The Trail Killer

Prologue

Tuesday 25th March, 1986
11.18 pm

The stab of the typewriter bars was strident yet fitful, like a hammer pounding a nail.

Dear Detective Gooch,

I'm writing about a missing woman. Joanne she said her name was in the short time she was still alive.

Silence then ensued as Pitman's index finger hovered over the keys, uncertain of where to strike next. Like smiles or friendships, words had just never come easily to him. They seemed superfluous somehow, a waste of mental effort. Words didn't free his sheep of roundworm. They didn't put food on the table for Billy and him. They didn't shear, maintain dry stone walls or pull stubborn lambs from the wombs of pain-stricken ewes. An unwelcome distraction, that was all words were. Something that other people did.

Glenda - now she'd been good with words. All those politely written missives to the Wynmouthshire office of the National Farmers' Union, the bank manager, their local MP. When the mood had taken her, she'd even composed an occasional poem; had once won first prize in a competition run by St Mary's church, he recalled. Then there was fact of the typewriter itself - an heirloom which had been passed down from her paternal grandmother. A battered relic of a thing, but one Glenda had always maintained with the same loving care as a motorcycle enthusiast tinkering with a pre-war Norton. For her, it had been so much more than a just machine. It had been her voice.

With a sudden jerk, Pitman snatched the sheet of paper from the roller, scrunched it into a ball and launched an unsuccessful toss towards the bin.

Given the situation, he supposed he ought to make some kind of special effort. Feign at being someone he wasn't. Feign at being Glenda.

With a paper tissue clamped between each thumb and forefinger, he began rolling the new sheet into position. As he did so, his gaze flicked out of the window before him, sought inspiration from the night. He was confronted only by himself however, his face framed by the reflected lamplight. Ghostly somehow, not quite whole.

The hammer once more began to pound at the nail.

Dear Detective Chief Inspector Gooch,

I am writing regarding a young lady who I can only assume by the time you read this will have been reported as missing. During our brief acquaintanceship, she informed me that her first name was Joanne.

He nodded to himself: yes, that was better. Much less John Pitman.

You will find her in wooded area approximately one mile north-east of the village of Southwold along the Cranwell Tors hiking trail. Heading northwards, she lies in undergrowth roughly two-thirds along and

He was distracted by the sudden thud of the back door, this followed by the dull pad of feet across the kitchen tiles, a faint patter of paws.

"Dad? You still up?"

"In here," he called. "Sitting room."

It was Queenie who appeared first through the half-opened door; little invitation was needed for her to waddle on over, receive a goodnight pat on the head. Billy materialised a moment later, his face reddened with fatigue and smudged by dirt, yet at the same time round and shiny and beaming. More than a boy, Pitman couldn't help thinking, but not quite a man. Something in between, a strange kind of cross breed. No matter how many birthdays might pass, a hybrid destined to remain always so, the same way a mule never becomes a horse.

"Three more dad! Triplets!"

His son's enthusiasm was infectious at times, energising. That particular evening, however, all Pitman could muster was the slightest of nods. It felt strange to be talking about birth, the glorious dawn of life. As incongruous as laughter at a funeral.

"Healthy?" he enquired.

"One's got a bent leg. Splinted it straight up."

He was a good lad, Billy. A gem of a son, despite everything. He didn't deserve all that was happening. All that was going to happen.

There was a curious glance towards the typewriter. "What you up to?"

"Paperwork, bloody stuff." Pitman twisted himself back to the desk. "Going to have to fend for yourself for a while tomorrow morning. Got something to see to in Branstead."

Could hardly post the damn thing in the box just down the road, could he now? Nosey sod that he was, Doug the postman would register the name of the recipient as he emptied the handful of envelopes from the cage, raise a ginger eyebrow to himself. Even Southwold was too risky. No, the safest course of action was post it at the main office over in Branstead - a single, anonymous item of mail amongst hundreds, thousands, of others.

"Here girl," Billy called behind him. "Bed time!" With a weary pant, Queenie wheeled dutifully away.

"Night then dad."

"Night son. Get some rest."

At the squeak of the closing door, Pitman prodded his finger once more to the keys.

a hundred yards to right of the track.

As with Kirsty, it all happened in an instant. One moment we were talking and the next... I swear to you, it surprised me as much as it surprised them.

You must believe me when I say that I am so terribly, terribly sorry for these events. To you and local community as a whole, I promise I will try my utmost to ensure nothing of the kind ever happens again.

And that seemed all there was to say.

Before pulling the sheet from the roller, he glanced back at the reflection in the window. Though the full head of sandy hair and the fleshy, round-cheeked face were of course familiar, the man staring back at him seemed as much a stranger as a passer-by in a city street.

"Stop it," he hissed to the figure there before him. "For the love of Christ, you've got to stop it now."