The Trail Killer

Twenty-six

The headmistress' office was wood-panelled, musty-smelling and decidedly claustrophobic. Apart from the addition of a Macintosh computer on the desk, it was in fact little changed from how Shields recalled it from all those years earlier. Third year juniors, she and Emily 'Egghead' Peters seated there at the centre of the headmistress' arrow-like glare. Their class teacher, Mr Talbot, had found it strange that both of them had achieved scores of 27 out of 28 on the end-of-term mental arithmetic test, particularly so as they'd been sitting next to each other and the one question they'd got wrong had been the same. For Shields it had proven a formative lesson in the power of justice: given the weight of evidence contained in Mr Talbot's mark book with regards to a similar test at the end of the previous term, she'd had little option other than confess.

Though the current headmistress had of course changed from the late-50s version, the glare was just as piercing.

"Malcolm was escorted to A & E by Mr Harding the caretaker."

The glare shifted from Shields across to Lee in the seat beside her. His chin was dug into his chest, his cheeks flushed with shame.

"He rang just a couple of minutes ago to inform us that - an unsightly black eye aside - the boy hasn't suffered any significant injury."

"Oh, well that's something at least," Shields found herself murmuring.

The glare shifted back again.

"Given the gravity of the incident, Mrs Webster---"

"I already told the secretary, my surname's Shields."

But the headmistress seemed not to care one hoot what her bloody name was.

"Given the gravity of the situation," she repeated, "I'm afraid it is beholden on me to issue your son a week's suspension from school. I very much hope that it is a period of time he will use to reflect on the...."

But Shields was no longer registering the headmistress' words.

A week's suspension!

So much for the liberating effect of the start of the new school term! Looked like she'd have to give Jessica a call already.

*

As Claire summited the hill, the breeze became a little more blustery, flapped irritatingly at her raven hair from a variety of angles. Pausing for a moment, she slipped her backpack from her shoulders, stooped to fish out her hair grip. As she did so, she took the opportunity to glance back along the trail, was this time surprised to see a figure following a little behind - a dark trudging silhouette framed by the rolling green hillsides behind. Squinting, she tried to ascertain some basic generalities. A man it seemed despite the bushy outline of light-coloured hair. Middle-aged perhaps. Neither bulky nor frail.

And that was when she noticed it - a detail so chilling it froze her blood, caused her to snatch her breath.

In his hand was the sharp, pointed outline of what very much looked like a knife.

She was back on her feet in an instant and to hell with the hair grip. Oh Christ, what if Sharon had been right all along? The Indian guy who'd hung himself - what if he'd been innocent, had felt forced into making his confession? What if the Trail Killer really was still out there? Was just a hundred yards behind her, in fact?

The backpack bouncing over one shoulder, her breath coming in wheezed, desperate pants, she scurried away along the path.

Far behind she could now hear a dog barking. A voice then called out - young, male.

"Dad! Dad, what are you doing? You need to turn back now! Dad, just come back alright!"

Risking a backward turn of her neck, Claire could make out a distant figure running out from one of the outbuildings behind the farmhouse, the dog beside him. The nearer figure had meanwhile halted his step, had turned himself around.