The Borrowdale Body, page 16
‘Stop it Steve,’ said his wife, aware of undercurrents and something worse than inappropriate.
‘What’s The Munsters?’ murmured Bonnie to Ben, who shrugged.
‘What? Why? What did I say?’ demanded Steve.
‘The police are here.’
‘So? We’re not breaking any laws, are we? They’re not taking any notice of us, anyway. They’ll just be here to keep people out of the house.’
‘We should go,’ said Simmy, hating to be taken for the same ghoulish sightseer as these people. She joined Bonnie beside the baby buggy. ‘My turn to push,’ she said.
‘Looks as if he wants to get out,’ said Mrs Steve. ‘Poor little man.’
‘Your hubby seems to be in a bit of a fix,’ said Steve, gazing raptly at Christopher. ‘He’s gone a funny colour.’
It was true. From pale, his face had turned to a mottled mixture of pink and green. To Simmy’s alarmed eyes he looked on the verge of collapse. Russell and the dog came back from their short stroll along the verge and both peered at him, Cornelia wagging uncertainly.
‘Tummy trouble,’ said Russell heartily. ‘He’s been bad for a day or two now. We thought some fresh air might sort him out, but it’s obviously been too much. Come on, son. Back to the bus stop for you.’
‘Are you his father, then?’ asked the woman.
‘That’s right, dear. We’re all one big happy family. Niece, nephew, son, grandson – the works.’ He waved a patriarchal arm at the group. ‘Lovely day, too. Look at that sky!’
Nobody looked, and Bonnie stifled a giggle. Simmy lifted Robin out of the buggy and set him down on his bandy toddler legs.
‘Walk, then,’ she told him. ‘Christopher – come and hold his hand. I’ll take the buggy.’
Somehow they all got into motion, heading back the way they’d come.
‘Hey, but wait—’ Steve tried vainly to stop them.
‘Have a good day,’ Russell called back, after a few yards had separated them. He had a supporting hand under Christopher’s elbow, and Robin staggered crookedly on the other side. Christopher was holding him so tightly that when he missed a step he dangled from his father’s hand, legs waving in mid-air. It made for slow progress, which suited the sickened man very well. Ben and Bonnie went ahead, talking intently to each other.
‘That was ghastly,’ said Simmy. ‘Those people!’
‘Coincidence,’ said Russell. ‘Them being in the same guesthouse as Bert and Lawrence. But it happens a lot. We saw it all the time in Windermere. I remember once there were two sets of guests from the south somewhere, who turned out to have been at school together. The wives, that is.’
‘Yes,’ said Simmy absently. ‘How are you now?’ she asked her husband. ‘Did you remember anything new?’
‘It was ghastly,’ he told her. ‘Worse than I could ever have imagined. I kept seeing the man’s horrible face, and remembering Jennifer, and those people.’
‘They’re just ordinary folk,’ said Russell. ‘Most are just like that. You learn that when you run a B&B. Drove your mother mad at times. They can’t help it.’
‘It’s brought back a whole other lot of stuff. The thing in Grasmere, for one. I thought that was dealt with long ago, but there it is, sitting like a toad somewhere in my head. I was pretty unaffected at the time, that’s what’s so weird. Why did this one knock me sideways? It doesn’t make any sense.’
Russell offered an answer: ‘Could be that things are different now – for you, I mean. You’ve got this little lad to think about, for one. And you’re not flavour of the month with the police this time, either.’
‘You were brilliant, Dad,’ Simmy congratulated him. ‘One of your finest performances. I just hope it doesn’t come back to bite us. We might not have seen the last of that couple. What if they find out who we are?’
‘Let them. What does it matter?’
‘It doesn’t, I suppose. Not really.’ But she chafed at the prospect of being exposed as the daughter of a fantasist.
Christopher was still looking tormented, which all the others saw quite clearly. Bonnie had rejoined them, hovering on the other side of Robin, making a straggling foursome taking up much of the road. A car hooted behind them and they all shuffled awkwardly to one side.
‘Let me take Robin,’ said Simmy. ‘He’s done enough walking for now.’
