Faith called her brother’s number but it went to voicemail. She shook her head.
‘My dad’s meeting us at the Royal Oak at nine thirty. He might have gone straight there to wait.’ It was out before she could take it back, and Sadie giggled. Luke ignored her.
‘Let’s check there first, then.’
Luke spoke into his phone, presumably to his mates, and the girls followed, with Sadie applying make-up and taking selfies in front of neon signs and flashing lights. Away from the chaos and din of the main fair, they made their way towards the pub, hoping to find Michael and put an end to the escapade. Luke and Faith checked down alleyways and behind vans as they went; occasionally Faith tried Michael’s number again, without success.
Suddenly her phone rang; the caller ID said it was her brother.
‘Michael!’
The small group stopped walking. They were halfway down a residential street and the odd car sped past. Away from the heat of the burger vans and the huge industrial light bulbs, it was freezing, and the girls pulled their coats tightly round them. They’d noticed the snow as they left the fair, and now it fell in great clumps. Already the cars parked along the road were covered.
‘Where are you?’ Faith shouted into her phone. She nodded and rolled her eyes as she spoke to Michael for barely a minute before hanging up.
‘I’m sorry, everyone, he’s fine. He’s back at the fair, eating chips outside the Cuckoo with Justin.’ Luke smiled. Justin was one of his friends. ‘Sorry,’ Faith said again.
‘Hey, it’s just a good job he’s OK,’ Luke said. ‘Come on, let’s get back to the vibe.’
Faith could feel Sadie’s eyes burning into her as Luke chatted to her all the way back to the fair. As they neared the lights, he took her hand.
‘Have you got to meet your dad at nine thirty as well?’ he asked.
Faith smiled, dying inside. ‘No, just Michael.’
‘I could give you a lift home. I promised to go and get Justin, come on. You can check on your brother first.’ He looked at Sadie and waited. They made a perfect foursome.
Chapter 12
Kurt Fletcher knew that he had to descend quickly. Grisedale Pike wasn’t a challenging Wainwright, but it was bleak at the top and he could tell that the snow was heading his way. He saw great swathes of the stuff to the east over Derwent Water. The familiar shape of Cat Bells sat steady and lazy on the distant shore and he knew that she’d be covered in cloud soon.
He’d started out to bag the peak late, but he knew it well; he’d worked in Whinlatter Forest for the last four winter seasons. Besides, this was his second time completing Wainwright’s 214, and he’d climbed Grisedale Pike at least ten times; it was one of his favourites. He’d come prepared. He wore several layers of under-armour, waterproof leggings over thermals, and a thin windproof jacket, as well as carrying a backpack inside which were a whistle, a GPS, sweet treats, water, a map, a phone, and a torch.
He liked to walk alone. It was the same when he was competing. There was something approaching divinity when he sat on a peak, sipping ice-cold water, breathing quickly to still his heartbeat, unwrapping a Kendal Mint Cake to replenish reserves. The wind was punishing today, but he still sat and stared down and around the Coledale Horseshoe, taking in the breathless scenery of the Derwent Fells beyond. He missed Tarn, his spaniel, who’d bagged over two hundred peaks with him. He’d spread her ashes in Wastwater: the cradle of the storms.
He packed away his water bottle and replaced his gloves over his numbing hands, then took in the scenery for the last time and stood up. Cloud rose over him, bringing with it heavy snow. He put up his hood and made his way back to the ridge. As long as he could feel the ground beneath him and put one foot in front of the other, he’d be down to the frozen bogs of the forest soon enough.
The snow came down in buckets, and he was soaking by the time he reached the fence at the treeline. The forest was deserted, and he ploughed on down a steep patch of frozen moss and fern that led him to the first gate. He had an overwhelming urge to look up at the pines; to see if he could stare at one long enough without seeing the body of the dead girl. He shivered. The image was embedded so deep in his brain that he had contemplated seeking therapy. Johnny Frietze had experience in PTSD and said there was no shame in it, but each time he thought about it, he came to the same conclusion: he wasn’t the victim, the girl was, and he would come to terms with what he’d seen eventually.
