Issie burst out laughing and he looked at her in surprise.
‘Never seen that before?’ He shook himself and rezipped. ‘Bloody hell that’s cold; I’m the amazing shrinking man! But it’s worked, see.’ The key turned and they stepped into the freezing shed.
It was dark inside and the light bulb didn’t work so again Issie was sent back to the kitchen to find a new one. This time she hid the remains of the loaf of bread and the end of some cheese in the cupboard in the gunroom before returning.
‘Will this do?’
For answer Steve twisted the new bulb in and switched it on. They could see the Honda generator sitting in the corner. It was more complicated than Issie remembered.
‘You reckon that thing still works?’ Steve sounded sceptical. ‘Looks fit for the junk yard if you ask me.’
‘I haven’t seen it used since I was a little girl but we should give it a go.’
The motor was only a little bigger than a lawnmower’s, but try as he might, Steve could not get it started.
‘I told you, it’s buggered.’
Watching Steve had brought back memories of Pappy demonstrating the best way to start the generator. He had explained that she was
‘a cantankerous girl, old Jessie’
that needed tenderness not brute strength, otherwise the engine flooded. He had a way of fiddling with a little valve when
Jessie
had a sulk.
‘I’ve just remembered something my grandfather used to do.’
Steve shrugged; if he couldn’t start it there was no way a bit of a girl would be able to. Issie crouched down with difficulty because of her hip and rubbed the nose of the valve until she could feel diesel trickle out. Then she took the cord toggle and pulled back in a long, strong motion that didn’t jerk. The motor coughed and died. She repeated the action, careful not to go too hard. There was another splutter, longer this time before it failed. On the third attempt the motor caught and the generator kicked into life. Issie let it run for a minute and then switched it off.
‘So, we’re ready if we need it,’ she said, pleased with herself.
Steve stepped forward and hugged her. She winced at the pressure but he didn’t notice.
‘Well done, little Issie!’ It was as if he had taught her himself. Issie forced a smile.
‘Let’s get back inside, it’s freezing. I’ll make us some coffee, if you like.’
‘Just tea for me, Is.’
Issie made sure that she emphasised her limp, moving slowly. It was essential that he didn’t tie her up again. If she could make him think her physically weak as well as docile maybe he wouldn’t bother, particularly given the snows that had cut them off. She filled the kettle and put it on the Aga. There was half a fruitcake frozen in the freezer, probably put there when her thrifty grandmother had left for Australia; she never wasted anything. She put it on top of the Aga to thaw out. Steve was watching her carefully.
‘We deserve a treat, don’t you think?’
He nodded.
‘I’m going to light the fire in the lounge. You come straight in and join me as soon as that tea’s made. OK?’
‘Yes, Steve, I just need the loo first.’
In the shower room Issie found the sleeping pills and the ivory
chemotherapy capsules. The packet said 50mg. Would they dissolve in tea? Worth a try, and a sleeping pill definitely would.
She checked on Steve as she came downstairs. He was watching a rerun of a John Wayne western on television, lying on the sofa with a blanket over his legs. The fire he’d made was a small one, to ration the logs.
Issie made his tea. She opened a capsule carefully with a knife and ground up a sleeping tablet, stirring them both into the teapot. She added extra sugar to Steve’s mug and made herself a cup of instant coffee.
‘Tea’s up,’ she called out cheerfully and took the tray through to the sitting room.
The sun disappeared behind clouds and a sudden blast of arctic air sent the Fenwick children scurrying back inside the Dog and Bacon just as the adults were ordering coffee. Fenwick had been in good form, to the delight of Alice and surprise of his mother, who kept looking at him suspiciously. He found her scrutiny unnerving.
They decided to visit Father Christmas at a garden centre after lunch rather than try to do any more shopping, given the weather. As they were in two cars the children insisted on going with him. They spent forever in Santa’s grotto, which didn’t bother his mother or Alice as they had a lovely time wandering around the Christmas displays and taking ages to choose seasonal
knick-knacks
Fenwick knew were superfluous while they waited for the children to emerge. When they finally left it was dark and the roads were treacherous. Alice decided to leave her car to pick up the following morning in daylight. They all crammed into his for the short journey home, with the children fighting over who was to sit where. So when his mobile phone rang he answered
hands-free
and said immediately, just in case, ‘Fenwick; I’m just with my children right now.’
