No Going Back (2 page)

The German shepherd accepted the morsel, licked his lips and grumbled some more. He'd had a bad experience with a Staffie when he was just a pup and it would require more than a tasty bribe to take his mind off this one.

It was a cold, wet day and it was with a sigh of relief that Daniel climbed back into his cab after the last delivery that afternoon and prepared to head for home. He had finished early and with any luck would miss the worst of the Friday traffic.

Not that thoughts of home were particularly enticing just at that moment in his life: with a limited budget and the necessity of finding somewhere that he could park the lorry from time to time, the only accommodation he'd been able to find had been a one-bedroom flat above an empty shop in a lane off the Tavistock to Launceston road. The unoccupied downstairs space had most recently been a lawnmower showroom and still had the oil stains and stink of petrol to prove it. However, the property had scored on three important points: the rent was cheap; it had a good-sized car park at the back; and it was sufficiently removed from the nearest village to avoid upsetting anyone when he started the lorry's V12 engine at the crack of dawn.

The light was poor under an overcast sky, and the windscreen wipers swished monotonously to and fro, barely clearing the fine drizzle before it obscured the glass once again, making the headlights of oncoming vehicles star and spread.

All in all it was a dreary afternoon and there was nothing to stop Daniel's mind dwelling on the depressing turn his life had taken. Just three short months ago, he had had what he thought was a stable home life with a wife and eight-year-old son, a career in the police force and a circle of friends. Now, entirely as a result of his own actions, he had none of these and the realization was still raw every time it hit him.

The fact that it could be regarded as questionable whether friends and colleagues who had shown themselves to be so fickle were worth mourning gave him no comfort at all. There had been many times lately when he'd wondered if, given that period of his life over again, he would make the same choices, and he found he just didn't know.

Daniel rubbed his eyes tiredly. Such reflections were pointless. The decisions had been made and he had to live with the consequences. End of story. He switched on the radio, reaching across to ruffle Taz's soft coat. Lately the dog had become the only constant in his life.

Taz rewarded his caress with a flattening of his ears. Daniel suspected that
he
, at least, was very content with their altered circumstances. Amanda hadn't allowed the dog in the house, complaining that his constantly shedding coat made work for her, so for the first part of his life Taz had mostly lived in a kennel and run in the back garden. It wasn't so bad when the dog was working, but after he'd been forced to retire, Daniel had hated leaving him shut in while he was on shift. Now, the dog had his company twenty-four hours a day and a daily walk on the moor.

A sudden burst of the James Bond theme tune interrupted his thoughts, bringing with it a sharp pang of regret: his son, Drew, had downloaded the ringtone to his mobile one day without him knowing, and now he couldn't bring himself to change it. The display showed that the caller was Fred Bowden, his boss at TFS. Hoping it wasn't extra work for the evening, Daniel thumbed the ‘call answer' button
.

‘Hi, Fred. I'll ring you back in five – I'm driving.' In his policing days, Daniel had had to deal with the horrific consequences of distracted drivers too often to take a chance, even if it hadn't been illegal. Finding a place to pull in, he killed the engine and keyed in the number.

‘Hi. What's up?'

‘Daniel, I've had a call from some bloke who wants to talk to you. Apparently, his daughters went for a walk on the moor and haven't come back, and he wants to know if you and Taz will help look for them. Saw the bit in the paper, obviously . . .'

‘But surely he should call Search and Rescue.'

‘Well, that's what I said. Anyway, will you talk to him? Can I give him your number?'

‘Er . . . yeah, OK, I guess so,' Daniel said reluctantly. Even though he'd been rueing the prospect of the evening ahead, the idea of being sent out of his way to pander to a hysterical parent whose kids would in all probability turn up without his help wasn't one he particularly relished either.

He disconnected, and a minute or two later, his phone sounded again.

‘Is that Mr Whelan?'

‘That's right,' Daniel agreed. ‘Who am I speaking to?'

‘John. John Reynolds.' The man sounded a little out of breath, as if he were walking.

‘How can I help you, Mr Reynolds?'

