Dead of Winter (46 page)

Feeling very pleased with herself but incredibly tired Issie wrapped the foil over her shoulders and sat back in her shelter, wriggling bottom first up against the hedge, with her feet and legs close around the fire. There was a small stack of branches within reach, enough for an hour or so, she thought, though she would have been unable to justify that conclusion had she been asked. It felt so good not to have to walk or to carry the backpack. Her legs felt burning hot but she knew they couldn’t be. Even though her jeans weren’t very wet they were icy cold but they should start to warm up now. She nibbled another biscuit and swallowed a sip of water. With no expectation of success she gave the top of the thermos another savage twist with her left hand … and felt it give! Two more attempts eased it free.

Very carefully she poured herself half a cup of sweet tea, replaced the screw top and sipped. Bliss! The sweet heat filled her mouth and she swallowed, feeling the warmth trickle down inside her. Another sip, then another and the cup was empty. She poured some more and drank slowly, savouring every micro-mouthful.

Slowly Issie’s head cleared as her body warmed. She still couldn’t feel her right hand but there was a strange tingling up and down her arm that made her hopeful. It had been stupid to hold onto her hip like that for so long, locking her hand in one position, exposed to
the cold. Clenching her teeth, she prised the white, claw-like fingers back fearing they might snap. They didn’t and all but her little finger stayed almost straight. In the gloom they looked skeletal.

‘Maybe it’s the start of frostbite,’ she muttered and pushed her hand under her armpit.

Her gloves were soaked through and drying by the fire. She looked around her improvised shelter properly for the first time and saw it for what it really was. In her mind-numbed state she had been building a little nest without thought of purpose or consequence beyond an escape from the storm. The modest heat from her small fire and the inner warmth of the tea were clearing her mind steadily. She realised she would never survive the night, not even in this shelter.

At some point, maybe in a few hours at most, she would run out of fallen wood for the fire and she had nothing with which to cut more. She might just be able to break off smaller branches – and the exercise would do her good – but would it be enough to last the night?

Issie shuddered at the reality of her situation and bit back tears. What really scared her was the effect the cold had had on her mind. She had been sinking into a hypothermic state of calm stupidity, just like they said in Pappy’s survival guides. It would have killed her. At least now she was thinking straight again but what was she to do? She needed a plan. There weren’t that many options really: she could stay or she could go.

The survival manuals typically advised staying put unless the conditions you were in were dangerous or unsustainable, as it increased the chances of rescue; always assuming someone knew roughly where you might be. Was her starting point, direction of travel or current location known to anyone? No. Was her situation dangerous? Yes. Were her survival conditions sustainable? Probably not. Therefore there was no option but to move on. Issie’s spirit shrank at the idea. She didn’t know how far she was from Alfriston; night had fallen early; weather conditions were atrocious … but it was her only viable choice. If only she could stop the cramp in
her hip and regain the use of her right hand she would be more confident of her chances.

As if the thought had power, a bolt of fiery pain exploded in her right thumb causing her to cry out.

‘Dear God!’ She was almost weeping but it was what she had asked for so she bit down hard on her lower lip.

Even so she couldn’t stifle a whimper as a sensation like being electrocuted filled her index finger. Tears rolled unchecked and unnoticed down her cheeks as parts of her hand throbbed back to life.

‘This must be good news,’ she told herself through clenched teeth. ‘I’ll just wait here a few more minutes until the worst is over, then I’ll pack up and be on my way.’

Issie yawned deep and long as she picked up another branch to add to the flames, noting with satisfaction that the fire was now hot enough for it to catch almost at once. As soon as it was burning she added another one on top. Her eyes focused on the flames, on their colour and brightness, the patterns and shapes, anything that would distract her from her own burning discomfort. When she was a little girl she had told herself stories about what she could see in the fire and she did so again to keep her mind away from the pain in her fingers. There, was that a little gnome running to escape a wizard’s spell? Would he make it? Yes! And there … Issie yawned … was that another little man … a scurrying flicker in the flames … would he escape? … yes … no … oh dear. Issie yawned again.