‘Oh, right.’ He heard confusion in Bernstein’s voice and then realised she probably didn’t even know he had any. ‘When would it be good to call you back?’
‘In half an hour, thanks.’
He was waiting impatiently for her call with a cup of tea in his study when it came through after four-thirty.
‘We have Saxby in custody. You won’t believe this but the chief constable has relented and says you can join the interview with him.’
‘That’s brilliant, but why?’
‘Well I suspect it’s because the first attempt has been an abject failure. In fact, it was worse than that; I would say it was a disaster. Instead of calling a solicitor with his one call he rang big brother who stormed down here, solicitor in tow and demanded the immediate release of junior. Norman said no and took him into his office to explain why. They almost came to blows.’
‘Ouch. So how are things now?’
‘Lord Saxby has left in high dudgeon threatening press coverage of the, I quote, “abject effing failure of the police to find my daughter” in the
Sunday Enquirer
. Rodney is in with his brief, who is a Mr Box …’
‘Oh, I know Box; money doesn’t buy better.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So I’m the last hope?’ he said, whereas what he was thinking was
I’m to be the damned scapegoat again.
‘You’re being kind.’ So she was thinking the same.
‘How long has he been in custody?’
‘We arrested him at thirteen forty-five.’
‘And you’ll be holding him for the full twenty-four hours?’
‘Too right.’
‘Very well; I’ll come over early tomorrow morning. I had a drink at lunchtime and the roads are really bad. That way you can continue to work on him and I really will be the last hope.’
‘I don’t blame you.’ But she sighed. ‘See you, then.’
He was watching Bess put the finishing touches to a Christmas cake she had made when she said out of the blue, ‘Will we see Nightingale before Christmas, Daddy? Only I’ve made her a card.’
He felt his mother’s eyes on the back of his neck. Chris stopped playing his computer game. The silence grew.
‘It would be nice, Andrew,’ Alice said. ‘She’s been such a sport. Why not invite her over for a drink with us all tomorrow?’
‘It’s very short notice; she’s bound to be busy.’
‘An attractive girl like her, yes possibly, but if you don’t ask you won’t find out, will you?’
‘Go
on
, Daddy,’ Bess insisted, sounding exactly like her mother had done when she nagged him.
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Don’t procrastinate, Daddy,’ Chris chimed in, switching off his game and coming over to jump on his father’s knee.
‘That’s a good word, Chrissy.’
‘I can spell it too, Alice, P … R … O … C … R …’
‘A–S–T–I–N–A–T–E! It’s not that difficult.’
‘Bess!’
Fenwick breathed a sigh of relief as his mother took his daughter to task. While they were distracted he disappeared to his study and shut the door firmly. He concentrated on doing the paperwork he had been putting to one side for too long. Then he decided the keyboard and screen needed a good clean and was in the process of sorting out the pens in his drawer into size order when he threw the last one down in disgust.
Without giving himself time to rethink he dialled and Nightingale answered immediately.
‘Oh,’ she said when she heard his name. ‘It’s you. What do you want?’
‘Nightingale, how are you?’
‘Fine; busy.’
‘Of course, I won’t keep you long.’ He ran his free hand through his hair. ‘Look, Nightingale, last night … I didn’t react very well and, well, I’m sorry.’
Nothing.
‘I was – am so worried about Issie and the timing wasn’t the best … I … look … I heard what you said, I mean I really heard it and we should talk. It’s just that right now … well, I’m in a mess, quite honestly.’
He heard an intake of breath but she didn’t speak.
‘What I mean is …’ God this was difficult, ‘well all I can think about is finding Issie and sorting my home life out. I’m messing up with Bess. If I’m not careful she could end up as damaged as Issie.’ He had to look up and blink. ‘This isn’t working. I’m just sorry; OK?’
‘OK,’ she said at last. ‘At least you called; that’s something.’
‘It wasn’t easy.’
‘Do you want a medal? Neither was going to see you last night.’
‘Sorry; I know … can you just give me some time? To clear my mind?’
‘To find Issie, you mean.’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s not your case any more.’
‘I know but …’
‘And after all this time the chances of her being found alive must be slim.’
‘She was alive on the seventeenth, we know that for sure.’ His jaw was aching with the effort to keep his voice level.
