Dead of Winter (47 page)

‘Good, I hope the bastard dies and saves us the trouble of a trial. It would be a lot less complicated.’ She flicked a glance at Fenwick and grimaced. ‘So Tate is with him?’

‘I, er, hang on.’ Nesbit checked his notebook. ‘No, he’s in team Andrew, the one that set out from the farm.’

‘And they are where exactly right now?’

One of the radio operators looked up.

‘They haven’t checked in for ten minutes, ma’am. Perhaps they don’t have a signal.’

‘Call them; keep trying until you get through.’

She and Nesbit returned to the map while Bazza hovered over the radios and Cobb helped himself to tea and cake. None of them noticed when Fenwick slipped away.

When Nightingale’s mobile phone rang she thought immediately of Fenwick for some reason.

‘Nightingale.’

‘Oh good.’ Try as she might Nightingale couldn’t place the voice and its soft Scottish accent. ‘Alice tried you at home but then thought you’re probably out somewhere. Anyway …’

‘Alice? What’s happened; are the children all right, and Andrew? Is he OK?’

‘Calm down, dear; nothing is wrong – at least, not right this instant it isn’t. This is Andrew’s mother, Gertrude Fenwick.’

‘Oh hello, Mrs Fenwick.’

‘Now, this will seem a strange request but I would like you to consider joining us for Christmas.’

Nightingale automatically looked at her watch as her brain seized up. It was four-thirty. She was at her brother’s house where she was to spend Christmas, in the middle of helping Naomi before her family clan descended. It was her way of compensating for a planned early departure on Boxing Day. Twenty-four hours
en famille
was about all she thought she’d be able to handle. She became aware of a patient silence on the other end of the call.

‘May I ask why, please?’

‘I realise it is short notice and that it might be difficult for you; you’re sure to have other plans. However, I think it very unlikely that my son will be here tonight and maybe even tomorrow for that matter and I am concerned for the children, Bess in particular. She has taken the news extremely badly.’

‘With a tantrum and hysterics?’ Nightingale sighed.

‘Indeed. Now, I don’t normally tolerate such behaviour but Alice tells me that the children haven’t seen their father for more than a brief stay in three weeks.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Of course many children have to cope with absent fathers but having no mother either, and the uncertainty … never knowing when they might see him. All that exhausted hope and weary expectation. It’s quite destabilising.’

‘I’m sure Andrew doesn’t realise. I mean, he cares for them so much, I’m certain …’ Nightingale stopped, realising that she was defending the indefensible to the man’s mother who probably knew him a darn sight better than she did. ‘Anyway, um, why would my being there … I don’t quite see?’

‘I’m not one to beat about the bush, Miss Nightingale. The children adore you, Bess especially, but even Chrissy. I know you haven’t done anything to encourage this …’

‘I haven’t, honestly, quite the opposite. The last thing I wanted to do was make their lives even more complicated.’

‘I believe you. Alice has no reason to welcome their attachment to you but she is also a fan … yes, you are dear, you know you are. Where was I?’

‘You’ve asked me to come and stay to help the children through a difficult Christmas, possibly without their father.’

‘That’s it exactly, well done. So, what do you say?’

Nightingale could see her nephew Barnabas staring in awe at the presents under the tree, old enough to know it was special but too young still to be spoilt. Her heart ached and she didn’t know what to do.

‘But what will Andrew say? He’ll hate the idea.’

She heard his mother sigh.

‘I very much fear that it may be my son who will need you most.’

Decision made.

Nightingale drove very slowly from her brother’s house to Fenwick’s home, sticking to main roads until the last possible moment. Gertrude Fenwick’s last words were in her mind constantly. Fenwick had to be out there looking for Issie, even though it wasn’t his case. He had been hovering on the edges of it ever since Norman had replaced him, encouraged she suspected by Superintendent Bernstein. A flash of anger made her grimace. It was irresponsible of that woman to endanger Fenwick’s career just because she needed his help. No, that was unfair; Andrew would have been all too willing to remain involved.

If Issie Mattias died … she shook the thought away; it was too painful to contemplate. He had invested so much of himself into finding her. But what was he doing on Christmas Eve in the middle of a blizzard? What could be keeping him away from home other than a break in the case? She had to know. Nightingale rang her old boss from Harlden, Superintendent Quinlan. He would be able to find out; his connections were legendary. Ten minutes later Nightingale knew all she needed to and now she wasn’t just worried for Fenwick’s state of mind. She was scared stiff that he would be out looking for Issie personally. In this!

She called his mobile only to hear the automated voice tell her to leave a message.

