The Sentence Is Death

‘You know that photograph she showed us,’ I said.

‘The one he sent his wife?’

‘I happen to know where it was taken.’ I paused for effect. ‘That’s Hornsey Lane in Highgate. It’s about a minute away from Suicide Bridge.’

‘Suicide Bridge?’

‘It’s what everyone calls it. Hornsey Lane Bridge. If he wanted to commit suicide, he could have jumped off – but what’s really interesting is that it’s only a five-minute walk from Davina Richardson’s house.’

Hawthorne took this in. ‘That is interesting,’ he agreed. ‘But I’ll tell you something that interests me even more.’

‘What’s that?’

‘King’s Cross station. W. H. Smith. Why did he buy that book?’

11 At the Station Inn

I thought we might go back to the hotel after Ingleton but first of all Hawthorne wanted to visit the entrance to Long Way Hole. I didn’t see how it could help but I was just grateful he wasn’t suggesting we kit up and drop into the cave system ourselves. Dave Gallivan drove us in his Land Rover, which was so beaten-up that I was nervous the whole thing would collapse when we drove over the next bump or a cattle grid. Hawthorne sat in the front. I was in the back, hemmed in between plastic barrels, ropes and backpacks, looking out through windows streaked and splattered with mud.

The railway line had slashed through the countryside but the roads allowed us to weave our way across it more gently. Everything – the cottages and farmhouses, streams and bridges, woodland and hills – looked even lovelier at close quarters. Gallivan gave us an occasional commentary but his observations seemed almost deliberately prosaic, as if he felt uncomfortable having a writer with him in the car.

‘That’s Whernside. It’s the tallest of the three peaks. And that’s Ingleborough. If you look up there, that ridge is carboniferous limestone. Those are Swaledale.’ (He was pointing at a flock of sheep.) ‘They’ve been grazing here two hundred year or more.’

Sitting next to him, Hawthorne had the best view, but again he showed no interest, sinking into his seat, saying nothing.

A rough lane forked off from the road and we followed it into the glorious green emptiness of the Dales, finally stopping at a gate built into a drystone wall. Apart from the crunch of our feet on the gravel, there was barely a sound as we walked away from the car, through the gate and up another track. It had been sunny when we were in Ingleton but now the weather was closing in and it occurred to me that this must have been what it looked like when Richard Pryce, Charles Richardson and Gregory Taylor had set out on their last trip. There was still plenty of blue sky but far away the clouds were rubbing up against each other, throwing dark shadows across the fields, broken only by the light slanting down in godlike shafts.

We came to a stream that bubbled cheerfully along until it reached a stone ledge where it suddenly spilled over and became a waterfall. It was impossible to see how deep it was but it seemed to continue into the very bowels of the earth. A hill rose up ahead with the dark mouth of a cave, surrounded by ivy and moss, looking very much like something out of a story designed to frighten children. This was where the three men had begun their descent, allowing themselves to be swallowed up by the dark.

‘Where’s the exit?’ Hawthorne asked.

Gallivan pointed. ‘Two miles east. Round the back of Drear Hill. You want to go there?’

Hawthorne shook his head. Scanning the horizon, he picked out a white-painted farmhouse, isolated, surrounded by grass. ‘Who lives there?’

‘That’s the man I told you about. Chris Jackson. That’s Ing Lane Farm.’

‘Will he be in?’

‘He might be. You want to talk to him?’

‘If you don’t mind.’

‘Suit yourself.’

We didn’t walk. We went back to the car and drove through the gate and on along an even rougher track, the tyres spitting out stones and dust. I wondered if we were on the roof of Long Way Hole. This whole expedition seemed a little pointless to me. Did Hawthorne think that something suspicious had happened when the three men had gone caving together? It would be a good place to commit murder, far underground. At least there would be no need to bury the body. Suppose Richard and Gregory had murdered Charles Richardson. Someone had found out and had taken revenge, bludgeoning one of the killers and pushing the other under a train. It was a reasonable enough supposition. But why now? And why would three old university friends who only saw each other occasionally for adventure holidays have suddenly come to blows?