She Is Gone

by Ben Cheetham

  she is gone

  (Jack Anderson Book 3)

  Ben Cheetham

  She Is Gone Copyright © 2019 by Ben Cheetham

  Ben Cheetham has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act 1988.

  Cover designed by Suart Bache

  All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author.

  Find out more about the author and his other books at

  bencheetham.com

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Thank You!

  Other Books by the Author

  About the Author

  Prologue

  30th July 1998

  Marcus drew aside the net curtains to peer out of the window. The little cluster of picnic tables in front of the inn was unoccupied. Across the mini-roundabout where three roads converged at the centre of the village, The Lion and Lamb Hotel’s beer garden was also deserted. The sky was grey with the threat of rain. Light showers had been sweeping in from the coast all day, driven by a stiff westerly. For the past half-an-hour the rain had held off. The sun was winking between the clouds, teasing the possibility of a sunny afternoon. Marcus turned to his wife and two young daughters.

  Andrea was sleeping off a hearty lunch of Cumberland sausage and mash washed down with several halves of bitter. Despite the unsettled weather of the past week, her cheeks were flushed from the days they’d spent exploring the paths around Windermere and Coniston Water. The previous day, they’d relocated from Bowness-on-Windermere to Gosforth to do some walking in Wasdale. But as was so often the case even in July, the good old, crappy English weather had thrown a spanner in the works.

  Not that Charlie and Tracy seemed particularly bothered. The sisters were quite content to lounge around the cramped room the four of them were sharing. They were stretched out on fold-down beds that flanked a double bed. As usual, Charlie’s head was buried in one of the horror novels she’d come to love since hitting her teens. Tracy was busy chewing gum and staring into the Game Boy that Santa had brought her last Christmas. Not that she believed in Santa. In fact, Marcus couldn’t recall a time when she hadn’t doubted Santa’s existence.

  Tracy had asked the same old questions as all kids – how can such a fat man fit down a chimney? How can he deliver presents to every child in the world in one night?

  And Marcus had countered her logic with the same answer he’d given Charlie – magic.

  But unlike Charlie, Tracy hadn’t believed him. Not for a second. Marcus smiled to himself. She was a sharp one, that’s for sure. She drove her mum – and him too for that matter – to distraction asking questions. Why this? Why that? Why the other? Nothing escaped her keen brown eyes. She had a way of looking at you that made you feel as if she was rummaging around in your mind for the answers she wanted. No vampires and werewolves for her. She preferred to read the newspapers. He would often find her poring over stories of death and destruction from around the world – a woman strangled to death by her husband in London, twenty dead in a mass shooting in Texas, hundreds dead in conflicts across the Middle East and Africa. Even aged eleven, Tracy knew where the real monsters were to be found.

  “So who fancies a walk?” asked Marcus.

  The question drew an indifferent response. Andrea gave out a soft snore. Tracy shrugged without glancing up from her Game Boy. Charlie peered at her dad from between the curtains of curly brown hair she’d inherited from her mum. “My legs are aching,” she grumbled.

  “Oh don’t give me that,” said Marcus. “You’re thirteen. You’re as fit as a lop. Besides, we don’t have to walk far. I only want to see Wasdale.”

  Andrea stirred, her eyes blinking open. “Was what?” she asked, yawning. There were dark smudges under her eyes. Four nights sharing a bedroom with two kids had left her more tired than before the holiday started.

  “W-a-s-d-a-l-e,” Marcus spelled out, pedantically emphasising each letter.

  A deep crease between Andrea’s eyebrows warned him that her patience was wearing thin. “What about it?”

  “The weather looks like it’s clearing up. I thought we could check out Low Lonning.”

  “What’s a lonning?” asked Charlie.

  “Lonning is a Cumbrian word for a lane,” put in Tracy.

  Charlie pushed her lower lip out as if to say, Boring!

  Tracy sighed as if dealing with her sister required infinite amounts of patience.

  “The views are supposed to be amazing,” said Marcus, vainly trying to whip up some enthusiasm.

  “Why don’t you just go on your own?” said Charlie.

  Marcus frowned as if hurt by the suggestion. “This is our first holiday since last summer. I want to spend time with my girls.”

  “And we want to spend time with you too,” said Andrea. “But we’ve been out hiking every day this week.”

  “I thought you enjoyed walking.”

  “I do, Marcus, but I’m knackered. And the girls want to see the coast.”

  “Perhaps I’ve pushed you all a bit too hard,” conceded Marcus. “But it’s only because we spend so much time cooped up in offices and classrooms. Charlie was starting to look like one of the vampires in her books.”

  “She wishes,” Tracy quipped with her usual dry humour.

  Charlie stuck her tongue out at her. Tracy arched an eyebrow as if to say, Is that the best you can do? Charlie may have been two years the elder, but when it came to verbal sparring she was no match for Tracy, and both of them knew it.

