The Reservoir Tapes
The Reservoir Tapes
Jon McGregor
As broadcast on BBC radio 4: the fifteen ‘prequel’ stories to the Costa Award-WinningReservoir 13.‘He leaves behind all other writers of his generation’ Sarah HallMidwinter in the early years of this century. A teenage girl on holiday has gone missing in the hills at the heart of England. The villagers are called up to join the search, fanning out across the moors as the police set up roadblocks and a crowd of news reporters descends on their usually quiet home.But the aftershocks of Becky Shaw’s disappearance have origins long before then, and those in the village have losses, and secrets, and stories of their own…A woman remembers a son’s inexperience – and a father’s rage; a young wife pushes against the boundaries of her marriage, whilst an older one finds ways to ensure the survival of hers. A hunt for a birthday present takes an alarming turn, and a teenage game grows serious.Fresh hurts open old wounds, salvation comes from unexpected quarters and chance encounters release long-buried memories.First broadcast as a series of specially commissioned stories on BBC Radio 4, The Reservoir Tapes returns to the territory of the Booker-longlisted Reservoir 13, revealing the web of connections that bind us, and the many layers on which we all build our truths.
(#uf337ae0c-ca6e-52ce-ba66-0b2125be437f)
Copyright (#uf337ae0c-ca6e-52ce-ba66-0b2125be437f)
4th Estate
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.4thEstate.co.uk (http://www.4thEstate.co.uk)
This eBook first published in Great Britain by 4th Estate in 2017
Copyright © 2017 Jon McGregor
Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com
Jon McGregor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This collection is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008235635
Ebook Edition © December 2017 ISBN: 9780008235642
Version: 2018-06-26
Contents
Cover (#ubd719f5f-1b4f-55a6-80f0-19e12b700eeb)
Title Page (#uc82dafc4-1f05-5a60-88be-f0975f0e3d40)
Copyright (#ud03cba9b-4209-5df6-8ddc-d67725b7d354)
1: Charlotte (#u3e196de1-14dd-5008-b016-f95c9f367897)
2: Vicky (#u5a91f35e-2252-5565-9700-621b8297be79)
3: Deepak (#u3360d916-ae3b-5d09-93b6-ed6d5ad204fa)
4: Graham (#ube842b76-0687-5730-b69c-cc71e5be14e4)
5: Liam (#litres_trial_promo)
6: Claire (#litres_trial_promo)
7: Clive (#litres_trial_promo)
8: Martin (#litres_trial_promo)
9: Stephanie (#litres_trial_promo)
10: Donna (#litres_trial_promo)
11: Ian (#litres_trial_promo)
12: Irene (#litres_trial_promo)
13: Ginny (#litres_trial_promo)
14: Jess (#litres_trial_promo)
15: Joe (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Jon McGregor (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
1: Charlotte (#uf337ae0c-ca6e-52ce-ba66-0b2125be437f)
Could you
I’d like to hear about that day, before anything happened.
Just, from the beginning.
You’d been staying in the village for how long?
And you’d come back because the previous visit had gone so well, last summer?
And you knew the Hunter family. You got on with them.
So it was an easy decision, to come back for a winter break.
Was it warm enough, in the cottage? I mean, the weather had been wet.
It’s quite small, isn’t it, the cottage. Lovely. But small.
Sorry, barn conversion.
Had you been on any excursions? Had you gone for any walks?
So you were maybe starting to feel a bit cooped up.
Tell me about that morning.
Did you all have breakfast together? Who was up first?
This might sound trivial, but what would Becky have had, if she was eating breakfast alone?
I know
But these details. They help to build a picture.
If you could
Okay. And then did you come downstairs before she finished her breakfast?
And was that when the idea of going for a walk was discussed?
It would be fair to say that Becky’s response wasn’t positive, would it?
Is it okay if I call her Becky?
She wasn’t enthusiastic about the walk. And the weather wasn’t great, at that point.
So you let the matter rest for the time being. To avoid a conflict.
And then the two of you had your breakfast together, you and your husband? Something more elaborate, because you were on holiday, because you wanted to treat yourselves?
But this wasn’t a special occasion. Other than being a holiday morning. You weren’t celebrating anything.
No.
You made a start on your breakfast, you made some coffee – maybe you read the paper? You were having the newspapers delivered while you were staying in the cottage, is that right?
Barn conversion.
Which newspaper?
And Becky – she’ll have gone back up to her bedroom? Or put the television on?
Could you
could we
if we could just talk a little bit about Becky. If you could describe her for me. In your own words. What she was like when she was younger. How she’s changed from being a child to being a young teenager. What her – gifts are, if you like. Any challenges there have been. Anything she has found difficult. Anything that comes to mind.
I know
I know this is difficult
this must be very hard for
of course.
So, just to pick up again.
This was the third day of your stay in the village; the idea of a walk had been raised but the weather was looking unsuitable. Becky had got up early, and had breakfast before you. What did she do during the rest of the morning? Had she brought any homework with her?
She was friendly with the Hunters’ daughter, I understand. Did she spend any time with her that morning?
Do you know if she was friendly with any of the other young people in the village?
And you knew about that at the time?
Had you met any of those young people when you were staying here last summer? Had you seen them when they came up to the Hunters’ property?
There was one boy in particular who Becky became quite close to, wasn’t there: James?
I know she’s only thirteen, yes.
I wasn’t implying
But he wasn’t someone you were aware of.
Not at the time.
So, that morning, Becky went across to the Hunters’ house, and you assumed she was spending some time with their daughter, Sophie.
And she’s someone who makes friends easily, would you say? Back at home, is she sociable, does she have a range of friends?
Are there any you’ve been uncomfortable about her associating with? Have her friendship groups changed recently?
Does she spend much time on the internet?
Do you monitor that, at all?
So she was with Sophie, and by late morning she still hadn’t come back. But you had no cause for concern, you had no reason to think they’d gone far. The weather was still wet at that point, wasn’t it?
And the original idea for the walk had been to get out before lunchtime, but with the weather you’d put that on hold.
And late in the morning you went across to fetch Becky, from the Hunters’ house. Did you speak to either of Sophie’s parents?
Both of them? So Sophie and Becky were there by themselves?
Just Becky, by herself?
Did you think the Hunters would have minded that?
Sophie and her parents had been gone all morning, as far as you knew. Becky hadn’t seen them leaving?
Were you surprised by this, were you concerned?
How long have you known the Hunters?
Would you describe them as friends?
If we could
to keep to
So you had lunch, the three of you, together. And there was some discussion about how Becky had spent the morning, was there?
How would you characterise her response?
So there was some tension.
Of course.
Well, that’s teenagers.
And is Becky someone comfortable with her own company, would you say? Back at home, would she often spend time by herself in that way, that you know of?
So were you concerned that her behaviour that morning was out of character, that there might be something else behind it?
But you didn’t discuss that with her. You put it down to being on holiday, being in a different environment; just, usual teenage restlessness. You got lunch ready.
And for lunch you had?
By this point the weather was improving; the rain had stopped, the sky was clearing, and the idea of a walk was suggested again. A decision was made.
I know.
A decision was made, and immediately after lunch you began to gather a few things together, look at a map, make a plan. Can I ask what you took with you?
So you weren’t planning on it being a long walk. You didn’t think it worth taking extra waterproofs as a precaution, snacks, a flask?
No, of course, and
No.
Can I ask how well you know the area? Are you experienced walkers, would you say?
But this was a route you’d walked in the summer, when you were here before? You’d followed that same path, from the visitor centre, up the hill towards the rock formations on the ridge?
Black Bull Rocks, right.
And had Becky been with you on those occasions? Would you say it was a route she was familiar with?
But on this occasion she was reluctant.
Perhaps we
I’m curious
Did you do a lot of walking when she was younger? Would you say the reluctance on this occasion was more around the tensions between you, rather than the walk itself?
Would you describe Becky as fit and healthy? Does she do any sports?
So the walk shouldn’t have been a problem for her.
I do realise this must be
of course
and
If we could just go through the sequence of events.
The three of you got into the car, your car, soon after lunch. So this would have been
2 p.m. Okay. And the weather was clear. You’d asked Becky to wear something more suitable on her feet, but she’d refused and you didn’t want to start another argument.
