Stuart Pawson - Some By Fire

"She's a bit noisy, for a start!"

"She! He's a he!"

"A he? Well why do they call him Alice?"

"Er, weller because Alice is an ancient abbreviation of, er, Alexander.

Who, as you know, was a Greek. The name was popular among Greek immigrants to the States at the turn of the century and handed down through the male line."

"Really?"

"Well, either that or he's living in Wonderland."

I suggested Dave collect his boots and maybe the kids and come walking with me, but his mother-in-law's windows needed a final coat of Dulux gloss and Daniel had gone off with his pals. I didn't suggest Sophie tag along and neither did he. I bought a sandwich at the cafe across from the nick and drove to Bolton Abbey, about an hour away.

The Valley of Desolation is aptly named in winter, but in good weather it's a pussycat. I watched a succession of people crossing the Wharfe on the stepping stones, waiting for someone to come to grief on the low one in the middle. There's always one, halfway across, that's wobbly or slippery; it's a law of stepping stones. They weren't going anywhere, just crossing for the hell of it, determined to get the most from their day out. I decided not to risk it and used the bridge ten yards downstream. A rumble of thunder rolled down the valley, followed by a second of silence as every face turned towards the sky and noticed the black clouds above the trees.

In twenty minutes I'd left the tourists behind and was scrambling up the path that headed out on to the fells and towards Simon's Seat, a magnificent fifteen hundred feet above sea level. No chance of altitude sickness today. As I emerged above the tree line I saw a figure ahead of me, laden down with equipment, and shook my head in amazement at the amount of stuff some people take with them. They believe all they read about the dangers of walking on the moors.

It was a young woman. She stopped, looked around her, and decided this was the place. As I approached I saw that she'd been carrying painting equipment and I made a silent apology to her. She was struggling to set up an easel while holding her artist's pad under her arm, trying not to put it on the ground.

"Can I give you some help with your easel?" I asked with uncharacteristic boldness.

"Easel!" she gasped, red-faced. "Easel! The man said it was a deck chair I laughed and took the pad from under her arm. She was quite small, with fair hair pulled back into a short ponytail, and a mischievous smile. "Lift that bit upright," I said, pointing, 'and tighten that wing nut." She did as she was told and turned the nut the right way first time, which was a surprise.

"Well done," I said. "Now pull the middle leg back and tighten that one."

"Ah!" she exclaimed. "Now I see how it's done. You're a genius." She extended the legs and locked them in position.

"I've done it before," I told her. "Maybe you're not mechanically minded."

She tested the easel for rigidity and said: "A body will remain at rest or in motion until it is acted upon by a force. Isaac Newton said that and I agree with him. You can't be more mechanically minded than that.

Do you paint?"

"A body will remain at rest until the alarm clock goes off. I said that. I went to art school, many years ago."

"In that case," she told me, looking up into my face and smiling, "I'm not starting until you are a mere speck disappearing over that hill."

"I'm going, I'm going." I hitched my bag on to my shoulder and said:

"You've picked a nice spot."

"It's lovely, isn't it? Enjoy your walk and thanks for your help."

"Thank you."

She'd given me a new zest for life. I walked too fast, buoyed by her cheerfulness, and was soon puffing. Grouse flew up around me, clucking and whirring like clockwork toys before they dived back into the heather further away, and another roll of thunder sounded ominously near.

Big blobs of rain were staining the path by the time I reached the Rocking Stone, pock marking the dust with moon craters. I made it to the top and sheltered in a shooting hut while I donned my cagoul. Then the rain came in earnest, dark and powerful, Mother Nature showing us that the brief respite we'd had was at her whim. The path outside the hut became a stream and visibility dropped to about fifty yards, grey veils sweeping over the moor, one after another. I leaned in the doorway, dry and warm, and marvelled at it.

Five minutes later the storm had moved along, leaving a rainbow and a steady shower in its wake. I had intended to do a circular route, but I wasn't sure of the way and now the paths were sloppy with mud. I pushed my arms through the straps of my rucksack and went back the way I'd come.

It had been quite a downpour. The lazy river had become a torrent and the stepping stones were submerged. The bridge hadn't been swept away, thank goodness, but all the tourists had vanished. I soon found them.

They were in the cafe, drying off. I unhooked my bag and edged between the stools and push chairs looking for an empty place at a clean table.

I walked straight past and wouldn't have recognised her if she hadn't pulled my sleeve. Her T-shirt was now covered by a blouse in an ethnic design from one of the more mountainous areas of the world, Peru or Nepal, at a guess, and her ponytail had come undone so her hair framed her face. It suited her that way. She was tucking into a giant sausage roll and a mug of tea.

"Hello," I said, unashamedly delighted to see her again. "Did you get wet?"

"Managed to dodge most of it. And you?"

"The same." I pushed my bag under a spare chair and nodded at her plate. "That looks good. Can I get you another?"

"No, one's enough, thanks."

"Tea?"

She shook her head.

One might have been enough for her but I ordered two, with a big dollop of brown sauce. I bought a large tea, without, and two iced buns with cherries on top. "I've bought you a present," I said as I sat down beside her.

"Oh, thank you," she replied, slightly surprised, and took it from the plate I offered.

"How many paintings did you do?"

"About a half, that's all. What about you? Did you have a good walk?"

"Brilliant. Not very far, but the rain added a different dimension. I don't mind it."

"It doesn't help when you're trying to paint in watercolours," she told me.

She was a schoolteacher, which I found hard to believe she looked about Sophie's age and was called Elspeth. Her number one subjects were physics and biology but she was hoping to move into the private, that is, public, sector of education and another talent on her CV would be useful, hence the painting. She'd taught for three years at a big comprehensive in Leeds without a problem, but was beginning to think her luck might run out. I confessed to being a policeman and she wanted to know if I'd ever caught a murderer. It's easier to say no.

We were in mid-chat about the Big Bang theory when she looked at her watch and said she'd better go. She had a bus to catch.

"A bus?" I repeated. "You came on the bus?" I said it as if she'd announced that she'd arrived by sedan chair.

"Fraid so. We humble teachers have difficulties with mortgages; there's nothing left for luxuries like iced buns and motor cars."

"My heart bleeds," I said. "Where do you live? I'll give you a lift."

She said no, like any properly brought-up girl would, so I showed her my ID and aCID visiting card. "Ring Directory Enquiries," I told her, shoving my mobile across to her, 'and ask for Heckley police station.

Check the number with that."

"OK, I believe you. Thanks. I'd be very grateful for a lift."

"Uh-uh," I said, shaking my head. "Ring 192 and ask."

She did as she was told and checked the number against my card. "It's the same," she agreed.

"Right, now dial it."

She dialled, and when someone answered I took the phone from her. "Hi, Arthur," I said, holding the phone so she could hear I was engaged in a conversation. "It's Charlie. I'm expecting a call, has anyone been after me?" Nobody had. I told him where I was and about the weather and rang off. I hadn't meant to frighten her, but there's no harm in it. Psychopaths and fraudsters go to great lengths to appear legitimate. A few forged cards and a false ID would mean nothing to them. I could easily have watched her get on the bus, followed her and set the whole thing up. There are some wicked people out there.