‘Andrew, it’s Nightingale. It is now five o’clock on Christmas Eve and I need to speak to you. It’s urgent, please call me.’

She closed the call and immediately said his name again to redial. This time the electronic voice informed her that the mailbox was full. Her pulse throbbed painfully in her throat as she drove. Part of her wanted to turn around and head east; out to where Quinlan had told her the search party was hunting.

‘You fool, Andrew. Why can’t you just, for once, leave it to the
experts and come home? It isn’t even your damn case!’ Her voice caught and she punched the steering wheel.

It wouldn’t do to turn up with tears on her cheeks. As she turned north-east into the teeth of the storm she had to turn the windscreen wipers to full speed but they could barely cope with the onslaught of snow and ice battering her car. Nightingale’s heart constricted with fear.
If he really was out in this … if Issie was in this … they don’t stand a chance. Someone was going to die.

Would Andrew have had the sense to stay in the operations centre? Never; finding Issie had gone beyond obsession. She had seen him compelled to take risks on other cases; had experienced his willingness to do the unconventional in the heat of the chase, or sometimes out of sheer bloody-mindedness, but this was different. Somehow returning Issie alive to her mother had become his sole purpose in life.

No wonder his children felt abandoned. They had been. Nightingale composed herself and took a deep breath. After a journey of almost an hour she would soon be with them. They would look in her eyes and search her face for reassurance. They mustn’t see the fear and desperation she felt. As she pulled into his drive she practised a smile in the rear-view mirror … and then tried again.

‘You can’t go out on your own in this!’

The shout barely carried through the howling gale.

‘I said …’ A heavy hand grabbed Fenwick’s shoulder and spun him round. ‘Oh, it’s you, sir. I’m sorry, I thought you were some damn-fool volunteer heading off on their own. DCI Nesbit has given strict instructions not to let anyone past unless they are part of an official search party.’

‘Yet you’re here in this on your own.’

‘We swap every fifteen minutes, sir, again the DCI’s orders. There are three of us rotating this shift. The other two are keeping warm in the village hall. I’ll be relieved in five minutes.’

‘I see; good system.’

‘Nesbit’s like that, sir; always by the book.’

Fenwick’s mood plummeted. The search could be called off any minute.

‘Look, you head on back; I’ll wait for your replacement as I’m here.’

He could see the officer straining not to ask him what exactly he was doing there.

‘I’d better wait, sir. He gave strict instructions.’

‘Look, Sergeant …’

‘Constable, sir. Under all of this I don’t carry any stripes.’

Fenwick smiled.

‘Well anyway, what’s your name?’

‘Carlton, sir.’

‘First name?’

‘Eddie.’

‘Well Eddie, I’m going to stay out anyway. I needed some fresh air and to get a sense of the conditions personally.’

‘They’re terrible; I’ve never seen anything like it. Even the TAs who are out there are saying this is worse than some of their Arctic training.’ It was clear that Carlton thought the search a risky waste of time.

‘Two minutes and your replacement will be here. Go on, head back. I’ll cover for you.’ Fenwick managed to keep his voice neutral.

‘Well,’ Carlton checked his watch, ‘as you say, sir, only a minute to go and you’re here …’

Fenwick watched until the officer’s back disappeared into the swirling snow and then turned down the footpath that led out of Alfriston away from the Cuckmere River towards the South Downs Way. He could barely see his way, despite the orange tape that had been strung along the fence to help the search parties find their way back. He had to bend double against the wind that was blowing constantly from the north-east, almost strong enough to knock him over.

His thick overcoat was bare protection from the icy blasts and his leather driving gloves were inadequate for the freezing temperatures and penetrating cold. At least he had remembered to put on a hat before leaving. There had been a red woollen bobble thing on a peg by the door that he had borrowed. Every now and then he thought he could hear shouts above the bellow of the storm but no sooner had he concentrated on the sound than the wind whipped it away.

The snow along the path had been beaten by the search parties into a rutted ice passage about two feet wide with mounds of
snow to either side, sometimes in drifts waist high. Fenwick kept to it, treading forward determinedly until he could make out the constant calls of the searchers and the occasional yelps of excited – perhaps terrified – dogs.

‘Issie! … Issieee … Come on lass, where are you?’

There was a party immediately ahead of him and they soon converged. Fenwick recognised John, the big publican, by his orange puffed jacked.

‘What are you doing out here, Mr Fenwick?’

‘Thought I’d join in for a spell.’

