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Authors: Rhys Bowen

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BOOK: Evan's Gate
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“Thank you. We’ll certainly go and take a look straightaway,” Evan said.
“It may be nothing.” The man said. “The child may well have just been misbehaving and outside when she should have been doing chores, but my wife says the woman looked around nervously as she dragged the child back inside, as if she was afraid they’d been seen. And my wife is not the kind of woman given to dramatic fancies.”
Evan thought that somebody who hiked the Pennine Way probably wouldn’t be.
“Right.” He took a deep breath. “If you could give me the location of this cottage.”
“The problem is that we only saw it from above. I can tell you the route we took. The trail started in a village called Clapham, just off the A road. It was signposted to the Ingelborough Caves, past the Gaping Gill, then up and over the mountain. I’m pretty sure we were looking due west from the limestone outcropping down at this cottage. It was quite remote, not near any village and not even on the road, I think. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful, but we have to press on to our next destination by nightfall, or we’ll fall behind our schedule.”
“That’s all right, sir. We’ll take it from here. Thanks again for your help.”
“I hope it turns out to be your kidnapped child,” the man said. “We’ve got two daughters at boarding school. My God, if anything happened to one of them …”
“I hope so too, sir.”
The moment the phone call ended, Evan found the nearest WH Smith stationery store and bought a map of Yorkshire. His knowledge of English geography was somewhat hazy, and he was amazed to locate Ingelborough so far west that it was only a few miles from the West Coast. He had always thought of Yorkshire as a strictly eastern county. Now he was impressed by its size, and by the distance from Leeds to Ingleborough. At least it was on an A road, even if that road did climb up and over the crest of the Pennines. He traced the route with his finger. As he did so, names leaped off the page at him, first one and then another—names that
had not made sense before because he wasn’t looking at a map. Skipton—that was where the chemist had reported that Ashley’s prescription had been filled; then a little farther along, just off the A road, was Settle, where there had been a report of someone who sounded foreign and looked like Ivan Sholokhov a couple of weeks ago. Both of them on the A65 leading to Ingelborough. It couldn’t possibly be coincidence.
It took a frustrating hour driving through one-way systems and clogged traffic before Evan located the A65 and was finally clear of the city. At any moment he expected the phone to ring with instructions that he was to return home and that the matter was being handled by someone with more seniority and experience. Suburban sprawl went on and on. One housing estate after another, one factory after another, and still he hadn’t even reached Skipton. Then at last houses gave way to moors. The A65 wound up hill and down dale, through patches of woodland and past signs to such tantalizing places as Ilkey, famed of song, where you were supposed to catch your death of cold by going out
bar tat.
Skipton came at last, and the road skirted around it. It looked like a fair-sized town, and Evan wondered whether he should stop to check in with the local police or at least with his own D.I. He knew that protocol demanded that he report to local police when he came onto their turf, and he’d certainly have to do so if he needed to obtain a search warrant. But he kept on going, telling himself that there was time for that kind of thing later. He was consumed by a great sense of urgency. Although his rational self knew that the child had only been spotted through field glasses,
he couldn’t help fearing that the spotters had themselves been observed and plans were being made to move her elsewhere.
After Skipton the country became truly wild. Bleak hills rose on either side as the road followed a valley steadily upward toward the spine of the Pennines. There were no more villages, just the odd, remote house built in solid gray stone to survive the worst of the weather. The few trees he passed were bent by the force of the wind, and even in May they were only just coming into leaf. A patch of daffodils in front of a cottage lent the one splash of color in a gray-green landscape. As in Wales, there were few sheep to be seen in the fields. Foot-and-mouth disease had passed this way too.
The sun was sinking on the western horizon so that he caught it full in the face, almost blinding him at times. How long could this bloody road go on? He must have been driving at least two hours and still he had seen no signs to either Newby or Clapham or Ingleborough. Momentary panic set in that he had passed them and would wind up on the Lancashire Coast any second. Then he spotted the sign to Ingleborough Caves almost too late and had to jam on the brakes. The village of Clapham was off on a small road to the right, a pretty cluster of stone houses, sheltered by trees and with enough tearooms and souvenir shops to show that the caves attracted some tourism. Evan parked the car, crossed the rushing mountain stream by way of a footbridge, and followed the signs to the footpath. An old man sitting on a bench outside a row of cottages shook his head as Evan walked by.
