Dead Man Walking. Paul Finch

that, I’ll be back by tea-time, I’m sure.’

      ‘It’s just that I think there may be another problem.’

      ‘Go on.’

      ‘You haven’t mentioned Annie Beckwith.’

      ‘Beckwith?’ The name didn’t ring any bell of familiarity with Heck.

      ‘Oh shit, yeah,’ Mary-Ellen said quietly. ‘That’s the old lady who lives at the top of the Cradle Track.’

      ‘Someone lives at the top of the Track?’ Heck was astonished. He had some vague idea there was an old farm building up there, but he didn’t know someone lived in it.

      Mary-Ellen nodded. ‘Bit of a local character. At least, she would be if she wasn’t so reclusive. She’s very self-sufficient. Grows her own food, makes her own clothes, keeps a chicken or two. She lives in Fellstead Grange, which was built sometime in the 1700s and hasn’t been renovated since. There’s no power, no phone, no computer, nothing. The Track leads to it, but no actual road. And she’s completely alone.’

      Heck wasn’t quite sure how he was supposed to respond to this.

      Hazel looked even more worried. ‘That puts her in the danger zone, doesn’t it?’

      ‘How far up the Track does she live?’ Heck asked.

      ‘About fifteen minutes’ walk. And it’s all uphill.’

      ‘You say she’s an old lady. How old exactly?’

      ‘Must be nearly eighty,’ Hazel said.

      ‘Seriously, and she lives up there alone?’

      ‘It’s her farm – she came into full ownership when her parents died.’

      ‘Which was about five decades ago, if I heard rightly,’ Mary-Ellen added.

      ‘Yeah, and now she won’t leave the place,’ Hazel said. ‘She’s been offered the market value loads of times, but she won’t sell. And why should she, Mark?’

      ‘Why should she? Well … how about no heating, total isolation, working the land at that age, next to no money …’

      ‘It’s her life,’ Mary-Ellen shrugged.

      ‘Well …’ He rubbed his chin. ‘She may not be in as much danger as we think. First of all, like I say, this guy might have left the area. Secondly, he may not even know she’s there. Thirdly, if he does, she may not be his type …’

      ‘His type?’ Hazel said. ‘So he is going for more victims?’

      ‘It’s way too early to make that assumption,’ Heck replied.

      ‘Even though you clearly have?’

      ‘Hazel, it’s my job to prepare for the worst. Annie Beckwith’s in a vulnerable position, and we’ll get up there at some point to check, but I’m not sure there’s anything we can do for her right at this moment.’

      ‘Why don’t I go up there?’ Hazel suggested.

      ‘What?’

      ‘You two have got things you need to do. I know Annie better than you two, anyway. I can drive to the Ho, and walk up the Track.’

      ‘I’m really not sure that’s a good idea,’ Heck said. He didn’t elaborate, but his head was suddenly full of images from the Stranger enquiry back in the West Country all those years ago: ‘Police Eyes Only’ photos of female victims lying in the back seats of cars, stabbed multiple times, genitals torn, eyes gouged.