That’s understandable.
You drove a short distance to the visitor centre and parked in the car park there. That would have taken, what, five minutes, ten?
Was the visitor centre open? Did you see anyone there?
Were there any other cars in the car park?
So you parked near the main building, and went through the gate by the display board, following the track which leads diagonally up the hill towards Black Bull Rocks.
I realise you’ve already
I just would
it does help
Did you have a map?
Because it was a route you knew. And you can see Black Bull Rocks almost from the car park in any case, can’t you? So it was a simple walk. It was going to be a short walk.
Did you know how long you were expecting it to take?
Did you know what time it was going to get dark?
Had you looked at a weather forecast?
Did you have a phone with you?
Had you planned
No, of course
no
I do realise
It is
it’s actually rather misleading, isn’t it, the walk up to Black Bull Rocks? The path isn’t as direct as it looks from the bottom of the hill. There are several narrow gorges or valleys on the way. The path drops down steeply and climbs up out of each of these.
They call them cloughs, locally, don’t they?
And the streams through each of these are running high at this time of year, so it’s not always a simple matter getting across them. The ground can be quite boggy down there?
And with the shoes Becky was wearing.
Did she struggle at all?
Struggle.
I mean, if she was having difficulty getting across the streams, keeping her feet dry. Did she express any discomfort or irritation, any reluctance? Did she ever want to stop, or go back?
And did you wait for her, at that point?
Did she catch up?
But you at least kept her in sight?
What were your feelings by then, if you don’t mind me asking?
That’s understandable. Of course.
My daughter was that age not so long ago, I know how
Of course.
Was there any discussion between the two of you about cutting the walk short? Given the conditions, and Becky’s behaviour?
Was there any disagreement between the two of you, would you say?
And by this point you’re how far up the track, how close to Black Bull Rocks?
And had there been any change in the weather?
So you had no reason to be concerned?
How were you finding the conditions? You were wearing more suitable footwear, presumably? You had kept dry up until then?
And had you seen anyone else, had you passed anyone on the track, had you seen anyone in the distance?
Now
this will, I understand
I’m sorry
Can you be clear about when you first realised Becky was out of sight?
And you assumed
she was coming up the steps out of the clough? You were not long out of it yourselves?
How far behind would you say she was when you saw her last?
I realise
of course
you have, I know
But we agreed, didn’t we, that this would be
a chance
a chance for you to put your side of the story.
Obviously I know you’ll have been through all this with the police, many times, I do appreciate
I do
But people have questions. Not just locally. People are
It would be helpful to clarify
It would be helpful to hear it from you. People would appreciate that.
Is this?
Can we?
No, absolutely. None of this will
You can decide, afterwards, you can reconsider.
I just want to help you tell your side of the story.
Absolutely.
So. If we can
You realised she was out of sight. You waited. She didn’t appear. You had already talked about cutting the walk short anyway so
one of you wanted to
You waited, and she didn’t appear. You went back to the top of the path leading up out of the clough, the valley, and you couldn’t see her there.
And you called for her, presumably?
You looked to see where she was, if she might be hiding?
At what point did you start to actually become concerned?
And the weather was turning?
How long would you say you were looking before you decided to fetch help?
And your phone
So you had to come back
You came down
And you
This is
I know
I’m sorry
Could you
are you able to say what happened next?
2: Vicky (#uf337ae0c-ca6e-52ce-ba66-0b2125be437f)
The first Vicky knew about it was when the girl’s parents came bursting into the pub.
The two of them were both talking at once and it took a minute to work out what they were saying. They couldn’t find her, was the gist of it.
Their anoraks were covered in mud, so it wasn’t much of a leap to guess they meant someone was missing on the hills. Tony had Mountain Rescue on the phone while they were still getting their breath back. Vicky could feel herself tensing up, the way she did, now, at any mention of emergency services.
She’s thirteen, they said. Her name’s Becky. We only lost sight of her for a moment and then she vanished. We’ve looked everywhere.
Tony told them Mountain Rescue were asking for locations, and they didn’t seem to have a clue. They’d been trying to get to Black Bull Rocks, they told him.
Vicky was sitting near the bar, with Graham. Black Bull Rocks was at the far eastern end of the ridge, above the visitor centre where Vicky and Graham worked. Graham caught her eye. In this weather? they were both thinking. At this time of year?
Some of the people who came here had no idea what they were doing on the hills. Vicky dealt with a fair number of them at the visitor centre: people who didn’t know how to read a map, or think to check the weather forecast. People who assumed there would be a mobile-phone signal when they got lost. At least if they called in to the centre there was a chance to set them straight. It was the ones who marched straight past they had to worry about. And she did worry, often.
Tony held the phone away from his ear and said Mountain Rescue were asking for a description, and the parents looked stumped for a minute.
She’s about this tall, the father said, holding his hand just beneath his chin. Dark-blonde hair, down to her shoulders. No glasses. She looks older than thirteen. She’s wearing a white hooded top and a navy-blue body-warmer. Black jeans and canvas shoes.
Canvas shoes.
The mother wasn’t saying anything much. She looked lost. She looked like someone who had just stood next to a loud noise and was waiting for her hearing to come back.
Tony got finished on the phone and said things would get sorted quickly now, and not to worry. Someone from Mountain Rescue would be in and wanting to take them out in the Land Rover, he said. He told them there was a back room available, so they could sit in peace. He nodded at one of the other staff to sort some drinks, asking them what they wanted.
Her name’s Becky, the mother suddenly said. Becky Shaw. Rebecca, really.
Don’t worry, Tony said, as he started leading them off. They’re good lads, Mountain Rescue. They know what they’re doing. They’ll find her.
Vicky thought he might regret saying that. She had a bad feeling already. She got these feelings. It really wasn’t Tony’s place to go offering that kind of a promise.
*
Of course, people started talking then, once Tony had the parents in the back room. The family had been staying up at the Hunters’ new barn conversions, Irene said. She remembered the girl from back in the summer. Irene did the cleaning for most of the holiday lets in the village, and she tended to pick things up as she went. She said the family were from somewhere down south, and she wasn’t sure what the parents did but they seemed like the professional type. Both of them working, so the girl must have been used to going off on her own. She spent a lot of time with Sophie, the Hunters’ daughter. Same age, give or take.
Martin Fowler chipped in and said he remembered the two of them hanging around the village as well. Used to see them with the Broad lad, he said, and Sean Hooper’s son, and what’s his name, Deepak. She was a livewire, someone else said. There was talk of them messing around at the reservoirs. They’d been seen swimming at the quarry.
This type of conversation went on for a while.
One thing Vicky had learnt when she moved up here was that people liked to talk. Information got around quickly, and if people didn’t have actual facts they seemed very capable of filling in the gaps. She’d more than once had to deny being pregnant, after being seen with orange juice in the pub. Saying she didn’t drink wasn’t enough of an answer. Eventually she’d just announced that she was a recovering alcoholic every time someone tried to buy her a pint. That usually put a stop to the questions.
Assumptions were made about her and Graham as well. We’re just colleagues, actually, she often had to say. We’ve known each other a while, we’re good friends, but that’s all. People sometimes had an infuriating way of nodding patiently when she said this, but she’d learnt to let it go.
*
She’d known Graham for a long time. They’d been at college together, when they were younger. They’d studied conservation management, but when the course finished he was the one who moved up to Derbyshire and found actual conservation work. She moved down to London instead, where she worked in bars, went to a lot of parties, and got into a bit of trouble. They kept in touch, on and off. He told her about the work he was doing for the National Park, and encouraged her to visit. She told him stories about what she was up to in London. She’d thought they were funny stories, at the time, but his responses often involved asking if she was really okay.
She never knew how he’d found her in the hospital. She just knew that each time she woke up, and remembered what had happened all over again, he was there. He told her he’d thought something like this was going to happen, and she told him there was no need to be a smart-arse about it.
It hurt when she laughed, for a long time.
