Henry Christie awoke slowly, aware that his left arm was numb from his elbow down to his fingertips, caused by the weight resting on the crook of his arm. His eyes flickered open as he flexed his fingers and turned his head slowly to look sideways at the woman sleeping soundly alongside him; her head was wedged on his arm, blocking the flow of blood.
Henry cursed his stupidity, caused by a combination of male weakness, ego and excessive alcohol – that volatile, heady mix – and, as carefully as he could, extracted his arm from underneath her, hoping desperately not to rouse her. He’d made a big error, gone back on his own promise to himself, and he wanted to be out of here as swiftly as possible without causing or having to face an unpleasant scene or, God forbid, an awkward breakfast of tea and crumpets.
The woman – her name was Maude Crichton – rolled gently away with a murmur but did not wake up, or at least pretended to be soundly asleep.
Whichever, Henry was grateful.
As the blood rushed back down his arm, making his fingers tingle painfully, he sat up on the edge of the very expensive and expansive bed, manfully holding himself together as a shooting pain – much, much worse than a migraine, he guessed (although he had never suffered such a thing) – seared across the top of his skull like an axe being imbedded.
Normally, he would have emitted some kind of pitiful wail, plus all the other noises a man over the age of sixty might make, but he kept his silence, not wishing to disturb Maude.
He scooped up his clothing. Just how did my underpants get there? he wondered as he retrieved them from the top of a free-standing lamp. Clutching everything else, he padded barefoot to the bedroom door which opened with an agonizing creak, making him stop instantly, cringe and look back over towards Maude who had not moved.
Then he was into the hallway where he dressed quickly, not bothering to test his sense of balance by putting his underpants on, just shoving them into his jeans pocket together with his socks. He tiptoed quietly downstairs and let himself out of the front door wearing only jeans, a short-sleeved shirt and espadrilles, and trying to remember if he had arrived at Maude’s wearing a windjammer or not.
He wasn’t sure.
The day was already warm, the tail-end of summer having arrived following a week of torrential downpours that had caused flooding in many areas, in complete contrast to the weather before that, which had been sweltering hot, tinder-dry and had caused weeks of dangerous wildfires on the moors – now, at last, extinguished.
Henry paused briefly on the front doorstep of Maude’s rather magnificent house, situated on the outskirts of Kendleton on the opposite side of the village to The Tawny Owl, the country pub and hotel where Henry actually lived; Maude’s house was quite close to the detached police house occupied by the rural beat bobby, PC Jake Niven.
It was a mile-long walk for Henry that morning. He took a deep, steadying breath, hoped that as usual the village would be almost deserted at this time of day, and began what he hoped would not turn out to be the walk of shame.
His luck was out. Everyone he could possibly have met on the way home, he met.
The postwoman – a pretty lady who gave him a knowing smirk.
The milkman – who still delivered using an electric-powered milk float – gave a double thumbs-up.
And a couple of other smirkers. But what he thought would be the final nail in the ‘shame coffin’ was hammered home by Jake Niven who, incredibly, was out on patrol at this early hour and was driving by in the opposite direction. He slowed down almost to a stop, slid open the window on his old Land Rover and gave Henry a lecherous, tongue-out expression, to which Henry responded, ‘Fuck off.’
That, however, was not quite the end. To cap his embarrassment, as he walked across the rickety footbridge spanning Kendleton Brook, there was a rustle in the trees and a red deer stag which frequented the area, and which Henry had named Horace, emerged from a thicket and gave Henry a baleful, knowing, disappointed look before bounding back into the woods with a snort of hot air from its wide nostrils.
‘And you, mate,’ Henry grumbled. He was still shaking his head at his bad luck as he crossed the car park at the front of The Tawny Owl and trotted up the front steps, hoping to make it into to the owner’s accommodation unobserved. He had inherited the business from his deceased fiancée, Alison Holt, and now ran it fifty-fifty with her stepdaughter, Ginny – who was the next person he bumped into.
Somehow he got the impression she was waiting to pounce.
‘Morning, love,’ he greeted her, trying to fool her into thinking he was just returning from an early-morning stroll. He was, however, totally aware of the contempt she was trying desperately to keep out of her eyes. He loved this young lady as if she was one of his own flesh-and-blood daughters, and although Ginny was not blood-related to Alison, she seemed to have inherited quite a few of her traits – not the least of which was how she could see right through Henry and would not tolerate any of his bullshit or inefficiency.
Her mouth turned down. ‘I thought you said you would never succumb to any of Maude Crichton’s advances.’