‘He likes it,’ said Bonnie. ‘Look at his face.’ The child was beaming and pink with achievement, crowing every time he had to be saved by his father, holding his breath as he stepped out, his chest puffed up.
‘He’s too slow,’ Simmy insisted. ‘We need to find somewhere we can all sit down.’
‘You’ll be lucky,’ said Russell.
‘We can go into the church,’ said Simmy. ‘But at this rate we won’t be there till lunchtime.’
‘What’s the hurry?’ snapped Christopher. ‘What are we planning to do now? We’ve bashed our faces up against a brick wall and made fools of ourselves.’
Nobody disagreed with him, and after a moment, Ben tried to sum up the situation. ‘Brick wall is exactly right. You do realise that none of us has ever met a single one of these people, except Christopher, and he only saw Jennifer Reade – once. They’re just names. How can we hope to make any sort of sense of the thing like that?’
‘Time to stop asking questions and start doing something,’ said Russell. ‘If you ask me.’
‘That’s why we came here, isn’t it?’ said Ben. ‘To make ourselves feel we were doing something. But it’s hopeless. Silly, as Simmy said.’
Christopher had almost forgotten his little boy, taking two long agitated strides before the whimpers reminded him.
‘Sorry, kid. Better go to your mother now.’ The handover was made, and Christopher took two more strides, as if gripped by a sudden purpose. ‘We need to find that body. We need to know how he died and when, who he was for certain. The whole thing is stuck without that.’
‘The only one of us who stands the remotest chance of doing that is Cornelia,’ said Ben. ‘And she’s not much of a bloodhound.’
‘They should be dragging Derwentwater,’ Christopher persisted.
‘Not to mention Buttermere and Loweswater,’ sighed Russell.
‘And every crevice of these fells. Mine shafts, too. Car boots. Acid baths.’ Ben was brainstorming rather too enthusiastically.
‘Stop it,’ said Simmy.
‘We’re at the mercy of fate,’ said Bonnie, which drew everyone’s attention. ‘I mean, we just have to hope the police find him, or the person who took him has good intentions. He might just have wanted to save him from those rats.’
Christopher shuddered. ‘That’s what I should have done.’ He looked round, with sunken eyes. ‘This whole thing is my fault. That’s what hit me at the gates. I could have saved Jennifer Reade’s life if I’d been anything like decent. It’s all my fault.’
Chapter Sixteen
Ben had convinced himself that somewhere in all the wild ideas that had been voiced lay the truth of the whole matter. He was also of the opinion that it was important to be here in Borrowdale, on the spot. When Simmy and Christopher wimped out, he and Bonnie opted to stay longer.
‘We’re not ready to go yet. I’d like to explore a bit more. We can get a bus back to Keswick any time,’ he said. ‘And Bonnie likes fell walking once she gets going.’
‘Do I?’ The girl frowned. ‘When did that happen?’
‘In Hawkshead, you got quite into it, remember?’
‘That wasn’t fells. It was mostly level ground. I’m not big on stamina, you know.’
‘Just humour me, okay?’ he persisted.
So the Hendersons and Russell Straw went back on the next bus, promising themselves lunch somewhere in town and an hour in the park for the child and dog.
‘What’s all this?’ Bonnie asked, when they were left on their own. ‘I smell a plan.’
‘The house. If I’ve got the geography right, we can walk along by the river, more or less parallel with the road, and sneak up from there. Those policemen looked half asleep to me. They won’t have anybody watching the back.’
‘Hang on. Why do we have to avoid the road? The house isn’t on the same side as the river – it’s tucked under the fell on the other side. We could go back the way we’ve just come, walk on past and then go through those woods. Although the back of the house looked as if it’s pretty much squashed against the fell.’
‘That’s all true, except there’s bound to be some space behind the house for ventilation and light. But they’ll see us if we do that, and there’ll be people who might remember us. We need to stay out of sight. Plus,’ he gave her an uneasy glance, ‘I thought we should have a good look at the riverbank. Just in case.’
She caught on instantly. ‘In case we find the body.’
‘Right.’
‘That would be a miracle.’