  Marcus’s smile returned. He reached to ruffle Tracy’s unruly mane of hair, whose auburn colour fell somewhere between Andrea’s chestnut brown and his own vibrant ginger. “Leave your sister alone.”

  “How about this?” said Andrea. “We’ll go for a walk with you if–” She was interrupted by a loud groan from Charlie. Andrea threw her a silencing glance. “If we can go to Whitehaven tomorrow. I’d like to have a look around the shops.”

  “Me too! Me too!” Charlie enthusiastically seconded.

  “How does that sound to you?” Andrea asked Tracy.

  Tracy responded with another shrug. Shopping was no more her thing than hiking. She would have rather curled up in some quiet place with a stack of newspapers and a packet of her favourite strawberry flavoured Hubba Bubba.

  “It’s a deal,” said Marcus. “Now come on. Let’s get going before the
rain comes back.”

  He hustled his daughters into their jackets and trainers. The four of them tramped down a gloomy stairway to a cosy barroom – flagstone floor polished by countless feet, sooty stone fireplace, dark wood tables and chairs, dusty sash-windows. The air was hazy with cigarette smoke. The landlord Len – a man whose beetroot face and nine-months-pregnant belly suggested he spent too much time sampling his own wares – was pulling pints for three men at the bar. The men didn’t look like tourists. Two had on the navy blue overalls and mud spattered wellies of farm workers. Their burly shoulders were made for tossing around bales of hay. The third wore heavy duty boots, blue jeans, a wax jacket and flat cap. He was as thin as a polecat and tall enough that he had to stoop to avoid the ceiling beams.

  The trio were talking loudly, but they fell silent as the Ridleys entered the barroom. The men in overalls cast the family uninterested glances. The tall man surveyed them with hooded, sunken eyes. A cigarette dangled from his thin-lipped mouth.

  Len stated the obvious. “You’re off out.”

  “We’re going for a walk on that lane you mentioned last night – Low Lonning,” said Marcus.

  The tall man exhaled a stream of smoke towards him and spoke through his cigarette. “You got a dog?” His tone was flat – not unfriendly, but not exactly friendly either.

  Marcus gave him a thin smile. “No.”

  “What’s it got to do with you whether we’ve got a dog?” asked Tracy, returning the man’s narrow stare.

  His companions burst into laughter. “Yeah, Phil, what’s it got to do with you?” taunted one of them.

  “Tracy, don’t be so rude,” said Andrea.

  “I’m not being rude,” countered Tracy. “I just asked a question. Why is that rude?”

  Phil stooped towards her. His tanned, leathery skin pulled tight over sharp cheekbones as he pushed out his chin. “Because little girls should be seen and not heard. Didn’t your parents ever teach you that?” His voice was the same raspy monotone, but there was a gleam of annoyance in his eyes.

  Tracy didn’t flinch from his gaze. She fought not to choke or even wrinkle her nose at the stench of beer and cigarettes that emanated from him. “Why would they teach me something as stupid as that?”

  Another gale of laughter erupted from Phil’s companions.

  “Tracy!” reprimanded Andrea. “Say sorry, right now.”

  Tracy’s eyebrows knitted together. “What for?”

  “Just do as I say.”

  Tracy pursed her lips obstinately.

  “Right, no more Game Boy for the rest of the holiday.”

  A glimmer of tears sprang into Tracy’s eyes at the threat, but she held her silence. Phil drew away from her, a smile crawling up one side of his face as if he took pleasure from what he saw. “No need for apologies,” he said. “The woods around Low Lonning are stocked with pheasants. That’s why I asked if you have a dog.”

  “Phil’s a gamekeeper,” Len added by way of explanation.

  “Well you’ve no need to worry,” said Marcus, maintaining a strained smile. “We won’t disturb your pheasants.” He ushered his daughters towards the front door.

  “Enjoy your walk,” Len called after them.

  Phil’s gaze followed Tracy out of the door. She threw him a final defiant glance as the door swung shut.

  “What was that guy’s problem?” asked Charlie as they headed for the pub’s carpark. “Did you see the way he looked at Tracy? He gave me the creeps.”

  “He didn’t scare me,” said Tracy, swiping the tears from her eyes as if irritated by them.

  “Alright, that’s enough,” said Marcus.

  “You know, Tracy, one of these days you’ll get yourself into big trouble talking to people like that,” Andrea said as they piled into a Ford Escort estate that had seen better days. “Not everyone is nice.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Tracy responded. “There were over a thousand murders in the UK last year.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Charlie.

  “There are these things called newspapers,” Tracy said acerbically. “You should try reading one instead of those crappy books.”

  “I said enough,” Marcus interjected as Charlie opened her mouth to make a retort. He darted a warning glance at Tracy. “And you watch your language.”