People asked, later, what it had felt like to be in a car crash, and she had to say that she had no idea. It wasn’t frightening. She didn’t feel any pain. She was lifted out through the window of her car. She was wet all over, and very cold. There were flashing blue lights. She could remember getting into a fight at a party, but nothing after that. There were a lot of fights, in those days. She wasn’t a good person to be around. People round here wouldn’t believe it, if they knew.
By the time she got out of the hospital, Graham had persuaded her to leave London and move up here. He told her she needed to clear her head, to get back to doing something she loved and get some fresh air in her lungs. He didn’t really take no for an answer. She was surprised by his directness, and she went along with it because she didn’t know what else to do. He was the only one who’d come to see her in the hospital.
*
Usually, when the Mountain Rescue team got up on the hills, they found who they were looking for. They were all local, and they knew the place like their own back yards. They had a good sense of which way people would head when they got lost and in a panic. They knew where people would try and hide when the weather closed in, and where the likely falling places were.
But this was starting to turn out differently.
Vicky and Graham had been asked to open up the visitor centre, for use as an operations base, and over the course of the evening it kept getting busier. The police arrived, and a second Mountain Rescue team were called in. When Vicky brought fresh pots of coffee into the room where they’d spread out the maps she heard someone talk about expanding the search zone, which she guessed meant they had very little idea where the girl might be. It was going to be a long night. There were flashing blue lights outside, and helicopters overhead.
At one point Vicky saw the girl’s parents again, being escorted into the map room by a police officer. They weren’t in there for long, and were soon escorted out again and into a waiting car. A ripple of silence followed them through the building, as though people were afraid to say the wrong thing in their presence. She’d seen something like this before. The way people kept their distance, as if grief was contagious.
She wanted to go out to the car and tell them they weren’t alone. But they were, of course.
She realised that grief was probably the wrong word to use about what was happening just yet. But it had been hours already and the weather was only getting worse.
Irene arrived later in the evening, carrying bags of shopping into the tiny kitchen at the back of the visitor centre. Right then, she said, unpacking the bags. It’s Vicky, isn’t it? I’ve got enough here for six dozen bacon cobs. I’ll slice, you spread.
She looked over at Graham, standing behind Irene. He shrugged, making a face to say that there was no point arguing. They’d got the hang of doing this, communicating with glances and nods, over the heads of colleagues and members of the public. They’d reached a kind of understanding. He passed her the butter, and reached up for the frying pans.
*
By morning there were police vans parked all along the verges down the lane. The road had been closed, and there were torchlights flashing through the beech wood across the way. There were dogs barking.
Graham and Vicky were outside, taking a break, sheltering from the rain under the entrance-way roof. The blue lights and the police radios were making her think of the night of the accident again. Graham asked if she was okay. She looked at him. She wanted a cigarette. She wanted a drink.
I’m fine, she said. Tired.
That would seem reasonable under the circumstances, he said.
They watched more cars pulling into the car park. A helicopter passed by overhead.
I’ve arranged for the Cardwell team to come and take over, he said. I think we’ve done our share. Could I perhaps interest you in some breakfast?
She smiled. She was very cold. Yes, Graham, she said. You can interest me in some breakfast.
*
When they got to the house, Vicky took a shower while Graham started cooking. She was trembling and she felt a little sick and she knew she needed to eat. These were her vulnerable moments. They’d talked about these at the group. She felt bad for worrying about herself, with everything that was going on, but she also knew she had no choice. At the group they talked about putting on your own oxygen mask first.
While she was drying herself she felt dizzy and she had to sit down. Graham had lent her an old fleece and a pair of walking trousers to wear. They smelt musty and they were too big but they were at least clean. She felt comfortable in them.
In the kitchen Graham was just putting the breakfast out on the table. The radio was on and they were talking about the missing girl.
Suits you, he said, glancing up at her outfit. She sat down.
She wanted to say something about the girl’s mother. She could feel her eyes starting to sting. She looked at him. There was a question in his expression but she couldn’t read it.
Tea’s in the pot, he said.
3: Deepak (#uf337ae0c-ca6e-52ce-ba66-0b2125be437f)
The morning after the girl disappeared there were police going up and down the street, and journalists setting up in the market square. Deepak’s mum said there was no way he was doing his paper round that day.
It’s not safe, Dee Dee, she said. We don’t know what’s happening. You’re staying at home now. Anyone could be out there.
His mum still called him Dee Dee, sometimes. No one else dared.
His dad said there were that many police out there, the street was the safest place to be. He said people would be disappointed if they didn’t get their papers, and he opened the door for Deepak while the two of them were still arguing about it. Deepak headed out.
It was dark outside, and cold. He got his bike out of the shed. There was a misty drizzle which felt like it would soon turn to rain. He pushed his scarf up over his mouth and rode down to the shop to collect the papers. There were people everywhere. He usually had the street to himself, this early. He heard someone say there was a search being organised, up at the visitor centre.
On the news, the police had said they wanted people to keep their eyes open. They wanted to know about anything unusual, any suspicious behaviour, any changes in routine. Any detail could help, they said; no matter how small. It felt like they were talking to him personally. If there was anything to notice, he’d notice it. He was good at that. He knew about people’s routines. When he was doing his paper round he could always tell who was still in bed, who was having breakfast, who had gone out to work already; he noticed when anything was different. They should make him some kind of detective. DCI Deepak had a ring to it.
The Jackson house was the first on his round. Usually a couple of the Jacksons were out in the yard, moving sheep around in the stock shed or loading up the trailer. There was always a smell of bacon and cigarettes, and they never said hello. Place was quiet this morning, though. That was one change in routine to make a note of already.
Irene’s house was next, back up the main street. Her son had special needs and went to a different school. Her lights were always on when he got there, just like this morning, and there was always steam coming out of the tumble-dryer vent under the kitchen window, just like there was now. She was an early starter. Nothing to see here.
The butcher’s shop was empty. Mr Fowler would usually be behind the counter, setting everything out, and would shout hello as Deepak pushed the paper through the letter box. He was friendlier than some. Deepak’s dad thought it was funny that he kept offering to stock halal meat for the family. He’d stop him in the street and go, Vijay, listen, it’s no trouble at all. And Deepak’s dad was always like, mate, we’re not even Muslim, we don’t really eat meat. And then Mr Fowler would forget, and offer again the next time.
After the butcher’s he crossed the square to the pub, the Gladstone, which took four papers. The square was full of police vans and journalists and people just standing around. But there was nothing he could say was suspicious. He carried on up the back lane to Mrs Osborne’s house. It was steep, and the gears on his bike kept slipping. When he got there Mrs Osborne opened the door, as always. Usually she asked if he had any good news for her, like the news was his responsibility or something. But today she just smiled in that old-person sad way and took the paper.
He rolled back down the cobbles and across the square. DCI Deepak had nothing of note to report. He headed up the main street towards the edge of the village, and as he turned into the lane past the allotments he hit a pothole and his chain came off.
Calling headquarters: request mechanical assistance. Would be cool if he could do that. He got off and started fixing the chain back on. He wondered what the police really meant by something unusual, or something suspicious. They said any detail could be vital, but how would you know? Would it be some piece of clothing, like a lost glove on a railing, or like a hairband in the gutter? Or would it be if you saw someone dodgy in a van? Or something really bad, like a tiny bloodstain, or a strand of hair?
It must be pretty hard being a detective.
It was pretty hard being a bike mechanic as well. The chain was wedged between the frame and the sprocket, and he couldn’t get it out. He took his gloves off to try and get a better grip. It was too cold for this kind of thing.
The front door of the house on the corner opened and a man came out. Deepak had seen him around, but he didn’t know him. The man asked if he needed a hand, and Deepak said no, thanks, he was fine. The man stood and watched. It was well awkward. The chain was totally jammed, and he couldn’t get it shifted. It was cutting into his hands when he pulled at it. The man was just watching. It was embarrassing. He was standing too close.
Deepak, lad, he said; I’d say that chain’s stuck. I’ll get some tools.
He went back into the house. Deepak wondered who he was. He pulled at the chain again. Time was getting on.
The man came back out with a toolbox, and budged Deepak out of the way. He said it wouldn’t take a minute. It was all about having the right tool for the job, he said, and gave Deepak a funny look as though he’d told a joke.
