"Don't talk rubbish, man." Fenella couldn't help snapping. Her nerves were fraught. Exhaustion seized her limbs, and all that blackberry wine with the heat was giving her a headache. "Nothing else bad is going to happen."

  Chapter 21

  PC Raintree turned to watch the trail, checking the dark stretch ahead.

  Shadows danced.

  A lone walker wouldn't see an attacker until it was too late. Fenella's nerves notched up two levels.

  PC Raintree grunted and staggered onward, moving with stiff legs at a slow trot. They made their way through a mass of hawthorn bushes that overgrew the path, and from there the trail narrowed to a stretch of rhododendron bushes that had escaped from a cottage garden. Then the trail dipped and they scrambled along a steep slope and forced through a tangle of blackthorn and hazel bushes to a wide gorge splashed in sunshine and scattered with sandstone boulders.

  Ash, alder and hazel trees grew along the banks of the gushing water of River Irthing. The smell of the river cloaked the gorge. A tang so thick it drenched your taste buds with dank flavours. Everywhere the mutter of water rattled. From the riverbed. Echoing off the rocks. Swirling in great tides of sound that ebbed and flowed on the slight breeze. Figures in white suits searched close to the river. Another group focused their search near an oversized boulder.

  PC Raintree pointed at the crime scene, although it wasn't necessary. "Over there, ma'am. That's the Popping Stone." He seized his stomach, turned a darker shade of green. "Want me to come with you?"

  "Nah, you'd best get back to your patrol car. Job done, eh?"

  He nodded, then trotted away.

  He did not look back.

  Chapter 22

  Goose couldn't help himself.

  He knew it was madness.

  Knew it was dangerous.

  Knew it would end in disaster.

  And that knowledge excited him.

  He kept crawling. Through the tall grass, through bramble and hawthorn bushes, crouching by a beech tree to catch his breath, then creeping towards the sound of water.

  Towards the flashing lights.

  Towards the Popping Stone and the police activity.

  "Weak impulse control."

  That is what the man in the white coat with steel-rimmed glasses had said. He said the same thing about Goose's temper; said it wasn't Goose's fault; said booze and cigarettes were to blame. Goose nodded and smiled at Steel Rim and went through the treatment until declared cured.

  A siren screamed in the distance. Its wail faded, replaced by the mutter of voices. Goose kept moving. He picked his way around a blackthorn bush, through a patch of Rhododendron, down a slope, all the while keeping low to the ground.

  And then he was there.

  At the water's edge.

  Chapter 23

  On the other side of the water, a crowd of official looking people gathered. Men and women in uniforms, people in white suits, and others in regular clothes. They had their backs to Goose, faces to the Popping Stone, their voices like the click-click of frightened beetles.

  A snatch of words drifted across the water.

  "Body found in the woods."

  "A woman, I heard them say."

  "No, no. It's a boy."

  "Whatever it is, it took a savage to do that to the poor sod. A knife obsessed savage."

  A police light flashed from deep between a stand of trees. More people stumbled down the steep bank from the trail. Goose licked his dry lips.

  A woman with shoulder-length grey hair and wearing a tatty yellow top talked to a uniformed officer. She was a detective for sure. He'd crossed paths with the police enough times to tell brass from the muck of uniform.

  Goose plucked a clump of straw from his beard, the fug of booze now gone. The woman detective turned and gazed in his direction. Her hawk eyes took everything in. The willow tree to his left. The tangle of blackthorn and brambles to his right. The hawthorn bush where he hid.

  He froze.

  Still, she watched.

  One minute.

  Two.

  Three.

  There was something wrong.

  Something in the way she stared.

  Something in the stillness of her body.

  Her arm rose. Not rushed or jerky or done with haste. A slow movement until her index finger unfurled and pointed.

  At him.

  Chapter 24

  Goose jerked back, scrambling up the bank on all fours. On the trail he stood and shambled along the narrow path, trampling down the foliage.