‘It’s madness to come on your own; you’re putting your own life at risk and that won’t help the girl. We’re just on our way back. Two of the volunteers are in a bad way so I’ve had to call it a day. I need to tell them at the hall to be more selective with the volunteers. Some of these old lads shouldn’t have left their firesides.’

‘Is there another group further on? I’ll join them.’

John looked at him in exasperation and shook his head.

‘You’re not dressed properly and bluntly you’re not setting the best example, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

‘I do mind,’ Fenwick shouted above the wind, ‘but as you’re helping us I’ll let the remark pass.’ But he realised he had no effective authority over the man. They were equals in the eye of the storm.

They trudged back in silence, John in the lead catching most of the wind that was hammering into their faces.

‘Was there any sign of her?’

John turned and cupped his ear for Fenwick to repeat his question.

‘No.’ He shook his head.

Fenwick realised that shouting Issie’s name into the wind might be futile.

‘If she’s still some way away she’ll never hear us,’ Fenwick shouted in John’s ear.

‘I know, but let’s hope the party coming from her grandmother’s converges on ours and closes the gap.’

Tate! He hadn’t given the young officer a moment’s thought but he was out in this too and without the benefit of provisions, equipment and a relief pattern. Was Nesbit expecting him to walk the whole way?

‘Give me a minute.’

‘Cold already?’

‘I need to check something.’

Fenwick pulled out his mobile and saw that he had a weak signal; one bar. Tate had rung him several times so the number should still be in the memory of the phone. He found it and pressed call back. It rang for a long time before an automated voice told him that the phone he was calling was out of range or switched off.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘One of my officers; he’s in the party that left the farm. I wanted to see how they were doing.’

‘With luck they will have had sense enough to turn around,’ John said bluntly. ‘Come on, we need to keep moving or we’re going to freeze.’

‘You seem to know what you’re doing, John,’ he shouted.

‘Before I came here I owned a pub near Scafell in the Lake District. I was a volunteer in the local search and rescue.’

Fenwick nodded. At least he was in good company in what even he had to acknowledge was a dangerous venture. John was wearing full alpine gear and Fenwick understood now that it wasn’t because he was a skier. He could no longer feel his feet. The outer layer of his scarf was frozen solid where he had it wrapped around his face.

‘We need to get warm and you into dry clothing. Come to the pub with me. You’re about my size, a bit taller perhaps, but I’ve some togs that should suit.’

‘Thank you.’ Fenwick clapped John on the shoulder.

Fenwick kept trying Tate’s number without success. He was becoming seriously worried for him. As they trudged up the main road they bumped into the vicar on his way to the church hall.

‘Superintendent, John; how goes it?’

‘Nothing so far, George, I’m afraid.’

The vicar hung his head and Fenwick realised it was for prayer and not in despair.

‘Will you be going ahead with the midnight service?’ John asked.

‘Of course! I realise few will turn out – we only had ten families at Christingle and normally the church is packed – but for those who wish to take Communion and celebrate the day of Christ’s birth the church must be open. In fact, there are people in there now praying for Issie and I expect that number to grow as the evening passes. Who could sit comfortably at home knowing she might be out there somewhere so close to us?’

‘You’re right, of course; I just hope a few of them will still need sustenance.’ John immediately looked as if he regretted his words and shook his head to dismiss them. ‘Never mind. Come on, Mr Fenwick, let’s get you into proper clothes.’

The search was called off minutes after Fenwick arrived back at the hall, now dressed in John’s spare winter gear. Chief Constable Norman had been receiving updates every fifteen minutes from Bernstein and it had been his decision finally for the search to cease when she told him they already had one officer on the way to hospital and three receiving medical attention locally from paramedics who had at last arrived.

At five-forty Tate’s party had arrived in Alfriston on a tractor trailer. One of the officers was taken to hospital with suspected frostbite but Tate seemed to be all right. His safe arrival was the only light in what promised to be a bleak evening. Fenwick tried again to venture out but John and Nesbit forcibly restrained him, much to the embarrassment of those who witnessed it.

He felt stupid. There he was, dressed in full rescue kit of ski long johns, thermal vest and socks, shirts and jumpers which kept him warm but still allowed his skin to breathe, and they wouldn’t let him out there. He even had a pair of rugged boots; old and scuffed but serviceable and far better than the wellingtons he had been wearing. Dressed for the weather he had reasoned that he could stand another couple of hours outside but the others disagreed. Even though the worst of the blizzard seemed to be passing and the
wind was slowly easing to storm force, the conditions continued to be diabolical. Half the village had lost power and none of the roads were passable.

