Death on the Lake by Jo Allen (early reader books TXT) 📗

in.’ Becca handed over the carrier bag of supplies and Ryan began to stow the contents meticulously in the rucksack. She really shouldn’t patronise him. He could probably light a fire from two sticks. ‘The folk in the shop must have thought it was Christmas, the amount you’ve bought.’

‘The guy thought I was a rookie. Told me I shouldn’t be going out there without help and support or I’d end up dead.’ Ryan laughed, and the laugh held contempt. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

‘Do you disappear for long in the outback on your army training?’

‘Weeks on end. Okay, it’s not the same as this, but I’ll take my chance on a fog here rather than the desert over there. At least you’ve got landmarks to steer by.’ He thrust the last item into the bag, pulled the flap down and clipped it shut.

‘You don’t want a lift anywhere else?’ Becca really couldn’t help herself. No wonder everyone thought she was a soft touch. She was relieved when he shook his head.

‘Nope. I’ll just start from here. I’ll head up Glenridding and camp for the night. Helvellyn tomorrow.’ He hoisted the pack up onto his shoulders. ‘At this time of year I’ll be up and back before breakfast.’

‘You’ll let me know where you are, though?’

He gave her an amused look, as though he was the one who’d lived in the Lakes all his life and she the newcomer. ‘I doubt it. Even if there’s anywhere I can get a signal I’m not planning to be anywhere where I’ll charge my phone. Or not often.’

‘We still have public phone boxes in this country. It would be nice to know you’re still alive. And anyway, someone might need to get in touch.’

‘I’ll be in touch when I’m back. Tell your mum I’ll bring all my washing.’ His laugh was, at least, self-effacing. ‘I’ll see you.’

He crossed the road and strode across the car park, pausing only to check the signpost, and swung out through the village with a wave. Her last sight of him was from the car, a solitary figure following the path across a field, heading into the hills.

She sighed, and set off back to what she hoped would be normality.

At ninety-five and a half George was feeling every moment of his near-century, and it manifested itself in discontent. Becca hadn’t been to see him since he’d hounded her and that brash Australian great-nephew off the premises, and while he didn’t give a damn about the boy, he missed Becca’s eternal patience and what seemed to be the genuine pleasure she took in his company. It was his fault and he knew it, but nevertheless he allowed himself to take offence. He was old, and people ought to make allowances for him.

It was a pleasant enough evening, and he was tired of being alone, so he shuffled out of the kitchen and into the garden. The sun was warm but declining. He rested a hand on the stone wall and looked down the lane to where a figure was striding towards him. George beamed with satisfaction. Luke Helmsley, on his way home from work, was always a figure to poke at, always one who would give you a rise if he was tired, as surly and ill-tempered as George himself, but without the excuse of age. ‘Evening Luke.’

‘George.’ Luke stopped and met him with a scowl, even before George had the chance to rub his natural irritability.

‘What’s up with you then, lad? You’re looking right sour tonight.’

‘You’d be looking sour if your neighbours were dishing the dirt on you to the police.’ Luke approached the wall and laid both hands on it, facing up to George in a way that challenged him.

To his chagrin, he found himself forced to step back. ‘No more than you deserve, I daresay.’

‘Oh, you do, do you? And were you one of them, granddad? Were you one of the bastards who’ve been telling the police I’m a violent sod who can’t keep his temper?’

There was a figure strolling along the lane towards them. Seeing it made George brave. ‘It’s no more than you are.’

‘Is it, aye? Well, now they’re asking me questions about Summer, and folk who call themselves my neighbours are saying I killed her. I bet you were one of them.’

George hadn’t specifically suggested to the police officer who’d interviewed him that Luke might be a killer, but nor had he held back his views on the boy’s bad temper. ‘And did you kill her?’

‘Did I hell! She does what she wants and I do what I want. If she wanted to hang around with the posh kids at Waterside Lodge, that’s up to her.’

‘What else is up with you, Luke?’ George goaded him. He could see, now, that the approaching figure was Miranda Neilson, which made the conversation potentially even more delicious. ‘Jealous, are you? Do you wish you’d been invited down there yourself?’

‘Nah, why would I? Can’t stand any of them. He calls himself a local boy and comes back with a pair of spoilt rich boys and a posh tart in tow. He’s not one of us.’

Rather to George’s disappointment, Miranda showed no signs of having heard herself described as a posh tart. ‘But that girl of yours. She got on all right with them. Not surprising, though. She was worth a dozen of you.’

‘Doesn’t matter, does it? She’s dead.’

George paused, waited until he was sure Miranda was within earshot, and carried on. ‘I bet I know why you were so keen on your girl hanging around down there. It was to see what you could get out of it. I’ve seen you hanging round the place. Casing the joint were you?’

Luke lost his temper, as George had known he would. He leaned over the wall, made a snatch at the old man’s jacket and missed by a whisker. ‘You shut your mouth, granddad, or I’ll shut it for you! You think I care anything about how much they’ve