  Soon, he was heading through the open countryside to the village of Gilsland. When he was certain no one followed, he paused. Leaning against the gnarled trunk of an ash tree, he searched then he found it. His brown sack. He stretched his trembling hand inside and pulled out a cherry wood box. He opened the lid and fondled the ivory handle of the dagger.

  It wasn't over yet.

  By God, it had just begun.

  Chapter 25

  "Over here, guv."

  Detective Sergeant Robert Dexter strode from the riverbank. He wore a rumpled brown suit. Sweat shone on his grizzled face.

  "Talk about off the beaten track. Even I ain't never been here, but I heard me grandad talk of the place. They used the big house as a hospital during the war, supposed to be haunted by a Newcastle lass in a grey dress."

  Fenella's feet sunk into a patch of boggy ground. She grimaced at the mud on her boots and pointed across the river to a hawthorn bush. "Thought I saw someone on the other side, watching."

  Dexter peered across the water. "Don't see no one, guv, but wouldn't be surprised to find a few locals on the creep once the word gets out."

  Fenella watched for a moment, then turned away. "What have we got?"

  "A nasty one, guv." Dexter pointed to the cluster of white-suited figures near the bolder. "Locals call it the Popping Stone, supposed to be a romantic spot where a bloke pops the question to his lass."

  "Marriage?"

  "Aye, guv. The tradition started way back with a posh bloke, Sir Walter Scott, dropping to one knee for his lass, Charlotte Carpenter. She were a wild French woman with an enormous appetite for the finer things in life. A good looker too, the kind that ruins a man. Me grandad said there used to be a big hawthorn bush by the stone. Locals called it the Kissing Bush. Ain't no prizes for what went on under those leaves." He rocked from foot to foot, his gaze fixed on the white-suited figures. "Ain't no prizes for what went on at the Popping Stone last night, either. Real nasty, guv."

  Fenella scanned the Popping Stone and the white-suited figures moving around it. They reminded her of maggots. Bloated maggots, feasting on that which once lived.

  She shook that image from her mind and focused on the present. "What do we know?"

  "Not sure about the gender of the victim yet, guv." Dexter was still shaking his head, still rocking from foot to foot. "This is one Chief Inspector Croll would have worked to death."

  "Aye, happen you're right about that."

  Detective Inspector Jack Croll, retired, had been their boss, mentor, and friend. Fenella cried when he retired and visited him from time to time.

  It's been a few months, Fen. Need to see how the old fox is doing.

  "Remember what he used to say, guv?" Dexter's gaze was far away, deep somewhere in the past. "Always the same words when we faced a nasty one."

  Fenella remembered alright. She repeated Croll's words: slow and careful and precise, as if memorising a detailed road map.

  "Don't be rushed or pushed about by anyone. That path leads to mistakes." She paused. "It's the guilty buggers we want, not the poor sods caught up by happenstance."

  Dexter cast a long glance at the crime scene. "A dog walker discovered the remains. Mr Brad Pomfret. He ambles the trail most mornings with his hound, Shep. The dog was whining and playing up, so Mr Pomfret let it 'have its legs'. It raced to the Popping Stone and began to dig, paws frenetic. By the time Mr Pomfret caught up, Shep had a hand in his jaw."

  "Is that him?"

  Fenella pointed at a string thin man. He was in his sixties and sat on a stool with a black blanket over his shoulders. He leaned forward with his hands over his face. His brown shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, the curve of his spine a perfect arc. A scruffy brown dog lay by his side and a uniformed officer took notes.

  "Aye, guv. That's Mr Pomfret. He were all tears and insisted the remains were fresh. Left last night, he reckons."

  "How can he be so sure?"

  "Because he walked this way the day before and the day before that, guv. Shep has a sharp nose. Kicks up a right royal fuss when he smells roadkill." Dexter turned and gazed at the uniformed officer interviewing the dog walker. "Good thing Mr Pomfret is local else it might have been months before we got the call. Then there'd be nowt but a pile of bones picked dry. "

  Fenella followed Dexter's gaze. Shep's ribs poked through a tangled brown coat. The dog stared towards the Popping Stone with glittering eyes. Its tongue darted out, licking its lips.