A few hundred yards further on was the Revelin Moss car park. It had been deserted when he began his ascent, but now he heard a car.
Another hiker, he assumed. Good for them. A lot of Lakes visitors were fair-weather friends who only attempted to explore during the warmer months. There was a certain privileged exchange of respect between those who braved the peaks in winter. Of course, there was the usual collection of idiots who underestimated the conditions and became trapped on the fells. He’d assisted in more than a few rescues himself, and was considering volunteering for the mountain rescue team here in Keswick, Johnny said he should do just that and was eager to recommend him. But after finding the girl, Kurt had questioned his resolve.
As he neared the car park, he saw not just one car, but two. One of them revved its engine, and he heard music playing. Perhaps they weren’t hikers after all, just kids having a good time. He’d left his own car back in Braithwaite, another twenty minutes’ walk away at least. The beat of the music cut rudely through the serenity of the forest, and he kept his head down as he got closer, minding his own business and looking forward to his pint and a paper, in front of a roaring fire. That was one of the things that had convinced him to settle near Keswick: the number of pubs with open fires and open hearts. The Cock was his favourite, and he’d head there tonight, after a hot shower.
The snow was less of a problem under the canopy of the forest, but the dark was all-consuming, and he stopped to get his head torch out. Something about the eerie shadows cast by the enormous trees made him remember the dead girl. Since he’d found her, she’d haunted him, and now he found himself getting angry with the youngsters in the car, wasting their lives on smoking and drinking. He was tempted to go back and lecture them on how lucky they were to be alive. He didn’t.
He saw no other vehicle or walkers on the way back to Braithwaite, but that didn’t bother him. When he reached his car, he divested himself of several layers of wet kit, steam pouring off his sweating body. He shivered, then pulled on a warm dry jumper and jumped behind the wheel. Reaching over the dash, he opened the glove compartment and took out a dual silver hip flask. One side contained his own home-made liquorice vodka; the other, Baileys. He swigged the Baileys. It warmed him instantly.
He was home within ten minutes. By the time he walked into the Cock and ordered a pint, it was gone ten o’clock. It had been a good day, and images of the girl had subsided. When he left the pub, four pints later, the snow had drifted three feet up the sides of cars and doorways, and his way home was distinctly precarious. It was slippery underfoot, and the four pints didn’t help his balance. He’d sleep like a baby tonight. Tomorrow he had three Wainwrights planned, but looking at the weather, he wasn’t sure that would happen. Like anything in the Lakes, any time of year, he’d wait to see what morning brought.
Thoughts of the dead girl had gone, for now.
Chapter 13
Tony Blackman peered out of the window.
Unless he could prove he’d been set up, he was facing trial on charges of being a child molester. His flat in Keswick had become a prison; if he ventured out, he was either egged or verbally abused by waiting yobs desperate to get their hands on a paedophile. The police had provided a presence outside the house, but the damage had already been done to his reputation. Parents of pupils at the Academy weren’t interested in detail. They wanted blood. It was a scandal, and his life was ruined. He knew that much. Even if he was found not guilty – which he was convinced would happen when a jury heard the truth – if he was allowed
to prove it, he’d still be remembered as the teacher who was sacked for being a paedo.
He’d worked out in his head what must have happened. And he had Sarah backing him up.
Sarah Peaks was his English deputy, and they’d hit it off from the day of her interview. She’d never believed what they were saying about him and was doing all she could to prove his innocence. It must be tough for her in the staff room, he thought. The pack mentality was difficult to break, and there was no denying that indecent images had indeed been found on his computer. However, what the police didn’t know, and what he would soon prove, was that they had been put there on purpose to frame him. It sounded ludicrous, but all he needed to do was wait until the defence was given access to his hard drive and could get a specialist to look at the download history. He knew the day, the hour and almost the minute it had been done, because that was when the bitch had been at his flat.
