The Grave Tattoo (23 page)

Half an hour later, he was standing on the margins of a strange landscape. On a long plateau of moorland, human hands had joined with the weather to carve the peat hags into curious shapes, tussocks of grass like sprawling islands in a black morass. Puddles of brown water seemed to ooze from the ground and a faint smell of decay hung in the air. It was, Jake thought, a pretty dismal place to meet one’s end. How different had it been all those years before when a man had met his death as he walked these hills? He would never know. If the dead man was truly Fletcher Christian, it was a bathetic end to a dramatic life.

The place was depressing Jake, so he struck off up the hill at an angle. Fifteen minutes later, he found himself rounding the broad flank of Langmere Fell, a perfect Lakeland vista opening up before him. To his surprise, he was looking down at Fellhead. And there was the Gresham family farm. Reaching into his backpack, he pulled out his binoculars.

He swept them over the village and, as he reached the lane leading to the farm, he was astonished to see Jane walking up the road. ‘Bugger,’ he said aloud. ‘Missed you again.’ He watched as she climbed the hill, her familiar movements tugging at his memory and reminding him of the good times. They’d walked these hills together a couple of times and he’d marvelled at her strength and agility. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise after the sexual energy they’d shared, but it had taken him aback to realise she could leave him standing on the fells.

As she turned into the farm gate, another figure swam into his field of observation, sweeping Jane into a hug. Jake was taken aback. He fiddled with the focus wheel, as if that would somehow alter the identity of the person he was looking at. ‘What the fuck?’

What was she playing at? Had she rumbled him? Was she indulging in an elaborate charade to piss him about? Jake lowered the binoculars and chewed at the skin round his thumbnail. He had a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling indeed.

23

It was a lot harder than it sounded, this hillwalking shit, Tenille thought as she laboured up another steep incline. She reckoned she was pretty fit, but agility and speed didn’t count for much on these punishing ascents. And the descents were almost worse. It felt as if someone had injected a red-hot iron rod through the middle of her thighs. She had found a new respect in her heart for Wordsworth, who had tramped miles over these hills as if it was nothing more than a stroll in the park.

Of course, Wordsworth had only had poetry to worry about. He wasn’t on the run from the cops, skint and sleep-deprived, scared and stained with travel. Tenille pulled the map out of her pocket again and tried to match the weird lines and blue patches to the landscape she was looking at. The Ordnance Survey map was as unfamiliar to her as the hills and dales around her. She’d bought it at the bus station in Kendal when she’d realised that there wasn’t a bus to Fellhead on a Saturday. One of the drivers had told her that the Keswick bus would drop her at the road end, but she’d decided against that. She’d already figured out that black stood out round here like a pig’s head in a halal butcher’s. People would remember a black kid getting off the bus and, if the cops had figured out where Jane was, somebody might just make the right connection. So she’d bought the map and puzzled over it. It was like trying to solve one of those IQ tests they’d made her do at primary school. What was the difference between a path, a footpath and a bridleway, for Chrissake? And did it matter?

Eventually she worked out that if she got off the bus at Dove Cottage, like all the tourists on the Wordsworth trail, she could take a footpath over Grasmere Common that would bring her out on the right side of Langmere Fell. Then she could cut straight down the hill to Fellhead and safety. She could find somewhere to hide out until she could make for the farm under cover of darkness.

It was, she thought, a good plan. She was mostly just grateful to be away from Lancaster. Thinking about what had happened there sent a shiver through her. She’d thought she was sorted when, after a lot of wandering around, she’d come upon a small park near the city centre. It had been almost midnight when she’d found a bench that was surrounded on three sides by a high hedge, like a little secret bower. Although she was cold and still hungry in spite of the burger, she’d curled into a ball and fallen straight into oblivion.

She wasn’t sure what had woken her, but when her startled eyes jerked open, she saw a man silhouetted against the smudge of light from the distant streetlights. He was short and stocky and smelled of drink. Tenille had panicked, pushing herself against the back of the bench, already calculating the chances of escape. Not good, not at this point. ‘You working, son?’ the man demanded, his northern accent thickened with alcohol.