  Crossing her arms, Charlie subsided into pouting silence. Tracy held her dad’s eyes for just long enough to let him know she considered herself to be in the right, before returning her gaze to the pub. She stared at it with an oddly intense look in her eyes, almost as if she was hoping to see Phil again. Marcus gave a despairing shake of his head. He knew that look only too well. He’d been subjected to it many times himself. It was a look she reserved for people who’d drawn some sign of weakness from her. It said as clear as crystal, You may have got the better of me this time, but next time things will be different.

  Marcus puffed his cheeks as he accelerated out of the carpark. “You girls will be the death of me.”

  Andrea turned the radio on. The Spice Girls came through the speakers. Tracy rolled her eyes as Charlie sang along in an out-of-tune warble.

  Rows of quaint white cottages gave way to sheep-grazed fields. A narrow river ran alongside the road, bubbling gently over a stony bed.

  They passed through a hamlet signposted ‘Wellington’ and crossed the river on a little stone bridge. The road rose steeply, hemmed in by thick hedges. After a few hundred metres it briefly flattened out before beginning to descend steadily between fields and stretches of trees. Occasional farmhouses nestled in amongst the rolling landscape. Several miles to the east clouds clustered above the blunt brown peaks of Wasdale. Wast Water remained hidden from view in a deep valley.

  “Looks like rain,” commented Andrea.

  “It’ll hold off,” said Marcus.

  Andrea cocked a doubtful eye at him.

  He pulled over at a crossroads. A stony lane with a strip of grass at its centre branched off to either side of the main road. A wooden sign identified it as a ‘Public Bridleway’. “I think this is Low Lonning.”

  “Which way are we walking?” asked Tracy.

  Marcus pointed north. “Len says that’s where you get the best views.” He inhaled a deep breath of cool air as he got out of the car. “Smells wonderful, doesn’t it?”

  Charlie wrinkled her nose. “Smells like sheep poo.”

  “One day you’ll thank me for this. I’m teaching you to love the countryside.”

  “Charlie doesn’t like to be taught anything,” Tracy said dryly. “Just ask her teachers.”

  Marcus laughed. “I don’t need to ask. I’ve read her school report.”

  Pulling an annoyed face, Charlie shoved at him. He dodged away, and she turned to grab Tracy. The sisters locked hands, striving to push each other off balance. Charlie was two or three inches taller and more heavily built than Tracy. Even so, Tracy often came out on top in scraps through sheer determination and intense competitiveness. If there was one thing she hated more than anything else, it was losing. She seemed able to draw on deep wells of strength that belied her scrawny frame.

  For a second the sisters’ hands quivered between them, poised in deadlock. Andrea stepped in and broke them apart. “No more wind ups,” she said with a pointed glance at Marcus.

  “Sorry,” he mouthed. He shot a cheeky wink at Charlie and Tracy. They stifled giggles. Sighing, Andrea turned away and started walking. Marcus hurried after her and caught hold of her hand. Birch and oak trees overhung the left-hand side of the bridleway. The other side was hemmed in by a hedge through which glimpses of distant scree-strewn slopes were visible.

  “Wow, what a view,” exclaimed Marcus. “What do you think girls?”

  “Not bad,” Charlie begrudgingly admitted.

  The sun nudged out from behind the clouds, dappling the lane. Andrea raised her face to it. The pale golden light shimmered in her thick hair and highlighted her sun-kissed cheeks.

  “You�
�re not too bad either,” said Marcus.

  Andrea smiled and blew a kiss in his direction.

  “Bleurgh!” Tracy said with a nauseated expression.

  Marcus and Andrea exchanged a knowing glance. Tracy still looked away when actors kissed on-screen. To her, boys were an entirely different and unpleasant species. It wouldn’t be long, though, before puberty kicked in and reversed her outlook. Marcus and Andrea were looking forwards to the prospect with mixed emotions. It was wonderful to see your child developing into a confident individual, but adolescence brought a whole load of new issues to deal with. Top of the list with Charlie was boys. They were already drawn to her pretty face and budding curves like moths to a flame. Marcus and Andrea sensed there would be different problems with Tracy. Her refusal to let anyone get the upper hand had been seen as an endearing trait, but the older she got the more it brought her into conflict with people. What would have been laughed off coming from a young child would be met with anger and hostility coming from a teenager. Encounters such as the one in the bar of The Rose & Crown were becoming increasingly frequent occurrences.

  As the lane arrowed northeast, the trees clustered thicker, dousing the Ridleys in deep shadows. Tracy stopped abruptly, staring into the woods, a vertical cleft between her eyebrows.

  “What is it?” asked Marcus.

  “I saw something moving.”

  “What? An animal?”

  “I dunno.” Tracy darted out a finger. “There.” She couldn’t be sure, but she’d seemed to glimpse a dark shape flitting between the trees.

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “Neither do I,” said Charlie.

  “Are there deer in these woods?” asked Tracy.

  “No idea,” said Marcus. “They’re a rare breed of blind deer.” He chuckled. “Do you get it? No-i-dea.”

  Tracy rolled her eyes, unamused.

  “Your jokes are getting worse,” said Andrea.