The newsagent sold a guide to Alfriston with a fold-out map. Fenwick and Nesbit had agreed that the best place to assemble the search party was the village hall close to St Andrew’s church. They expected Bernstein and her team to arrive before they set off, boosting their numbers. The hill into the centre of the village was too steep for any vehicle to drive up, including the MIU, so that was left in the car park south of the village. Fenwick and Nesbit set off to find the keyholder for the hall. The third operations team that had remained behind for lack of transport would carry up portable equipment.

As soon as they stepped out of the MIU the wind punched their backs, almost knocking them over.

‘This is crazy,’ Nesbit shouted.

‘You made a commitment to her parents,’ Fenwick yelled back, hoping his words carried.

Any further conversation died as they concentrated on keeping their footing on the treacherous pavement. They hardly saw a soul and were about to concede that they couldn’t find the hall when someone appeared from the doorway of the lower inn in the village and walked up to them.

‘Hi, I’m John Pembroke, publican of this manor. One of your officers has just told me what this is all about. You’ll never find the girl in this without local help. Which one of you is in charge?’

Fenwick pointed to Nesbit who introduced himself.

‘Your man said you were bringing out dogs?’ Nesbit nodded. ‘Well, good luck with that. It’s sheepdogs you’ll be needing in this. They’re trained to find animals in the snow. And yes, before you ask, I know where there are a few around here.’

‘Thank you,’ Fenwick jumped in.

‘But we’re not asking for volunteers,’ Jack Nesbit insisted.

‘They’ll come anyway, as soon as they find out. You might as well get ready for them. Meanwhile, I’ll show you the way to the vicarage; that’s where you’ll find the hall keys.’

They followed him through a gate and down a brick path to the front door of the vicarage. The door was opened by a round-faced, cheerful woman in her late thirties.

‘Hello, John.’ She smiled warmly and turned to the strangers. ‘I’m Juliette Barber, the vicar’s wife. How can we help you?’

They showed their warrant cards and her face clouded with concern.

‘I’ll leave them with you, Juliette; got things to see to.’

Pembroke left, no doubt to drum up volunteers, Fenwick thought and was relieved, though he could see that Nesbit was worried.

‘Come in, come in. Let me take your coats. George! Two police officers are here.’

A boy of about ten poked his head out of a door on the right of the hall.

‘Mark, go and put the kettle on. Anne, help your brother. Now please; jump to it, Miss Curiosity.’

The children were almost the same age as Fenwick’s and he suddenly remembered it was Christmas Eve and they would be waiting for him. Guilt washed through him, almost as strong as his concern for Issie. He pushed it away. Juliette led them into a comfortable sitting room and was encouraging them to sit down
when her husband walked in and shook them warmly by the hand.

‘George Barber, vicar of St Andrew’s, what can we do for you?’ He was perhaps a little younger than his wife and shorter, already balding on top, with pale-blue eyes and fair hair.

Nesbit explained why they were in Alfriston and what they needed.

‘You think Isabelle Mattias has been held around here?’ Juliette Barber sounded incredulous. ‘And we didn’t know? Oh my.’ Her hand fluttered to her throat and she looked devastated. ‘Poor, poor girl. You know who she is, George; you remember her. She used to come to church with her grandparents, all through the summer and sometimes at Christmas, until a year ago when her grandfather died.’

‘Issie, yes, of course; lovely girl. Always kind and patient with the children, particularly Anne. So sad, to lose her father and then her grandfather soon after. They were very close. And she’s been kept around here?’

‘We have every reason to believe so and that she is trying to walk from her grandmother’s house to Alfriston along the South Downs Way.’

‘In this?’ All eyes turned to the window. ‘Oh no; may the Lord protect and guide her to us.’

‘Amen,’ his wife said.

‘We’re sending out a search team and need to use your church hall as a muster point.’

‘Well yes, you could, but it’s been set up for coffee and mince pies after the Christingle Service.’

‘Of course you can.’ Husband and wife spoke at the same time.

‘I’ll go over there straight away,’ the vicar said, ‘and ask them to make ready for you.’

‘I’ll do it, George. You need to get ready for Christingle; it starts in under an hour.’

‘Is it that time already? Well yes, but don’t go on your own, dear. Ah tea; you must have some, detectives. You need to keep up your strength and it will take us a while to clear the refreshments away.’