He asked if Deepak was surprised that he knew his name. When Deepak said yes, he said: well, I’ve seen you around. You stand out a bit round here.
He did something with a screwdriver and got the chain sorted. It took less than a minute. Deepak said thanks, and went to get back on his bike.
The man said: hang on there a minute, let’s just pop inside and get you cleaned up.
Calling headquarters again: request guidance. Request backup.
The guidance was obvious. Going into a stranger’s house was one of the things you weren’t supposed to do. But this man wasn’t exactly a stranger; he knew Deepak’s name, and Deepak had seen him around. But even so. He could basically hear his mum shouting at him as he walked towards the front door: you don’t even know this man, Dee Dee! It’s not safe, Dee Dee!
She worried too much, though. His dad always said that.
A real detective would take certain measures in this situation. There would be a colleague waiting in a car further down the road. A uniformed officer covering the back door. He would be wearing a wire. As it was, he took mental notes. Just in case. A description of the car parked outside, and the registration number. A description of the house. For example: there were piles of junk mail and free papers just inside the front door. The curtains in all the upstairs windows were closed. The man was wearing a waxed jacket, and trousers with lots of pockets. He was old. Sixty, at least.
Deepak knew he shouldn’t be going inside. But he didn’t want the man to think he was rude, or ungrateful. And anyway, what would he say? I don’t want to come inside in case you’re some kind of massive nonce? You couldn’t go around saying that.
He felt the man’s hand on his shoulder, steering him through the door.
Just head through to the back, he said. Kitchen’s straight ahead. Soap’s by the sink.
It was dark in the hallway, and he had to squeeze past a line of coats and jackets hanging along the wall. Everything smelt damp, and muddy.
This was definitely a bad idea.
He went straight to the sink and started washing his hands. The water was cold, and the bar of soap cracked in half as soon as he picked it up. The sink was full of old dishes. The oil wouldn’t come off. It was just making the two halves of soap filthy. He could hear the man doing something in the hallway. The water coming off his hands was black and going all over the dishes, but the oil wasn’t shifting. He was making a mess of the man’s kitchen. He wanted to leave now. He was going to be late.
He heard the man in the doorway behind him.
It felt like he was just standing there, watching.
The water was still cold. He turned the tap off and looked around for something to dry his hands with. The place was a mess. His mum would be horrified. Although his mum would be horrified just knowing he was in there. There were more dirty dishes spread along the worktop, and newspapers and magazines stacked up on chairs, and newspaper spread across the table, and on the table there was a gun.
He looked a second time, trying to make it look like he wasn’t looking.
It was definitely a gun.
He didn’t call headquarters in his head this time. There was no backup. He wasn’t a detective. There was a gun on the table. His chest felt very solid all of a sudden, and he more or less stopped breathing for a moment.
But, okay, there were cloths and brushes on the table next to the gun, and some kind of grease or cleaning fluid. There were boxes of cartridges. So it was sort of okay. Sort of normal, round here, more or less normal. He’d never seen a gun before but he knew people owned them. It was a shotgun, probably. It was for shooting rabbits or whatever. It was normal. He pretended he hadn’t seen anything.
The man was still standing in the doorway. He asked if the oil was coming off. Deepak looked. The soap was black with it, and there were oily smears all over the sink. He told the man it was all done, and he’d have to get going. He tried shaking his hands dry. Even if there had been a towel he would have wrecked it.
He needed to get a move on. He’d be late finishing the paper round. His mum would have kittens. The man was still talking. He wanted to look at Deepak’s hands. He told him to scrub them a bit harder. Deepak said it was fine, and he should probably be getting on. The man came and leant over him and turned the tap back on.
You just need to scrub a bit harder, he said.
Deepak let the water pour over his hands, and looked through the kitchen window. It was light outside, and in the small garden a blackbird was rooting around under a bush. The search party he’d heard people talking about would probably be setting out from the visitor centre around now. The girl would be found, if she was still up there on the hill. He wondered what it might have been like, spending the night up there. He wondered what she might have been hiding from. If that was what had happened.
He had met her, back in the summer. They all had. She’d been all right. He hadn’t told his parents this, before, but now he thought he probably should. The police had said any little detail might help.
He wanted to go home and tell them now.
The water poured over his hands, and he kept scrubbing, and the man said he was nearly done.
He hoped his bike would be okay. He hadn’t locked it or anything.
4: Graham (#uf337ae0c-ca6e-52ce-ba66-0b2125be437f)
The important thing to remember, Graham always said afterwards, was that no one had actually died.
There were questions to answer, and lessons would be learnt; of that there was no doubt. But those people who had made so much fuss about what had happened would do well to bear in mind the lack of fatalities.
Vijay wasn’t immediately reassured by this. Shouldn’t they have taken more precautions, he said; shouldn’t they have cut the walk short as soon as the weather turned?
Everyone had signed consent forms, Graham reminded him. They knew what they were letting themselves in for.
Graham and Vijay had led these walks for several years without incident. This was another overlooked factor in the subsequent hullabaloo: the number of miles they’d covered without mishap of any kind. In fact, if you were to calculate the average length of walk, and the average number of walkers, you’d be talking about many thousands of miles of incident-free walking.
But, no. People preferred to accentuate the negative.
The buck stopped with Graham, unfortunately. He was employed by the Park Authority, and had completed the risk assessment. He had written up the incident report. Vijay had been there in a strictly voluntary capacity, and his liability was limited. Not that there was anything to be liable for, as Graham was able to make clear.
They operated well as a team, but it would be fair to say that Vijay was the more cautious of the two, the more inclined to worry. This perhaps had to do with his day job, as an insurance broker. Plenty of the old crunching numbers, double-checking the paperwork. Graham had always been more of a seat-of-the-pants man, by contrast; stick a finger in the air and see which way the wind’s blowing, was his approach.
Not that Vijay wasn’t an outdoors man. Far from it. He was a very keen walker. He had all the gear. This was one of their few differences. Graham was of the opinion that good shoes were all that counted; everything else was just the leisure industries taking you for a ride. Whereas Vijay always had the latest piece of gear, the technical fabrics and spring-heeled shoes and GPS what-have-yous. And walking poles. They’d had some lively discussions about the need for walking poles. Vijay had a lot to say about hip alignment and cartilage impact. Graham’s point of view tended towards the fact that they weren’t in the ruddy Himalayas.
*
The walk that day was a Butterfly Safari, which was always popular. A full seventeen people turned up, including a party of Girl Guides and their leader. The forecast was good, and the weather when they set off from the visitor centre was still and fair.
The first part of the walk was straightforward enough, although as always there were those who struggled. The climb up the track towards Black Bull Rocks could be thought steepish if you weren’t used to it, and the Girl Guides were carrying a full set of camping gear each, for some reason. They swayed as they walked, with the weight. The chatter and giggles soon died down, and they were left with the tapping of Vijay’s walking poles. The ground was hard – it had been dry for weeks, after a month of heavy rains, which turned out to be relevant, later – and the dust kicked up around their boots.
Graham took the opportunity to tell the group a little more about where they’d be walking and which species they might see. The heather beds they would pass were good feeding grounds for Common Blues and Small Coppers, and the knapweeds around the old mine workings were regular haunts for Painted Ladies. He told them a little about the industrial heritage: mines, quarries, the modern cement works. It’s important not to see this as any kind of unspoilt, ‘natural’ environment, he said. There’s plenty of nature here, but there’s nothing natural about the landscape.
As always, people’s attention started to drift.
They came over the top of the hill and set out along the ridge, and the noise level rose again. The Girl Guides lagged behind quite early on, stooping under their heavy loads.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/jon-mcgregor/the-reservoir-tapes/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Jon McGregor
As broadcast on BBC radio 4: the fifteen ‘prequel’ stories to the Costa Award-WinningReservoir 13.‘He leaves behind all other writers of his generation’ Sarah HallMidwinter in the early years of this century. A teenage girl on holiday has gone missing in the hills at the heart of England. The villagers are called up to join the search, fanning out across the moors as the police set up roadblocks and a crowd of news reporters descends on their usually quiet home.But the aftershocks of Becky Shaw’s disappearance have origins long before then, and those in the village have losses, and secrets, and stories of their own…A woman remembers a son’s inexperience – and a father’s rage; a young wife pushes against the boundaries of her marriage, whilst an older one finds ways to ensure the survival of hers. A hunt for a birthday present takes an alarming turn, and a teenage game grows serious.Fresh hurts open old wounds, salvation comes from unexpected quarters and chance encounters release long-buried memories.First broadcast as a series of specially commissioned stories on BBC Radio 4, The Reservoir Tapes returns to the territory of the Booker-longlisted Reservoir 13, revealing the web of connections that bind us, and the many layers on which we all build our truths.