He blinked, swallowed with awkwardness, gave her a stupid smile.
‘Anyway, none of my business, I suppose,’ Ginny said haughtily.
‘No, probably not,’ Henry retorted harshly, then immediately wished he could turn back the clock about five seconds to reconfigure what came out of his mouth.
Ginny looked hurt. ‘Whatever … anyway, you said you’d paid those invoices to Mitchells, but they’ve been on the phone screeching at me already – in a nice way. Plus there’s an email from Courthouses about another late payment, which you said you’d sort for those blinds in the annexe.’
‘I thought I had.’
‘Clearly the opposite applies.’
Henry took a breath. ‘Right, sorry.’
‘I’ve paid both now by bank draft, so at least we’re back on side with two of our best suppliers.’
‘Point taken.’ He pursed his lips and walked past her.
‘You dropped these.’
Henry turned to see Ginny bending over to pick up something from the floor between thumb and forefinger, which she proffered distastefully. ‘And don’t forget Tom Noonan’s picking you up at ten.’
He snatched his underpants from her and made his way into the private accommodation which was accessed via a secure door with keypad entry to one side of the main bar.
He needed a shower – fully aware he reeked of body odour mixed with Chanel No. 5 – a change of clothing and time to clear his fuzzed-up brain.
Henry was growing increasingly concerned about his mental state. And his drinking. And his attitude.
All stunk.
All three things seemed to have ambushed him in the last month or so and he was slowly coming to dislike what he had become or was becoming.
He pinpointed the beginning of this notable deterioration to the murder of John and Isobel York, a couple who lived in a plush converted farmhouse on the moors high above Kendleton.
At the time of the Yorks’ deaths, the moors had been ablaze with uncontrollable wildfires sweeping across them, obliterating everything in their path. Henry had volunteered The Tawny Owl – known locally at Th’Owl – as a focal point for the community to keep abreast of developments and a place where exhausted firefighters could retreat for food, drink and respite; each day a ‘ring-round’ was made to all outlying properties most at risk from the fires to check on welfare. It was during one of these ring-rounds – a service carried out by Maude Crichton – that the Yorks failed to respond to phone calls or messages on the WhatsApp group established for everyone to keep in touch.
Without suspecting anything untoward, Henry had volunteered to drive up to Hawkshead Farm where the Yorks lived, only to make a gruesome discovery. Henry had then become involved in the police investigation into the couple’s deaths.
Being a retired detective superintendent who had been an SIO – senior investigating officer – with Lancashire Constabulary until a few years earlier, Henry had been cajoled into assisting the investigation as a consultant. In a short but sometimes terrifying burst, Henry had managed to bring about the arrests of the offenders quite quickly, all of whom (with the exception of one who died) were now on remand awaiting Crown Court trial. Henry had thought that he would have been glad to get back to being a landlord because he really believed his policing days were well over and he hadn’t enjoyed the ‘consulting’ experience too much.
He had been keen to get back to managing Th’Owl and being part of the community, but a few weeks down the line he was starting to think that maybe he was wrong.
Quite quickly, he had become sloth-like, struggled to find any motivation and had begun to think that, without Alison in his life, running Th’Owl had become meaningless and had lost its sheen.
In turn, these thoughts made him mull even more about losing Alison and, very quickly, the knock-on was to make him morose, snappy and unpleasant to be around.
This led to more drinking – which was far too easy living in a pub – and spending time on the wrong side of the bar, culminating in a boozy night with the regulars to celebrate, at last, the final extinguishing of the moorland fires. It was a night that included Maude Crichton and following her home across the village and ending up in bed with her.
Which had actually been nice.
But not what Henry wanted.
In fact, he wasn’t sure what he wanted.
He certainly didn’t want to hurt Maude, who was lovely and decent and did not deserve to be led on or given the wrong signs about a possible relationship.
In the shower, Henry applied shampoo and lathered up his close-cropped hair. He stood under the jets with his eyes closed, leaning with both hands on the wall, his head hanging between his arms.
Worryingly, he thought, just at this point and for some reason he could not fully understand, his life seemed a bit worthless.
The pub was a success in spite of the massive downturn in business during the wildfires, and it was picking up again to pre-fire levels as bookings poured in thick and fast. His relationship with Ginny was good, although she was beginning to get a bit testy with him when he forgot to do basic things such as pay suppliers on time.
Which was another thing that concerned him: his lack of concentration skills and his growing inability to remember stuff.