‘Not really. Isn’t that what anyone would do if they wanted to dispose of a body? Unless they bundled it into a car, they’d have to carry it and bodies are heavy. And what then? You can’t leave it in a boot for long. So best to drag it over the road, across a field or two and dump it in the river at a quiet spot. All at dead of night, obviously.’
‘I think the car theory is a lot more likely.’
‘Just humour me, okay, and be thankful I’m not really taking you to the top of the fell in those flimsy shoes.’ Bonnie had taken to wearing ‘barefoot shoes’, which she vowed were supremely comfortable for every sort of activity. Fell walking had not yet been tried, however.
‘I am truly thankful,’ she said.
‘Come on then.’
They felt conspicuous as they scrambled down from the road just before it crossed the bridge at Grange, and pushed their way along the riverbank through reeds and rushes that soon gave way to shrubs and trees. There was no proper path and the ground was boggy. They could not easily look into the river itself, due to all the vegetation.
‘How will we know when to start crossing fields?’ asked Bonnie.
‘We’ll see the house, I think. It’s visible from most places. We need to get past that big hotel and on a bit further.’
‘Somebody’s going to see us. We’re not meant to walk along here.’
‘They won’t take any notice. I wish we could get closer to the water. This isn’t how I imagined it.’
‘Nobody could get a body through all this, anyway.’
‘It looks a bit clearer further along.’ He led the way, holding tree branches aside for her once or twice. ‘There’s an old water mill around here somewhere. People have to trek across a field to get to it, if I remember rightly. If anyone sees us, they’ll think we’re looking for that.’ He stopped to look round. ‘Although it might be much further up. Or even the other way, towards Rosthwaite. I can’t remember now.’
‘Look at your phone, why don’t you?’
‘Good idea.’ He produced the mobile and sidestepped into the shade of a tree in order to see the screen. ‘Ah – right. Silly me. It’s a long way from here. Up by Seatoller. That’s where the serious walkers go.’
‘They’ll think we’re trying to find a quiet spot to have sex,’ she said with a giggle.
‘They can think what they like. Just so long as those policemen don’t see us.’
‘Oh – what’s that?’ There was a smudge of off-white behind a hawthorn tree. ‘A tent, look. Hiding away by the wall.’
‘Clever.’ Ben peered through the tree. ‘No one could see it from anywhere but here.’
‘Do you think …?’
‘We shouldn’t jump to any conclusions. Probably a birdwatcher. Or a homeless person. All perfectly innocent.’
They were speaking in a whisper, only twenty yards from the tent.
‘I’m going to see,’ said Bonnie. Ben made no attempt to stop her, but followed close behind. There was no easy way to approach, so they went in a loop around the prickly tree and then had to cross a stretch of mossy stones that revealed the sporadic presence of a small rill trickling down to the Derwent. The tent was pitched on a rare piece of level ground, with a stone wall at its back. It was very small. A man sat on a low stool, a knife in his hand. Strewn around his feet were two plastic boxes, a tripod and a book. On his lap was a plate holding a piece of bread and other food.
‘Hello,’ said Bonnie. ‘You look very organised.’
‘Not as organised as I thought. Nobody was supposed to be able to find me.’
‘Sorry,’ said Bonnie. ‘But it’s only us. We’re quite good at this sort of thing.’
‘What’s in the boxes?’ asked Ben with rude curiosity.
‘Mind your own business. What are you doing here, anyway? This isn’t a public right of way, you know.’
‘Nobody seems to care much about that sort of thing out here, though, do they?’
The man shrugged and smiled. ‘Touché,’ he said.
The pair examined him with frank interest. He was quite young, with straggly black hair and beard, wearing a grey, short-sleeved shirt and light green cotton trousers. He was tanned and thin and looked strong. ‘How long have you been here?’ asked Ben.
‘Nearly a week, I think. I gave up trying to keep track. It was raining the day I came, but it’s been nice and dry since then.’
‘How do you manage for food – and drink? You can’t have carried a week’s worth all down here.’
‘Well, I did. This is the last of the bread, though. There’s water in the river, in case you haven’t noticed. Remarkably unpolluted.’
