This last remark was uttered with that air of righteous superiority that she found so annoying, but she merely said, “yes, quite,” not willing to prolong the encounter by disagreeing. Hannah wondered how the man’s wife tolerated him. She’d seemed pleasant enough, the few times they’d spoken. Maybe she escaped him whenever possible, thought Hannah, with a faint inward smile.
Lyle rattled on, pointing his stick about as he described the geographical features of the valley. Hannah made monosyllabic replies and glanced at him curiously. His manner seemed oddly agitated. He kept turning and scanning the banks behind them as he talked, as if watching for someone.
Hannah followed his gaze upstream and saw that the stone-jumping family were straggling toward the wooden steps that led from the Middle Falls up to the path. The last child vanished behind a screen of trees, its head hanging dejectedly.
“Look. Just here, in these stones.” Lyle bent forward and aimed his stick at the river’s edge. “Fossilized bracken, if I’m not mistaken.”
Rather unwillingly, Hannah crossed to him and peered down. The fern shape in the white sheet of rock might have been a photograph, its clear outline as strong and delicate as ancient bones.
“Get Peter Raskin on the phone. Tell him-”
“Let me come with you,” Gemma interrupted. “I’ll phone from the car.”
As Kincaid hesitated, Patrick Rennie came out the front door and walked toward them, his expression concerned. “Hullo!” he called to them. “Have you seen Hannah?”
Kincaid met Gemma’s eyes. “There’s no time. Find Peter Raskin, then bring Rennie with you. He’ll insist on it, and I might need him if Peter doesn’t make it.” He grabbed the map from the bonnet and slid into the Midget, blessing the quick rumble of the engine.
“But what do I tell-” Gemma’s fingers grasped the window’s edge.
“Anything you like. Just come.” Kincaid slipped the car into gear and pulled away, leaving Gemma to cope with Rennie’s open-mouthed bewilderment. As Kincaid glanced back Gemma took Rennie’s hand, saying, “He’s going to look for Hannah. Come on…” Her voice faded as he turned into the road. Trust Gemma to have things well in hand.
The way Kincaid downshifted into the curves he might have been going for the cup at Monaco. The map lay open on the passenger seat, a snaky route marked quickly in ink so he wouldn’t have to keep hunting for it. He left the main road at Thirsk, trusting to luck that the more direct B roads wouldn’t slow him down. Looking down, Kincaid saw his knuckles bleached white and loosened his grip on the wheel. He drove on with methodical concentration, checking the map, scanning the road, but all the while the thoughts ran unbidden through his mind.
He should have seen it. All the bits and pieces had slotted into place as neatly as a shuffled deck and he’d held them in his hand. Could little things-contradictions, coincidences-add up to such a fatal sum? Eddie Lyle had apparently told his wife that he’d been unable to buy a week outside term-time. Yet when Kincaid, thinking about the Frazers, had suggested such a difficulty to Cassie, she’d been astonished. And Lyle had intimated more than once that the holiday had been Janet’s idea, when according to both Janet and her neighbor, it had been entirely his. Gemma had described Lyle as overextended… with aspirations beyond his means… Kincaid’s mind went back to the conversation he’d overheard that day in The Blue Plate-Janet worrying over Eddie’s plans to send their daughter to a university she was sure they’d never be able to afford… Eddie’s aunt dying young of a rare disease, as had Miles Sterrett’s wife… Miles’ despised nephew, and Hannah barring the way to Miles’ estate.
Kincaid shook his head. Perhaps he was making it up out of whole cloth, his fear for Hannah distorting his logic. But then he thought of Eddie Lyle tearing off, shortly after Hannah’s departure, on an unnecessary and unexplained errand, and his hands tightened again on the wheel.
The light shifted across the tops of the moors as Kincaid entered Wensleydale. He pushed his speed up on the straight stretches until the pastures ran into a green blur.
The ancient town of Middleham registered only as bright flags on the castle battlements and the steaming hindquarters of racehorses disappearing around a corner. Wensley and sleepy West Witton slowed him as old men and pram-pushing mothers turned to stare-then one last stretch of clear road to Aysgarth.
Just when he’d begun to breathe a little easier, a flock of sheep ambled across the road in front of him. He came to a dead stop and swore. There was no hurrying sheep. They milled about, a wooly, white, pulsating mass, marked with great splashes of red or blue dye. Kincaid leaned on his horn and nudged the stragglers with his bumper. The shepherd shook his crook at him, and the last sheep cleared the road with a scatter of stones.
The road made one last sharp turn and swooped down to cross the River Ure, and there on the left lay the car park for Aysgarth Falls. Kincaid left the Midget skewed across the first empty space and stood up to get his bearings. Hannah’s green Citroën sat sedately in a corner by itself, empty.
Before him lay the path to the Upper Falls; behind him, across the road and down the valley, the path led to the Middle and Lower Falls.
Kincaid hesitated a moment, then sprinted down the Upper path, bumping sightseers and backpackers as he ran. The way grew dark with overhanging trees, mossy underfoot and filled with the sound of running water. Foreboding clutched him, but when he came into the open all he found were family picnics and booted hikers posing on the great stones. Of Hannah there was no sign.
The path across the road was as calm as a country lane. Open meadow lay on one side, and on the other the dense growth of the river bank. A family straggled into the path from a flight of wooden steps. The children looked damp and querulous, the parents harried.
“I want an ice cream now, Mummy. You promised!” The small boy’s voice rose ominously.
“Hush, Trevor. I told you-”
Kincaid almost plowed into them. Between gasps for breath he said, “Anybody else down there?”
“Not with us.” The man pointed. “Some folks a little further downstream, though.”
“Two people?”
The man pursed his lips. “Think so. Wouldn’t swear to it.”
Kincaid left them staring after him, already forgotten.
He almost missed the signpost, and the body’s-width opening in the tangled greenery of the bank. LOWER FALLS. EXIT ONLY. Ignoring the sign’s discreet warning, he plunged down the track.
His feet slipped in the sand and loose stones, propelling him downward at breakneck speed. With a shower of gravel and a last grasp at a bramble, he slid out of the trees and onto the level surface of the bank.
Ten meters from him, Hannah Alcock bent over the river’s edge. Behind her, Eddie Lyle stooped and Kincaid caught the white flash of a stone in his hand.
Kincaid shouted, afterwards he was never sure what. Memory gave it to him as a wordless, echoing yell, a soundtrack to the slow-motion scene playing before him.
Hannah straightened and turned, breaking into a smile as she recognized him. Lyle froze. An instant later his arm shot around Hannah’s neck and he thrust his other hand into his coat pocket. Kincaid saw a dull gleam as Lyle pulled his hand out and lifted it to Hannah’s temple.
A gun. The bastard had a gun. Hannah’s brief struggle died as the pistol’s blunt mouth pressed against her scalp.
Kincaid raised his hands and took a few careful steps forward.
“Don’t come any nearer.” Lyle’s voice rose shrilly. His grip tightened on Hannah’s neck and Kincaid saw her eyes roll.
“Can you hear me, Eddie?” Kincaid didn’t shout, afraid that would make the situation even more volatile. “Listen to me, Eddie. It’s no use. Let her go.”
“No use?” Lyle laughed. “What’s to stop me killing you both and no one the wiser?” The fussy mannerisms had been replaced by a kind a feverish excitement. He was enjoying it, Kincaid thought. Sebastian and Penny’s murders may have been expedient, but Lyle had come to like killing. The knowledge froze Kincaid’s bones.