(#uf337ae0c-ca6e-52ce-ba66-0b2125be437f)
Copyright (#uf337ae0c-ca6e-52ce-ba66-0b2125be437f)
4th Estate
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.4thEstate.co.uk (http://www.4thEstate.co.uk)
This eBook first published in Great Britain by 4th Estate in 2017
Copyright © 2017 Jon McGregor
Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com
Jon McGregor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This collection is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008235635
Ebook Edition © December 2017 ISBN: 9780008235642
Version: 2018-06-26
Contents
Cover (#ubd719f5f-1b4f-55a6-80f0-19e12b700eeb)
Title Page (#uc82dafc4-1f05-5a60-88be-f0975f0e3d40)
Copyright (#ud03cba9b-4209-5df6-8ddc-d67725b7d354)
1: Charlotte (#u3e196de1-14dd-5008-b016-f95c9f367897)
2: Vicky (#u5a91f35e-2252-5565-9700-621b8297be79)
3: Deepak (#u3360d916-ae3b-5d09-93b6-ed6d5ad204fa)
4: Graham (#ube842b76-0687-5730-b69c-cc71e5be14e4)
5: Liam (#litres_trial_promo)
6: Claire (#litres_trial_promo)
7: Clive (#litres_trial_promo)
8: Martin (#litres_trial_promo)
9: Stephanie (#litres_trial_promo)
10: Donna (#litres_trial_promo)
11: Ian (#litres_trial_promo)
12: Irene (#litres_trial_promo)
13: Ginny (#litres_trial_promo)
14: Jess (#litres_trial_promo)
15: Joe (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Jon McGregor (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
1: Charlotte (#uf337ae0c-ca6e-52ce-ba66-0b2125be437f)
Could you
I’d like to hear about that day, before anything happened.
Just, from the beginning.
You’d been staying in the village for how long?
And you’d come back because the previous visit had gone so well, last summer?
And you knew the Hunter family. You got on with them.
So it was an easy decision, to come back for a winter break.
Was it warm enough, in the cottage? I mean, the weather had been wet.
It’s quite small, isn’t it, the cottage. Lovely. But small.
Sorry, barn conversion.
Had you been on any excursions? Had you gone for any walks?
So you were maybe starting to feel a bit cooped up.
Tell me about that morning.
Did you all have breakfast together? Who was up first?
This might sound trivial, but what would Becky have had, if she was eating breakfast alone?
I know
But these details. They help to build a picture.
If you could
Okay. And then did you come downstairs before she finished her breakfast?
And was that when the idea of going for a walk was discussed?
It would be fair to say that Becky’s response wasn’t positive, would it?
Is it okay if I call her Becky?
She wasn’t enthusiastic about the walk. And the weather wasn’t great, at that point.
So you let the matter rest for the time being. To avoid a conflict.
And then the two of you had your breakfast together, you and your husband? Something more elaborate, because you were on holiday, because you wanted to treat yourselves?
But this wasn’t a special occasion. Other than being a holiday morning. You weren’t celebrating anything.
No.
You made a start on your breakfast, you made some coffee – maybe you read the paper? You were having the newspapers delivered while you were staying in the cottage, is that right?
Barn conversion.
Which newspaper?
And Becky – she’ll have gone back up to her bedroom? Or put the television on?
Could you
could we
if we could just talk a little bit about Becky. If you could describe her for me. In your own words. What she was like when she was younger. How she’s changed from being a child to being a young teenager. What her – gifts are, if you like. Any challenges there have been. Anything she has found difficult. Anything that comes to mind.
I know
I know this is difficult
this must be very hard for
of course.
So, just to pick up again.
This was the third day of your stay in the village; the idea of a walk had been raised but the weather was looking unsuitable. Becky had got up early, and had breakfast before you. What did she do during the rest of the morning? Had she brought any homework with her?
She was friendly with the Hunters’ daughter, I understand. Did she spend any time with her that morning?
Do you know if she was friendly with any of the other young people in the village?
And you knew about that at the time?
Had you met any of those young people when you were staying here last summer? Had you seen them when they came up to the Hunters’ property?
There was one boy in particular who Becky became quite close to, wasn’t there: James?
I know she’s only thirteen, yes.
I wasn’t implying
But he wasn’t someone you were aware of.
Not at the time.
So, that morning, Becky went across to the Hunters’ house, and you assumed she was spending some time with their daughter, Sophie.
And she’s someone who makes friends easily, would you say? Back at home, is she sociable, does she have a range of friends?
Are there any you’ve been uncomfortable about her associating with? Have her friendship groups changed recently?
Does she spend much time on the internet?
Do you monitor that, at all?
So she was with Sophie, and by late morning she still hadn’t come back. But you had no cause for concern, you had no reason to think they’d gone far. The weather was still wet at that point, wasn’t it?
And the original idea for the walk had been to get out before lunchtime, but with the weather you’d put that on hold.
And late in the morning you went across to fetch Becky, from the Hunters’ house. Did you speak to either of Sophie’s parents?
Both of them? So Sophie and Becky were there by themselves?
Just Becky, by herself?
Did you think the Hunters would have minded that?
Sophie and her parents had been gone all morning, as far as you knew. Becky hadn’t seen them leaving?
Were you surprised by this, were you concerned?
How long have you known the Hunters?
Would you describe them as friends?
If we could
to keep to
So you had lunch, the three of you, together. And there was some discussion about how Becky had spent the morning, was there?
How would you characterise her response?
So there was some tension.
Of course.
Well, that’s teenagers.
And is Becky someone comfortable with her own company, would you say? Back at home, would she often spend time by herself in that way, that you know of?
So were you concerned that her behaviour that morning was out of character, that there might be something else behind it?
But you didn’t discuss that with her. You put it down to being on holiday, being in a different environment; just, usual teenage restlessness. You got lunch ready.
And for lunch you had?
By this point the weather was improving; the rain had stopped, the sky was clearing, and the idea of a walk was suggested again. A decision was made.
I know.
A decision was made, and immediately after lunch you began to gather a few things together, look at a map, make a plan. Can I ask what you took with you?
So you weren’t planning on it being a long walk. You didn’t think it worth taking extra waterproofs as a precaution, snacks, a flask?
No, of course, and
No.
Can I ask how well you know the area? Are you experienced walkers, would you say?
But this was a route you’d walked in the summer, when you were here before? You’d followed that same path, from the visitor centre, up the hill towards the rock formations on the ridge?
Black Bull Rocks, right.
And had Becky been with you on those occasions? Would you say it was a route she was familiar with?
But on this occasion she was reluctant.
Perhaps we
I’m curious
Did you do a lot of walking when she was younger? Would you say the reluctance on this occasion was more around the tensions between you, rather than the walk itself?
Would you describe Becky as fit and healthy? Does she do any sports?
So the walk shouldn’t have been a problem for her.
I do realise this must be
of course
and
If we could just go through the sequence of events.
The three of you got into the car, your car, soon after lunch. So this would have been
2 p.m. Okay. And the weather was clear. You’d asked Becky to wear something more suitable on her feet, but she’d refused and you didn’t want to start another argument.
That’s understandable.
You drove a short distance to the visitor centre and parked in the car park there. That would have taken, what, five minutes, ten?
Was the visitor centre open? Did you see anyone there?
Were there any other cars in the car park?
So you parked near the main building, and went through the gate by the display board, following the track which leads diagonally up the hill towards Black Bull Rocks.
I realise you’ve already
I just would
it does help
Did you have a map?
Because it was a route you knew. And you can see Black Bull Rocks almost from the car park in any case, can’t you? So it was a simple walk. It was going to be a short walk.
