Sarah watched Shirley: like Ania, the woman seemed at the end of her tether.
“Okay. No,” she said. “You’re right. In fact I just tried to get up to the village to phone head office and get help. But there’s no way through. I hardly got up to the main road.”
“Does your landline not work here?” said Sarah.
“Nope, that’s down too,” said Shirley.
Sarah watched her as she suddenly seemed to react to what Jack had said: “Hang on, did you say you brought one of our residents with you?”
“Yes,” said Sarah. “He was found last night walking around the village.”
“Oh, Jesus,” said Shirley. “Where is he now?”
“Ania and I put him to bed in his room,” said Sarah.
“And he’s okay?”
“Amazingly yes,” said Sarah.
“God,” said Shirley. “He could have died. I’d better go see him …”
“You do that. We’ll still be here,” said Jack.
Sarah watched the woman go, wondering whether Shirley Woods was genuinely concerned or whether it was all for show.
“Well — she seems on the ball, at least,” said Sarah.
“Wouldn’t you be?” said Jack. “I suspect losing a patient is a sackable offence. Could have been charges, so damned irresponsible too, if you ask me.”
Behind Jack, the urn began to boil.
“Let’s get these teas sorted for everyone shall we?” she said.
She and Jack started to lay out long lines of green cups and saucers on the kitchen worktops, and Sarah went down the lines of cups, pouring milk into each.
But before Jack could follow up and pour the tea, Shirley appeared again at the door to the kitchen.
And from her face, Sarah could see that something was dreadfully wrong.
“That’s not Archy,” she said to the room. “Ania! You put him in the wrong room. That’s Reg. Reg Povey.”
“Sorry. This … it’s not my floor. I saw the empty bed, and—“
“I don’t understand,” said Sarah. “You mean — there’s still someone missing?”
“God. Yes,” said Shirley.
“This Archy’s missing — for real?” said Jack.
Shirley nodded. “I just asked some of the residents. Nobody’s seen him since yesterday afternoon.”
“In this snow?” said Sarah.
“Unless we find him fast,” said Jack. “Then he’s not going to be alive.”
“Jack, we’d better get back to the village,” said Sarah.
“Too right,” said Jack, grabbing his coat and hat.
7. Lost and Found
Jack pulled the Land Rover to the side of the road. Already the ploughed road had a new covering of snow, and the sky above had grown dark and thick with clouds.
He turned to Sarah on her phone, still talking to Alan who was not yet back at the police station.
“Yes. We’re just going to look near the spot of Jack’s accident. I know—”
She looked at Jack, nodded.
“Yes. We’ll be careful. See you as soon as you get here.”
She put the phone into her parka pocket.
“You sure you’re up for this?” Jack said. “Might not find anything. But—”
“I’m okay,” she said. “Really.”
He kept his eyes on her, thinking not for the first time about how strong Sarah was.
Would have made a good cop.
“Okay, then. Let’s take a look.”
He popped open his door and Sarah did the same. He left the hazard warning lights on should anyone come racing down the icy road. But with the blizzard part two already in progress, he guessed most people would be staying safe at home.
“I looked over that side some the other night. Maybe you want to look a bit farther there, and then I’ll check this side of the road?”
He watched Sarah look around. Last night’s snow made just clambering off the road a challenge.
Maybe he should do this alone.
“Sarah, the snow’s really bad. Maybe I should get you back—”
But she turned to him quickly. “I’m fine, Jack.”
Yeah, he thought. Strong.
“Okay. I’ll look over to the left, and you go a bit deeper into the woods. Alan should be here soon.”
“Right,” she said, and he watched her walk over to where the ploughed snow came halfway up the hedges, as she looked for a way on to the side of the road, climbing over the man-made drift.
He turned left, and they both started looking for Archy Fleming.
Sarah found each step a challenge. One foot in front of the other was so difficult when each step sank a foot or two into snow. The fact that it had started up snowing again only made it worse.
If Archy had walked this way, any tracks would have been long covered by the snow.
And as she entered the thickly wooded area, she realised that if he was following a footpath, that too would have vanished in the snow.
Now — for her — she could only guess if she was on a trail or stepping on to a jumble of rocks and branches. The snow cover made it all look the same.
Sarah glanced back — the road barely visible, Jack vanished to search the other side of the road.
She suddenly felt alone.
And with that feeling adding to the chill, she slid out her phone.
She had a signal. Not much of one, but at least she could call if needed. A lifeline out of these snowy woods to the world outside.
As she walked, she found spots where the snow was less deep, protected a bit by the overhanging branches of the few pine trees mixed with the barren deciduous trees.
The new snow still hadn’t fallen so deeply in here, so maybe Archy’s tracks might just be visible.
But it was getting dark. Winter, and the light vanished so early.
They wouldn’t have much time before they’d have to leave.
