The Trail Killer

Twenty-three

The following day, Saturday, April 5th

As part of Shields' plan, Bridcutt had been obliged to accept that she would swing by in her Marina and pick him up rather than the other way round. The way she drove, it'd be practically Christmas by the time they got there. That was to say nothing of Radio bloody One on the stereo. He just couldn't for the life of him fathom why so many people listened to soulless commercial crap when there was good music out there. A bit like reading Barbara Cartland when there were bonafide geniuses like Hardy, Melville and Steinbeck readily available on the shelves of any bookshop or public library. Why, for heaven's sake? Just why?

Shields' reaction as he stepped out of the ground floor entrance next to the butcher's shop was similar to that of the previous Thursday evening when he'd presented himself with his hair all wet and flattened from the shower. An unveiled smirk. An audible giggle.

"Bloody hell Jonah, what happened? Ended up at Tiffany's nightclub last night, wound up in a brawl?"

And thus the journey out to Southwold was for the most part spent describing the events of the previous afternoon.

"Passed the evening in the company of bags of frozen vegetables," he recounted. "First peas, then when they started to melt, I got out the green beans, then finally the oven chips."

"Typical bloody veggie!"

"Vegan, actually."

"Typical bloody vegan! If it was me, I'd have snuck out to the butcher's down below and asked him for a good old-fashioned steak to slap over it."

He tried not to rise to the bait.

"Anyway, got the swelling down a bit but don't think I'll be heading off to the photographer's for a portrait shot any time soon."

A hand patted his knee. "Took one for the good folk of Branstead and district, pal. You should be proud of yourself."

And yes, in a way he was. The charcoal-coloured bruise which had stared back at him from the bathroom mirror as he'd cleaned his teeth - he considered it a battle scar. A badge of honour.

Their affable banter soon faded as they pulled into the parking area of the Southwold trail entrance. As Shields killed the engine and thus also the damn Level 42 song which had been playing on the radio, their gazes both turned left at the location where Joanne Renshaw's red Mini had been found. Bridcutt pictured the jasmine-framed facial shot which had saturated the media for a couple of days - that cute, sideways-turned smile, the pretty white clips in her hair. Thought about her parents, in so many ways victims too themselves. Their belief that justice had been delivered based on nothing but spin. All just bluster.

Beside him, Shields gave a nod.

"Okay Jonah, let's do this."

Though the sky above them was more greyish-white than blue, as they pushed open the wooden entrance gate the sun had managed to slink momentarily between the clouds, illuminate the hill before them an impressive, vivid green. A thin stripe of earthy beige cut through grass, rose to the summit. The footworn path too narrow to follow side-by-side, Bridcutt gestured a gentlemanly hand.

"Ladies first."

As they headed on their way, he tried to concentrate on the rolling countryside which surrounded them, limit his inspection of the equally curvaceous backside there before him to discreet, occasional glances. Upon reaching the summit of hill, Shields paused for several moments, her hands on her thighs as she panted out a series of laboured breaths.

"Practically bloody Everest."

The truth was that on a Cranwell Tors scale of one to ten, the slope they'd just climbed would rank as a two, maximum two and a half. Hadn't she told him she'd once completed route C! Bizarrely, the fact that she could at times be such an unscrupulous damn liar was actually part of her allure.