  Fenella sighed. "We'd best take a look at, then."

  Dexter hesitated like he didn't want to go back to look, like it was the last thing he wanted to do. "You go ahead, guv." He was already walking away with fast steps. "I'll have a chat with the local officers to make sure Mr Pomfret gets home in one piece."

  Chapter 26

  As the bedside alarm chirped his six thirty wake-up call, Fred Lowe stepped into the shower at his grey stone cottage on the outskirts of Gilsland. He took great pride in beating the alarm clock. Every weekday for twenty-three years, this small victory propelled him into the day.

  It didn't stop his worry, though.

  Fred worried about his business and he worried about his cottage and he worried about getting scratches on his shiny new car. But he worried most of all that he was done, that he was over the hill and past it.

  "I'm a winner. Best of the best. Today, I exorcise all doubts about my age and relish the day ahead."

  His mantra echoed in the shower as the hot water splashed and soap foamed. A woo-woo chant to lift his spirits. But Fred wasn't the woo-woo type. At sixty-three, he ran a family law practice in Carlisle.

  He lingered longer than usual under the hot water, thinking about the day ahead. Not much on the work agenda. He'd visit the Carlisle Combined Court to see what was going on.

  As Fred gave his skin a final rinse, his mobile phone trilled from the bedroom. The shrill shrieks, chosen to sound like the warning call of a blackbird, stirred him to action.

  He stepped from the shower. A pleasant warmth radiated from the tile floor. It soothed his feet. The marble walls, with their veining patterns, wrapped around him in an aesthetic cocoon.

  Every Friday morning, when he was at work, the cleaner refreshed the crystal bowl with rose scented potpourri. The cleaner wasn't coming back, though.

  His phone continued to ring.

  Fred went to the bedroom window to check the way was clear. Two men, each wearing shabby brown suits, stood by his garden gate. One of the men held a phone to his ear. They stared at his bedroom window. He ducked and waited for a count of thirty. When he turned back to the window, they were gone.

  His mobile phone continued to ring.

  A chorus of blackbird chirps.

  He ignored it and wrapped a mauve towel around his waist. Then he crept to the bathroom sink and stared into the mirror, probing the deep lines on his face. He hated his thinning hair. Hated that he had to scrape it across his bald patch.

  For some time, he combed, turning his head from side to side.

  His phone continued to ring.

  Chapter 27

  Fred picked up his custom razor blade, rolling the buffalo horn handle in the firm of his hand. Warmth rose from his stomach as he flicked it open and admired his initials etched in the steel. He sharpened it himself with a whetstone made of coarse grit. It took patience and practice and many passes before it was sharp enough for his needs.

  He ran the tap and began to shave.

  His mobile phone rang again, a blackbird's warning cry. He turned from the mirror, straining to listen.

  He never answered the phone during his morning routine. Toilet. Shower with mantras. Shave. Dress. Fresh brewed ground coffee. Then out the door and in the car and take all calls whilst driving.

  That was his habit.

  That was his way.

  The same routine for twenty-three years.

  Nothing was allowed to disturb his morning ritual. Not even on each of his three honeymoons did he break from his weekday regimen. Except…

  He knew who was calling.

  Knew they needed his help.

  He let it ring on.

  Chapter 28

  Something was not right.

  It was seven in the morning and Fenella got the strange feeling the moment she strode through the front doors of the police station in Bardon Mill.

  It was a brown brick cottage with a Victorian blue police lamp above the door and a small reception that smelled of coffee. A noticeboard filled one wall — leaflets, notices and a local map. Sound carried from behind a closed door, a low chatter of voices. The reception counter stretched from corner to corner — an oak monstrosity carved with the year 1925. A battered brown suitcase with a yellow sticker on the side stood to one side of the counter, and a landscape painting of a river running through a gorge hung on the wall. An upright piano with the lid up, keys exposed, leaned against one wall. A brass plate gave the name of the manufacturer — John Broadwood & Sons. London.

