The Trail Killer

Three

The parking area at the Southwold entrance to the Cranwell Tors hiking trail consisted of a modest rectangle of scrubland which, following heavy rainfall, was often reduced to a quagmire. Even after a week and a half of fine weather, the assembled officers were obliged to slant their gazes downwards if they wished to avoid the shallow brown puddles which lingered amidst the tyre ruts. As she approached the large, wooden trail map by the side of the entrance gate, Shields' gaze was instead focused upwards; there came an inevitable yelped curse as her left foot wedged itself into the mud.

In contrast to the somewhat ad hoc nature of the car park, the map was a well-produced affair. Swirls of painted contour lines depicted the high, extensive landscape of the Cranwell Tors National Park. A series of thicker lines snaked their way between the hills. these representing a range of endurance-graded routes, each labelled by a letter. Route A was the easiest, a relatively low-altitude circle of not even five miles; route F was meanwhile a veritable monster - a fifty-mile endeavour which crested the very highest of the peaks and extended beyond the Wynmouthshire border.

"Done D and E. Keep promising myself to get round to F some day."

Shields turned, surprised. She hadn't realised that Bridcutt too had stepped away from the mill of officers congregated around the red Mini off to their left.

"Did C once I seem to remember," she offered in response.

Maybe it was the company she kept, the men she'd married, but Shields had little difficulty in telling an unashamed fib or two when the need arose. The truth was, she'd never even attempted route A.

"It was one of the main reasons I asked for a transfer up here," Bridcutt explained. "A city environment can kill a man. Needed to get out to the country. Needed to... you know, breathe a little."

As a seven-year-old, Shields and her mother had made exactly the same move - from the bustling city of Wynmouth up to the remote, distant market town of Branstead. Unlike Bridcutt, they hadn't uprooted themselves out of some romantic love of nature, however, but simply to be somewhere, anywhere, which wasn't Wynmouth. Not have that cursed, towering suspension bridge slip into view at the end of every street.

Bridcutt's gaze had meanwhile flicked coyly down to his feet. "Maybe we could head out for a little hike together some time..."

Had she heard right, Shields wondered? Had that been some kind of vague attempt at asking her out on date? Was that what young men did these days - they invited you for a lung-bursting slog in the drizzle rather than a crafty snog on the back row of the cinema? Personally, she preferred the latter.

Any other day, she'd have analysed his words more deeply. Analysed how she felt about them more deeply. That particular Wednesday just wasn't the day though.

She nodded back up at the map. "Joanne. I wonder which route she'd been planning to do. How far she got."

But Bridcutt had turned, his manner suddenly alert. "Oh-oh, here comes the boss."

Gooch was at that moment struggling to pass beneath the line of tape which had been tied across opposite lampposts at the entrance to the parking area, his flash Mercedes veered across the quiet residential street behind. A couple of uniforms hurried over to lend him a hand, pulled the tape as high as it would stretch.

Shields followed a pace behind Bridcutt as the pair trod their way back across the tyre ruts. It was her right foot which this time caught the unpleasant squelch of a lurking puddle. Oh well, at least her shoes were matching again now.

Upon becoming aware of his subordinates' approach, Gooch nodded a sombre greeting in their direction.

"Latest?"