‘It's my daughters – they went walking on the moor and they haven't come back. I've looked for them, but it's hopeless. I've no idea which way they went. I read about your dog in the paper the other day – please, you must help me!' Reynolds spoke English very precisely, but as he became more agitated, Daniel could hear just the hint of a foreign lilt.

‘Look, obviously I'd be very willing to help you, but I really think you should contact the police. They'll get on to Dartmoor Search and Rescue – it's their job, after all.'

‘Yes, I tried them, but they say it's too soon and we should wait and see if they come back. But I'm really worried, Mr Whelan. It'll be getting dark soon, and it's cold and wet, and Elena's not very strong . . .'

‘How long
have
they been gone?' Daniel was surprised at the attitude of the police. He'd not lived in the area for long but was already well aware of the respect the locals rightly accorded the moor, especially in winter.

‘About forty minutes. But we're here on holiday, so they don't know the area at all, and they're not dressed for the weather. Look . . .' Reynolds hesitated ‘. . . the truth is, Mr Whelan, we had a bit of a row. Katya, the older one, is a moody girl – you know, typical teenager – and I'm afraid she might have run away to teach me a lesson. Her sister would follow her anywhere.'

Now they were indeed getting to the truth of it, Daniel thought.

‘How old are they?'

‘Katya's fifteen and her sister's twelve. Please, Mr Whelan, you've got to help me. They're all I've got.'

They're all I've got
. The words stabbed through the defensive layers he'd so carefully gathered around him, bringing the past back with a jolt that made him physically wince.
Please. She's all I've got . . .
A plea uttered by a woman at breaking point. Daniel could still clearly see the sad shake of the doctor's head as he murmured, ‘I'm sorry – there was nothing we could do.'

‘Mr Whelan? Are you there?'

Daniel dragged his thoughts back to the present.

‘Yes, I'm here.'

‘Do you have any children?'

‘Yes, a son.' He looked out of the window at the blowing mist of rain and imagined Drew wandering on the moor, lost and afraid. He sighed, reluctantly coming to a decision. ‘OK, Mr Reynolds. Tell me exactly where you are and I'll get there as soon as I can. I'll need something belonging to the girls for the dog to scent.'

‘Yes, yes, of course. I have a glove of Elena's. Thank you so much.'

‘Well, I can't make any promises. What the dog can do depends on a lot of things – including the conditions, and if this rain gets any heavier, they are going to be far from ideal. I strongly advise you to try the police again.'

‘I will, I will. But you will come, yes? It's a car park on the Princetown road.' Reynolds gave Daniel detailed directions and thanked him again profusely.

It was nearly twenty minutes later when Daniel drove into the moorland car park of Stack Bridge, and the visibility had deteriorated further. The parking area was situated in a hollow with high rocky sides, a stunted hawthorn the only tree in sight. The delivery truck took up nearly a third of the available space.

‘Mr Reynolds? Any luck with Search and Rescue?' Daniel asked as he jumped down from the cab and was met by a slim, dark-haired man in jeans and a tailored black leather coat. Another, taller man stood by a massive black 4x4 that was parked a few feet away.

‘I think they've got another emergency, over Bovey way.' Reynolds's accent was more pronounced in person and Daniel placed it somewhere in Eastern Europe. He was talking about Bovey Tracey, on the other side of the moor, and pronounced the word ‘Buvvy', as the locals did. ‘They say they'll come when they've finished, if we haven't found her, but who knows when that will be?'

‘But . . . surely there's more than one team?'

Reynolds shrugged. ‘I don't know. I'm just telling you what they said.'

‘OK. Well, we'll give it a go with the dog.'

Daniel reached back into the cab for his coat and a fluorescent tabard. After the warmth of the lorry, the drizzle-laden wind felt bitter and he wasn't dressed for hiking. Any added protection would be welcome. Pity the youngsters out on the moor with no waterproofs.

From a compartment under the dashboard he took a small LED torch and a large-scale walker's map of the area, both of which he stuffed in an inside pocket. He would have liked a couple of blankets, a flask of hot tea and a backpack to stow them in, but it couldn't be helped.

‘Come on, Taz. Work, boy,' he told the German shepherd, who responded by jumping out of the cab with a whining bark of pure delight.

