‘Maybe they were scared to death,’ Jane said, pushing her foot against the floor to build up momentum in the rocking chair that sat in the corner of the cottage living room.
Dan pulled a face. ‘I don’t think you can scare someone to death very easily. And you couldn’t rely on doing it time after time. I think Dr Wilde is right–they just turn up their toes when they’ve had enough. Maybe when somebody in the family dies, it sort of turns their mind to it. What do I know? I’m just a simple student of language.’
‘Do you think we should get Jimmy to warn Letty? I mean, if there is something dodgy going on, she’s the next on the list.’
Dan snorted. ‘Oh yes, let’s make sure we scare her to death. “By the way, Letty, somebody’s out to get you.” That’ll be helpful. Jane, if there’s no murders, there’s no murderer. And so no risk to Letty.’
Jane scowled. ‘It wouldn’t do any harm for her to be on her guard. And Jimmy’s family.’
Dan gave a little cat-like smile. ‘He’s family, all right.’
‘I don’t want to know,’ Jane said firmly. ‘Harry’s my friend too, remember?’ She got up and stretched.
‘I’m going to get some fresh air. Ever since Jake accosted me, I’ve felt like I should be looking over my shoulder. Like there’s someone watching me.’ She looked out of the window to the valley below and shivered. ‘It’s not a nice feeling. I wish I could shake it off.’ She turned back to face him. ‘It’s cleared up nicely now. I think I’ll drive up the fell and take a walk. Clear my head.’
‘OK. Have we got plans for later?’
Jane shook her head. ‘Let’s leave it till tomorrow.’
As she drove down the hill in the dying light of the afternoon, Jane spotted Matthew wheeling the buggy across the road from the Post Office. She slowed to a halt and wound down the window. ‘Don’t stake your hopes on Letty Brownrigg,’ she called to him. ‘I’ve seen the papers and she’s got nothing from Dorcas.’
Matthew’s eyes narrowed and his brows lowered. ‘You are pathetic,’ he snarled at her, turning into his driveway and disappearing behind the hedge.
The satisfaction was petty, she knew, but it was satisfaction nonetheless. Jane stepped on the gas and headed up past Langmere Stile. She felt a pang as she passed Edith Clewlow’s cottage. Nothing to do with me. The thought lacked conviction.
A mile further on, she swung left into the National Trust car park for Langmere Force. Hers was the only car there at that time of the afternoon and Jane felt calm creep over her as soon as she cleared the stile and walked up the woodland path to the forty-foot waterfall that cascaded from the high fell into Dark Tarn below.
After a short, strenuous climb, the path emerged from the woods on to a small limestone pavement, its irregular cracks and fissures giving the appearance of giant crazy paving. As was her habit, Jane walked right up to the edge and carefully sat down with her legs dangling over the lip of the rock shelf, just as she’d done since the first time Matthew had dared her to as a child. The rock formed a shallow U-shape round the waterfall that roared amber and white to her left, and her vantage point provided a breathtaking view of the cascade and the tarn below. Jane couldn’t remember a time when Langmere Force hadn’t mesmerised her, taking her out of whatever ailed her and making her feel healed. That afternoon was no different. Things slowly slid into perspective and she began to feel the pressure lifting.
The great advantage of an area with few roads was that it made tailing someone very easy. You could hang well back, knowing there were no turn-offs, then narrow the gap when the rare junctions approached. But he hadn’t needed to be even that sophisticated as he tailed Jane that afternoon. She’d driven up the hill towards Langmere Stile, an easy follow. And as he’d climbed in her wake, he’d spotted her car in the Langmere Force car park. It would have been hard to miss, really, sitting in splendid isolation near the start of the path.
She was already out of sight by the time he pulled in. Nevertheless, he was careful to park his car in the furthest corner, more or less hidden from sight of the road. He took a deep breath, wiping his hands on his trousers. Killing anonymous old people was one thing. What he was planning now was a different thing altogether–if you could call this flying by the seat of the pants planning. Still, he’d done all right so far. No living witnesses to date. He had to make sure it stayed that way. Eliminate Jane, clear the path to the manuscript.
He got out of the car, shivering as the chill air hit him. He glanced at the information board at the start of the path, understanding that the waterfall might give him the perfect opportunity. If he caught up with her there, the roar of the water would cover the sound of his approach. And it would be the perfect place to dump the body afterwards. He needed a weapon, though. As he climbed through the trees, he scanned the ground on either side of the steep path, looking for something suitable. At last, he saw what he needed. A fallen limb had been cut into sections, presumably by one of the park rangers, and stacked alongside the track. He chose a section that was about three feet long and six or seven inches in diameter. He put one end on the ground and leaned into it, testing its strength. It wouldn’t do to attempt murder with a rotten piece of wood.
He carried on upwards, his chest tightening with anxiety as well as the climb. He didn’t want to do it, but it had to be done. As the trees thinned out, he slowed, not wanting to come upon Jane unawares. He’d been right about the water; its rushing filled the air, covering the stealthy sound of his feet on leaves and twigs. When he caught sight of Jane, his heart jumped. The gods were playing right into his hands. She was perched on the edge of the limestone pavement, all her attention focused on the water below her.
