by John Dean
To Die Alone
John Dean
Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
EPILOGUE
By the Same Author
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
As the rain lashed the hills and the wind shrieked high and wild, Trevor Meredith walked through the copse, his breathing coming hard and fast. Constantly aware of the groaning and creaking sounds around him, he shot anxious glances at the trees as they rocked in the storm, which had raged all night and showed little signs of abating with the arrival of the grey shades of day. Meredith was acutely aware of the dangers: on his trek along the valley that morning, he had seen numerous newly-uprooted trees sprawled across the slopes. One had slipped thirty metres to form a makeshift bridge across the stream: Meredith had used the trunk to cross normally placid waters which were now a torrent after thirty-six hours of relentless summer rain.
Feet slipping on the damp moss beneath his walking boots, Meredith reached the fringes of the copse, wearily slipped his rucksack off his shoulders and dropped the bag to let it rest against a rock. Feeling suddenly very tired, he let his eyes range across the slopes below him and, spotting movement in among the bracken, gave a smile followed by a couple of low clicks of the tongue. A wet and bedraggled collie emerged from the undergrowth and bounded towards him.
‘You’re a good lad, Robbie,’ said Meredith, patting the dog’s head as the animal nestled at his feet. ‘At least there’s someone I can trust.’
Meredith reached into his bag and produced a plastic bag of digestive biscuits, one of which he gave to the animal. Watching the dog gulp the biscuit down, Meredith chuckled and passed him another one before taking one himself and turning his attention once more to his surroundings. He considered his situation. Throughout his walk, he had sought high ground and from his vantage point halfway up the slope, now had a wide view of the valley. His position allowed him to look across the stream and up at the ridge, the top all but obscured by the low cloud that had shrouded the hills all morning. He could also look to his right, along to where the valley gradually flattened out and opened up on to heather moorland. Meredith concluded his perusal with a glance left, back in the direction from which he had come.
Survey finished, Meredith heaved a sigh of relief when he saw no movement through the gloom, other than the occasional sheep trying to shelter from the driving rain behind of one of the drystone walls that criss-crossed the landscape. There had been times during his walk when Meredith fancied that he had seen shapes in the distance, admittedly figures glimpsed but fleetingly through the low cloud before they disappeared from view, but figures all the same. Or were they? He tossed another biscuit to the dog and gave a little shake of the head as he remembered what Jasmine had said the day before, that it was all in his mind. What was the word she had used? A breakdown, she had said, tears in her eyes. He was having a breakdown. Meredith scowled at the memory and bit down on another biscuit. Jasmine was wrong: this was not his imagination.
He glanced once more to his left, half expecting to see the figures again, but there was no one there. Clearly, the rapid pace he had set that morning had left them far behind. Perhaps, thought Meredith, he would get away with this after all. No one, surely, would be crazy enough to keep going after him in this weather. Perhaps, he thought as a particularly ferocious gust of wind battered the copse, they had set off in pursuit but been forced to abandon the chase as the conditions worsened. After all, they weren’t hill people, he was sure of that: perhaps it had all proved too much for them.
Despite the reassuring thought, Meredith still found himself reluctant to leave the protection of the copse. He allowed himself a few more moments to gather his strength: even though he was a fit forty-two year old he had still found the going hard as he battled all morning against the winds. The pause allowed him to consider his options. Heading right and out on to the moors would bring him once again into the clear view of his pursuers. The alternative, the one he had so far selected, was to pick a partially-concealed route through the sporadic woodland ranged along the valley side, then make his way up on to the moor and move quickly towards the welcome cover of the large forestry plantation less than a mile and a half away. Glancing down at Robbie, who was sitting waiting for another biscuit, Meredith estimated that they would be able to easily reach the trees inside an hour.
Cursing once again the snapped fanbelt that had forced him to leave his car back on the road, Meredith glanced at his watch, which told him that it was just before 10.30 a.m. He had abandoned the stricken vehicle with little in the way of planning in mind, except a vague idea that, if he could reach one of the tiny villages high in the hills, he could seek help. He knew people there. However, always in his mind was that even if he did catch a bus or hitch a lift with a farmer – Trevor Meredith had long since acknowledged that he had no alternative but to flee the area he had come to love – there was the strong possibility that he would be seen.
With a heavy sigh, he reached down for his bag and hoisted it on to his shoulders, pausing before setting off again to fish his handkerchief out of the trouser pocket of his waterproofs. Fastidiously, he wiped the rain off his spectacles, replaced the handkerchief and started walking, still unsure as to the route he would take. After a couple of paces, he paused and gave a final, longing glance back at the darkness of the wood. The temptation to sit out the storm was a strong one yet he realized that the gale that had made his progress so tortuous was also the one thing that offered him a chance of escaping with his life.
Yet still he hesitated….
‘Pull yourself together, man,’ he muttered. ‘You’ve been in tighter spots than this.’