Which reminded Ben and Bonnie of their quest. ‘So you must have seen all the goings-on just up there at High Gates House,’ said Ben.
‘What?’
‘A woman was murdered there, probably early on Friday. Two days ago. It’s Sunday now. The police are still there, and all the hikers are going to gawp.’
‘And a body’s gone missing,’ said Bonnie. ‘We thought it might have been dumped in the river.’
The man looked from face to face, as if they were two small children recounting the story of Little Red Riding Hood or Hansel and Gretel.
‘You’re joking,’ he said.
‘Not at all.’ Ben was offended. ‘It can’t be more than a quarter of a mile from here. How could you miss it?’
‘Well, I did,’ the man said for a second time. ‘Things are clearly not as you think. My name’s Peter, by the way – just about the only one of my generation.’
‘Sorry? The only what?’ frowned Ben.
‘Peter. Have you ever met one under the age of fifty? Or even sixty?’
‘I don’t know. I never thought about it.’
‘Oh well. People often comment, that’s all. Anyway, I take photos. You’ll have noticed the tripod. And you’ll have scared the otters, not to mention the water rats. I should be ranting at you about it, but what’s the point?’
Ben leant excitedly towards him. ‘Is the camera motion-sensitive? Do you have it set up overnight? Where is it?’
‘In the tent. You’re not serious about this murder malarky, are you? Things like that don’t happen in places like this.’
‘Actually, they do,’ said Bonnie. ‘Quite a lot.’
‘So tell me, then. You’ll have to sit on the grass, but it’s quite dry. I can offer you a drink of best river water.’
‘No thanks – we’ve got our own.’ Ben produced a bottle from his rucksack and he and Bonnie settled onto the spongy grass. ‘Have you looked at your night recordings?’
Peter shook his head. ‘Have to conserve the batteries. Some of it works with solar, but it’s not very good. I’m taking it all back to civilisation in another day or two. I’m hoping I’ve got enough material to keep me going through the rest of the summer.’
‘You sell the pictures?’
‘Right.’
‘Can we see the one from the nights of last Wednesday and Thursday, then?’ asked Ben.
‘What? Just like that? No, you can’t. What would be the point? If somebody did a murder right beside my camera, I’d have heard them.’
‘That’s not what we said. The murder isn’t what we want to see. It’s the disposal of a body – a man who was dead before the murder.’
Peter reverted to his earlier sceptical expression. ‘Oh yes? Disposal of a body, not the murder victim, down here in my quiet little spot? How?’
Ben maintained his dignity. ‘By throwing it in the river, of course. It’s the obvious thing to do.’
‘Okay. So you’re looking for film of a person slinking through these trees, past my tent, with a dead body over his shoulder, in the dead of night. As I said before, I’m pretty sure I would have heard something like that going on.’
‘How wide-angled is it? How far from here do you set it up? You could have caught something. Is it facing the river? If you’re looking for otters and water rats, it must be.’
Bonnie spoke up, then. ‘If you won’t let us have a look, will you at least show us a way down to the water? We wanted to see if there’s a place …’ she tailed off, daunted by Peter’s expression. ‘It sounds daft, I know. But honestly – it’s all absolutely real.’
‘It sounds totally bonkers. But who am I to judge? I’m not going anywhere, but I can tell you that if you follow this wall a little way, then go through the gap, past a big willow tree, there’s a place where the riverbank’s fairly open. I guess it flooded there not long ago and any trees that were there got washed away, leaving a hole. That’s where I go for my water – and where I set the camera up at night. I take it down every morning, for obvious reasons. It’s only for backup, anyway. The real work’s in taking stills during hours of daylight. I’ve got about fifty highly marketable shots of red squirrels, for a start.’ He sighed happily. ‘And about the same of birds. Kingfishers, herons, baby ducks. Plus,’ his eyes shone, ‘there’s a family of fox cubs in the next field.’
‘It’s a hard life,’ said Ben enviously.
‘If there’s a dead body in the water, I should probably stop drinking it.’
‘Not if you stay upstream of it,’ laughed Ben. ‘Sounds as if you believe us, after all.’