‘I wasn’t aware; there’s been nothing on the news.’
‘Norman has a news blackout. So please keep it to yourself but we have hope. And Mariner isn’t a cold-blooded killer.’
‘Despite the brother?
‘That was an accident, I’m sure of it.’
‘I don’t know what to say, Andrew.’
‘All I’m asking for is the chance to spend time with Bess and Chris and to think things through.’
‘Will you really give yourself that time? You seem to know an awful lot about the hunt for Issie, given that you are no longer involved. Does CC Norman know you’re being kept so well informed?’
‘I’m helping them, Nightingale, on the quiet I admit, but I found something—’ he stopped himself; he couldn’t mention Lulu not now.
He heard her sigh.
‘Very well, let’s talk again when you’re ready but don’t mess me about, Andrew. That would be unkind.’
‘I promise. Thank you. I’ll be in touch after Christmas, then.’ Relief was making him light-headed.
‘All right … oh, and Andrew.’
‘Yes?’
‘I hope Issie is found soon, really I do.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, so he didn’t hear her mutter,
‘For your sake as well as hers.’
Issie had a very good day. Late afternoon brought a power cut but by then Steve was oblivious. He hadn’t moved from the sofa since drinking Issie’s doctored tea. His snores were so loud she could hear them wherever she went in the house, relishing the freedom to move and to prepare.
There was a dusty backpack in the spare room, which she cleaned and lined with one of the plastic sacks. After that she gathered her essential kit and packed it tightly in the bag, thinking through the most efficient way to stow the contents in case of emergency. Issie discovered her old schoolgirl compass by chance, less impressive than she remembered. She made a lantern for the pack by punching holes with a skewer in an empty, washed baked bean can and then securing a length of candle inside on melted wax. It was unlikely she would ever need it; the two-mile walk would be nothing, even in the snow, to a girl who used to hike all day but Pappy had impressed on her from a very young age the need to be prepared.
After she finished packing some plastic-wrapped sticks of dry kindling she went to check on Steve. He was still fast asleep. The fire had dwindled to glowing embers so she put on one of the smaller logs and a precious lump of coal. It flickered back to life
but it was hardly a blaze and the house was starting to become cold as the electric pump no longer circulated hot water from the Aga. She should go and start the generator.
The idea was daunting; to venture outside on her own with her dodgy hip would be risky. On the other hand it would be good to see how her body coped with the icy conditions. It was such a pity that she wasn’t yet fit, otherwise she would have tied Steve up and left as soon as he had fallen asleep, but she wasn’t yet ready. She needed to build up muscle strength and eat more before she ventured out. As soon as she had hidden her pack, she would eat some soup, wrap up tight and tackle the generator. At that moment she heard Steve groan.
Andy Parker zipped his quilted jacket up to his chin and pulled the hood tight. It hadn’t snowed all day but the wind cut into any exposed flesh, flaying it to painful redness in seconds. His glasses protected his eyes but were almost useless as they steamed up with the humidity as he breathed cautiously through a barely open mouth.
The instruction from Operations to the RPU to check out Abbott’s Farm was as unwanted as his Auntie May arriving for Christmas. He had been in the canteen when the call came, hoping for a couple of hours out of sight before sliding home for the Christmas weekend. Unfortunately, the duty sergeant had other ideas and seemed to take particular pleasure in giving this road policing officer the assignment; sadistic bastard.
It wasn’t even his job; but apparently Operations considered road traffic best suited for the dreadful driving conditions he would face on the Downs. That was a new one to him and way beyond the call; he’d have a word with the Federation rep when he next saw him.
It had taken Andy over an hour to travel the short distance along the A27 from Lewes to Wilmington. He now faced the problem of finishing the last mile to the farm. Ahead, the single-track road was virtually impassable, even for his 4x4. The council had decided not to
waste precious grit on keeping such a minor road open. He radioed in, expecting to be told to abandon the job, but was told to get off his arse and walk it, but not to approach if there were signs of occupation.
Andy tried the usual health and safety line; it was nasty out there and would be dark early; if he slipped and hurt himself there would be hell – and a lot of money – to pay. At that he had been told to make sure he took his radio with him so he could call for help if needed. He thought he could hear laughter as the transmission closed. Of course he had all the necessary gear in the car; it was standard winter issue. That wasn’t the point.