Reynolds took a step backwards, eyeing the dog a little warily. Daniel took no notice – Taz was a particularly big shepherd and he was used to that kind of reaction.

‘It said in the paper that he's an ex-police dog.'

‘Yeah, a friend of mine's a copper,' Daniel replied. ‘The dog was injured and had to retire. I took him on.' Both statements were true, even if the whole was a little misleading. His years with the police had left him habitually close with information, and his reasons for leaving the service were something he certainly had no intention of sharing with a total stranger.

‘Your wife isn't here?' he asked in his turn as he took a long tracking lead and a padded black webbing harness from a holdall behind the seat. The harness was trimmed with fluorescent strips, which shone brightly in the light of the cab. Since the episode with the deaf child, Daniel had taken to carrying it with him, just in case.

‘No. The girls' mother and I have separated, but my brother is here.' Reynolds waved a hand to indicate the other man and continued, ‘I'm afraid he won't come any closer. He was badly bitten by an Alsatian once.'

‘Fair enough.' Daniel gave the man a brief nod before turning back to Reynolds. ‘So, whereabouts are you from?'

‘Bristol.'

‘Do the girls normally live with you?'

‘No. With their mother.'

Reynolds's reply was terse and Daniel reined in his curiosity; after all, he was no longer a policeman and it was no business of his.

Eager to work, Taz pushed his head through the harness when Daniel held it out, and it only took a moment to clip it on.

As he straightened up, he glanced around. ‘It's quite a remote spot. What brought you out here?' He directed his question at the second man, but it was Reynolds who answered.

‘We came for a walk and a picnic. There was a bit of a disagreement, something quite trivial – you know what kids are – but Katya stormed off, taking Elena with her. I thought they'd be back when they'd cooled down, but when they didn't come, I started to get worried . . .'

‘What about a mobile phone?'

Reynolds shook his head. ‘They haven't got one.'

Daniel was surprised. A teenager without a phone was a rarity these days, especially as the 4x4 signified that money probably wasn't an issue.

‘Oh well, it can't be helped. Mobile coverage on the moor can be a bit hit and miss, anyway. In a steep-sided gully or on the wrong side of a tor, there's no signal at all. Look, could they possibly have found their way home – to where you're staying, I mean? Where is that?'

‘A caravan park. Er . . . The Pines.' Reynolds waved his hand vaguely. ‘No, it's miles away, and anyway, they set off in the wrong direction.'

‘You said on the phone that one of them isn't strong? In what way? Is she ill?'

‘Elena has asthma.'

‘And you told the police that?' Daniel probed, still more mystified about their apparent indifference.

‘No . . . Yes, I think so . . . I can't exactly remember. I got rather angry,' Reynolds admitted.

Daniel zipped his leather jacket up to the neck and fastened the Velcro tabs of the high-visibility waistcoat. ‘Well, we'll make a start, but I suggest you get back on the phone and explain your daughter's condition. I'd be very surprised if it didn't make a difference. Besides, it must be over an hour now. OK, where's the glove you said you had?'

‘My brother has it.' Reynolds turned and beckoned to the other man, who came forward cautiously, holding out a red mitten. He didn't take his eyes off Taz for a moment. Perhaps responding to his fear, the dog growled deep in his throat, but quieted when Daniel put a hand on his head.

‘Thanks.' Daniel took the woollen mitten and paused, looking the two men up and down. They were dark-haired, olive-skinned and looked to be in their late thirties. Both wore jeans and designer trainers, but where Reynolds had a jumper and leather coat, his taller companion sported a red hooded sweatshirt and some sort of canvas baseball jacket.

They were both woefully unprepared for a trek into the wilderness of Dartmoor, and Daniel viewed the whole rescue mission with growing misgivings.

‘OK,' he said briskly. ‘When we get started, I need you to stay directly behind me. Keep as quiet as you can, and whatever you do, don't crowd me or the dog. Now, show me where you last saw the girls.'

‘This way.' Beckoning, Reynolds left the car park and walked 20 or 30 feet back down the road. Crossing the narrow stone bridge that gave the beauty spot its name, he stopped at the point where a narrow sheep path wound uphill through the heather on to the moor.