The Trail Killer

Twenty-four

 Pitman became aware of the figure hobbling down the track as soon as he'd rattled over the bottom grate. It was a sight so rare - so unnatural, almost - that it caused him to snatch his breath. Though not in a strictly legal sense, the dirt road which led from the main entrance up to the farmhouse was in practice of very restricted access. His own white Ford Transit of course, Doug's red Royal Mail van and, once a month or so when he was left with no other option, the green Land Rover of the extortionately expensive local damn vet. The last time someone had infringed this unwritten rule - the last person to trespass where they weren't welcome, in effect - had been Inspector Gooch in his fancy Mercedes nine days earlier. Motor vehicles, always. The only person he could ever actually recall walking along that track was Glenda when she'd needed to post something in the box further along the backroad or else steer a new-born away from the grate before entrapping its still flimsy legs.

There was something about the way the person was moving - something stuttered, slightly clumsy - which made Pitman squint his eyes in sharp focus. Pounding the accelerator to the floor, he revved and rattled the van further up the slope until close enough to make out the tree branch crutch, the one-footed hobble. It was the brake pedal which was then slammed with maximum force, the hand brake rocketing upwards a second later. As the figure approached, his right hand worked anti-clockwise at the window roller.

"This is private property you're on!" He extended his arm out of the driver's window, gestured beyond the farmhouse with a series of palm-flattened jerks. "The hiking trail's that bloody way!"

"Sorry, yea, I know," came the panted response.

The black eye was distracting. It took Pitman a moment to realise he'd seen that face, that quiffed up hair, somewhere before. Quite recently, he got the feeling. Where though? Where?

It was as the guy was halfway through recounting the little accident he'd had down in the woods, his need to use a telephone and how kind Billy had been that it finally came to Pitman.

The morning he'd posted the letter. Standing there gazing at the police station beyond the passing traffic. The blonde-haired detective scurrying down the entrance steps, her underling just behind...

Him!

It was him! A bloody detective!

The guy was now digging a hand into his jeans pocket. "Here, look, I'll give you a tenpence to cover the cost."

In an act of instinct, Pitman found himself reaching out to grab it before violently hurling into the grass beside them.

"I don't need your spare change, okay pal! I just need you to get off my bloody land right this minute!"

The guy swept his free hand momentarily into the air as if in surrender, then hobbled off on his way again.

Observing his progress in the wing mirror, Pitman boomed out a final warning.

"Don't want to see your face round these parts ever again, you hear?"

With that he rammed back down the handbrake, clattered the rest of the way up to the farmhouse. Was it possible that an officer who'd been part of the Joanne Renshaw investigation had genuinely taken a Saturday morning hike in the vicinity of the murder scene? Twisted his ankle on an exposed tree root? Needed to use Pitman's own phone? Could it really have been just a coincidence? A simple act of chance? A momentary intertwining of two different worlds? What were the chances? A hundred to one? A thousand to one?

But even that thinnest thread of doubt would quickly snap. Billy had been observing proceedings from the kitchen doorway, a plate of toast in his hands. He seemed a little taken aback as Pitman arrowed his way towards him, thundered out his voice.