Hillier lifts Georgie up and over her shoulder, turning back to where the lights of the hotel are amber now in the burgeoning dusk. She trudges slowly under the weight of the five year old, hearing only the sound of her own breathing, hoarse and laboured, as she eventually reaches the hotel entrance.
She kicks it open with her foot and the heavy oak door swings back to reveal the newly arrived DS Gordon standing at the reception desk, fairy lights twinkling beyond his shoulder on the Christmas tree. He turns to face her as Hillier stumbles in, flutters of snow shooting in behind her, white slush trailing in from her feet. The air is cold and sharp and Gordon’s shock at the sensation, at the sight of his colleague carrying the missing Georgie, delays his reaction for a few seconds and, when it comes, it’s words rather than actions.
‘What the . . .’ he blurts.
‘It’s her,’ Hillier gasps. ‘It’s Georgie. She came up over the cliff outside. She’s hypothermic. Paramedics . . .’ she manages to say before collapsing into one of the chairs to one side of reception, Georgie still clinging to her, her eyes closed, her lips the colour of marble.
Gordon reaches for his radio at the same time as the woman behind reception gasps and makes a grab for the phone.
‘Don’t bother,’ he barks at her. ‘I’ll be quicker. Get blankets. Foil from the kitchen. And get her parents down here now.’
Hillier leans her soaking head back against the chair, shutting her eyes to the scene, putting her icy fingers on Georgie’s wrist, feeling that faint pulse still beating. She whispers a prayer, thanking the heavens for this moment, the feeling of this wet, cold body against hers.
‘You’re all right, Georgie,’ she murmurs. ‘You’re all right.’
Within moments, an industrial-sized sheath of aluminium foil is found and Georgie is carefully removed from Hillier’s lap. The girl’s wet cardigan is taken off, along with the T-shirt that sticks to her chest and back like a second skin. Georgie’s red and mottled skin is dried before the foil is gently put around her and then two woollen blankets; another towel is rolled and put around her neck. Then her skirt and tights are removed and she is tucked into the roll of blankets, her head just visible at the top.
‘Keep talking to her,’ Gordon says. ‘Georgie, can you hear me, sweetie? Hello there. You’re safe now. Mummy’s coming.’
Georgie’s eyes are still closed, her breathing shallow.
‘Come on, Georgie, that’s it.’ Gordon’s voice is loud, persistent. ‘Wake up, Georgie. Come on, girl. Stay with me here.’
Hillier watches, hardly daring to breathe as someone removes her own clothes. She is barely aware as her jumper and shirt are lifted over her head, a blanket wrapped over her bra. She is shivering uncontrollably.
‘That’s good,’ Gordon says, noticing her trembling. ‘Shivering is good.’ He glances back at Georgie who is motionless. ‘Where is that ambulance?’ he barks.
‘The roads . . .’ Mr Lamb interjects. A small crowd has gathered, looking on silently at the two cold bodies trussed in blankets by the Christmas tree. ‘It could take some time. Can you turn off that racket, Lucinda?’ he snaps at the receptionist. A minute later and the lull of panpiped classical music is replaced by the sound of rapid breathing, of the concentration involved in watching and waiting.
The uneasy silence is broken by the cries of Jane Greenstreet, who comes flying down the staircase and throws herself at Georgie.
‘Hold up!’ Gordon says, putting out a hand. ‘Be careful with her. She’s in the recovery position, Mrs Greenstreet. Just watch yourself. Talk to her, though, keep with her. The ambulance will be here soon.’
‘Oh, thank God, thank God,’ Jane cries, tears streaming down her face. ‘My baby. Where have you been?’ She kneels at Georgie’s head, stroking the black hair that just pokes out from the towels and blankets. ‘Georgie . . . Georgina. It’s Mummy. Look at me, sweetheart. Why won’t she open her eyes?’ She stares up desperately into Gordon’s face. ‘Why won’t she look at me?’
‘She’s hypothermic,’ he says, his expression dark. ‘We need that ambulance.’
‘Oh, God, no . . . Not now we’ve found her. Please! Declan, someone, help us.’
The cries of her mother reach something in Georgie and she opens her eyes suddenly, bright stars of cool and gelid ice. Her mouth opens a little, lips devoid of colour, death seeping over her skin like a glass filling with noxious liquid.
‘She’s arresting,’ Gordon says, bending down rapidly. ‘Please, Mrs Greenstreet, out of the way.’ He unwraps the blankets one after another, exposing Georgie’s tiny bare chest to the room. He lifts her waxy chin and blows into her mouth, once so rosy and red. Then he begins compressions. As he counts, pushing on her chest, Hillier hears the faint crack of a rib. Jane rocks back on her heels, her hands to her mouth, dry sobs racking her body as she watches.
‘Someone take over, please,’ Gordon gasps, and another member of the Crime Squad edges over on his knees to carry on the compression as Gordon breathes intermittently into Georgie’s mouth.
‘Is she breathing?’ Hillier asks, unable to stop herself. ‘Is she?’
Gordon doesn’t answer, his knuckles flexed on the carpet.
Hillier can see a tiny shake of his head as they swap again. It’s been too long, she thinks. Georgie’s little heart is too tired. Her blood is too cold. She sends up another plea to the skies. She will never complain again about her work, her life, her mother, her anything. She will do it all with a happy, warm heart, if only God will let this little girl live. She has drawn blood from her lip where she has been biting it, still shivering continuously, but she only tastes it, only notices it, when she hears the sirens, the swish of tyres on ice, and a chip of hope returns once the paramedics are on the scene.
That now perhaps Georgie will live.