Noticing his dog watching him expectantly, Meredith gave a clicking sound and started walking, but he had only gone a few paces when he heard, behind him, the death throes of one of the large trees in the heart of the copse. He swivelled to watch in wide-eyed fascination as it teetered for a few moments before, with a final tearing of mighty roots, it was sent crashing, heavy and thunderous, to the ground, landing less than twenty metres from where Meredith was standing. He felt the earth shake beneath his feet and noticed that several others trees, caught glancing blows by the collapsing giant, were swaying, like boxers caught by punches. At least one of them looked as if would be brought down as well and Meredith heard a creaking sound as it tilted at an alarming angle. Recovering from his shock, he gazed in anxious silence at the scene. To his relief, the tree remained standing, but, as the wind reached a new crescendo, it seemed as if the entire copse was dancing to the gale’s tune.
‘Too close,’ murmured Meredith. ‘Too close.’
Deciding to gamble on the rainswept moor, Trevor Meredith set out again, this time firm of step and strong of resolve. He had only gone a few paces when he realized that Robbie was not following him.
Turning back, Meredith saw the dog cowering low to the ground and emitting a low growling sound as it fixed its stare on something several hundred metres away, down towards the stream. Following the animal’s gaze, Meredith saw a figure picking its way along the bank.
Jasmine Riley stood on the virtually deserted railway platform at Levton Bridge station and watched in silence as the train lumbered out of the mid-morning gloom. Having weaved its way through the hills for the best part of an hour and a half, stopping at several tiny stations en route, the train’s three coaches still only contained a handful of passengers. After Levton Bridge, it was due to continue its sedate journey eastwards towards what the more ironic of the locals termed ‘the outside world’.
If the passengers remained on board until journey’s end, they would reach the flatlands at the bottom of the valley and trundle into Roxham, the area’s largest town. The service terminated at Roxham and there the passengers could, if they so wished, catch the mainline services and head south for Manchester and Liverpool, north up to Glasgow or east across to Newcastle. So important was the rail service that many people in the valley referred to it as a ‘lifeline’. For Jasmine Riley that morning, the word could not have been more apt: the knowledge made her nervous, more nervous than she could ever recall feeling.
As the train approached the platform, Jasmine glanced round at the other people waiting for its arrival – two elderly women clutching shopping bags and a teenager too engrossed in the music playing through his earphones to pay much attention to anyone else. Looking behind her, she saw to her relief that the ticket office area remained deserted, the rail worker behind the grille concentrating on his newspaper. He did not seem to have even noticed her, the pencil in his hand and the fact that his tongue was protruding from the side of his mouth suggesting to Jasmine that he was doing the crossword. In other circumstances, she would have laughed at the faintly ridiculous sight, but this time was different. Now her only thought was ‘such normality’. Not so long ago, it had been her normality and she felt a deep sadness as she recalled such carefree days. Feeling tears coming again, she cheered herself up with the reassuring thought that it would be her normality again soon: all she had do to was travel to Roxham, catch the connecting service out to Newcastle and arrive at the agreed rendezvous with Trevor. A nice little riverside pub, he had said. She would like it, he had said. Jasmine smiled at the thought.
Despite attempts to reassure herself, Jasmine Riley still watched nervously to see who got out of the carriages as the train pulled to a halt with a groaning of its brakes. There was only one person, a smartly dressed businessman carrying a briefcase. He glanced at his watch and hurried past without even looking at her. Jasmine picked up her overnight bag and boarded the end carriage: she had had some wild idea of being able to jump to safety if danger threatened, rather like they did in those old cowboy movies that she and Trevor so enjoyed watching. She knew it was a deeply impractical notion but somehow the idea made her feel more confident. She even allowed herself a little chuckle as she took her seat at the back, nearest the doors.
Once she was settled, she looked round the carriage in as natural a manner as possible, recalling Trevor’s final words before their parting. ‘Don’t draw attention to yourself’, he had said, ‘just act natural. Do that and you’ll be OK.’ Jasmine was relieved to see that the carriage was almost empty: a retired gentleman reading The Guardian, a bored young mother staring out the window while her small child munched his way through a packet of crisps and a middle-aged man engrossed in a paperback book. Jasmine watched him for a few moments. Was he the one following her? No, he had been on the train when she got on, she was sure of that.
That had been the problem over recent days: living with Trevor Meredith had turned her paranoid, jumping at every strange sound, freezing whenever the phone rang. Noticing that the man had glanced up at her, Jasmine looked away quickly, returned her attention to the window and tried to appear relaxed while inwardly rebuking herself: this was ridiculous, she thought, she was the one who told Trevor he was imagining everything. For his part, the man let his eyes rest on her for a few moments more, intrigued by what could possibly have so alarmed the bespectacled young woman with the mousy appearance. Seeing her slide another glance his way, the man felt a skip of the heart and instinctively ran a hand through his hair.