  She was the lead detective on the Popping Stone incident and wanted to get the ball rolling. A joint operation with the blessing of Superintendent Algernon Wright and Superintendent Veronica Jeffery. They agreed to be "hands off" and let her run with the case.

  Fenella blew out a sigh of relief. She hadn't realised how much the thought of Jeffery meddling got under her skin until she entered the building. Now she was free to do business her way and worried about how soon they'd make progress. Jeffery wouldn't keep her wolfish fingers out for long.

  The clock was ticking.

  "Morning, ma'am."

  PC Raintree slouched against the reception counter, his bulging belly spilling over his belt. His soulful gaze was more hound-like than when she first met him. Now he reminded her of an elderly bloodhound who wanted to curl up by the fireside and sleep.

  Under drooping lids, his bloodshot eyes were watchful. "You made your way over here without incident?"

  "A straight shot down the A69." Fenella didn't mention she'd made a few wrong turns when the Sat Nav got confused. She too, leaned against the counter. "Took a bit longer than I hoped." She pointed at the wall behind the counter. "That painting."

  PC Raintree's slow eyes moved towards it. "What about it?"

  "Your work?"

  He paused for a long time before answering. "Aye. I dabble in my spare time. I'm a member of a local art group. Painting landscapes, music, photography and a spot of fishing. Not a bad life here in the village if you don't mind solitude."

  "Looks familiar." Fenella leaned forward, taking in the sharp detail. "Where is it?"

  The pause was longer this time. Behind the counter, the coffee urn gurgled.

  "River Irthing, ma'am. Near the Popping Stone." He ran a hand through his grey hair then wrapped his hands around a mug of coffee. "Teams here and working in the Chapel."

  "What is the Chapel?"

  "Incident room, ma'am." He pointed at a side door. "Where we keep the packets of coffee when not in use, and where Prophet Hume delivers his sermons."

  That stopped Fenella. "Vicar Godfrey Hume from St Mary Magdalene in Gilsland?"

  PC Raintree's face tightened. "Two Saturdays each month."

  "Thought he was a Church of England vicar?"

  PC Raintree glanced at the front door and he glanced over his shoulder and he glanced at the side door to the incident room. He lowered his voice. "He's going freelance, growing his own congregation. Calls himself Prophet Hume. It's a small but dedicated flock of the faithful, and the village council sees no harm in letting him hire the room."

  Fenella said nothing.

  "Heard you were visiting Bill Duncan's grave. Not many outsiders know about him; what he did for the war effort; what he drew." PC Raintree's lips turned down. "Some want to keep it that way."

  "Oh aye, and why would that be?"

  "Tourists change a place. If they like what they see, they buy and drive the locals out. Cafés and boutiques with prices those born and bred in the place can only look at. Not my opinion, mind you, just repeating what some about these parts say. Our village café does a right nice spread, though. Have you tried it?"

  Fenella had started a sausage sandwich for breakfast, only eating half, the rest she wrapped in tissue and dropped in her handbag. She'd visit the village café when she got the chance and pointed at the urn. "That coffee fresh?"

  "Just brewed. From a coffee roaster in Newcastle." His bloodshot eyes moved slowly from Fenella to the coffee urn. "Donated by Vicar Hume. Hope you like it."

  And, once again, Fenella got the sensation that something wasn't right. She filled a paper cup, sipped and glanced around.

  "Quiet here most of the time, then?"

  "Not today. It's like an alien invasion from Mars in the Chapel. You'd best fill up on caffeine whilst you can." He shook his head. "You'll need it."

  "Oh aye?"

  "A big shot is in town." PC Raintree pressed a plump hand against his forehead and let out a soft moan. "Never thought I'd see the day when a superintendent from Cumbria showed up and took charge of the station. Superintendent Jeffery is a…err…wonder to behold."

  Chapter 29

  Fred Lowe was dressing in the bedroom, buttoning up his waistcoat when another scream rang out from his mobile phone.

 

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