Dead Man Walking. Paul Finch

fog’s impeding our best efforts, but the latest forecast is that it’s due to clear by around midday tomorrow.’

      ‘That’s twenty-four hours off,’ Bella McCarthy said. ‘What do we do in the meantime?’ She was a tall, trim blonde of around fifty-five, always decked in the latest rural fashions and a famous local sportswoman, playing a prominent role at the Cragwood Boat Club. But at present she sounded so dismayed that her small-statured husband, who despite his dyed brown, crimped hair, was ten years her senior, took her jewellery-coated hand in his. James McCarthy was another boat enthusiast and one-time big noise in the City, and yet was inclined to extreme mousiness in his wife’s presence, which might explain why she seemed less than impressed by his attempts to comfort her.

      ‘That’s what I’ve gathered you all for,’ Heck said. ‘As I say, I’ve no reason to assume this man will come down to Cragwood Keld. Most likely he’ll be far away by now. But it’s not impossible. I mean, the Cradle Track is the most direct route up into the Pikes. It’s also the most direct route down.’

      ‘But would he really come this way?’ Mandy Fillingham – Burt’s plain, dumpy wife – asked, evidently seeking reassurance. ‘I mean, knowing there are villages here and people … and that he’s wanted by the police?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ Heck said. ‘The best advice I can give you at present is to go home and lock your doors and windows. Report anyone wandering the village who you don’t know, and certainly don’t admit anyone to your house. In fact, don’t even open the front door until you’ve looked through your peephole or living-room window and established who it is.’

      ‘So we’re prisoners in our own homes?’ Bella McCarthy said.

      ‘Kind of,’ Mary-Ellen agreed.

      ‘Oh my God!’ Sally O’Grady looked appalled to hear it in such bare terms.

      ‘Sally!’ her sister said warningly.

      ‘But only until tomorrow,’ Mary-Ellen added.

      ‘Assuming the fog clears tomorrow,’ Bella retorted. ‘I mean this is the Lake District, you know. And it is November.’

      ‘Bella, there’s zero chance of this guy coming here,’ Mary-Ellen said.

      ‘How can you say that if you don’t know anything about him?’

      ‘The thing is, Mrs McCarthy,’ Heck said, ‘you’ve got a police office right in the middle of Cragwood Keld. I can’t stress how unusual that is in this day and age. It exponentially reduces the chance of an offender setting up shop here. You’ve got officers right on the spot.’ He indicated Mary-Ellen. ‘PC O’Rourke and I will remain permanently on duty until this guy is arrested or until we can be absolutely sure he’s left the area.’

      Some looked relieved by that. There were several murmurs of gratitude. The inhabitants of Cragwood Keld had got quite used to Mary-Ellen in the relatively short time she’d been here; they admired her spirit and enjoyed her sense of humour, but they also liked that she was a toughie who could look after herself and, if need be, them.

      However, one person who didn’t seem relieved was Burt Fillingham.

      ‘But this man’s got a gun,’ he said. ‘If that’s the case, he could force his way into any building. He could force his way into the police station. There’d be nothing you or PC O’Rourke could do then.’

      This thought had crossed Heck’s mind too, but the last thing he wanted now was an unofficial evacuation of the village. Despite the limited numbers, it could still turn into a stampede, and in these conditions that would be fraught with difficulty and danger, and it was probably unnecessary in any case.

      ‘The firearms issue’s being taken care of.’

      ‘How?’

      ‘Well … I’m hoping to get a couple of firearms officers posted here for the next day or so. I haven’t had time to organise that yet, but I’m going to sort it at the first opportunity.’

      ‘We didn’t mention that before because we didn’t want to alarm you,’ Mary-Ellen explained.

      ‘What about Cragwood Ho?’ Sally O’Grady asked in a shrill tone. ‘That’s much closer to the Cradle Track than we are. And those poor people don’t even know …’

      ‘We’ve already made contact with Bessie Longhorn and Bill Ramsdale and have given them exactly the same advice we’re giving you,’ Heck answered.

      In actual fact, that was a little white lie. They hadn’t yet been able to personally warn the folk who lived at the north end of the tarn. Mary-Ellen had tried to call, but as Bessie Longhorn didn’t even have a landline, she’d been forced to concentrate on Bill Ramsdale – from whom there’d been no reply, despite her trying three times. This wasn’t a cause for knee-jerk concern; Ramsdale was known as a guy who wouldn’t bother answering his phone if he was busy or in a mood. On the third occasion, she’d left a detailed voicemail, with a request that he pass the info on to his neighbour as well.

      ‘PC O’Rourke will be setting off to Cragwood Ho very soon,’ Heck added. ‘Just to check everyone there is okay.’

      This wasn’t quite as much of a lie. First and foremost, Mary-Ellen had to take the police launch back across the tarn, to mark out the one crime scene they so far knew about with tape and a tent, and to preserve any potential exhibits she might find. She then had to return the launch to its shed and retrieve the Land Rover which was still sitting in the car park up at the Ho, so she’d be visiting that end of the tarn in due course anyway. Of course, this would take a little longer than they’d prefer, but there was nothing else they could do.

      ‘Any questions, guys?’ Heck said.

      ‘Yeah,’ Hazel said from behind the bar. He turned, looking at her closely for the first time since he’d made the announcement. She had noticeably paled in the cheek. ‘You haven’t told us much about this attack up in the fells. What’s the reason for it?’

      ‘We don’t know,’ Heck said.

      ‘You said the victims were two girls. I mean, was … was it sexual?’

      ‘Yet again …’

      ‘He doesn’t know,’ Burt Fillingham replied on Heck’s behalf.

      ‘Whether it is or isn’t, the same rules apply,’ Heck said. ‘Keep your doors and windows locked and everything will be fine.’ He turned to the rest of the pub. ‘If any of you are really worried, there’s nothing to stop you doubling up for the night. You know, sleeping in others’ houses – set up a camp bed downstairs, or whatever. Strength in numbers, as they say.’

      They absorbed this quietly, which wasn’t always a good sign. But sometimes there was no alternative but to give people the facts. If there was the slightest danger, the public needed to be put on their guard.

      ‘We’ve also got these.’ Heck laid a bunch of contact cards on the bar-top. ‘Everyone take one, please. They’ve got direct lines to Cragwood police office and the radio suite down at Windermere. It’s also got mine and Mary-Ellen’s mobile numbers.’

      ‘Lot of good mobile phones are up here,’ Burt Fillingham grunted, as if the rest of them didn’t already know that.

      ‘It’s only until tomorrow,’ Mary-Ellen said again. ‘Seriously folks, there’s no need to be upset.’

      There was a brief contemplative silence, during which the fire in the hearth crackled and spat. The thick grey mist hung so close to the window it was like a layer of dirty cotton wool pinned on the outside of the glass.

      ‘Okay,’ Heck said. ‘That’s it.’

      With subdued murmurs, the less-than-happy band broke up, some talking together quietly, others shuffling to the door.

      ‘What now?’ Hazel asked Heck. ‘We can double