He regretted the day he’d involved sixth-formers. It had seemed a good idea at the time: they were open to suggested rebellion, they embraced risk, and most important of all, they trusted him. They’d done well out of it. It was a more than satisfactory arrangement.
But now they’d outsmarted him and he faced complete destruction. Unless he could prove what they’d done. They must have been planning it for weeks, if not months, and he’d never seen it coming.
He heard Sarah in the kitchen. She was helping him put a few things together to take to her cottage. It was private there, and he couldn’t stand the siege outside his own property. Interest had died away recently as other news stories overtook his in the press, but he was recognised wherever he went, and it choked him. His career was over, but he still had funds. All he had to do was hold his nerve and he’d survive, if he didn’t go to prison.
He and Sarah had talked about leaving the area permanently, but they couldn’t do that until he was either tried and given a prison sentence or acquitted. The best-case scenario would be for the CPS to find out the truth before trial and kick out the case, but at the moment that didn’t seem likely. He’d still leave the area once it was all over, whether Sarah came with him or not. He wouldn’t teach again, but he had plenty of other options and he knew a man who could help him make a new life, maybe even under a new name. It was ironic that the state could fund a change of identity for someone found guilty, but not if they were found innocent.
Looking on the bright side, this could be the break he needed to get out of the empty shell his life had become. He was sick of small-town mediocrity anyway. Keswick was the size of a postage stamp, and even though people raved about the hills around the town, he didn’t know what all the fuss was about. They were mere fucking humps compared to other national parks around the world. New Zealand, Africa, South America: each held an allure for him, and it was about time he went travelling and lived a little.
The insects who had set him up would get their comeuppance, if not now, then sometime, and he’d laugh his arse off when they did. They had no idea what they’d done. His anger bubbled just under the surface and it had begun to change him. Sarah tried to soothe him with her support, but his sense of injustice sat heavily in his heart and threatened to explode at any moment.
He’d grown a beard, and it was itchy. He stood scratching it and gazing into boxes, wondering what to pack. Sarah’s car was parked in the back alleyway, and he checked out of the window to make sure no one was loitering about there. The snow was thick on the ground and it kept people indoors. Good.
Sarah came out of the kitchen with two beers.
‘Here, get this down you,’ she said. She was a keeper.
‘Will you come around the world with me?’ he asked.
She smiled. ‘Of course I will! When do we go?’
Chapter 14
At Keswick police station, Sergeant Stan MacIntyre got a call from an initial responder in Kendal about a phone call they’d had from the worried sister of a man they suspected might be lost on the fells. The brother’s name was Danny Stanton; he was twenty-two years of age, and he’d taken it upon himself, after watching a short clip on Facebook, to take a tent and a map and camp in the fells for a few nights on his own. His sister was frantic, as the young man was suffering from depression and had been acting strangely recently, dropping out of college and becoming more secretive about what he was up to.
Apparently he had set off from his home in Manchester on Friday, hoping to tackle the Coledale Horseshoe. He’d done it before, visiting the Lakes regularly, but he’d never gone so long without contact, and the sister couldn’t reach him on his phone. His last post on Facebook was from the summit of Grisedale Pike on Sunday morning: one of the worst days they’d had on the fells in a long time. The weather had been evil that afternoon, and mountain rescue had received fifteen calls for help.
Stan dialled their number now. As he was doing so, he studied a map. The sister had said he was camping, so they had no address for a hostel. But they did have the registration number and description of Stanton’s car, and his next job would be to get someone up there to check. He might even take a drive up there himself. The closest car parks to the Horseshoe were either in Braithwaite, or on the Whinlatter Pass.
‘Why would anyone do the Horseshoe on their own, in winter, with no experience?’ asked Helen at the Keswick mountain rescue office, incredulous. But that was the essence of their job: they dealt with people who were either incredibly unlucky or incredibly unprepared.
‘The sister says he knows the area a little. He bought a few things off eBay and he had a guidebook.’
‘All right, I’ll get someone up there now. Where was that last Facebook post?’
‘Grisedale Pike summit, 1153 hours. I’m looking at it now; it says, “A few wild days ahead.” At least we have a picture of him; it’s a selfie.’