“If tha’s hoping to visit t’cave, tha’s too late.” He looked pleased at delivering this bad news. Evan was tempted to sound him out about a possible cottage that might now contain a visiting child, but decided not to. He couldn’t risk putting one foot wrong from now on. But he did say, “Is there a police station in the village?”
“Not no more. Used to be when I were a lad. Closest copper is in Ingleton now.”
“How far’s that?”
“About five mile.” He made this sound like it was close to the end of the earth.
“Thanks,” Evan said, and went to continue on his way.
“I suppose tha’s wanting to ask t’police about t’tragedy then? I expect it’ll be on t’evening news,” the old man said.
“Tragedy?”
“Some poor bugger fell down one of t’potholes. Another of they hikers. They only found him today. He’d been there awhile, they say. They’re always doing it, you know—trying to climb down and then falling.”
“Was he badly injured?”
“No. Dead as a doornail, poor bugger. Been there for weeks. That’s the second this year.” He gave a macabre grin, revealing a mouth of missing teeth. “Tha wants to be careful if tha’ goes up there. Observe the warnings, young man.”
“I’ll be careful then,” Evan said, and again went to pass on his way.
“I told thee that t’cave’s closed, didn’t I?” the old man called after him.
“Thanks, but I’m not going to the cave, just for a hike. And I’ll be careful of potholes.”
“You do that, young man.” The words echoed after him as he passed between two of the stone houses and found a smooth, wellused path stretching out ahead of him. To begin with it wound through pleasant woodland. He had to pass through a gate with a notice announcing he was entering Ingleborough Hall Estate and a fee would be collected. But there was nobody to take his money, so he kept on going through more woodland, with a small ornamental lake to his left. He came to the entrance to the cave, which was, as the old man had predicted, well and truly closed, with an iron grille across the gate.
After the cave the smooth path became a rocky track beside a noisy, dancing beck. He continued on upward, feeling the fresh breeze in his face and the fresh smell of upland air and pines. He came to a small limestone gorge with cliffs rising on either side of
the path and fir trees clinging precariously. Then out of the gorge and the first sense of high moor—no more trees, just rocky fields and drystone walls. To the north he caught his first view of the peak that had been described to him—Ingleborough, one of the big three and recognizable by its flat top, as if a giant hand had sawn it off. He began to realize his own folly in taking this on alone and without preparation. He hadn’t stopped to consider how far it might be and how much real hiking would be involved. Now he realized that he might not reach the viewpoint from which the child had been spotted and get down again by nightfall. Not a comforting thought as he had just passed a notice board warning DANGER. POTHOLES AHEAD. PROCEED WITH CAUTION. DO NOT CROSS ANY BARBED WIRE FENCES.
The moment he had taken in the notice, he was conscious that the gurgle of the stream had turned to a roar and he found himself standing beside a wire fence, looking down in awe as the stream plunged suddenly into a black, gaping hole in the ground. The sign at a locked gate identified it as GAPING GILL and mentioned that the winch operated only on weekends. As one who suffered from claustrophobia, Evan could hardly imagine anything worse than being winched down into that blackness. He remembered the hiker who had plunged to his death and had only been found after several weeks. Had that been here or were there other, even more terrifying holes opening up into the earth nearby? He glanced nervously toward the west and saw the sun turning into a red ball as it moved closer to the horizon. Another hour or two of daylight, that was all.
After the Gaping Gill, the trail began its stiff ascent of Ingleborough Peak. Evan slithered on smooth rock and wished for his sturdy hiking boots. He was conscious of rings of wire fencing around what must be smaller potholes and couldn’t help wondering if others were unfenced. His eyes scanned the horizon ahead, trying to pick out the limestone outcropping where the couple had spotted the cottage. Why hadn’t he thought to ask them how many miles it had been from Clapham? He realized to his annoyance
that he’d left their phone number in the car. He doubted that he’d pick up a signal up here anyway.