Did you know how long you were expecting it to take?
Did you know what time it was going to get dark?
Had you looked at a weather forecast?
Did you have a phone with you?
Had you planned
No, of course
no
I do realise
It is
it’s actually rather misleading, isn’t it, the walk up to Black Bull Rocks? The path isn’t as direct as it looks from the bottom of the hill. There are several narrow gorges or valleys on the way. The path drops down steeply and climbs up out of each of these.
They call them cloughs, locally, don’t they?
And the streams through each of these are running high at this time of year, so it’s not always a simple matter getting across them. The ground can be quite boggy down there?
And with the shoes Becky was wearing.
Did she struggle at all?
Struggle.
I mean, if she was having difficulty getting across the streams, keeping her feet dry. Did she express any discomfort or irritation, any reluctance? Did she ever want to stop, or go back?
And did you wait for her, at that point?
Did she catch up?
But you at least kept her in sight?
What were your feelings by then, if you don’t mind me asking?
That’s understandable. Of course.
My daughter was that age not so long ago, I know how
Of course.
Was there any discussion between the two of you about cutting the walk short? Given the conditions, and Becky’s behaviour?
Was there any disagreement between the two of you, would you say?
And by this point you’re how far up the track, how close to Black Bull Rocks?
And had there been any change in the weather?
So you had no reason to be concerned?
How were you finding the conditions? You were wearing more suitable footwear, presumably? You had kept dry up until then?
And had you seen anyone else, had you passed anyone on the track, had you seen anyone in the distance?
Now
this will, I understand
I’m sorry
Can you be clear about when you first realised Becky was out of sight?
And you assumed
she was coming up the steps out of the clough? You were not long out of it yourselves?
How far behind would you say she was when you saw her last?
I realise
of course
you have, I know
But we agreed, didn’t we, that this would be
a chance
a chance for you to put your side of the story.
Obviously I know you’ll have been through all this with the police, many times, I do appreciate
I do
But people have questions. Not just locally. People are
It would be helpful to clarify
It would be helpful to hear it from you. People would appreciate that.
Is this?
Can we?
No, absolutely. None of this will
You can decide, afterwards, you can reconsider.
I just want to help you tell your side of the story.
Absolutely.
So. If we can
You realised she was out of sight. You waited. She didn’t appear. You had already talked about cutting the walk short anyway so
one of you wanted to
You waited, and she didn’t appear. You went back to the top of the path leading up out of the clough, the valley, and you couldn’t see her there.
And you called for her, presumably?
You looked to see where she was, if she might be hiding?
At what point did you start to actually become concerned?
And the weather was turning?
How long would you say you were looking before you decided to fetch help?
And your phone
So you had to come back
You came down
And you
This is
I know
I’m sorry
Could you
are you able to say what happened next?
2: Vicky (#uf337ae0c-ca6e-52ce-ba66-0b2125be437f)
The first Vicky knew about it was when the girl’s parents came bursting into the pub.
The two of them were both talking at once and it took a minute to work out what they were saying. They couldn’t find her, was the gist of it.
Their anoraks were covered in mud, so it wasn’t much of a leap to guess they meant someone was missing on the hills. Tony had Mountain Rescue on the phone while they were still getting their breath back. Vicky could feel herself tensing up, the way she did, now, at any mention of emergency services.
She’s thirteen, they said. Her name’s Becky. We only lost sight of her for a moment and then she vanished. We’ve looked everywhere.
Tony told them Mountain Rescue were asking for locations, and they didn’t seem to have a clue. They’d been trying to get to Black Bull Rocks, they told him.
Vicky was sitting near the bar, with Graham. Black Bull Rocks was at the far eastern end of the ridge, above the visitor centre where Vicky and Graham worked. Graham caught her eye. In this weather? they were both thinking. At this time of year?
Some of the people who came here had no idea what they were doing on the hills. Vicky dealt with a fair number of them at the visitor centre: people who didn’t know how to read a map, or think to check the weather forecast. People who assumed there would be a mobile-phone signal when they got lost. At least if they called in to the centre there was a chance to set them straight. It was the ones who marched straight past they had to worry about. And she did worry, often.
Tony held the phone away from his ear and said Mountain Rescue were asking for a description, and the parents looked stumped for a minute.
She’s about this tall, the father said, holding his hand just beneath his chin. Dark-blonde hair, down to her shoulders. No glasses. She looks older than thirteen. She’s wearing a white hooded top and a navy-blue body-warmer. Black jeans and canvas shoes.
Canvas shoes.
The mother wasn’t saying anything much. She looked lost. She looked like someone who had just stood next to a loud noise and was waiting for her hearing to come back.
Tony got finished on the phone and said things would get sorted quickly now, and not to worry. Someone from Mountain Rescue would be in and wanting to take them out in the Land Rover, he said. He told them there was a back room available, so they could sit in peace. He nodded at one of the other staff to sort some drinks, asking them what they wanted.
Her name’s Becky, the mother suddenly said. Becky Shaw. Rebecca, really.
Don’t worry, Tony said, as he started leading them off. They’re good lads, Mountain Rescue. They know what they’re doing. They’ll find her.
Vicky thought he might regret saying that. She had a bad feeling already. She got these feelings. It really wasn’t Tony’s place to go offering that kind of a promise.
*
Of course, people started talking then, once Tony had the parents in the back room. The family had been staying up at the Hunters’ new barn conversions, Irene said. She remembered the girl from back in the summer. Irene did the cleaning for most of the holiday lets in the village, and she tended to pick things up as she went. She said the family were from somewhere down south, and she wasn’t sure what the parents did but they seemed like the professional type. Both of them working, so the girl must have been used to going off on her own. She spent a lot of time with Sophie, the Hunters’ daughter. Same age, give or take.
Martin Fowler chipped in and said he remembered the two of them hanging around the village as well. Used to see them with the Broad lad, he said, and Sean Hooper’s son, and what’s his name, Deepak. She was a livewire, someone else said. There was talk of them messing around at the reservoirs. They’d been seen swimming at the quarry.
This type of conversation went on for a while.
One thing Vicky had learnt when she moved up here was that people liked to talk. Information got around quickly, and if people didn’t have actual facts they seemed very capable of filling in the gaps. She’d more than once had to deny being pregnant, after being seen with orange juice in the pub. Saying she didn’t drink wasn’t enough of an answer. Eventually she’d just announced that she was a recovering alcoholic every time someone tried to buy her a pint. That usually put a stop to the questions.
Assumptions were made about her and Graham as well. We’re just colleagues, actually, she often had to say. We’ve known each other a while, we’re good friends, but that’s all. People sometimes had an infuriating way of nodding patiently when she said this, but she’d learnt to let it go.
*
She’d known Graham for a long time. They’d been at college together, when they were younger. They’d studied conservation management, but when the course finished he was the one who moved up to Derbyshire and found actual conservation work. She moved down to London instead, where she worked in bars, went to a lot of parties, and got into a bit of trouble. They kept in touch, on and off. He told her about the work he was doing for the National Park, and encouraged her to visit. She told him stories about what she was up to in London. She’d thought they were funny stories, at the time, but his responses often involved asking if she was really okay.
She never knew how he’d found her in the hospital. She just knew that each time she woke up, and remembered what had happened all over again, he was there. He told her he’d thought something like this was going to happen, and she told him there was no need to be a smart-arse about it.
It hurt when she laughed, for a long time.
People asked, later, what it had felt like to be in a car crash, and she had to say that she had no idea. It wasn’t frightening. She didn’t feel any pain. She was lifted out through the window of her car. She was wet all over, and very cold. There were flashing blue lights. She could remember getting into a fight at a party, but nothing after that. There were a lot of fights, in those days. She wasn’t a good person to be around. People round here wouldn’t believe it, if they knew.
By the time she got out of the hospital, Graham had persuaded her to leave London and move up here. He told her she needed to clear her head, to get back to doing something she loved and get some fresh air in her lungs. He didn’t really take no for an answer. She was surprised by his directness, and she went along with it because she didn’t know what else to do. He was the only one who’d come to see her in the hospital.
