I’m stunned that the police have arrived so quickly.  Presumably one of the officers, or maybe even the bus driver, belatedly recognised me and raised the alarm.  Whatever the truth, I’ve little doubt that within the hour the area will be flooded with police, so it’s imperative that I make good progress.  Another sixteen miles or so to go,  I make a quick calculation: assuming three miles per hour, all being well I’ll be at Kinder Scout in a little over five hours and before darkness falls on this shortening autumn day.  I know it’s not a particularly fast pace but the profile of the land doesn’t lend itself to rapid progress; the meandering path is littered with loose rocks and boulders, and is further narrowed by swathes of coarse bracken demanding numerous minor detours.  For a few hundred metres I attempt a more direct route and cut through the centre of the thick bracken and heather, but within minutes I’m exhausted and my thigh muscles burn as I struggle to make headway through the unforgiving vegetation.  Despite the rain of the last few days, back on the main path the ground underfoot is dry, the walking conditions almost perfect.  Many years earlier I’d walked the same path with a group of school friends.  The rain had been torrential for days and we’d walked in ankle-deep mud for much of the way.  I suppose I should be thankful for the small mercy that the early thunderstorm has abated.

Within ten minutes I reach a fork in the path and bear to the right in the direction of Kinder Scout.  Having walked most of the route several times before, I’ve little use for the map anymore.  From my previous trips, I know that the ground is undulating but relatively flat for the first ten miles but the last five miles or so require a climb of close to a thousand feet.  I suspect it is the latter that will be the real test, but I’ll worry about it later – I need to get there first.  In any case, I remind myself, the more inhospitable the terrain, the more difficult it will be for my pursuers to catch me.  I lengthen my stride and identify a steady rhythm as I dip my head and shoulders into the strong breeze.  Come on, Julian, come on, Julian, I urge, knowing that every step forward is a step closer to my sanctuary.

Walking along, I try and anticipate the likely strategy of my pursuers.  Presumably they’ll have stopped the bus within minutes and the driver will tell them where I got off.  From which point they’ll establish a search, most likely involving tracker dogs and a helicopter.  Like a few days earlier in Graves Park, my biggest fear is the eye in the sky, particularly in such an isolated area of countryside with few roads and little scope even for heavy-duty 4x4s.  For now all is quiet, but how long it stays that way is another matter.

I still feel feverish.  It’s like I’ve got a bad case of the flu, and the pain from my neck now extends into my shoulders and is certainly not helped by the constant rubbing of the rucksack.  I’m starting to get worried, really worried.  Maybe I’ll get too sick to carry on.  Maybe I won’t make it to my hideaway.  An old friend of my dad cut his hand while gardening, it got infected, and within three days he was in hospital, and after a week he was in the morgue. Jesus Christ, Julian, stop over-reacting, I admonish myself, sensing almost blind panic setting in.  With my mouth dry and lips sticking together, I stop as an underground stream surfaces in a small rocky clearing within the otherwise dense bracken.  Checking that I’m alone, I drop to my knees and fill my cupped hands with the crystal-clear water and pour it greedily into my mouth.  The ultimate natural spring water, the refreshing elixir immediately hits the spot, and just replenishing my body seems to help calm my mood.

After filling my water bottle I turn and look back in the direction of the road.  From the raised area of ground where I’m standing, I have an unimpeded view of several square miles.  I take out the binoculars from the front pocket of the rucksack and survey the scene through the powerful lenses.  The path I’ve just followed is completely deserted, but as I focus on the distance I can see two cars pulling up at the side of the road, the police Volvo with its fluorescent livery and the grey Vauxhall Vectra with blue lights still blazing away.  I drop to my belly and, hidden by the dense bracken, watch as three men get out, two in uniform and a third, from the Vectra, in a dark-coloured suit.  With his prominent overhanging beer belly, the distinctive form of PC Carmichael is unmistakeable.  He’s carrying a rolled-up newspaper, presumably the morning’s Metro, and seems involved in a heated exchange with the man in the suit, the latter gesticulating wildly. I struggle to focus on the suit’s face, and form a tripod, my elbows apart and planted firmly on the damp ground. Now that the figures are sharply in view, I immediately recognise him from his photo in the morning’s paper: with his weather-beaten features and bushy grey mop, Detective Superintendent Greene is very much the silver fox.  He’s clearly angry, his face flushed as he barks orders at the other two coppers and then into his mobile, before grabbing the paper from Carmichael and throwing it in his face.  The silver fox is not a happy man.

From the police pow-wow I scan the road towards Sheffield.  A mile or so back I can see a tractor pulling a trailer of livestock, but the road is otherwise deserted.  Tracing the road away from the city, in the far distance, just before it disappears from view beyond a sweeping bend, I can make out the number 218 single-decker parked at the roadside with a police car blocking its path.  The bus driver is leaning against the car smoking a cigarette as he talks to Glamour Boy, who’s taking notes in his little book.  For a final time I check back to the start of the path where Greene is still letting rip and jabbing his fingers into Carmichael’s chest.  I put the binoculars away, cautiously raise myself off the ground and onto my hands and knees, and then crawl through the bracken for close to fifteen metres, until I’m over the brow of the hill.  Satisfied that I’m way out of sight of the road, I get to my feet and continue along the path.  I have a weird feeling – anxious, of course, but also strangely exhilarated; the man-hunt is very much on, and with added impetus I begin to run.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 8

In the vast expanse of the Peak District countryside I’ve been walking for a little over an hour since the arrival of DS Greene and his colleagues.  Without daring to slow my pace, I glance over my shoulder, where the road and the start of the path are now well out of sight some four miles behind and obscured by a large hill.  Despite my continued anxiety and constant compulsion to check skyward for the police helicopter, the open space and beauty of the area is verging on the therapeutic.  Just a few miles from home, I’ve visited the Peak District many times: as a kid with my mum and dad, and then, in recent years, with Helen and the boys.

After the funerals six months ago I’d come here almost daily, probably in an attempt to identify with happier, more settled times.  Now, as then, I find the isolation and solitude reassuring.  The vastness is a reminder that my problems in the great scheme of existence are perhaps not as overwhelming as I sometimes fear.  As I walk, the stimuli to my senses, like listening to a well-remembered song, are linked inextricably with memories of my family.  I shudder involuntarily when I think back to the few days leading up to their funeral.  My emotions were completely flat and I was barely able to summon the mental strength to get out of bed. I spent the days lounging on the settee with the curtains closed and unwatched daytime TV in the background.  There were relatively few interruptions to my self-imposed solitude.  Debbie from work phoned a couple of times and then visited, bringing flowers and a sympathy card.  I also spoke several times on the phone to DI Patel.  His tone appeared a mixture of embarrassment and frustration, presumable because he’d not been able to move the case forward some three weeks since the hit-and-run.  He certainly didn’t fill me with optimism that justice would be served. “Unfortunately no witnesses have yet come forward, despite our numerous public appeals.  We’ve spoken to the owner of the vehicle, who claims it was being used by one of his employees at the time.  But this particular employee is not what we would describe as a reliable witness and states that the van was stolen from outside his flat while he was asleep.”