and providing us with a new perspective. Who knows? It may turn out to be even more successful.’

  Reverend Neil looked over the group with satisfaction, as he would his congregation, and Derrent introduced him. The group was suitably impressed to have a man of the cloth in attendance, and it gave the tour a higher legitimacy and a sense of officialdom.

  ‘If we look over to the north shore, slightly eastwards, we can just make out the small hamlet of Watermillock, the site of yet another grisly reminder of what has befallen the lake in the last week. Yes, another body – the first in fact – was discovered outside the reverend’s own church, and I know what you’re thinking – a pattern is emerging. Indeed. When will The Teacher strike again? And where will he leave his next victim?’

  Derrent paused and put his hands on his hips, gazing across the lake in an exaggerated manner, encouraging the same from his group. People took selfies, and the quiet man at the back continued making notes.

  They began their tour. The plan was to walk the southern shore (instead of the northern one), and end up in a pub in Glenridding, where there would be refreshments and a quiz. It was an impressive hike, and it would take them up and down fells as they went.

  Derrent carried a long walking stick, with a handle of deer horn, and he used it deliberately with every stride. The reverend fell into animated conversation with those around him. Some asked questions, others just listened.

  ‘Why is he called The Teacher?’ asked a French lady.

  ‘Well,’ Derrent began, and winked at Reverend Neil. ‘I have it on trusty authority that The Teacher is teaching his victims a lesson as he punishes them.’ An appropriate gasp rippled among the group. Derrent enunciated the word punish, as if it was syrup dripping from his lips. The quiet man stopped writing and listened carefully. The French lady recoiled in horror.

  ‘I’ll spare you the gorier details, but Moira Tate – the poor woman found in Watermillock – had been horribly disfigured, and not only that.’ His voice grew quieter, as if he were telling a horror story around a campfire. ‘Not only that, but a warning was left on her body,’ he said. A man put his arm around his wife and the two blonde students stood closer together. ‘The same is true of poor Brandy Carter, the girl found at Aira Force.’

  The professor waited as the sinister details were absorbed by the group. To read something in a newspaper is one thing, but to stand with a university professor and the reverend whose church it was where a body was actually discovered, made it all the more remarkable and personal.

  ‘What kind of warning?’ The quiet man spoke, and everyone turned round to watch him, then back again, to listen to Derrent’s reply. The sun beat down upon them, but a few shivered and rubbed goose bumps on their arms.

  ‘Poetry,’ Derrent said. Gasps rattled around along with the breeze, and Derrent smiled smugly, satisfied that his bombshell had had the desired effect. It was the first time he’d parted with the information, and it made him feel central to the unfolding drama – a place he always liked to be.

  Derrent turned swiftly and carried on up the path, dramatically. He felt quite the minor celebrity.

  Once past Hallin Fell, Dobbin Wood came into view, and the tip of Aira point could be made out. The quiet man knew this already as he’d hiked here a hundred times before. Gowbarrow Fell dominated the view, and the walkers trudged on, desperate to ask more questions.

  ‘There, over there,’ said Derrent, pointing.

  ‘The spot where William and his sister, Dorothy, saw the daffodils; the spot where he penned his most famous words, and the spot where a killer carried a body up to Aira Force,’ said Derrent. Neil was used to such claims of grandiose elaboration, and he found today’s yarn no less embellished than normal; the punters lapped it up. It was harmless enough and brought good money to bolster the church. Neil would have chance to enthuse about his own passion soon enough; the Lakes poets. They made a good duo; Derrent warmed the crowd and Neil recited the lines, as perfectly as if he read them from a script.

  The group gathered at the shoreline and gazed across to Aira Point, from where the Aira Beck meandered its way down the steep hill to the tumbling falls, crashing from the dramatic fell above. The waterfall couldn’t be seen from the shore as it was hidden by dense woodland, but with the help of the professor and the reverend, the group could imagine the scene that left such an elemental impression on Wordsworth.

  ‘You can just see the roof of the great Lyulph’s Tower, the former hunting lodge of the Dukes of Norfolk, and starting point of Wordsworth’s ‘The Somnambulist.’ Derrent went on to detail the sorry tale of the medieval legend of Emma, the woman who’d plunged to her death whilst sleepwalking at Aira Force, and how her ghost still frequented it. His tone rose and fell – poetic in itself – and one could be forgiven for believing that Wordsworth had actually penned most of his poetry whilst in a mythical trance, sat in his suit and top hat, under the trees and amongst the red squirrels and deer, two hundred years ago.

  These stories didn’t interest the quiet man, who’d reverted to taking notes once more. What interested him was how Professor Derrent knew so much about the demise of Moira Tate and Brandy Carter, and why the reverend had chosen to recite the exact poem, of which an excerpt had been left inside the tongue-less throat of Brandy Carter… ’What man has made of man…’ It allowed the reverend to decry the modern world, and how all of humanity is tarnished and beyond hope – unless we turn to God: his God of course, thought the quiet man, cynically.

  Once he was out of these ridiculous hiking clothes and back in uniform, he’d give DI Porter a full report. But for now, he had to endure a pub meal and quiz with this sorry collection of civilians who got off on murder.

  Chapter 35

  Wendy Porter had been readmitted to The Penrith and Lakes, and Kelly headed to the female medical ward. It was fairly quiet, but Kelly could hear Nikki speaking to a nurse, and it didn’t sound as though they were swapping pleasantries about the weather. Kelly’s heart sank and she slowed her footsteps.

  ‘What is taking so long?’ Nikki was shouting. She was treating the staff like they were idiots. Nikki’s demands were u
nrealistic and the more she pissed off the staff, the more they’d make things difficult: it was human nature. But for some reason Nikki didn’t seem to grasp this simple fact.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Kelly said. Nikki turned around, and the sight of Kelly only heightened her irritation.

  ‘Mum’s MRI has been delayed again, and no-one in this place seems to be able to do their job properly!’ Nikki spat. The nurse took her opportunity to walk away, as she did so, she rolled her eyes at Kelly.

  ‘You won’t get anywhere treating them like that, Nikki, I don’t care how mad you are,’ Kelly said.

  ‘So now you’re a fucking doctor as well are you?’ Nikki said sarcastically. Kelly wanted to say so much. She even felt the urge to slap her sister’s face, but she didn’t.

  ‘Is this all about Dave Crawley?’ Kelly said.

  ‘What?’ Nikki asked.

  ‘You. This.’ Kelly gesticulated. ‘What is your problem? Why are you so angry? It won’t do Mum any good, it won’t get things done quicker, and you’ll just piss them off so you get ignored more.’

  Kelly stood her ground as Nikki squared up to her. She thought at one point that Nikki might hit her. Instead, her sister looked her up and down and simply said, ‘You’re just you,’ and walked away.

  ‘Hang on a minute, what the hell is that supposed to mean?’ Kelly asked, following her. She hadn’t noticed, but her voice had become as raised as her sister’s. A nurse appeared with her hands on her hips. ‘Do you mind?’

  They were reprimanded like children. Kelly was ashamed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  Nikki walked away. The nurse went back to her duties, and Kelly was left in the corridor on her own.

  Kelly realised that she didn’t even know what room her mother was in this time, and went to find a nurse to ask. This time, the same nurse who’d shouted, seemed calmer, and smiled at her, more sympathetic.