‘Five minutes, then,’ Nesbit said, remembering to add, ‘thank you.’

Anne carried in a tray with a tea service and a plate of biscuits; her brother brought in two mugs as their parents disappeared to their various duties. Fenwick and Nesbit were left in the comfortable sitting room with two wide-eyed children. A coal and log fire crackled behind a fireguard.

‘I put the star on the top of the tree this year,’ Mark said proudly, breaking the silence.

‘Did you, all by yourself?’ Without realising it Fenwick had adopted the tone he used with Chris and didn’t notice Nesbit’s surprised glance.

‘Yes.’

‘No, Daddy helped you,’ his sister insisted.

‘Only a bit, just to hold the steps.’

‘That’s impressive, Mark.’ Fenwick sipped the boiling-hot tea, eager to leave, and scalded his tongue.

‘I made
that
.’ His sister pointed to a coat hanger bent into a circle that had been decorated with tinsel and cut-out paper stars and angels. To the untrained eye it was a misshapen coat hanger but Fenwick recognised a Christmas wreath from years of receiving similar offerings. It had been given pride of place over the fireplace.

‘
Very
good,’ he said. ‘I like that angel there in particular. The face is very lifelike.’

Anne beamed.

Fenwick’s phone rang. He excused himself and took the call in the hall.

‘Hello?’

‘Andrew, it’s Alice. Sorry to disturb you.’

‘Is there a problem? Are the children all right?’

‘Yes, yes, it’s not that, it’s just that …’

As always when embarrassed Alice could not finish her sentence.

‘You want to know whether I’ll be home tonight.’

‘Well, yes … and that you’re looking after yourself. Your mother and I were talking just now and we thought … well, that is to say …’

Fenwick swallowed his irritation. Could they think of nothing but their own trivial necessities?

‘The simple answer, Alice, is that I don’t know whether I’ll be home before midnight or not. There’s been a break in the case and we have an urgent search starting. God willing it will be over soon but …’ he closed his eyes briefly, ‘I just can’t say. I haven’t got a crystal ball.’

‘Of course not, no.’

She sounded upset; why was she so sensitive all of a sudden?

‘And tomorrow … is there any chance?’

‘I don’t know! Look, I have no idea. It will depend on how long the search lasts.’
And what we find
.

‘It’s Christmas Day tomorrow, Andrew. Had you forgotten?’

‘Let me speak to him.’ He could hear his mother’s voice in the background, drawing nearer, and his jaw tightened.

‘Andrew?’

‘Hello, Mother.’

‘I gather you’re out searching for this poor wee girl.’

‘She’s eighteen but she is a wee thing and yes, we are.’

His mother’s voice dropped so that he could barely hear her.

‘Is she still alive do you think, son? Is there any chance?’

A shot of pure love for his mother tightened his throat without warning.

‘I hope so, Mum; I really do but … she may be out there in this storm right now.’

‘Oh, my dear. Does that mean you’ll be venturing forth yourself, Andrew? Or will you leave that to the experts?’

‘They are on their way and we have an operations unit here already with winter equipment so they will start immediately.’
Is evasion a lie?

‘What time is it? Almost quarter of four but the daylight’s already gone. Will you search in the dark?’

‘We will continue for as long as it takes. Issie won’t survive long in this.’

‘Of course. So we should assume that you won’t be home
anytime soon. I’ll explain it to the children somehow, don’t worry. Better that you don’t talk to them, you’ll only upset them. You concentrate on finding that poor lassie. If you possibly can, try and give us a call tomorrow so we can wish you a happy Christmas and vice versa … oh, and let us know if you’ll be home after all because we can always delay lunch.’

‘Thank you, Mum.’

‘Oh, and Andrew?’

‘Yes?’

‘You look after yourself … and … and I’m very proud of you.’

With that she was gone. Had she waited for a response Fenwick wouldn’t have been able to give one. His mother never ceased to surprise him.

Juliette Barber walked in as Fenwick was about to return to the sitting room.

‘That’s all sorted. Oh, and you should know that there are seven big strong volunteers waiting there for you. Word has got around, thanks to John. Now, you both look famished, you must take a thermos of soup with you.’