‘Oh Christ. Right, we’re on it. I’ll get back to you as soon as I hear anything. The weather is terrible today; it’ll be tough for the boys. If we don’t have any luck, I’ll try and get the helicopter out.’
‘Thanks, Helen.’
They hung up.
Protocol said Stan needed to let HQ know, so he sat down at his computer to write a report. When he’d completed that, and emailed it, he went to find a colleague to let them know of his plans. He suspected he wouldn’t be long. The car either would or wouldn’t be there. The lad could have given up after the Pike, cold and shocked by reality, and headed home to Manchester without telling anyone. But he hadn’t been answering his phone.
Stan’s feet crunched in the snow outside and he looked up to Skiddaw. The summit was covered in freezing fog, and he hoped the lad was inside his tent, sitting it out. He thought about good places to pitch a tent in the Horseshoe. Anywhere in the forest would be good and sheltered, but he couldn’t guarantee the lad would be that savvy. He hoped he was underestimating him.
People thought they could map-read. But when actually handed a map, most didn’t have a clue, and when the weather came in, and the landscape changed, blurring any points of reference, it was a challenge for even the most seasoned fell walker to get it just right. He knew, though, that if this lad was out there lost, mountain rescue would find him.
The gritters had been out twice, even three times a day, but the roads were still treacherous. Through the town was all right, but Stan hoped he wouldn’t have to venture too far up Whinlatter Pass. He tried the two most frequently used car parks in Braithwaite, but no vehicle meeting the description was there. He checked the streets closest to the start of the common paths: again, no luck. He’d have to take the Whinlatter Pass.
He went slowly, and eventually came to the first car park, Revelin Moss, hidden behind trees and deep in snow. The pass had been well looked after by the gritters, but the car park hadn’t been touched. He had to stop short of the gate and go on foot. The forest was silent. The day was darkening already, and he took a torch. The main car park was deserted, but he carried on to the overflow to take a look there. As if they hadn’t had enough sno
wfall already, the air became leaden once again and flakes as big as ten-pence pieces began falling around him. His feet sank into the snow and he wished he’d worn boots.
As he came around a tree, he saw that there was one vehicle in the overflow car park. He could tell it had been there a while, because the snow on and around it was about four inches thick. Drifts two feet high clung to its flanks.
He retrieved the registration number from his pocket.
The car was the right colour – black – and it was pretty small, matching the description of a Ford Ka. Patches of bodywork were visible where snow had fallen off or been disturbed by birds. He reached the vehicle and bent down to scrape snow away from the registration plate.
He congratulated himself as he read the number: he’d just found Danny Stanton’s car.
Chapter 15
The atmosphere in the staff room at the Derwent Academy was gloomy. The school stood on the site of a nineteenth-century boys’ school in the heart of Keswick, near Fitz Park. It was built from Westmorland green slate shipped from Honister on horse-drawn carriages over one hundred and fifty years ago.
The sullen teenagers gracing the school’s prefabricated corridors and add-on buildings of formed concrete were not thinking of its illustrious past, however; there were other things on the minds of the eight hundred pupils and thirty staff. The suicide of Jenna Fraser was still recent and raw. But it wasn’t the only gossip to grip the academy: the suspension of Mr Blackman was also big news, and many children thought it funny to post paedophilia memes on Facebook. The school was struggling to keep up with the sick and twisted jokes doing the rounds on social media, and a doctored picture of Tony Blackman had emerged, dressed as the Grim Reaper and surrounded by terrified kids, his tiny pink penis dangling out of his robes.
Sarah was unsure how many people truly supported Tony. It was a tricky topic and she didn’t know whether to raise it or not. One thing was for sure: people were avoiding her. The staff dotted around the room pretended to look busy, heads sunk into exercise books and newspapers. She went to her pigeonhole to check it for notices, and then to the kettle to make a coffee. She sat alone. It was difficult to keep a relationship quiet in school, and most people suspected that she and Tony were lovers.
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