As soon as he opened the car door, the wind flung needles of ice against his cheeks and nose. His boots were a tight fit over extra socks but he managed to squeeze into them, then it was a matter of stowing the torch and radio while balancing the spade on his back. The snow was packed deep and even higher along the verge where the wind had whipped it into crested waves through which
black-fingered
hawthorn scratched to the surface.
‘Bloody hell! I’m never going to make this.’ Andy struggled to push through the snow. Every hundred yards was taking forever; he thought again about turning around.
Steve Mariner was doubled up in agony on the toilet with only the torch for company when its battery died.
‘Issie! Issie!’
Another spasm gripped his insides. Whatever had upset him was vicious; he had never felt so ill.
‘Issie! For God’s sake I need you. The torch has gone out.’
He heard her footsteps outside on the landing.
‘There’s a candle here just to the left of the door, Steve. Shall I bring it in?’
‘No, agh, just leave it there. I’ll be out in a minute.’ More cramps, a disgusting rush and a smell that made him nauseous. He felt clammy and weak. She mustn’t see him like this.
‘I’ll find new batteries and then go and see if I can start the generator.’
‘Be careful,’ he whispered in the darkness.
Issie knew where the spare batteries were but Steve was scared of the dark and he deserved to be isolated in there feeling like death. She couldn’t believe that he had had such a bad reaction to the procarbazine already. She waited in the hall for some time, listening to him groaning.
Andy had developed a routine: ensure left foot is securely placed, pull right foot out of snow leaning on shovel for support, place down firmly, test, lift left foot and repeat. It was a slow,
muscle-aching
rhythm but he was making progress. Although dusk was falling early the snow gleamed sharply, lighting the path ahead. He must almost be there. There had been a house a long while back but it wasn’t the one and its lights had disappeared in the dip of the hill. The smell of woodsmoke in the wind was comforting. An anthropologist might have suggested atavistic feelings were the source; deep memories of the safety of the open fire in the cave, surrounded by the rest of the tribe. For Andy it just made him think of his gran.
A signpost loomed up in the gloom. Andy shone his torch on it and read out loud ‘Abbott’s Farm ¾ mile’; there was an arrow pointing down an even narrower track.
‘At last.’
Andy walked down it and found that the snow wasn’t as deep. The gnarled limbs of ancient oaks hunched above him. Even bare of leaves they were dense enough to provide cover but it was harder to see. The clear sky was being invaded from the east by swollen grey clouds, lit by the setting sun. He switched on his torch, trying to trace the curves of the path ahead. At least he felt warm, in fact he was sweating inside his parka but his face under the scarf was numb and his hands painfully cold. The track started to climb and he was soon panting. On the breast of a hill the trees fell back and he had to work extra hard.
Why was he doing this? His shift was almost over and he should have been on his way home to Amanda, warm and welcoming; the
smell of dinner tempting him as much as her soft curves. Bugger this for a lark! Another waft of woodsmoke, sweet and fragrant; it made him miss her more. He was tempted to give up. What were the chances of that girl being out here anyway? Zero. Look at this road; no one had driven down here for ages. He might just as well turn around now and tell the sarge the house was empty, but he didn’t.
It wasn’t a sense of duty that pushed him on but thoughts of his wife. The missing girl looked a bit like Amanda when he had first met her in the sixth form. The photos had affected him, not that he’d shown it, of course, but inside he had been angry and scared for her. With thoughts of Amanda on his mind he struggled on, swearing when his legs spasmed or the wind drove dirt in his face. He reached the crest of the next hill and looked down into darkness beyond. He could see nothing, not even the track as it dipped away. He pulled out his torch but as he flicked it on the clouds parted and he was granted a view of the wide valley below, crossed by bands of rose light and sharp black shadows cast by the setting sun. He could see the farm over half a mile away, dark against the surrounding pink-grey fields. It looked deserted: no lights, pitch-black. The track leading to it was covered in thick virgin snow. Andy nodded to himself; sorted. He had done his job and now he could go home.
He reached the car in half the time and turned the key in the ignition in trepidation but the engine started first time and the headlights came on. He sighed and felt deep relief. In fact, it was exactly the same feeling that Steve Mariner was experiencing as his body finally stopped cramping and the light in the bathroom came back on.