When no one else appeared on the platform, the guard blew his whistle and the train started to pull slowly out of Levton Bridge, struggling on the gradient as it reached the edge of the town, passing the Victorian primary school building halfway up the hill before leaving behind the final row of cottages. As the train gathered pace, Jasmine slid a furtive look across at the middle-aged man again. He was still engrossed in his book and she gave the slightest shake of the head. No, not him. He was just some ordinary bloke heading down into Roxham. Maybe, she mused, he was going there for some shopping, or perhaps to visit someone who lived there. Normality, she thought wistfully, always normality.
Returning her attention to the window as the train trundled across the rainswept moorland, she wondered where Trevor was. She had not heard from him since he left the cottage early that morning, but she was not worried, that had been the plan. Safer that way, he had said. Stick to the plan, always stick to the plan. These people could pick up on locations using GPS if phones were used, he had said. Jasmine recalled his final words before they parted: noticing her anxious look, he had given her a slight smile and, mimicking one of their favourite television shows, had said ‘smoke me a kipper, babe, I’ll see you for breakfast.’ She had laughed then he had kissed her gently on the forehead, foraged round in his pocket for his car key and walked out into the wan light. Recalling the moment, Jasmine gave a half-smile. Perhaps, she thought as the train rattled across the moors, Trevor was right, perhaps they would laugh about this one day.
She did not know about the man sitting in the next carriage, the man who had watched her from the shadows of the station before sprinting across the platform to jump on to the train just as it was about to leave; the man who now hid behind his newspaper and waited for Roxham.
CHAPTER TWO
‘So what do you think, Hawk?’ asked Bob Crowther as he unscrewed the lid of his flask and poured out a cup of steaming tea. ‘Is chummy up here?’
Crowther, the leader of Levton Bridge search and rescue team for more than fifteen years, glanced over at his companion, a large man who stood on the edge of the copse. Chewing on a chocolate bar as he looked silently out over the valley, Detective Chief Inspector Jack Harris did not appear to have heard the question and for a few moments, the only sound was the insistent patter of the rain on the swathe of bracken stretching down to the stream. Bob Crowther, well attuned to his friend’s silences after so many years, took a couple of sips of tea and glanced behind him. He frowned at the sight of his fellow team members sheltering among the trees, appreciating the rest after the afternoon’s battles against the gale. The realization that their search was getting them nowhere prompted him to try again with his friend.
‘I mean,’ said Crowther, ‘if Meredith was out here, I would have expected us to have found him by now. Or at least turned up something to suggest which way he went.’
‘Indeed.’ Harris did not turn round.
‘It would not have been the first time we’ve searched the hills for someone who was sitting at home watching Countdown, would it? Remember that bloke who turned up at the B and B in—?’
‘He’s here.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘He’s here,’ repeated Harris in a firm voice that brooked no argument as he finally turned round and looked his friend in the eye. His voice softened slightly. ‘He’s here, Bob. I can feel it.’
Crowther inclined his head slightly and Harris stared out over the valley again. He had been experiencing a growing sense of unease as the afternoon had worn on, a sense as he and the team trudged through the rainswept hills that something was badly wrong beneath the brooding north Pen
nine skies. Jack Harris had never been able to explain his instincts but always maintained that they stretched back to his days as a soldier when his life relied on a sixth sense, the sudden feeling that made you turn round without knowing why. Harris had seen comrades die because they hadn’t turned round and the experience had heightened his awareness of the world around him. That’s what he had said on the very few occasions when he would talk about his life before the police.
On this occasion, he had been struggling for several hours to rationalize what exactly he was feeling. He tried once more. Danger? Was it danger? No, not danger, too strong a word, rather an uneasy feeling nagging away at the back of his mind, a growing concern that whatever had threatened Meredith – and he was convinced that something was threatening him – may still be out there. He also had a feeling that whatever it was, was close. Very close. Perhaps, thought Harris grimly, danger was the word after all.
‘I don’t suppose,’ ventured Crowther, after watching him for a few moments, ‘that your instincts happen to tell you where he is?’
‘Sorry, Bob. They’re never that specific.’
‘I guessed as much,’ sighed Crowther. ‘Well, whatever has happened to him, I keep coming to the same question: why would he head across the hills when his car broke down? He’s lived up here long enough to know that if he’d gone back on the road, he could have been in Levton Bridge in an hour or so.’
‘Indeed so.’
‘And where was he going anyway? If it’s right that he told his office that he was going to an appointment at Ramsgill, whichever route you take, it’s north. And Trevor Meredith was driving East. Towards Roxham.’
‘He was,’ said Harris, finishing his chocolate and stuffing the wrapper into his backpack.
‘So what you thinking?’
‘I’m thinking how dangerous complacency can be.’
‘You can’t keep beating yourself up about it. These things can catch us all out.’