VIII

i

Burnt Yarley was too small to merit a policeman of its own; on the few occasions police assistance was needed in the valley, a car was dispatched from Skipton. Tonight the call went out at a little before eight—a thirteen-year-old boy missing from his home—and the car, containing Constables Maynard and Hemp, was at the Rabjohns residence by half past. There was very little by way of information. The lad had disappeared from his bedroom sometime between six and seven, approximately. Neither his temperature nor his medication were likely to have induced a delirium, and there was nothing to indicate an abduction, so it had to be assumed he’d left of his own volition, with his wits about him. As to his whereabouts, the parents had no clue. He had few friends, and those he had knew nothing. The father, whose condescending manner did nothing to endear him to the officers, was of the opinion that the boy had made for Manchester.

“Why the hell would he do that?” Doug Maynard, who had taken an instant dislike to Rabjohns, wanted to know.

“He hadn’t been very happy recently,” Hugo replied. “We’d had some hard words, he and I.”

“How hard?”

“What are you implying?” Hugo sniffed.

“I’m not implying anything; I’m asking you a question. Let me put it more plainly. Did you give the lad a beating?”

“Good God, no. And may I say I resent—”

“Let’s put your resentments over to one side for now, shall we?” Maynard said. “You can resent me all you like when we’ve found your kid. If he is wandering around out there then we haven’t got a lot of time. The temperature’s still dropping—”

“Would you kindly keep your voice down!” Hugo hissed, glancing toward the open door. “My wife’s in a bad enough state as it is.”

Maynard gave his partner a nod. “Have a word with her will you, Phil?”

“There’s nothing she knows that I don’t,” Hugo replied.

“Oh you’d be surprised what a child will tell one parent and won’t tell the other,” Maynard replied. “Phil’ll be gentle, won’t you, Phil?”

“Kid gloves.” He slipped away.

“So you didn’t hit him,” Maynard said to Hugo. “But you’ve had some words—”

“He’d been behaving like a damn fool.”

“Doing what?”

“Nothing of any significance,” Hugo said, waving the question away. “He went off one afternoon—”

“So he’s run away before?”

“He was not running away.”

“Maybe that’s what he told you. ”

“He doesn’t lie to me,” Hugo snapped.

“How would you know?”

“Because I can see right through the boy,” Hugo replied, giving Maynard the weary gaze he usually reserved for particularly slow students.

“So when he went off for the afternoon, do you know where he went?”

Hugo shrugged. “Nowhere, as usual.”

“If you were as communicative with your son as you’re being with me it’s no wonder he’s a runaway,” Maynard said.

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t need a lecture on parenting from the likes of you,” Hugo replied. “The boy’s thirteen. If he wants to go traipsing the hills that’s up to him. I didn’t ask for details. I was only angry because Eleanor was so upset.”

“You think he went onto the fells?”

“That was the impression I got.”

“So tonight he could be doing the same thing?”

“Well he’d have to be completely out of his mind to go up there on a night like this, wouldn’t he?”

“It depends how desperate he is, doesn’t it?” Maynard replied. “Frankly if I had you for a father I’d be suicidal.” Hugo began an outraged retort, but Maynard was already on his way out of the room. He found Phil in the kitchen, pouring tea. “We’ve got a hill search on our hands, Phil. You’d better see what help we can get locally.” He peered out of the window. “It’s getting worse out there. What state’s the mother in?” Phil made a face. “Out of it,” he said. “She’s got enough pills in there to sedate the whole bloody village. She must have been quite a looker too.”

“So that’s why you’re making her tea,” Doug replied, nudging him in the ribs. “You wait till I tell your Kathy.”

“Makes you wonder, eh?”

“What?”

“Rabjohns and her and the kid.” He stirred a spoonful of sugar into the tea. “Not a lot of happiness.”

“What’s your point?”

“Nothing,” Phil said, tossing the spoon into the sink “Just not a lot of happiness, that’s all.”

ii

It wasn’t the first time a search party had been organized in the valley. At least once or twice a year, usually in the early spring or late autumn, a fell-walker would be late returning to a rendezvous and, if the situation was deemed sufficiently serious, a team of volunteers would be drummed up to help with the search. The fells could be treacherous at such times—sudden mists swept in to obscure the way, scree and boulders could prove unreliable perches. Usually these incidents ended happily.

But not always. Sometimes a body came down from the hills on a stretcher. Sometimes—rarely, but sometimes—no trace was ever found, the victim gone into a crevice or a pothole and never retrieved.

At a little after ten Frannie heard cars in the street and got up out of bed to see what was going on. It wasn’t hard to guess.

There was a knot of perhaps twelve men—all bundled up against the blizzard—conferring in the middle of the street. Though they were some distance away and the snow was thick, she could name a few of them. Mr. Donnelly, who had the butcher’s shop, was recognizable (there wasn’t a bigger belly in the village, and his son Neville, with whom Frannie went to school, was shaping up the same way). She also recognized Mr. Sutton, who ran the pub, his big red beard as distinct as Mr. Donnelly’s stomach. She looked for her father, but she couldn’t see him. He’d broken his ankle playing football the previous August, and it was still giving him trouble, so Frannie assumed he’d decided (or been persuaded by her mom) not to join the search party.

The men were dividing up now; four groups of three and one group of two. She watched while they all trudged back to their cars and, with much shouting back and forth, got in. There was a small traffic jam in the middle of the street while some of the vehicles turned around and others came alongside one another so that drivers could exchange last minute instructions, but the street finally emptied, the sound of the car engines receding into silence as the searchers went their separate ways.

Frannie stood by the window watching the snow erase the crisscrossed tire marks in the street and felt faintly sick. Suppose something were to happen to one of the men, how would she feel then, when she’d watched them set off into the storm all the time knowing where Will had gone? “You’re a creep, Will Rabjohns,” she said, her lips touching the icy glass. “If I ever see you again, you’re going to be so sorry.” It was an empty threat, of course, but it comforted her a little to rage against him for putting her in this impossible situation. And for leaving her—that was even worse, in its way. She could bear the responsibility of silence, but the thought that he’d run off into the world and left her here when she’d gone to all the trouble, and the indignity, of making friends with him was unforgivable.

As she got back into bed, she heard her father’s voice downstairs. He hadn’t gone. That at least was some comfort to her.

She couldn’t catch what he was saying, but she was reassured by the slow, familiar rhythms of his voice and, soothed by them as surely as by a lullaby, she let her unhappiness go and fell asleep.