Sunday 24th August
‘Bee, Mummy, Bee.’ Jamie pointed at a blur of wings hovering over the food. ‘Buzzy bee.’
‘It’s a fly, sweetheart,’ she said, swatting the insect away with a hand and offering her son another Dairylea sandwich. ‘They’re like bees, only they don’t make honey.’
‘Bee,’ Jamie repeated before he took the sandwich and chomped it down. There was the tinkle of a bell and Jamie looked up. ‘Horse.’
She turned to follow his gaze. Samantha and Clarissa were riding up and down the narrow lane on their bicycles, every now and then one of them uttering a ‘trot on’ or a ‘woah’ to control their mounts.
‘Pretend horses.’ She turned and scanned the horizon until she picked out a group of Dartmoor ponies grazing near a clump of gorse. ‘There’re some real ones, darling.’
Jamie had by now lost interest in the local wildlife and turned his attention to his collection of chunky plastic cars. She cleared away the picnic things, then lay back on the woollen blanket, shielding her eyes from the light. The respite wouldn’t last long, she knew. Jamie would need attention or the girls would all of a sudden come over and profess extreme boredom. But for the moment she would enjoy the warmth of the sun, the sound of birds in the heather, the stillness of the surrounding wilderness.
‘Vroom,’ Jamie said. ‘Vroom, vroom, vroooooom.’
She felt something on her thigh. The wheels of a truck climbing the impossibly steep hill of her body. She worried about Jamie sometimes. His sisters were nine – seven years older – and they played with him only when it suited them, so he was, in effect, an only child. With her husband away for much of the time, Jamie only had her to spice up his life. Of course he went to nursery five days a week; she figured the girls there spent many more hours playing with Jamie than she did. Not for the first time she felt a pang of guilt, but then dismissed the thought. She wondered if her husband ever had the same doubts as he lay on his bunk at night.
‘Car, Mummy.’ The wheels rolled up and onto her stomach. ‘Vroom, vroom.’
‘Yes.’ She reached out a hand, keeping her eyes closed and groping for the toy. ‘Let me have a go.’
‘No, Mummy, car! Car!’ Jamie’s voice went up in pitch. ‘Car coming!’
She opened her eyes and sat up, hearing the revving of an engine, something like a racing car, a guttural exhaust spitting and crackling, the squeal of tyres on tarmac. Somewhere the tinkling of a bicycle bell and a shout. She turned her head towards the road and heard a scream silenced as metal screeched against metal. She pushed Jamie away and scrambled to her feet, aware of a flash of blue haring away down the lane, her daughter lying like a rag doll in the road next to the mangled frame of the bicycle, one wheel still spinning round. Even as she ran towards the accident she could hear the tick-tick-ticking as the wheel rotated, and as she reached Clarissa it was the only thing moving, the only thing still making a sound in the whole wide world.
Then she woke up.
Charlie Kinver cast out once again. He had no real expectation of another fish. Two nice ones in an hour was a good bag. Especially for Fernworthy. The reservoir’s surface dimpled with little wavelets as the earlier breeze died to a zephyr. A duck set out from the far bank and a dozen swallows skimmed the surface, sweeping up the last of the morning hatch. The heat of the late August sun warmed Charlie’s back. The bright light would be driving the trout deeper. Unlikely he’d get another bite now. But still …
He wound in, thinking he’d have one final cast. Behind him, in his fishing bag, the two brown trout almost shouted out to be taken home and placed in a pan. A knob of butter, a few minutes’ heat and then served atop a slice of toast made from the bread his wife had baked that very morning. They’d had an argument before she’d gone to church and he’d headed off fishing, so the catch would serve as a peace offering.
He cast out a final time, and almost as soon as the fly touched the water, a fish struck. Kinver raised his rod. The reaction was instinctive, but this time he was too late. The fly flew out of the water and caught in the low branch of a tree to his right. He could see the line had somehow wrapped itself around the branch. He pulled on it, hoping it would slip over the branch. It didn’t. Instead, the hook caught in the bark. Charlie put the rod down on the bank. Pointless getting cross. He had waders on, so he could simply wade along the bank a few metres and free the hook. Since this was his last cast he’d cut the line, pocket the fly and then reel in.
Charlie stepped into the water and began to make his way down the bank. He reached the tree, put a hand up and held the fly. With the other hand he took his knife, sliced the line and freed the hook. He pulled the line to make sure it would come round the tree and then began to wade back to the gravel beach.
A flash of white caught his eye. On the bankside, wedged in the crook of an old stump, was a plastic carrier bag. The carrier bulged, something within. He waded closer. The bag seemed to be filled with some kind of material. One of yesterday’s picnickers had forgotten their blanket or waterproofs. Charlie grabbed the bag and carried it to the beach. He’d walk round to the car park and leave the bag on the wall. First though, he’d take a look inside. There might be some personal item to identify who the bag belonged to.
He delved into the bag, finding a pullover, a flimsy top, a short skirt. Then a black bra, and some black, lacy knickers. He opened his mouth. There was something about finding a pair of knickers in the middle of nowhere. It meant somebody was going around without a pair. He thought of his wife. Perhaps after he’d wooed her with the trout he could persuade her to climb the stairs to their bedroom, to remove her own knickers.
At the bottom of the bag was a lightweight windcheater and beneath that a slim leather wallet. Charlie flipped the wallet open. Forty quid. A driving licence with a picture of a pretty girl bottom left. Was she the owner of the knickers? He stared down at her. Long hair, high cheekbones, a real babe.
On the top left of the licence there was a familiar circle of yellow stars on a blue background. An EU flag. In the centre of the stars sat the letter ‘H’. On the top right, in capitals, the word ‘MAGYAR’. Charlie looked at the pile of clothing again. Finding a bunch of women’s clothing had for a moment provided a frisson of excitement. Certainly the girl in the picture was one he’d like to see naked. But, as his eyes returned to scan the surface of the water where dark blues and browns and blacks shimmered in the sun, he thought of what might be hidden in the depths of the reservoir. He reached for his tackle bag and pulled out his phone, knowing it was now unlikely he’d be eating the brace of trout for lunch.
For DI Charlotte Savage, Sunday morning came around all too soon. A pale glow seeped past the edges of the curtains, the daylight intruding on a dream about her daughter, Clarissa. It was getting on for five years now. Savage stared up at the ceiling, trying to discern an image of Clarissa in the soft shadows. Nothing. She had to turn to the bedside table and the little picture frame on it to see her daughter smiling out from a face fringed with red hair. Savage reached up and touched her own red hair. She twirled a long length with her fingers until one by one the strands slipped from her grasp.
Ever since Clarissa had died, Savage’s sleep had been plagued with bad dreams. She was used to spending half the night tossing and turning, often waking in a sweat and a tangle of duvet. Recently though, the dreams had become more vivid, with the same scene repeated over and over. Savage knew why. It was because she’d discovered who was responsible for the death of her daughter. The official report had the death down as a road traffic collision, or RTC. In old money, an RTA: road traffic accident. But Savage had never seen what had happened as an accident. The hit-and-run driver had been travelling way too fast for the moorland lane – but it was the ‘run’ bit of ‘hit-and-run’