He crept forward, holding the wood like an unwieldy baseball bat. His soft footfalls were swallowed by the water’s rush. A fine mist fell on his hair and face, making him blink. He gripped the wood tightly, battening down any qualms about what he was about to do. It had to be done. He inhaled deeply, raising the wood above his shoulder as he turned sideways on to Jane.
When the branch crashed down on her head, it came entirely without warning. So sudden she had no possibility of grabbing anything to hinder her fall, the blow stunned her. Before she had even registered it, she was in mid-air, falling through water, drenched, deafened and dizzy. She tumbled through water, treacherous rock on all sides, too stunned to offer any defence.
The plummet into the tarn took the breath from her lungs. Bubbles trailed from her nose and mouth as she sank under the power of the waterfall. The blood pounded in her ears, a red film obscured her sight. A flicker of consciousness told her to strike out for the surface but the message didn’t make it through to her limbs.
The distance between life and death was shrinking by the second.
Tenille was almost beginning to enjoy herself, though she would have died before she’d have admitted it to anyone. OK, it was frustrating not to be able to go out in daylight, but she had books to read, music to listen to, food to eat and it was warm enough tucked up in the sleeping bag. She’d never had a problem with her own company, and Jane came by often enough to save her from feeling completely cast adrift.
Jane had brought good news earlier that day. She’d seemed kind of remote, like she was trapped in her own head and it was too much like hard work to get out. But she’d been clear enough about her conversation with the Hammer. Now he knew Tenille wasn’t going to grass him up. And Jane had told him Tenille didn’t want him making pointless gestures, taking the blame on himself to get her off the hook. Tenille didn’t have a clue what her father had planned, but she trusted him. Though he’d kept out of her life for thirteen years, he’d proved his devotion when it mattered. She had no doubt that he would stick by her now. He would come up with some plan that would put them both in the clear. In a few days’ time, she’d be able to come out of hiding and get back to her old life.
She wondered where Sharon was staying now the flat was burned out. Would the council have rehoused her in o
ne of the empty flats on the Marshpool? Or would she be camping out with one of her mates, drowning her losses in booze and weed? Tenille didn’t mind the idea of going back to live with Sharon. Her aunt had mostly left her to her own devices. They’d evolved a way of life that more or less suited them both. But maybe her dad would step into the frame now. She didn’t think he’d want her living with him–she knew enough about the kind of life he led to realise he wouldn’t want his daughter in the thick of it. But maybe he’d keep an eye on her, make sure Sharon didn’t bring home any more deadbeat pervs like Geno.
And maybe, with her dad in the picture, she could let herself have the dreams she’d always pushed away because they were beyond impossible. Dreams of study, of university, of maybe even writing her own poetry one day. If she knew there was a real point, then she could make herself go to school, play the game and follow the path Jane had shown her. She could make her dad see that tossing a few quid in the pot wouldn’t be money wasted. She could make him proud.
But that was for the future. Right now, she was focused on paying Jane back for the way she’d stuck her neck out for her. It didn’t matter that she’d made a promise; in her world, promises were flexible. You kept them when they made sense, you broke them when they didn’t. Jane was too soft to see that you couldn’t take people at their word. That was why she was getting nowhere with those old people. Nobody volunteered anything to anyone, whether information or possessions, unless there was something in it for them.
Tenille waited for midnight, then set off. She’d meant to go to Letitia Brownrigg’s house the night before, but finding Eddie Fairfield dead in his chair had left her more shaken than she’d admitted. She couldn’t face doing Mrs Brownrigg’s place after that.
She found the address on Chestnut Hill easily enough, though it took her a few moments to figure out that 12A was the low extension that thrust out from the left-hand side of the big stone house numbered 12. She hid her bike behind some shrubs by the entrance to the drive and walked softly up the grass verge. A couple of windows in the main house showed the gleam of a light, but otherwise it was in darkness. Tenille guessed at a landing light left on for children who might wake up needing to go to the toilet. She wondered what it must be like to live somewhere big enough for there to be any chance of missing your way from bedroom to bathroom. She kind of liked the idea and wondered if maybe one day she would live somewhere like that.
The door was round the side, a rustic construction of sturdy wooden planks with square iron nail heads. But the handle and the mortise lock just below it were modern. Tenille gently depressed the handle and pushed, to check if there were internal bolts as well as the lock. To her astonishment, the door opened and she almost tumbled inside. So it really was true that, out in the country, people still left their doors unlocked. How mad was that? Her heart pounding, she slipped inside, leaving the door ajar behind her.
She moved stealthily down the hall towards the first closed door. Again, she took infinite pains not to make a noise as she opened the door. What she saw made her gasp out loud. A man was standing by a bureau, rifling through papers by the narrow beam of a torch held in his mouth. Hearing Tenille’s strangled, ‘Fuck,’ he started and swung round, the light bouncing over her. Tenille backed out of the room and hurtled down the hall, yanking the door open and slamming it behind her to buy a few precious seconds.