Suitably provisioned, she led them to the village hall where the Christmas refreshments had been moved to one end and a space cleared large enough to accommodate the incident team and volunteers plus portable equipment from the MIU. A trestle table was being stocked by women Fenwick suspected were from the local WI with food, urns of hot drinks, torches and blankets. A large platter of home-cured ham and mustard sandwiches appeared courtesy of the pub and disappeared quickly.

Nesbit split the incident team into four groups and evened up the numbers with volunteers so that each search party comprised four to five men. The female officers and volunteers were politely told that they could not go out. It was a tough call in an age of equality but Nesbit remained firm. ‘Let them sue me’, he muttered to Fenwick. Using the Ordnance Survey map, he allocated search zones and named them Matthew, Mark, Luke and John in deference to their location and the time of year. The team that had left the
farm to walk the Way as far as they could before nightfall, he belatedly christened Andrew.

Shortly after the search teams left George Barber rushed in, his cheeks flushed as if he had been running.

‘Oh, you’ve already started. I’m sorry to be late.’ Fenwick stared at him, confused. ‘I wanted to say a prayer to bless the search,’ the vicar explained. ‘I think it would make sense anyway, don’t you?’

The people in the room bowed their heads while he prayed for God’s help and guidance in finding Issie. Fenwick kept his head bowed until Nesbit coughed loudly and he looked up and realised that the vicar had left to conduct the children’s Christmas service for all those too young to stay awake for carols and midnight Mass.

There was silence in the hall, broken only by the radio as the search teams reported back. It was always the same; no news. At five past four DI Bernstein arrived with Bazza, Cobb and half a dozen others. Fenwick stared at her in disbelief; she looked awful, haggard with great bags under her eyes and straggling wild hair. Bazza was no better; he’d clearly not had time for his second shave of the day.

‘Good grief, Andrew, you look terrible.’

‘Nice to see you too.’

‘And you are?’ she asked Nesbit, walking over with her hand stuck out.

‘DCI Jack Nesbit.’

‘Superintendent Bernstein and it’s Deidre. So what have we got, Jack?’

It was clear that she had immediately assumed command and she pulled Nesbit to one side so that he could brief her. Bazza came over to where Fenwick was staring at the map.

‘It’s pitch-black out there,’ he said, ‘and the blizzard shows no signs of easing. If anything, I think it’s getting worse. If we don’t find her soon …’

‘Don’t waste your breath stating the obvious.’

‘Yes, but we don’t even know for sure that she’s out there. This could be a wild goose chase.’

‘Issie’s there somewhere, I’m sure of it. She was at the farm this morning and managed to drug Mariner. It’s just like her to plan an escape.’

‘In this weather? You’ve always said she was smart.’

‘She didn’t know. The blizzard was forecast for tomorrow.’

‘If she left after lunch, there’s a possibility she’s already dead.’

‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ Fenwick snapped and then shook his head. ‘She would have planned ahead. She’s resourceful.’

‘But not indestructible,’ Nesbit countered, walking up behind them.

‘We must go on,’ Fenwick protested and looked at Bernstein. ‘Deidre, please, we can’t abandon her.’

‘We’re proposing the following, Andrew.’ Fenwick held his breath. ‘Each team will do forty minutes before coming back. We’ll run them in cycles. My lot can go out now and relieve Matthew and Mark. They’ll work the parts of the grid not yet covered.’

‘And Luke and John?’

‘We need them back here. Don’t look like that. Once we see what state the first two teams are in we can decide whether they can do another stint and for how long.’

Fenwick knew it was impossible to argue. She was right. Lives were at risk.

‘What about calling in the army, or mountain rescue?’

Deidre patted his arm.

‘A TA unit from Brighton was despatched over an hour ago so they should be here soon. We’re lucky; some of them have had Arctic training. They’ll start a search immediately they arrive, probably taking over from the police teams. The dog handlers are en route but stuck behind a pile-up and don’t know what time they’ll arrive. Meanwhile, there are several farmers in the parties already out there with their sheepdogs. By the way, when is Tate due back here with Mariner?’

‘We were taking Mariner straight to Lewes, Deidre,’ Nesbit interjected. ‘There didn’t seem much point dragging him through the weather on an unnecessary journey. He may have to go to hospital; he’s in a bad way.’