The Cairn by Rachel McLean and Joel Hames, book 3 in the Cumbria Crime series - Chapter 1

Simon Haslam stared at the woman’s outstretched hand in confusion, before remembering the etiquette, pasting on a smile, and taking it in his own. Even as he nodded and replied to her platitudes, he was looking over her shoulder and frowning, as if there was something important behind her he had to attend to.

Anything to get away from all these people.

He’d known it would be busy. He’d been to enough fell races over the years. But this was the first time he’d organised one. He hadn’t realised just how many people would want to talk to him.

“Remarkable turn-out, Simon,” she said – a short, middle-aged woman he’d seen at events before. “And you’ve marshalled everyone so very effectively.”

His smile stretched a little as she went on.

“A few strays, of course, but you can’t help that, can you? And that silly man with his drones.”

Simon nodded. “Thanks.” He’d forgotten her name already. Mary, or perhaps Maria. He wasn’t taking any chances. “Sorry, I need to…”

He walked past her. She was still talking. “A walker on the hills,” he caught, and hesitated.

It’s nothing. He could hardly do anything about walkers, could he? They were surrounded by hills, that was the whole bloody point of it. The steep climb early on, up to the treacherous ridges, past tumbling cairns and ice-blue tarns, the hell-for-leather descent through granite and gorse. That was the whole reason they did it, or at least, the reason they did it here.

A walker on the hills. It wasn’t like she’d knocked over any of the runners, was it?

Ahead, he spotted Aminah, swathed in the marshals’ fluorescent yellow, taking tiny sips from a steaming plastic cup. It was nearly noon on a warm spring day, but some habits were unshakeable.

“How are we looking?” he asked.

Aminah shrugged. “We’re down to the stragglers. You know.” There was a slight sneer on her face. “The ones who think it’s a bloody fun run.”

The elite had finished long ago, the serious hobbyists were recovering their breath and snacking, but this lot, unfit, in stupid costumes, twisting their ankles because they didn’t understand the need for proper footwear, taking the wrong turn if it was foggy…

But today, of course, it wasn’t foggy. It had been bright and clear since sunrise. The Great Borne Fell Race was open to all. And he, Simon Haslam, was its public face.

“Any trouble?” he asked.

“The idiot with the drones,” she replied. “Don’t know where he’s gone. Can’t really do anything about that. And that woman, too.”

“What woman?”

“The one up near Starling Dodd. I told you about her earlier.”

The walker, again. “Well, she wasn’t on the actual route, was she? And we can’t be expected to police the whole of Cumbria.”

A walker on the route would have been a problem. A walker near the route was only a problem if she strayed into the path of the runners. Starling Dodd was one of several summits today’s runners would have had to tackle, but as far as he knew, this woman hadn’t gone anywhere near the competitors.

“And there’s no sign of Laurence,” Aminah added.

Simon nodded, turned away, then stopped and turned back to her.

“What?” he said. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Laurence Eversholt. He hasn’t come in.”

Simon pulled out his phone and scrolled through the WhatsApp messages congratulating him on organising the race until he found the one labelled Marshals’ Chat. He’d insisted on that apostrophe himself.

“Hang on,” he said, “Laurence was…”

He looked up to see Aminah nodding. “Out in front,” she said, “or near enough. Every station up to the one after Red Pike.”

Simon scanned the chat and looked back up. Red Pike was nearly three-quarters of the way along the route. All the worst ascents would have been behind him, but there was still some tough work ahead.

“No sign of him since?”

Aminah nodded. Her eyes had narrowed, her usual air of bored confidence replaced by something sharper. “Do you think…?”

Do you think we need to find him?

Simon nodded, pushing down the lump in his throat. He started to move.

None of the other runners seemed to know where Laurence was. No one seemed particularly concerned, either. Laurence was an experienced runner. Laurence should have known better than to drop out and not tell anyone, and Simon would have to remind him of this. But for now, they just had to find him.

Simon pushed his way through a dense throng of spectators — idiots dressed as dinosaurs and serious runners in club colours — until he found Adam. Behind him, an overweight thirty-something was kneeling on the ground, vomiting into the grass. Simon ignored him.

“I need the contact list. I need a phone number for Laurence Eversholt.”

Adam pulled out his phone. “Yeah. Everything alright, mate?”

Simon ignored the question. He dialled Laurence. No answer.

“Where was he last seen?” he asked, to no one in particular.

Aminah was behind him, her breathing as sharp as his own now. “Red Pike. I’ve spoken to a few more. No one saw him after that.”

Simon looked up. Red Pike was invisible from here. And it was inaccessible by vehicle, officially. But there were logging tracks leading part of the way, up through the woods.

“Adam,” he breathed. “Your Land Rover.”

A nod. Adam farmed just the other side of the ridge and was a man of few words. The three of them piled in, Simon, Adam, and Aminah, plus Gill, who’d been marshalling runs in the area since before most of today’s field had been born. Between Gill and Adam, they knew the land as well as anyone.

Ten silent minutes later, Adam braked sharply.

“As far as she’ll go,” he said.

Simon stepped out onto the rock and bare earth, impressed the Land Rover had made it as far as it had. Red Pike was ahead, just a short trot, not too steep. He’d be there soon enough. Bloody Laurence would be up there, resting, apologetic, perhaps nursing a twisted ankle.

After three minutes’ running, he stopped, panting. Up ahead of him were the other three. Gill was over seventy, for Christ’s sake. And here he was, less than a third of the way up, barely breathing.

He forced himself on, pausing twice more to breathe. As he turned past a rock, he saw them, the three of them, standing beside the summit cairn, silhouetted against the sun, staring at something in front of them.

Three. Not four.

Simon trudged up to the others. They were standing at the edge of a ravine, peering down over scree and rock, a drop of fifty metres or more. Crummock Water and Buttermere glittered in the distance, with Bleaberry Tarn closer below them.

He opened his mouth to ask them what they were looking at, then saw it.

A shape was caught against a rock, no more than a third of the way down. A human shape. Two arms, two legs, and a head. The head was twisted almost ninety degrees.

He gulped and turned away, but not before he’d seen it. The number pinned to the dead man’s chest.

Eighty-three. Laurence’s number.