And despite her protestations to Jack that she was … fine … the thought of leaving was appealing.
Get home. Ride out the second storm.
Maybe plan with Jack what they should do about the nursing home. Maybe it was something simply left to the authorities.
But meeting that nurse, the sister, all those old, vulnerable people stranded there?
And to have two of the residents slip away in the night? Without anyone even noticing …
Like her mentor, she had started to trust her instincts on such things.
And her instincts told her that things weren’t quite all they seemed up at Broadmead Grange.
Another step — and this time she must have walked right on to a hidden boulder. The stone made her ankle twist, and she fell forwards, tumbling, arms flying out to break the fall.
And she landed on something …
At first, she didn’t move.
At first — her mind suggested all sorts of benign possibilities.
She’d landed on a fallen tree trunk padded by inches of snow.
Or a pile of leaves, blown here, gathered, because—
(Because …?)
—what she’d landed on felt soft.
And as another entirely different thought occurred to her, she pulled back, recoiling, using her legs to edge backwards.
Off the tree limb.
Off the pile of leaves.
Off whatever she had fallen onto.
She took a breath as the next, most obvious thought occurred to her as she slowly stood up, trying not to use her hands to help in the process.
No — not wanting to press on anything with her hands. Not now that she didn’t know what she would be pressing on.
The falling snow stuck to her jacket — a much wetter snow than last night, it was going to make everything so icy. Her face was dotted with small patches of the icy stuff.
Until she stood near where she’d tripped on the rock, and looked down at her landing spot.
The shape indistinct, almost unnoticed.
But having
just been close to it, she knew what it was.
The outline of a body. The head, torso, arms … legs. As if it was a snowman, lying face up in the snow, taking a rest.
And by the shape there were marks still just visible in the snow: footprints.
Sarah could hear her steady, deep breathing. In all that she and Jack had done, she had never felt like this before.
She slid her phone out of her pocket, hoping that it still retained that single bar.
That’s all I want, she thought. Just that one bar …
Almost afraid to look down at it.
But she did. The bar still there. Now she had to hope Jack had a signal as well.
She scrolled to his number, and pressed to call. Then up to her ear, hearing a ring which she knew didn’t necessarily mean a phone was ringing anywhere.
But then:
“Yeah, Sarah?”
“Jack. Think I found him. I think—”
Words failing her.
“Okay, Sarah. Stay right there. I’ll find you.”
Then, ever Jack: “You okay?”
And Sarah lied. “Yeah.”
She put the phone down not killing the call and hoping Jack did likewise as she waited, standing watch over the snowman at her feet.
8. Questions in the Woods
Jack crouched down. Sarah had watched him gently brush away snow from the top of the figure until a face was exposed.
She had to turn away from that for a moment.
Then back, as Jack performed more dusting moves, clearing more encrusted snow away from the figure. And when she did turn back, she saw the man’s grey hair, frozen into spikes, sticking out at odd angles.
Eyes shut as if sleeping. And at the neck, a bit of material showing the now-familiar pattern of the nursing home’s pyjamas.
Jack had called Alan, who was now only minutes away.
He turned to Sarah.
“Poor guy. Wandered in here. God knows what he was thinking.”
“Probably tripped on the same rock I did.”
Jack looked away, and Sarah could guess what he was thinking. Then he said it.
“I should have kept looking for him.”
She touched his shoulder. “Jack, you did look, but it was night; he could have been anywhere.”
She doubted her words helped much. But in a moment, he turned to her.
“I used to tell rookie cops, when they second-guessed what they did or didn’t do … you can’t change the past.”
“True enough.”
“But, what you do next, well, that’s wide open.”
She understood what he was talking about.
“You mean — there’s something we can do now?”
“Right. That Broadmead place there. Letting this guy out, with whatever addled thinking going on, it’s criminal.”
“I’m sure there will be an investigation.”
Jack let those words hang for a moment. She could guess how much confidence he’d have in that.
“Yeah, there will be.”
She made herself look down at the body again. Who was this poor man who should have been tucked up in bed, in the warmth, watching the snow fall through a window, not wandering alone at night, lost …?
In the thick snow, she could see the trail of his footprints leading from deeper in the wood. The latest snowfall had almost filled them in, but not quite.
She tried to imagine the old man’s last moments, walking through the darkness, his hands numb, grabbing at branches, stumbling, falling.
Then she saw another trail of footprints leading from the body.
She caught Jack’s arm and nodded in the direction of the prints.
“Those aren’t our footprints, Jack, are they?”
She watched him as he took in the extra set of prints, seeming to understand straight away why she’d asked.
“No,” he said. “They’re not.”
“Are they his?” said Sarah. “Looks like they’re going round in circles.”
“Maybe he stopped here — turned around — went back and forth a bit.”