Jane Saxby had been calling every ten minutes, sometimes Bernstein, at others Fenwick. It was Bernstein who had told her that the search had been called off for the night.

‘We will resume at first light, ma’am.’

‘That will be too late and you know it! Why aren’t you doing something now?’

‘We have tried everything we possibly could …’

‘What about helicopters? Have you tried them?’

‘We attempted to involve our own, the air ambulance and the coastguard but they are unable to fly in these conditions.’

‘The army, then!’

‘The Territorial Army has been part of our search and we had the good fortune to have an Arctic-trained unit to call on. We really have tried everything.’

The call ended with tears, recriminations and a hail of abuse from Bill Saxby. Fenwick had volunteered to take over but Bernstein waved him away with a muttered: ‘You’re not even meant to be here!’ and he backed off.

The hall was packed with stranded police officers and a few of the volunteers who seemed to be enjoying the experience. Members of the local WI, without prompting, started a search for beds for them all. Juliette and John organised food to be delivered to the hall so that they could eat a hot meal. There was beer and wine to go with the meal, courtesy of the pubs, and spirits started to lift as they always do, even in dire times, when there is warmth, food, alcohol and convivial company, particularly after a shared risky endeavour. A flurry of carol singing broke out as they sat down only to die away before the end of the last verse as they remembered why they were there. Fenwick couldn’t stand it and used the confusion to step outside.

As he huddled in the shelter of a wall, two volunteers left the hall. He pulled back into the shadows so as not to be seen.

‘This is crazy, David. Gyp’s a smart dog. She’ll be home soon, you see.’

‘I can’t leave her out there, Fred, not in this. She’s been in all sorts of winter weather on the hills with me before and she’s never run off, not once.’

‘But you’re putting yourself at risk, man.’

‘I’m dressed for it, so are you; and if you come along then I’ll have my big TA-trained brother with me, won’t I?’

‘Mam will go nuts if she finds out. And we’re due back for dinner at seven-thirty.’

‘That gives us an hour, then. Come on.’

David switched on a torch and the two brothers strode away. Fenwick followed at a safe distance. The brothers headed back towards the footpath. It was still snowing but the wind was dropping. His breath misted in the air. Fenwick let them get ahead, switched on his torch and stepped into the snow to the north of the path, remembering what John had said about Issie possibly not being able to hear them above the storm. He could hear the two men calling, first ‘
Issie
’ and then ‘
Gyp
’, increasingly faintly.

‘Issie!’ Although the snow was deep the experience was better than before as the wind had moderated and his boots maintained a grip on the freezing snow. ‘Issie! Where are you? Come on, love, your mother’s worried sick. You don’t need to hide any more.’

‘Issie!’

Behind him, the bells of St Andrews started to peal, as if urging him forward. Fenwick was sure that if he just kept on walking he would find her.

Issie slept, a deep comforting sleep that danced on the borders of oblivion. Beyond her eyelids the gentle glow of her dying fire played a game of shadows that fell into sweet dreams.

She was hiding but not out of fear; it was a game of hide-and-seek, in which her aim was to sink into the background, become invisible even to her family and friends. It was a familiar challenge. A short walk down this path, a quick turn of that corner, a slide along and
down into the darkness of a concealing tunnel. She was so good at this.

They would never find her. She would burrow down deep into the cold earth; cold to them but welcoming to her; her natural element. A little cave of hibernation.

Her breathing slowed. It was comfortable here in this cosy den. She was snuggled up tight in a ball, curled like a full-term baby waiting to be born, one little fist under her chin the other hand a pillow for her cheek.

And it was peaceful. She felt a stillness like music all around her. The crack and rattle of her makeshift shelter had receded beyond her ears’ hearing; the billowing pressure on the black plastic was a heartbeat. Her nose could no longer smell the acrid ash of her fading fire. She was beyond it all.

Floating. She had never slept on so comfortable a bed. The brittle branches were goose down; her toes were insensitive to the cramped, hard edges of her boots but twitched and stretched in her dream as she kept running farther and farther away. She was no longer shivering but yawned uncontrollably.

Someone was calling her name in a deep, masculine voice. They sounded anxious, scared even. Issie frowned in her sleep. She hoped they would go away soon. She was so tired. All she wanted was to rest, sleeping outside under the open sky.

It reminded her of Africa, when she had camped under the vast turning canopy of stars with her father. That had been the happiest period of her life. If she had died there and then, trampled by the poor, terrified elephant, she would have been content because nothing could ever again match the perfection of that time. Just the two of them and the tracker alone, camping rough but protected in the circle of light cast from their campfire. Like now.