was almost at the end of it, at which point he stopped in the water, bobbing there, regarding the open entrance in bewilderment. It was too dark to be absolutely sure, but it looked as if the police launch had been returned, and yet now was sitting extremely low in the water – so low, in fact, that it had to have sunk.
Heck poked his toe at the lake-bed, but it was out of reach. He covered the final twenty yards at a front-crawl, before seeking the floor again and this time finding it. Chest-deep, he waded forward into the shed, edging his way around the launch’s starboard gunwale. When he peeked over the top, the craft was indeed full of murky water. Various items – bits of wood and weed, but also materials from the first-aid kit – were floating in there.
The loss wasn’t a complete disaster. The boat was old, and most of the time they barely had cause to use it. But more of a worry was how this had happened. It was possible Mary-Ellen had accidentally holed it earlier on, when she went back to mark out the crime scene, but if that was the case, how had she brought it back?
He reached up, fitting both palms on top of the starboard pier, and with a grunt, levered himself out of the water, swinging around and planting himself on his backside. He slouched there for almost a minute, regaining his breath, which came in ragged gasps – not that there was any time now for taking five.
Concern for his fellow officer was nagging at him badly.
By the looks of it, the boat had been taken possession of elsewhere – the far side of the tarn maybe. Whatever had happened, it must have been some time ago, because the killer had then gone straight up the Cradle Track in pursuit of Hazel. But what had he done with Mary-Ellen before then? Had the bastard simply stolen the boat while she was busy securing the crime scene, effectively marooning her over there? Or had he attacked her too? It seemed highly improbable the ruthless killer they were dealing with tonight would miss the opportunity to add to his tally. Heck felt queasy at the mere thought of Mary-Ellen – who, for all her confident athleticism, was still only a young lass – having to face this guy on her own.
With such fears in mind, it was probably not the ideal time for him to spot the writing on the far wall of the boathouse interior. This only happened slowly, as his eyes adjusted to the deep gloom, but once the piece of crude graffiti had swum properly into view, he jumped to his feet.
Now that he was fully out of the water, it was bitterly cold. Ice felt as if it was forming inside his clothes, but fleetingly Heck was too distracted to notice that. He limped around the interior to the far pier, so that he could examine it up close.
REMEMBER ME?
There was no question about who’d written it or what it meant. In the dimness he was colour-blind, so though he didn’t immediately realise that the sentence had been inscribed in blood, the idea struck him hard when he dabbed at it with a fingertip, and it felt both slimy and congealed.
He backed away a couple of steps, heart thumping.
This didn’t necessarily mean Mary-Ellen had been attacked. The blood might have come from one of the two hikers. Even from Annie Beckwith. Of course, standing here ruminating wasn’t going to help. And nor was it going to warm him up. Heck’s joints were now stiffening; the dampness in his hair turning again to flaky ice. Realising he was in dire need of dry clothing and a hot drink, he plodded quickly out of the boatshed and across the sloping lawn to the rear of Bessie Longhorn’s house. He banged on the rear door for several minutes. But there was no response. It was pitch-dark inside.
Frustrated, but hoping Bessie had gone down to the Keld to seek the company of others, he circled the house, crossed the garden and climbed through the rockery and over the barbed wire fence onto Ramsdale’s property. The lights in this building were still on, and when Heck made his way around its exterior, the front door stood wide open. He halted, uncertain, at any moment expecting the householder to emerge. But as the seconds ticked by and no one emerged, new alarm bells began sounding. It was a foggy, frozen night at the start of the winter … and this guy was prepared to leave his front door wide open?
No chance. No chance at all.
When Heck ventured inside Bill Ramsdale’s cottage, the first thing he saw was the blood-caked figure seated upright in the office swivel chair. Unsurprisingly, it was dead, its throat hacked wide open. Equally unsurprisingly, its eyes had been stabbed to jellied ruin. Despite these ghastly mutilations, and the cataract of congealing gore that had resulted, Heck was still able to identify the scruffy jeans and t-shirt that Bill Ramsdale had been wearing the previous day.
But now his attention was drawn somewhere else – to a large item of furniture on the far side of the room, just to the left of the foot of the staircase. In any normal household it would be a dining table, though in this one it was cluttered with old papers, bits of food-crusted crockery, a few items of discarded stationery – and something else.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