“Or maybe he and Reg were here together …”
“Could be,” said Jack. “Archy falls over, twists his ankle. Reg maybe goes for help …”
“Then just … ends up at the pub. Forgets about his pal.”
“Funny,” said Jack. “I’m thinking of them like runaways. Prisoners escaping.”
“But what were they running away from?” said Sarah.
“You’re right,” said Jack. “Gotta wonder how bad things really were up at that home.”
And at that moment, they heard a siren roaring their way.
Alan walked back with them to the road, lowering his phone
“The undertakers are sending people out. They didn’t sound too happy, in this weather.”
“Getting real bad out,” Jack said.
“Yeah. You two best get to your homes. I’ll stay out here. My job.”
“Alan,” Sarah said, “what will happen?”
“You mean?”
“About Broadmead. The home.”
He shook his head. “Stories like this are all over the papers these days. Funds cut back. Places run on a shoestring. Things happen. And with them as short-staffed last night as you said, due to the storm …”
“Maybe nothing then?” Jack said.
The two of them walked into the holes made by their previous steps.
“I don’t know, Jack. There’ll be an investigation of some sort. Could be a fine maybe. But, in the grand scheme of things … You know?”
They stopped at the edge of the road, the police car parked behind the Land Rover, lights flashing, nearly dark out now.
“I will let the right people know. The police may get involved. May not. I’ll talk to the staff there in the morning. Get their statements.”
“Quite the crew,” Jack said.
“I can imagine.”
“What about the people there now? Maybe even relatives of people we know in the village. They going to be okay?”
“You guys got the generator going. There’s heat, food. Not much more I can do, at least tonight. ‘Cept, deal with the man back there.”
“Archy,” Jack said.
“Hmm?”
“His name’s Archy. Who knows what his life was like. And it ends like this.”
Sarah realised that Jack had been thinking about the old man’s sad death too. She looked at Alan’s face to see if Jack’s words stung.
“Right, I know Jack. We’ll all do our best. Going to be a busy night out here.”
Which is when Jack took a step closer to Alan. And Sarah thought, this must be how he talked to his rookies on the NYPD.
He put an arm on Alan’s shoulder. “I know you will but … we had a question. Would you mind, when the storm ends, if we do a little talking? To the people in the home. To those who work there.”
Alan took a second, thinking about it.
Then: “Don’t see why not. You brought one of their people back, helped them get power. Some friendly follow-up … makes sense to me. After all, this isn’t a police matter.”
Jack nodded. Then: “Not yet.”
And with that Sarah looked up — the damn snow kept on falling.
“We’d better go, get the Land Rover back.”
“Right,” Alan said.
And she and Jack walked on to the road, already with an inch-thick covering.
It was going to be a long night indeed.
The Ploughman was — amazingly enough — still full. But not with old folk any more. Sarah recognised a few faces: some of the pub’s stalwarts had made it through the snow. One day of cabin fever seemed to be the most the regulars could take.
Though Sarah guessed that Billy would soon show them away and close the place.
He had asked how things went, and she and Jack shared with him about finding Archy — and at the same time, asked him to keep it quiet.
If she and Jack were going to s
tart asking questions about Broadmead, it was better if people didn’t know what had happened last night.
“Love to stay for a drink,” she sad to Jack, “but I’d better be heading back—”
“Walk you home.”
“No, it’s out of your way. It will be okay. You’ve got the big trudge, back to the Goose.”
“Looking forward to getting there.”
They reached the door, the flakes flying around in the bright pools made by the pub’s outdoor lighting.
“I’m going to try and get into the office first thing in the morning. Got a ton of work to do. But I’ll do some digging as well. On the home, see if I can find out who owns the place. Whether it’s had any investigations for bad care.”
“Great. I’m guessing that this isn’t the first time.”
“And maybe who works there. Think they’re supposed to go through a security check — I’ll dig around.”
“Then we head back there, yes?”
“Even if we have to walk it, Jack.”
Jack opened the door. “Good for you.” She saw Jack look up to the illuminated flakes spinning down. “Cherringham in winter. More like upstate New York. Stay safe.”
And Sarah smiled then hurried out to the road as they both headed home.
9. Secrets of Broadmead Grange
When Sarah woke next morning and peered out of her bedroom window she could see it had snowed all night again: her Rav-4 was buried under a huge drift. Taking another day off wasn’t an option — she knew she had to get in to work.
The downside of running your own business, she thought.
Leaving the kids in bed, she grabbed a quick coffee, then put her head down against the blizzard and trudged up through the estate and into the village square.
The centre of Cherringham was silent and empty. The few cars that had been left in the car park were almost hidden in snowdrifts.
When she got to her office door, it was a relief to find her assistant Grace just ahead of her, with two coffees and a couple of croissants from the local café.
“You’re joking,” said Sarah. “Huffington’s is open, in this?”
“Place has never closed,” said Grace. “At least — not in my lifetime!”
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