She sprinted down the drive, dragging the bike from the bushes and into the road. She threw her leg across the bike and set off down the hill as fast as she could pedal. Through the rush of wind in her ears, she listened in panic for the sound of a car in pursuit. If he had wheels, she’d have to abandon the bike and leg it through the gardens that flanked the road. But luck was on her side. No car loomed behind her, though she still didn’t stop till she made it back to Fellhead, sweating and exhausted. She replaced the bike and ran back to the slaughterhouse, making sure she locked the door behind her.
Panting, she leaned against the door and tried to calm herself. He couldn’t have seen her properly, not with the baseball cap pulled down over her brow and her jacket zipped right up to cover the lower part of her face. Even if he had seen her, he couldn’t have known who she was or where she was staying. He obviously had no more right to be there than she had. So it wasn’t like he could go to the cops and tell them about seeing a young black burglar. Just as well. If the local cops were smart enough, they’d soon be putting two and two together and coming up with Tenille Cole and Gresham’s Farm. She was safe. She really was safe.
She wasn’t so sure about Letitia Brownrigg, though. If somebody else was after Jane’s manuscript, then maybe there really was something funny going on with all these old people dying.
Tenille felt her chest constrict. What if she’d come face to face with a murderer? If he knew about the manuscript, chances were he knew Jane. And if he knew Jane, he might know about Tenille. And if he knew about Tenille, he might be able to work out where she was hiding. Was he really going to leave her alive to tell the tale?
Maybe she wasn’t quite as safe as she’d thought.
When we sank. Bounty we made sure to keep safe the cutter & the jolly-boat. At 20ft & 16ft in length, they made ideal vessels for our fishing parties. We kept them on the shingle, drawn up beyond the tide-line available to any who wanted to fish from them. As my apprehension of some sort of violent rebellion grew, I began to take secret steps to secure my own survival & that of my family. I made a hiding place near the boats & there I began to build up supplies. Dried fish & meat, cocoa-nuts, dried fruit & skinfuls of fresh water, enough canvas to rig a sail, the sextant I had kept by me; all of these I secreted away, along with a substantial portion of the gold we had carried off from the Bounty. It was a fine irony that the one metal that had no value at all on Pitcairn might yet earn me my liberty. I said nothing of my preparations to anyone, not even my dear wife Isabella, for though I doubted not her love for me, the women loved nothing more than to gossip about us men as they went about their daily business. I could not risk may preparations being discovered & so I left her out of may confidence.
35
That Thursday displayed the sort of weather that Jane yearned for when she was in London: high blue skies raked with fragments of thin cloud; leaves green, gold, russet, chestnut and oxblood; skylines etched clear and rugged; birdsong and the smell of autumn on the air. She could hardly believe she was still alive to see it. She was bruised and stiff, there was a long gash down one arm and a lump on the back of her head. But, that apart, she seemed to have survived her ordeal with remarkably little physical damage.
The real injuries were internal, she suspected. Jane had never been the victim of violence, never known the visceral fear that comes with knowing that someone is out to harm you–and having no sense of who her attacker was made it even harder to deal with the fear.
She owed her life to a shepherd and his dog, a man like her father who knew the lines of the fell as well as his jaw under the razor. He’d been walking back to his Land Rover with the dog when he’d seen Jane fall into the tarn. Man and dog had raced across the hillside and he had sent the animal into the water. She had no recollection of the dog seizing her collar in his teeth. She remembered breaking the surface in a panic, convinced the dog was her attacker, struggling to free herself from his grip. Only when the shepherd waded in did she stop struggling and allow herself to be towed to shore. She was groggy but conscious enough to make it back to the Land Rover, her arm slung round a man she vaguely remembered from sheep sales and summer barbecues.
Her mother had risen to the crisis with customary calm. Judy’s fretting was always in the abstract; faced with concrete calamity, she simply got on with what had to be done. Jane was stripped, inserted into a hot bath, supplied with sweet milky tea. Her wounds were cleaned and she was wrapped in a warm towel before being put to bed in a pair of flannel pyjamas she had never seen in her life. Only then did her mother pause to ask what had happened.
‘I do
n’t know,’ Jane had prevaricated. ‘I must have slipped.’ Now the practicalities were over, she didn’t want to tell her mother the truth. It would terrify Judy, but it would terrify her even more to relive the moments after the blow struck, moments when she’d plummeted downwards half-stunned, her mouth and nose full of water, no sense of which way was up as she tumbled through the column of water. But when Dan had shown up in response to her phone call, she had told him the moment they were alone.
‘Do you have any sense of who it was?’ he demanded, his hands clenched into fists.
‘I’ve no idea. I told you I felt like I was being followed, but I can’t think who’d do a thing like this. Not Jake, not Matthew.’
‘Whoever did this was serious,’ Dan said. ‘You should tell the police.’
‘But why would anyone want me dead? I haven’t got the manuscript.’
Dan reached for her hand. ‘Maybe they want to eliminate the competition.’
‘In that case, they could be coming after you too.’
His face froze in shock. ‘Christ, I never thought of that.’ He exhaled loudly. ‘Well, from now on, no more solo interviews. No more wandering around on your own. We stick together, right?’