It took her a moment to process his words; she had forgotten that she had gone to sleep a boy. She knew about such things, of course, but it had never occurred to her that she might be prey to sexual advances in her assumed role. What the hell was she supposed to do now? ‘No,’ she said, trying to deepen and roughen her voice. ‘I was sleeping, all right?’

The man grunted. ‘You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t working. What’s wrong? You don’t fancy me?’ He reached forward and she heard the unmistakable sound of a zip opening. She couldn’t see his face, couldn’t gauge how serious he was. ‘Take a look at this.’

The faint blur of his penis emerged against his jeans. Tenille scrambled back, feet on the seat of the bench, half-crouched and ready to spring when the opportunity presented itself. She could feel the sweat of panic running down her spine, smell its rancid edge. The man thrust his groin towards her. ‘Come on, you little prick teaser, all I want’s a fucking blow job, I’ll pay you, for fuck’s sake.’ He reached for her head but she dodged him, almost losing her balance.

Then his hand was between her legs, clutching tightly through the fabric of her trousers. Suddenly he let go and leapt backwards. ‘You little fucker,’ he shouted. ‘You’re a fucking bitch. You trying to make an arse out of me or what?’

He was zipping himself up now, her chance to get away. As she powered off the bench and tried to pass him, he threw a punch at her. It caught her a glancing blow on the shoulder, but it wasn’t enough to stop her. She raced into the dark, a harsh sob escaping from her throat as she dived into the tangled branches of a clump of rhododendrons. She fought her way to the heart of the thicket and curled into a ball, pulse racing and breath ragged, tears pricking her eyes. Calm was a long time in returning, but eventually she managed to doze off again.

Her rest had been broken and shallow. Every night sound was enough to penetrate her sleep and most were sufficient to rouse her. By the time light began to creep into the sky, Tenille had been more than ready to shake the dust of Lancaster off her feet. An early bus had brought her to Kendal then to the local service which had brought her to the revelation that was the Lake District. She’d seen Jane’s photographs, she’d read about it in poems and books, but nothing had prepared her for this. She’d always felt some degree of doubt that a landscape could stir the deepest emotions. Tenille had seldom been outside London, and then only to seaside resorts like Southend and Clacton. Her own limited experience had provided her eyes and heart with nothing inspirational to inhabit. But as beauty unrolled before her, mile after mile, she began to have a glimmer of understanding of the passion that could come simply from being alive in a place like this. She found herself growing eager to leave the confines of the bus, to strike out into the countryside and take it into herself. It was enough to make her forget how tired, hungry and dirty she was.

But now, a couple of hours later, the first exhilaration of beauty was past and she was feeling the miles in her legs. She found a flat rock and sat down to rest, marvelling yet again at how empty this place was. Grasmere had been busy with tourists, but once she was about ten minutes’ walk from the village, it was as if she’d left humanity behind. Tenille had never had so much space to herself. She’d only passed two other people on their way down. They’d been upon her before she had time to take evasive action and she’d been astonished when they’d smiled at her and said, ‘Grand day for it, isn’t it?’

She’d ducked her head in reply, unsure what the deal was in situations like this. How was she supposed to respond? If she spoke, would they take that as an invitation to conversation? But they were already past her, boots crunching on the loose stones at the edge of the path. Now, she was alone again, apart from the odd bird circling overhead. Tenille studied the map and tried to figure out where she was. Gradually, she began to make correlations between the representation and the reality. There was a small rise ahead of her. Once she breasted that, she should be able to see Fellhead below her.

She stuffed the map back into her backpack. She was hot now and wished she had had enough money left to buy some water and something to eat. But she was down to her last few quid and she hadn’t wanted to spend it. She’d passed a stream earlier and had thought about drinking from it, but she’d been scared it wouldn’t be clean. There could be a dead sheep further upstream for all she knew. There was a reason why they put chemicals in the water before they let you drink it.

Wearily, Tenille got to her feet and set off to scramble up the short incline that would bring her a view of Fellhead and Jane’s home. As she rounded a rocky outcropping at the summit, she saw a figure standing on the path a short distance below her. He had binoculars to his eyes and he was staring down into the valley. She stopped, reluctant to draw attention to herself.

The man took the binoculars away from his eyes and Tenille gasped. She wasn’t the only person who had followed Jane back to the Lake District. But what the hell was Jake doing, spying on his ex-girlfriend?