*
Usually, when the Mountain Rescue team got up on the hills, they found who they were looking for. They were all local, and they knew the place like their own back yards. They had a good sense of which way people would head when they got lost and in a panic. They knew where people would try and hide when the weather closed in, and where the likely falling places were.
But this was starting to turn out differently.
Vicky and Graham had been asked to open up the visitor centre, for use as an operations base, and over the course of the evening it kept getting busier. The police arrived, and a second Mountain Rescue team were called in. When Vicky brought fresh pots of coffee into the room where they’d spread out the maps she heard someone talk about expanding the search zone, which she guessed meant they had very little idea where the girl might be. It was going to be a long night. There were flashing blue lights outside, and helicopters overhead.
At one point Vicky saw the girl’s parents again, being escorted into the map room by a police officer. They weren’t in there for long, and were soon escorted out again and into a waiting car. A ripple of silence followed them through the building, as though people were afraid to say the wrong thing in their presence. She’d seen something like this before. The way people kept their distance, as if grief was contagious.
She wanted to go out to the car and tell them they weren’t alone. But they were, of course.
She realised that grief was probably the wrong word to use about what was happening just yet. But it had been hours already and the weather was only getting worse.
Irene arrived later in the evening, carrying bags of shopping into the tiny kitchen at the back of the visitor centre. Right then, she said, unpacking the bags. It’s Vicky, isn’t it? I’ve got enough here for six dozen bacon cobs. I’ll slice, you spread.
She looked over at Graham, standing behind Irene. He shrugged, making a face to say that there was no point arguing. They’d got the hang of doing this, communicating with glances and nods, over the heads of colleagues and members of the public. They’d reached a kind of understanding. He passed her the butter, and reached up for the frying pans.
*
By morning there were police vans parked all along the verges down the lane. The road had been closed, and there were torchlights flashing through the beech wood across the way. There were dogs barking.
Graham and Vicky were outside, taking a break, sheltering from the rain under the entrance-way roof. The blue lights and the police radios were making her think of the night of the accident again. Graham asked if she was okay. She looked at him. She wanted a cigarette. She wanted a drink.
I’m fine, she said. Tired.
That would seem reasonable under the circumstances, he said.
They watched more cars pulling into the car park. A helicopter passed by overhead.
I’ve arranged for the Cardwell team to come and take over, he said. I think we’ve done our share. Could I perhaps interest you in some breakfast?
She smiled. She was very cold. Yes, Graham, she said. You can interest me in some breakfast.
*
When they got to the house, Vicky took a shower while Graham started cooking. She was trembling and she felt a little sick and she knew she needed to eat. These were her vulnerable moments. They’d talked about these at the group. She felt bad for worrying about herself, with everything that was going on, but she also knew she had no choice. At the group they talked about putting on your own oxygen mask first.
While she was drying herself she felt dizzy and she had to sit down. Graham had lent her an old fleece and a pair of walking trousers to wear. They smelt musty and they were too big but they were at least clean. She felt comfortable in them.
In the kitchen Graham was just putting the breakfast out on the table. The radio was on and they were talking about the missing girl.
Suits you, he said, glancing up at her outfit. She sat down.
She wanted to say something about the girl’s mother. She could feel her eyes starting to sting. She looked at him. There was a question in his expression but she couldn’t read it.
Tea’s in the pot, he said.
3: Deepak (#uf337ae0c-ca6e-52ce-ba66-0b2125be437f)
The morning after the girl disappeared there were police going up and down the street, and journalists setting up in the market square. Deepak’s mum said there was no way he was doing his paper round that day.
It’s not safe, Dee Dee, she said. We don’t know what’s happening. You’re staying at home now. Anyone could be out there.
His mum still called him Dee Dee, sometimes. No one else dared.
His dad said there were that many police out there, the street was the safest place to be. He said people would be disappointed if they didn’t get their papers, and he opened the door for Deepak while the two of them were still arguing about it. Deepak headed out.
It was dark outside, and cold. He got his bike out of the shed. There was a misty drizzle which felt like it would soon turn to rain. He pushed his scarf up over his mouth and rode down to the shop to collect the papers. There were people everywhere. He usually had the street to himself, this early. He heard someone say there was a search being organised, up at the visitor centre.
On the news, the police had said they wanted people to keep their eyes open. They wanted to know about anything unusual, any suspicious behaviour, any changes in routine. Any detail could help, they said; no matter how small. It felt like they were talking to him personally. If there was anything to notice, he’d notice it. He was good at that. He knew about people’s routines. When he was doing his paper round he could always tell who was still in bed, who was having breakfast, who had gone out to work already; he noticed when anything was different. They should make him some kind of detective. DCI Deepak had a ring to it.
The Jackson house was the first on his round. Usually a couple of the Jacksons were out in the yard, moving sheep around in the stock shed or loading up the trailer. There was always a smell of bacon and cigarettes, and they never said hello. Place was quiet this morning, though. That was one change in routine to make a note of already.
Irene’s house was next, back up the main street. Her son had special needs and went to a different school. Her lights were always on when he got there, just like this morning, and there was always steam coming out of the tumble-dryer vent under the kitchen window, just like there was now. She was an early starter. Nothing to see here.
The butcher’s shop was empty. Mr Fowler would usually be behind the counter, setting everything out, and would shout hello as Deepak pushed the paper through the letter box. He was friendlier than some. Deepak’s dad thought it was funny that he kept offering to stock halal meat for the family. He’d stop him in the street and go, Vijay, listen, it’s no trouble at all. And Deepak’s dad was always like, mate, we’re not even Muslim, we don’t really eat meat. And then Mr Fowler would forget, and offer again the next time.
After the butcher’s he crossed the square to the pub, the Gladstone, which took four papers. The square was full of police vans and journalists and people just standing around. But there was nothing he could say was suspicious. He carried on up the back lane to Mrs Osborne’s house. It was steep, and the gears on his bike kept slipping. When he got there Mrs Osborne opened the door, as always. Usually she asked if he had any good news for her, like the news was his responsibility or something. But today she just smiled in that old-person sad way and took the paper.
He rolled back down the cobbles and across the square. DCI Deepak had nothing of note to report. He headed up the main street towards the edge of the village, and as he turned into the lane past the allotments he hit a pothole and his chain came off.
Calling headquarters: request mechanical assistance. Would be cool if he could do that. He got off and started fixing the chain back on. He wondered what the police really meant by something unusual, or something suspicious. They said any detail could be vital, but how would you know? Would it be some piece of clothing, like a lost glove on a railing, or like a hairband in the gutter? Or would it be if you saw someone dodgy in a van? Or something really bad, like a tiny bloodstain, or a strand of hair?
It must be pretty hard being a detective.
It was pretty hard being a bike mechanic as well. The chain was wedged between the frame and the sprocket, and he couldn’t get it out. He took his gloves off to try and get a better grip. It was too cold for this kind of thing.
The front door of the house on the corner opened and a man came out. Deepak had seen him around, but he didn’t know him. The man asked if he needed a hand, and Deepak said no, thanks, he was fine. The man stood and watched. It was well awkward. The chain was totally jammed, and he couldn’t get it shifted. It was cutting into his hands when he pulled at it. The man was just watching. It was embarrassing. He was standing too close.
Deepak, lad, he said; I’d say that chain’s stuck. I’ll get some tools.
He went back into the house. Deepak wondered who he was. He pulled at the chain again. Time was getting on.
The man came back out with a toolbox, and budged Deepak out of the way. He said it wouldn’t take a minute. It was all about having the right tool for the job, he said, and gave Deepak a funny look as though he’d told a joke.
He asked if Deepak was surprised that he knew his name. When Deepak said yes, he said: well, I’ve seen you around. You stand out a bit round here.
He did something with a screwdriver and got the chain sorted. It took less than a minute. Deepak said thanks, and went to get back on his bike.
The man said: hang on there a minute, let’s just pop inside and get you cleaned up.
Calling headquarters again: request guidance. Request backup.
The guidance was obvious. Going into a stranger’s house was one of the things you weren’t supposed to do. But this man wasn’t exactly a stranger; he knew Deepak’s name, and Deepak had seen him around. But even so. He could basically hear his mum shouting at him as he walked towards the front door: you don’t even know this man, Dee Dee! It’s not safe, Dee Dee!
