The Long Kill. Reginald Hill
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to garden in?’
‘No. They’ve been around a bit.’
‘Where, for instance?’
‘Oh, here and there. Alps, Andes, Pyrenees, very low down in the Himalayas, rather higher in the Harz. Yes, here and there, you could say.’
She looked at him darkly.
‘Well, that’s me put in my place, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘And finally, overcome by age, you’ve returned to these undemanding hillocks, is that it?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ he said easily. ‘One thing I learned early was that any hilly terrain that takes you more than half a mile off a road in uncertain weather deserves great respect.’
‘What a wise man you are, Mr Hutton. Though I’m glad to say the weather doesn’t look at all uncertain at the moment.’
‘No it doesn’t,’ he agreed looking out across the sun-gilt landscape. Was it only a week since he had greeted the forecast of a settled spell of fine autumn weather with a coldly professional gratitude that it would bring the target out into his garden and make the long kill possible? He turned his gaze onto the woman. For the moment her company was like this late reburgeoning of summer. How long it would last, how far it might take him, were not yet questions to be asked. For the moment her presence was to be enjoyed like the autumn sunshine without threat or complication.
‘What shall we do this afternoon?’ he said.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I thought we might go on to Calf Crag then back to Grasmere down Far Easedale.’
She sat upright and said, ‘Whoa, Mr Hutton! Our appointment was for lunch, not a day’s outing. I’ve got things to do this afternoon. I ought to be on my way back down now.’
He must have looked disappointed for she smiled faintly and added, ‘You mustn’t take things for granted, Mr Hutton, not with me anyway. I have a tendency to the pedantic. I expect people to mean what they say and I prefer them to say what they mean. You should have been more precise in your proposal.’
‘And if I had been?’
‘Then very probably I would have come with you. It’s not every day a little Lake District mouse has the chance to scurry in the wake of a Himalayan Yeti!’
She started packing the lunch debris into her rucksack. He followed suit, saying, ‘Then let me be precise about two things. One: would you please stop calling me Mr Hutton? Two: will you spend tomorrow, or as much of it as you can, walking with me?’
‘What shall I call you?’ she said.
‘Jay,’ he said after a fractional hesitation. He should have been prepared, indeed he had thought he was. William was out of the question. Hutton he had conditioned himself to respond to, but he would probably walk right past anyone addressing him as William or Bill. His real name belonged with the old years; he might yet come full circle and touch them again but for the moment the gulf was too deep, too wide. Which left Jay, the closest familiarity he permitted those few who came close to being friends. But he didn’t like giving it to this woman, didn’t like the cold breath of his previous life it brought into their relationship. Hence the hesitation.
‘Jay? Why Jay?’
‘My middle initial,’ he said easily. ‘It was used at school to differentiate me from another William Hutton, and it stuck.’
‘All right. Jay.’ She tried it doubtfully.
‘And I’ll call you Annie if that’s all right.’
‘No!’
She was very emphatic.
‘Anya,’ she said. ‘My name’s Anya. Too outlandish for good Cumbrian folk like Aunt Muriel, but Anya’s my name.’
She spoke lightly but Jaysmith caught a hint of something deeply felt. Perhaps her husband, being presumably good Cumbrian folk too, had called her Annie and she didn’t like to hear the name on another man’s lips.
‘All right, Anya,’ he said. ‘Yes, it suits you better. Annie is too …’
‘What?’ she challenged him.
‘Buxom,’ he said.
They laughed together.
As they began the descent, Jaysmith reminded her, ‘You haven’t answered my second very specific request.’
‘I was thinking about it. To tell the truth I could do with a good walk after a week in London. But I couldn’t start till, say, ten AM and I must be down again by half past three.’
‘Five and a half hours,’ he mused. ‘Let’s say … what? Eighteen to twenty miles?’
She looked at him in horror then saw the amused twist of his lips.
‘Thank heaven you’re joking,’ she said. ‘I was wondering what kind of mountain goat I’d fallen in with! Two miles an hour is quite rapid enough for me, thank you very much. I like to be able to stop and admire the view from time to time. Perhaps I’d better pick the route.’
‘Accepted,’ he said.
‘What? No macho resistance at all?’
‘When I was a young man faced with the choice between scouting for boys or being guided by girls, I knew which side my bread was buttered on,’ he replied.
‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘That’s the impression I get of you, Jay. A man who knows which side his bread is buttered on.’
In the Crag Hotel, Jaysmith had been very noncommital about his encounter with Miss Wilson, partly because of his own ambivalence of feeling but also because he reckoned the old lady was entitled to be her own gossip in Grasmere. But that night Parker greeted him with a broad smile, outstretched hand and hearty congratulations on his purchase of Rigg Cottage.
‘So the news is out?’ he said.
‘Out? Trumpeted abroad, old chap! Everyone in the village knows. And they’re all dying of curiosity about you.’
Even with allowance made for Parker’s hyperbole, this news did not please Jaysmith. After a professional lifetime of not drawing attention to himself, even this very mild and local limelight was distressing. A half bottle of champagne appeared on his table at dinner with Parker’s compliments.
He said to Doris Parker who had delivered it, ‘Really, I should be paying you a commission.’
She smiled in her placid down-to-earth way and said, ‘Bring a few friends in for dinner occasionally and that will do nicely. You’d rather just have your Chablis, I suspect?’
He nodded.
She said, ‘I’ll take this off your bill,’ and went away with the champagne.
After dinner, in the bar, Parker showed a strong tendency to act as his mentor in the minutiae of Grasmere life so he escaped to the lounge and watched television for a while. The news was the usual mishmash of political piffle, royal baby rumours, sporting highlights and bloody violence. There’d been an attempt on the life of the Turkish Ambassador in Paris, a botched-up job by some idiot with a Skorpion machine-pistol leaping out from behind a potted palm and spraying the vestibule of the hotel where the Ambassador was lunching. A doorman was killed, an American tourist seriously injured, and the assassin himself cut down by a hail of security men’s bullets which also killed a lift attendant. The dead and the injured were all filmed in glorious technicolour.
Jaysmith’s disgust must have shown. The female half of an elderly couple, the only other viewers, said, ‘It’s horrifying, isn’t it? Quite, quite horrifying.’
He nodded his agreement, but did not explain that his disgust was merely at the sight of the carnage caused by amateurs. Was he himself an amateur now? No, only if he started killing people without getting