Jane strode up the hill, fizzing with a mixture of anger and delight. Diane had of course sprung to Matthew’s defence. His class assignment had been under way well before Jane had arrived back home. There was no reason why he should remember one name out of hundreds that featured in the family tree project. Obviously, Matthew had separated out those two cases in particular because they had a common ancestor. If he’d intended to keep this information from her, why would he have left the papers lying on the table for anyone to see? Jane was paranoid. Matthew would never deliberately try to scupper her research and it was horrible of Jane to suggest that he was planning to usurp her work. How could she even think her own brother would go behind her back and try to discover the missing manuscript for himself?

In one sense, Diane was right. It should be unthinkable. But where Matthew was concerned, Jane found it all too easy to imagine her brother hugging his knowledge to himself then taking advantage of it to conduct his own search. If he wasn’t planning a double-cross, why keep the knowledge about Dorcas Mason to himself?

Jane had tried not to vent her fury on Diane, but it had seeped out round the edges. The Pimms had failed to materialise and Jane had insisted on copying the relevant family trees before she left. It was true that the children had concentrated on their direct lines of descent. But with the material she had gleaned from Matthew’s pupils’ efforts, she could go back to Barbara Field and see whether they could trace all Dorcas’s extant descendants. Then she could start the slow process of interviewing them to see what she could discover.

Even this positive thought wasn’t enough to restore Jane’s even temper. But the sight that greeted her when she turned into the farmyard put Matthew’s duplicity out of her mind for the time being. Sitting on the bench that stood against the farmhouse wall, head back and basking in the sunshine, was the last person she expected to see. She stopped in her tracks.

‘Dan! What on earth are you doing here?’ Jane said.

Dan straightened up and grinned. ‘Two heads are better than one, even when they’re butting against a brick wall,’ he said. ‘I thought we could brainstorm together, see if we could figure out a plan of action since I’ve let you down.’ He got to his feet and they met in the middle of the yard, arms round each other in a warm hug. Jane suddenly felt restored. Maybe her brother was a useless waste of space, but she had friends who loved her enough to put themselves out for her.

‘So where’s the car?’ Jane asked.

‘I left it down at the village pub. I didn’t want to presume on your parents’ hospitality so I booked in there.’

‘Idiot. Of course you’re staying here. We’ll unbook you as soon as we’ve had lunch.’ They walked to the farmhouse, Dan’s arm over Jane’s shoulders. ‘You didn’t let me down, you know. I’m just grateful you tried. I am so pleased to see you,’ she said. ‘Especially right now. You’re never going to believe what I just found.’

Dan’s eyes widened, his handsome face sharpened with shock. ‘Not the manuscript?’

Jane snorted scornfully. ‘No such luck. No, I found out why you didn’t have any luck with Family Records.’

‘What do you mean?’

She stopped in mid-stride and produced her copies of Sam and Jonathan’s family trees. ‘Because somebody couldn’t spell.’ She pointed to the line on the family tree. ‘Mayson, not Mason.’

Dan looked astonished. ‘But that’s fantastic, Jane. How did you find that out?’

Briefly, she outlined Matthew’s treachery.

‘I can’t believe it,’ he said, his face tight with anger, sharp lines cutting either side of his mouth.

‘Believe it. But I’ve got what I need. It’ll be easy to fill in any blanks now.’

Dan spread his arms wide then pulled her into a hug. ‘Perfect timing, as it turns out. Now I’m here, we can start doing the interviews together.’

‘Can you stick around?’ Then Jane frowned. ‘But isn’t this your weekend for the hospice?’

Dan raised an eyebrow. ‘Fancy you remembering that. Yes, I should be there, reading to the dying. But I thought the living were more important. I got Seb to cover for me. He owed me a weekend anyway. So everything worked out perfectly.’

‘Except that Harry’s not here,’ Jane said, pushing open the farmhouse door.

Dan gave her his naughty little boy look, head down, eyes looking up from under his brows. ‘I didn’t actually tell Harry I was coming. He thinks you’re chasing rainbows and, frankly, I could do without being scathed this week. Anyway, he’s gone off to Yorkshire for some war game. They’re re-enacting the battle of Marston Moor. Again.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Who knows, maybe it’ll come out different this time.’