She worried too much, though. His dad always said that.
A real detective would take certain measures in this situation. There would be a colleague waiting in a car further down the road. A uniformed officer covering the back door. He would be wearing a wire. As it was, he took mental notes. Just in case. A description of the car parked outside, and the registration number. A description of the house. For example: there were piles of junk mail and free papers just inside the front door. The curtains in all the upstairs windows were closed. The man was wearing a waxed jacket, and trousers with lots of pockets. He was old. Sixty, at least.
Deepak knew he shouldn’t be going inside. But he didn’t want the man to think he was rude, or ungrateful. And anyway, what would he say? I don’t want to come inside in case you’re some kind of massive nonce? You couldn’t go around saying that.
He felt the man’s hand on his shoulder, steering him through the door.
Just head through to the back, he said. Kitchen’s straight ahead. Soap’s by the sink.
It was dark in the hallway, and he had to squeeze past a line of coats and jackets hanging along the wall. Everything smelt damp, and muddy.
This was definitely a bad idea.
He went straight to the sink and started washing his hands. The water was cold, and the bar of soap cracked in half as soon as he picked it up. The sink was full of old dishes. The oil wouldn’t come off. It was just making the two halves of soap filthy. He could hear the man doing something in the hallway. The water coming off his hands was black and going all over the dishes, but the oil wasn’t shifting. He was making a mess of the man’s kitchen. He wanted to leave now. He was going to be late.
He heard the man in the doorway behind him.
It felt like he was just standing there, watching.
The water was still cold. He turned the tap off and looked around for something to dry his hands with. The place was a mess. His mum would be horrified. Although his mum would be horrified just knowing he was in there. There were more dirty dishes spread along the worktop, and newspapers and magazines stacked up on chairs, and newspaper spread across the table, and on the table there was a gun.
He looked a second time, trying to make it look like he wasn’t looking.
It was definitely a gun.
He didn’t call headquarters in his head this time. There was no backup. He wasn’t a detective. There was a gun on the table. His chest felt very solid all of a sudden, and he more or less stopped breathing for a moment.
But, okay, there were cloths and brushes on the table next to the gun, and some kind of grease or cleaning fluid. There were boxes of cartridges. So it was sort of okay. Sort of normal, round here, more or less normal. He’d never seen a gun before but he knew people owned them. It was a shotgun, probably. It was for shooting rabbits or whatever. It was normal. He pretended he hadn’t seen anything.
The man was still standing in the doorway. He asked if the oil was coming off. Deepak looked. The soap was black with it, and there were oily smears all over the sink. He told the man it was all done, and he’d have to get going. He tried shaking his hands dry. Even if there had been a towel he would have wrecked it.
He needed to get a move on. He’d be late finishing the paper round. His mum would have kittens. The man was still talking. He wanted to look at Deepak’s hands. He told him to scrub them a bit harder. Deepak said it was fine, and he should probably be getting on. The man came and leant over him and turned the tap back on.
You just need to scrub a bit harder, he said.
Deepak let the water pour over his hands, and looked through the kitchen window. It was light outside, and in the small garden a blackbird was rooting around under a bush. The search party he’d heard people talking about would probably be setting out from the visitor centre around now. The girl would be found, if she was still up there on the hill. He wondered what it might have been like, spending the night up there. He wondered what she might have been hiding from. If that was what had happened.
He had met her, back in the summer. They all had. She’d been all right. He hadn’t told his parents this, before, but now he thought he probably should. The police had said any little detail might help.
He wanted to go home and tell them now.
The water poured over his hands, and he kept scrubbing, and the man said he was nearly done.
He hoped his bike would be okay. He hadn’t locked it or anything.
4: Graham (#uf337ae0c-ca6e-52ce-ba66-0b2125be437f)
The important thing to remember, Graham always said afterwards, was that no one had actually died.
There were questions to answer, and lessons would be learnt; of that there was no doubt. But those people who had made so much fuss about what had happened would do well to bear in mind the lack of fatalities.
Vijay wasn’t immediately reassured by this. Shouldn’t they have taken more precautions, he said; shouldn’t they have cut the walk short as soon as the weather turned?
Everyone had signed consent forms, Graham reminded him. They knew what they were letting themselves in for.
Graham and Vijay had led these walks for several years without incident. This was another overlooked factor in the subsequent hullabaloo: the number of miles they’d covered without mishap of any kind. In fact, if you were to calculate the average length of walk, and the average number of walkers, you’d be talking about many thousands of miles of incident-free walking.
But, no. People preferred to accentuate the negative.
The buck stopped with Graham, unfortunately. He was employed by the Park Authority, and had completed the risk assessment. He had written up the incident report. Vijay had been there in a strictly voluntary capacity, and his liability was limited. Not that there was anything to be liable for, as Graham was able to make clear.
They operated well as a team, but it would be fair to say that Vijay was the more cautious of the two, the more inclined to worry. This perhaps had to do with his day job, as an insurance broker. Plenty of the old crunching numbers, double-checking the paperwork. Graham had always been more of a seat-of-the-pants man, by contrast; stick a finger in the air and see which way the wind’s blowing, was his approach.
Not that Vijay wasn’t an outdoors man. Far from it. He was a very keen walker. He had all the gear. This was one of their few differences. Graham was of the opinion that good shoes were all that counted; everything else was just the leisure industries taking you for a ride. Whereas Vijay always had the latest piece of gear, the technical fabrics and spring-heeled shoes and GPS what-have-yous. And walking poles. They’d had some lively discussions about the need for walking poles. Vijay had a lot to say about hip alignment and cartilage impact. Graham’s point of view tended towards the fact that they weren’t in the ruddy Himalayas.
*
The walk that day was a Butterfly Safari, which was always popular. A full seventeen people turned up, including a party of Girl Guides and their leader. The forecast was good, and the weather when they set off from the visitor centre was still and fair.
The first part of the walk was straightforward enough, although as always there were those who struggled. The climb up the track towards Black Bull Rocks could be thought steepish if you weren’t used to it, and the Girl Guides were carrying a full set of camping gear each, for some reason. They swayed as they walked, with the weight. The chatter and giggles soon died down, and they were left with the tapping of Vijay’s walking poles. The ground was hard – it had been dry for weeks, after a month of heavy rains, which turned out to be relevant, later – and the dust kicked up around their boots.
Graham took the opportunity to tell the group a little more about where they’d be walking and which species they might see. The heather beds they would pass were good feeding grounds for Common Blues and Small Coppers, and the knapweeds around the old mine workings were regular haunts for Painted Ladies. He told them a little about the industrial heritage: mines, quarries, the modern cement works. It’s important not to see this as any kind of unspoilt, ‘natural’ environment, he said. There’s plenty of nature here, but there’s nothing natural about the landscape.
As always, people’s attention started to drift.
They came over the top of the hill and set out along the ridge, and the noise level rose again. The Girl Guides lagged behind quite early on, stooping under their heavy loads.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/jon-mcgregor/the-reservoir-tapes/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Jon McGregor
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
Отзывы: Пока нет Добавить отзыв
О книге: As broadcast on BBC radio 4: the fifteen ‘prequel’ stories to the Costa Award-WinningReservoir 13.‘He leaves behind all other writers of his generation’ Sarah HallMidwinter in the early years of this century. A teenage girl on holiday has gone missing in the hills at the heart of England. The villagers are called up to join the search, fanning out across the moors as the police set up roadblocks and a crowd of news reporters descends on their usually quiet home.But the aftershocks of Becky Shaw’s disappearance have origins long before then, and those in the village have losses, and secrets, and stories of their own…A woman remembers a son’s inexperience – and a father’s rage; a young wife pushes against the boundaries of her marriage, whilst an older one finds ways to ensure the survival of hers. A hunt for a birthday present takes an alarming turn, and a teenage game grows serious.Fresh hurts open old wounds, salvation comes from unexpected quarters and chance encounters release long-buried memories.First broadcast as a series of specially commissioned stories on BBC Radio 4, The Reservoir Tapes returns to the territory of the Booker-longlisted Reservoir 13, revealing the web of connections that bind us, and the many layers on which we all build our truths.