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An hour or so earlier, after asking Winsome Jackman and Kevin Templeton to cover for her, she had parked across North Market Street from the Fox and Hounds, then followed Dalton down to the market square, where he had parked his car. After that she followed him to Reeth about a half hour drive away, and the rest was easy.
Though it was a perfect day for walking, there were few other cars parked on the cobbles outside the shops and none on the green itself. A
Skelgate Lane was overgrown, stony and muddy in places after the recent rains. While A
What the hell did she think she was doing anyway? she asked herself after the first half mile. The investigation into Emily Riddle’s murder, of which she was DIO, was going full steam, still in its crucial early stages, and here she was leaving two DCs in charge while she took time out to settle old scores, or tilt at windmills. Her behavior offended even her own sense of professionalism, but when it came right down to it, her profession was the reason she was doing it. The situation with Dalton was something she had to get resolved quickly, because it had become too much of a distraction.
She had dressed like an anonymous rambler, in a charcoal anorak, black jeans tucked into her gray woollen socks, sturdy walking shoes, hat and an ash stick. She wasn’t carrying a rucksack, nor did a plastic folder of Ordnance Survey maps hang around her neck. Instead, she carried a small book of local walks, and when she stopped for a moment to refer to it, she saw where Dalton was likely to be going. It was five and a half miles of relatively easy walking, taking them along the daleside above the River Swale, then down and back along the river to Grinton, arriving there around lunchtime. She looked for a good vantage point where she might confront him and decided that it would be best to wait until they had doubled back over the swing bridge near Reeth. Then they would be near the old Corpse Way to Grinton.
She had two choices: either walk down to the swing bridge and wait a couple of hours for him to come by, or follow him at a safe distance. She decided on the latter course, partly because there were a number of possible diversions from the route. The Dales were crisscrossed by hundreds of footpaths, signposted or not, going off in every direction, not all of them listed in guidebooks. He could, for example, turn off by Calver Hill into Arkengarthdale for a different walk, or continue along the high dale to Gu
Besides, even if she were only ten yards from him, he would never recognize her, not with the hat and the anorak, and not when he wasn’t expecting to see her.
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The guidebook advised her to pause and enjoy views of Fremington Edge back in the east and Harkerside on the opposite side of the valley, but though she glanced occasionally at the cloud shadows drifting over the greenish-brown hillsides, with their distinctive patterns of drystone walls – one field shaped like a milk jug, another like a teacup – A
Still, up here on the heights looking down on the valley below reminded her of cliff walks around St. Ives with her father when she was younger. How he used to point out examples of interesting perspectives, shapes, textures and colors in the landscape, how he was always stopping to sketch frantically into the book he carried with him, eyes and brain tuned to his fingers. In moments like that she might as well not have been there; she didn’t exist.
All that was missing today was the crashing of the waves and the screeching of gulls. Instead, hares hopped through the spent heather, and grouse broke cover. The weather turned nasty for a few minutes along the daleside, with a brisk west wind whipping up and at one point blowing a brief hailstorm at her. She had had to lean forward into the wind to make progress, looking up occasionally to see the red anorak in the distance.
By the time she came to the steep descent into the village of Healaugh, the wind and hail had all gone, and as she walked through the quiet streets she could almost believe it was summer. A man in a white coat stood selling meat and vegetables to villagers from the back of a small van. Everyone paused and looked at her as she walked past. None of them smiled or said anything; they just stared. It was an odd feeling. They didn’t exactly seem unfriendly, but aloof, a little mournful even, as if they were telling her that their world was not hers and never would be, that she was merely passing through it and she should keep going.
She did.
Shortly beyond the village, which was the turning point in the walk, the path led her through a field down to the riverside. She could see Dalton’s red anorak ahead every now and then appearing and disappearing between the bare alders that lined the Swale. Empty brown seed cones still clung to many of the branches, making the trees look chocolate brown.
The closer she got, the more nervous and confused A
But she kept on going.
It was only a small bridge. At that point, the river meandered through meadowland where cows grazed. It was, however, a genuine swing bridge and A
Dalton had paused by the riverbank at the other side, about a hundred yards or so ahead, and he appeared to be watching her approach. Feeling a little dizzy, A
There was only one thing to do if she wasn’t going to run. She walked through the gate at the far end of the bridge and along the grassy path to where he stood. All the way he kept looking at her, but she still didn’t sense any recognition on his part. Her fear was quickly turning into anger. How dare he not recognize her after what he had done? She tried to take long deep breaths to keep herself calm and centered. They helped a little.