Then the path curved around the side of the mountain, and he found himself staring into the sunset with a rocky outcropping immediately ahead of him. Cautiously, remembering he was wearing work shoes that lacked good tread, he climbed out onto it and lowered himself to the still-warm rock. The view that spread out below him was spectacular—hills and valleys, clumps of trees with hamlets nestled in them, and in the far west maybe the glint of the Irish Sea. The whole scene was bathed in slanting evening sunlight, making the limestone glow almost pink. But the sense of urgency was still pumping adrenaline. He wrenched his eyes from the view and peered down the slope, looking for the cottage the hikers had seen. Again he didn’t know how powerful their binoculars had been and cursed himself for not asking more questions.
Then he saw it, half-hidden by some trees, directly below him. There was no sign of a road or other houses nearby. Not in a village then. He tried to pick out landmarks that would help him to identify it from below. Probably northwest from Clapham, with the summit of Ingleborough due east behind it. And three trees. And a stone wall coming down in a direct line from the mountain. Would that be enough? He decided not to take the chance of losing it again. The slope below him was steep, but not impassible. Someone had managed to build and maintain a wall down it. All he had to do was follow that wall, and he’d get a look at the cottage for himself. If the worst happened and he was seen, he’d be a hiker who had lost his way. Ivan Sholokhov had no idea what he looked like and probably wouldn’t even recognize a Welsh accent. He was quite safe.
He lowered himself down the outcrop and began the descent. It was hard going, slithering over patches of limestone in places, making sure he didn’t turn his ankles on rocks hidden in the grass. Down and down until the bright sunlight on the peaks was replaced by shadow. The wind that had blown fresh in his face had
now become icy cold, and he realized again what a stupid chance he had taken, going into the high country so ill prepared. Every year he had had to rescue tourists who had been stranded on Mount Snowdon when the weather turned ugly, and he had not been able to believe their stupidity at starting out in sandals and shorts. Now he had been equally guilty and just lucky that the weather hadn’t turned on him yet.
A light came on, farther down in the valley, identifying possibly where the road ran. Still no lights shone out from the cottage. He came closer, hoping that they hadn’t a watchdog. Then he froze as he heard something—through an open window a child was singing. The sound sent his spirits soaring. If it was indeed Ashley, then she was still alive and well and happy enough to sing.
He moved more slowly now, circling away from the drystone wall to give the cottage a wide berth. He passed the cottage and on the other side of it, he picked up a rutted track that led down to the nearest road. At least cars could get to it. That was good to know. Now all he had to do was make his way down to the road, call the local police, and wait for them. Before he went down to the road, however, he decided he should at least see if the cottage had a name, which would make it easier to find. He found a battered front gate, standing open, and saw that his hunch had been right. There was a board tacked onto the gatepost identifying it as FERNDALE COTTAGE.
At that moment his mobile phone rang. His tension level was so high that his heart gave a huge lurch at the sound, and he almost dropped the phone as he fumbled to get it out of his pocket before it rang again.
“Evans, where the hell are you?” D.I. Watkins’s voice demanded. The crackling indicated that the connection was tenuous.
“In Yorkshire, sir, following up on the reported sighting of the child, like you told me.” Evan struggled to make his voice sound calm.
“Have you got in touch with the local police yet?”
“No sir, I tried to do that when I got here, but they’ve closed the police station.”
“They can’t have closed every police station in the whole bloody area,” Watkins said. “Make sure you contact them at once. You don’t tread on someone’s turf without permission—you know that full well.”
“Yessir, I know. I was just about to call them. I just thought I should check out the cottage for myself first.”
“For yourself? I’m not having any of my team playing lone ranger, Evans. You go in with backup or not at all. If we’ve really located Ashley, we’re not going to risk a screwup because you’re too bloody pigheaded to hand over to the local boys.”
“Don’t worry, sir. I wasn’t planning to go in alone. I’ll call them right away.”
“And you stay put until they get there, Evans. That’s an order.”
“Right, sir.” He had to smile at this last order. If Watkins really knew where he was.
“And Evans? Don’t do anything daft, you hear me?”
“I won’t, sir.”
He hung up and dialed 999, only to be told that there was no one at the Ingleton station at the moment because the policeman on duty had escorted the hiker’s body to the morgue in Skipton. Evan tried to give details to a patient, but slow-moving, girl on the switchboard and impressed upon her that she should send someone as soon as possible. At some point during the conversation, the penny dropped. “The little girl whose picture was on the telly, you mean?” she blurted out. “You’ve found her?”
BOOK: Evan's Gate
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