before stopping short. The pool was as lifeless and sombre as a grave.
On a good day, the Tower was fifteen minutes away, less if you moved fast. Today, it would take longer. For a moment, she hesitated.
In her jacket pocket, her mobile rang.
Greg said, ‘I’m at the end of Lowbarrow Lane. Where are you?’
‘At the Serpent Pool, below the Tower. I couldn’t wait.’
‘Don’t go any further. Please, not on your-’
She switched off the phone. Her choice was made, though the truth was that she had no choice. She moved swiftly through the trees, locating the muddy path that led to the ledge on which the Serpent Tower squatted. She looked up and caught sight of the folly rising above her, an ill-defined shape barely visible in the greyness.
But Greg Wharf wasn’t finished yet. Through the foggy blanket, she heard the police siren wail.
Oh God, what was he doing? No chance of taking Denstone and Weston by surprise after that fucking cacophony.
She held her breath. For a moment, nothing.
And then she heard a woman scream.
‘No!’
For a few moments, nothing happened. Finally, she heard a noise. Footsteps pounding, a racket deadened by the fog. Looking up, she caught a glimpse of yellow in the gloom. A hi-vis jacket, but who was wearing it?
‘The police are coming!’ the woman screamed. ‘It’s time!’
Cassie, it must be, although Hannah could not make out her figure on the narrow plateau up above.
‘Two more minutes. Please, I’m begging you. It won’t take long, the dog is waking.’
Arlo’s voice was unmistakeable, but Hannah couldn’t guess what he was ranting about.
‘I can’t live without you, my darkest fear is-’
‘Cassie, this isn’t what we planned,’ the man cried. ‘Don’t jump yet.’
‘Please-’
‘Remember what we agreed. Murder is a thing of beauty…’
They were off their heads. Hannah ground her teeth. That fucking De Quincey, he should never have been born.
Hannah craned her neck and shouted. ‘Cassie, don’t do it! Let Marc go!’
‘Too late,’ the woman screamed.
A moment of silence was followed by a crash. Something had smashed into the stony ground, twenty yards away from her.
And then another cry of wild pain tore the silence. Followed by a wild, unintelligible roar, a flash of yellow tumbling from the ledge above the Serpent Pool, and seconds later, another sickening noise.
Hannah was sure it was the sound of death.
She hauled herself up the fell, driven by desperation. Every few seconds it seemed that she missed her footing, and collided with jagged rock, collecting one more gash on hand or cheek. But she was beyond pain. Only one thought in her mind. To find Marc, if he was still to be found.
As she climbed, she mumbled incoherently to herself. Praying to a God in whom she wasn’t sure she believed. The fog around her was nothing compared to the fog in her brain. One day she’d clear her head, but for now, all she knew was that she had to reach the Serpent Tower.
At last it rose in front of her. A narrow structure, like a Victorian chimney. Dark stonework, the only decoration those serpents entwined above the entrance in a macabre embrace. What had possessed that long-dead landowner to build such a dismal monument?
She peered at the door. The key was still in the lock. Denstone had meant to shut Marc in, she supposed, but Greg’s siren had spooked him.
She threw the door open.
First she saw the dog, then Marc.
Hanging naked from the wall. A pitiful, degraded spectacle. She covered her mouth, fearing to throw up as he had done.
The pit bull lay on its side, eyes half-closed. Even as Hannah took in the sight of the creature, it twitched. A convulsive movement. The dog was coming round. Striving to get its bearings.
‘Save me!’ Marc hissed.
She took a step forward. He shook violently. A strip of tightly wrapped plastic cord linked his wrists to the hook on the wall. Another bound his feet.
The pit bull made a throaty rumble.
‘Quick!’
A quick fumble inside her coat. Thank God, she hadn’t tidied away her last hope of keeping Marc alive. The knife she’d taken to peel the apple at Undercrag was still in the pocket.
She sawed at the cord. Christ, Marc stank. He’d wet himself, but it didn’t matter. All she cared about was setting him free before the dog came round.
‘Faster!’
The pit bull had opened its eyes and panted hard as it tried to struggle onto its feet.
Hannah sawed harder. The cord was tough, but had begun to fray. This wouldn’t take long.
‘Please, please, hurry!’ Marc was dribbling, but it was too late for disgust or nausea. Numb with cold and horror, she felt herself sweating as she tried to cut the cord.
Suddenly, it snapped.
Marc would have collapsed to the ground if she hadn’t caught hold of him.
She needed to sever the cord around his ankles too, but the pit bull was clambering to its feet.
The animal’s gaze met hers. In its eyes, she saw only hate.
Wrapping her right arm around Marc, she bundled him to the door. He was a dead weight.
The dog found its voice and bellowed. A cruel roar, brimming with fury.
She pushed Marc through the door and threw herself out after him. The dog was moving, but it slipped on the rock, unsteady on its legs after a long drugged sleep. The stumble gave Hannah the chance to turn the key in the lock.
She stood with her back braced against the door, as the pit bull charged into it and then howled in pain as its head struck the unyielding oak.
Marc lay on the patch of mud in front of her. Eyes open wide.
Pleading for forgiveness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘A bloody good result,’ Fern said as she munched from a packet of prawn cocktail-flavoured crisps. ‘So, how is Marc?’
They were in a bar off Stricklandgate. At the next table, Greg Wharf was regaling Donna and Maggie with a lusty account of his part in the murderers’ downfall. Everyone was in celebratory mood, except for Hannah, who was sipping lemonade. Half an hour earlier, she’d sat at Marc’s bedside in Westmorland General.
He was a wreck, but the doctors reckoned he’d make it through without too many scars. At least, not physical scars. The last thing Hannah wanted right now was to spend the evening in company; the urge to run away and hide was overwhelming, but it was vital to make an effort. No choice, she must tough it out. Couldn’t have everyone feeling sorry for her. Pity so easily tipped into scorn.
‘He’ll live.’
‘And learn, I bet.’
Hannah shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’
Fern leant towards her. ‘Don’t be too hard on him, kid. Men are all the same. She was a gorgeous woman, and she set out to snare him.’
‘Didn’t have to make it so easy for her, did he?’
