LITMIR.BIZ

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      Not that it was very clear to anyone, Heck included, what he and Hazel’s actual relationship was.

      Heck himself pondered this as he stood washing his hands in the bathroom. It had occurred by increments, if he was honest. With near-reluctance, as though both parties were trying to avoid being hurt, or perhaps trying to avoid hurting each other. But the mutual attraction had steadily grown: the furtive looks they’d exchanged, the occasional touching of hands, Heck finding himself perched comfortably at the end of the bar where the till and telephone sat, a position of familiarity that wouldn’t normally be reserved for everyday customers. Despite all that, there were some confidences he wasn’t yet prepared to share with Hazel – primarily a concern that he was wasting himself out here in the boondocks. Partly this was through fear. Hazel was so proud of this small, successful business she ran. She adored her tranquil life in Cragwood Keld, this ‘haven in the mountains’ as she called it. The idea of moving anywhere else was hardly likely to appeal to her. In that respect, Heck’s increasing boredom with his current post was a subject he never gave voice to.

      ‘Will I have to give evidence?’ Hazel asked when he returned to the bar.

      Heck pondered. ‘Shouldn’t think so. I mean, there’s nothing they could cross-examine you on. I enquired if you knew anyone matching a certain description. You did and gave me a statement. After that, you had no further involvement. In any case, they’ve already coughed to the distraction-thefts up here in the Lakes, so the chances are that part of the case won’t go to trial.’

      ‘I may need that from you in writing if I’m not going to worry about it,’ she said, moving away to serve Burt Fillingham.

      ‘So what do we think?’ Mary-Ellen asked Heck. ‘Good day?’

      ‘Very good day.’

      ‘Hazel’s right about the weather. Forecast’s terrible. Freezing fog up here tonight and tomorrow. Maybe even longer. Visibility down to a few feet.’

      ‘Great. Life’ll be even quieter.’

      ‘Hey …’ She elbowed him. ‘A few detectives I know’d be glad of that. Catch up on some paperwork.’

      ‘To catch up on paperwork, M-E, you first have to generate it.’

      She regarded him appraisingly. As a rule, Heck didn’t get morose. But he was leaning towards glum at present. ‘Heck, didn’t you volunteer for this Lake District gig?’

      ‘Yeah … sort of.’ He waved it away. ‘Sorry … quiet is good. Course it is. Means low levels of crime, people sleeping safe in their beds. How can I complain?’

      She chugged on her lager. ‘It won’t be cakes and ale. There’ll be accidents. People’ll get lost, get hurt … there’s always some bellend who’ll come up here alone, whatever the weather man says.’

      Heck pondered this. It was true – the fells were no place for inexperienced hikers, especially in bad weather. And yet all winter the amateurs would try their hands, necessitating regular and risky turn-outs for the emergency services. If this coming winter turned particularly nasty, the Cradle itself could face problems. With only Cragwood Road connecting it to the outside world, snow, sleet and even heavy rain had the potential to cut them off. The predicted fog would be even more of a nuisance as it might prevent the Mountain Rescue services deploying their helicopter.

      ‘I think I can safely say,’ Heck concluded, ‘that even I would rather be tucked up warm in bed than dealing with that lot.’

      ‘I’m sure that’ll be an option,’ Mary-Ellen said, as Hazel came back along the bar.

      ‘Looks like there won’t be much custom in here for the next few days,’ Hazel commented.

      ‘Just what we were saying,’ Mary-Ellen said, drinking up. ‘Anyway, I’m off. Thanks for the beer.’

      ‘Bit early …?’ Heck said.

      ‘True Detective’s on satellite again tonight. Missed it the first time round.’ She sauntered out of the pub. ‘See you later.’

      ‘True Detective …?’ Hazel mused. ‘Isn’t that the one where they were after some kind of satanic killer?’

      ‘Seem to recall it was,’ Heck replied.

      She mopped the bar-top. ‘Not the kind of thing we get up at Witch Cradle … despite the name.’

      ‘So I’ve noticed.’

      ‘These sneaky buggers pinching people’s handbags and wallets are about the toughest we’re used to up here.’

      ‘Let’s hope it stays that way.’

      She gave him a half-smile. ‘Yeah … course you do.’

      ‘Hey, I may surprise you.’

      ‘Oh?’

      ‘I’m adaptable. The quiet life has its attractions.’

      ‘Such as?’

      He shrugged. ‘We’re all adults. It’s not like we can’t find ways to fill these long, uneventful hours.’

      Hazel smiled again, saucily, as she pulled Ted Haveloc a pint.

      Outside meanwhile, a front of semi-frozen air forged its way across the mountains and valleys of northwest England, sliding under the milder upper air and gradually forming a dense blanket of leprous-grey fog which, in a region already famous for having very few streetlamps, reduced visibility to virtually nothing. The scattered towns and villages were shrouded. Cragwood Keld – a hamlet of only fifteen buildings – was swamped; one house couldn’t see another. And of course it was cold, so terribly cold, with billions of frigid water crystals suspended in the gloom; every twig, every tuft of withered vegetation sprouting feathers of frost. By eleven o’clock, as the last few house-lights winked out and the full blackness of night took hold, the polar silence was ethereal, the stillness unearthly.

      Nothing stirred out there.

      These were foul conditions, they’d say.

      It was a foul night all round.

      The foulest really.

      Abhorrent.

      Loathsome.

       Chapter 2

      ‘We just have to get to lower ground,’ Tara said tiredly. ‘Then we can flag a car down or something.’

      ‘I agree that’s the obvious solution,’ Jane replied, vexed, ‘but don’t keep saying it over and over, as if it’ll be some kind of doddle and that it’s somehow stupid of us to not have done it already. For the last three hours, the only way to get to lower ground has been over precipices or down vertical drops.’

      Tara made no initial response, mainly through guilt.

      It had been her idea to finish their week-long camping trip by taking a well-trodden hilltop path from Borrowdale, over High Raise and Great Castle Howe, and down into Great Langdale. On paper it had all looked so straightforward; in fact easier than that, and probably very rewarding. After a difficult week, it had felt as if she was plucking victory from the jaws of defeat. The campsite at Watendlath hadn’t been all they’d hoped for, primarily because it was late November and the tourist season was long over. A few other hardy campers were present – hardier than Tara and Jane, it had to be said – but the site was largely empty, and its facilities operating at a reduced level; the toilets and showers were open, and that was about it. The weather conditions, while not exactly disastrous, were testing; the mornings damp and cold, the afternoons slightly drier but still cold, and the nights, freezing. On top of that, they were not experienced at this sort of thing. Their tent was old and somewhat mouldy; it was also single-skinned, which offered them zero protection against insects and condensation; they’d brought foam

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