Not that he thought he was suffering from the early stages of dementia; it was just that – to put it bluntly – he was bored shitless.
Tom Noonan parked his Range Rover on the old logging track in Azers Wood. He and Henry Christie slung their equipment and supplies over their shoulders and began the climb up Haylot Fell, across black and burned grassland that, just a few short weeks after the fires, was already beginning to show signs of regeneration, green shoots appearing out of the blackened, sooty earth.
Henry was amazed at how quickly this rebirth had begun to happen and said so to Tom.
‘Nature.’ The older man smiled. ‘Wonderful. Always comes good.’
Henry glanced at him. Noonan was a local man, just creeping into his eighties and one of Th’Owl’s regular customers; he and his wife came in most weeks for lunch. Henry had got chatting to him one afternoon and somehow the conversation turned to fishing.
Henry revealed he once used to be a fairly keen fly fisher but probably hadn’t picked up a rod in twenty years, although he knew he still had one because he’d packed it when he’d moved to live permanently at The Tawny Owl with Alison.
Tom Noonan was a retired aero engineer, whose story fascinated Henry; he had been involved in designing the TSR2, a fantastic supersonic fighter jet that was cancelled before completion in the 1960s, despite the many millions spent developing it. Henry remembered from his childhood that it looked just like a spaceship.
Tom was also a keen angler, regularly fishing the River Lune and its tributaries as well as the many reservoirs and lakes in the area. There had been one of those rarely followed-up conversations about how, one day, they must go fishing together. Usual male promises.
However, one recent lunch time, just after the wildfires on the moors had been finally, hopefully, extinguished, Tom and his wife were eating at Th’Owl. Tom mentioned to Henry his intention to check out the current state of a tiny lake, nothing more than the size of a small Lakeland tarn, on Haylot Fell. It had been stocked with a few brown trout earlier in the year; he expected the fires would have devastated it, but he needed to know and invited Henry along.
Henry had jumped at the chance and later that same day, after he’d burrowed in the store rooms and found his old fly rod, reel, line and box of flies, he spent a few hours practising casting on the rear lawn of the pub until he could do it without too much embarrassment and did not snag the hook in his backside at every attempt.
The walk up the fell now was quite arduous, and Henry was soon gasping for air, though the much older Tom wasn’t even breathing heavily. He was built like a broom, no weight on him, and Henry took note of that.
‘I’m not that hopeful,’ Tom admitted over his shoulder.
‘You never know,’ Henry said.
‘Too much crap from the fires is my guess, but it is in a fairly protected position, so you never know.’
‘Fingers crossed,’ Henry gasped, hoping the conversation was over.
Henry had Google-Earthed the position of Kendleton Syke, which was the name of the tiny lake, and also checked an Ordnance Survey map to see that the lake was situated under the lee of a high crag called Rushbed Crag, so it was possible this natural barrier could have prevented the ravages of the fires from taking their toll on the waters.
It took about half an hour to reach the lake, and as the two men looked across the surface, they could see it had a red, rusty colour to it. Tom told him this was not unusual as it mirrored the underlying rock and soil. They circumnavigated the lake and found a grassy outcrop from which they decided to cast their lines and see how it went.
Henry fumbled nervously as he assembled his rod and fitted the reel and threaded the line he’d bought from a field sports shop in Lancaster, and then tied on a leader before attaching the fly. Eventually, as he tested the strength of what he’d done, he was quite pleased with the end result.
Tom had put his own gear together like the expert he was and waited for Henry with a wry smile.
‘Think I’m good to go.’ Henry grinned back.
‘I’ll stroll along this way’ – Tom indicated the direction he’d be taking along the bank – ‘and you can start here if you like? Seems a good enough spot.’
Henry watched Tom retreat, then turned and looked across the water which was still and had no signs of fish rising. He laid his landing net out to one side – as if, he thought – stepped to the edge of the water and fed out some line from the spool prior to the first cast.
In spite of fully expecting to feel the hook imbed itself in his scalp, he impressed himself, and after half a dozen practice casts he got the hang of it and produced a good one which landed delicately across the surface of the water. He gave the leader a couple of seconds to sink below the surface, then started to draw the line back in, in the hope that if a fish was there it would be fooled into thinking it was a real fly and take it.
That was the theory.
He caught nothing with the first cast, but, with a sudden feeling of elation within him, began to focus his mind and cast again.
He glanced occasionally at Tom who was deep in his own world, casting smoothly.
Half an hour later, not having changed position or caught anything, Henry decided to move further around the lake for a different perspective. He made his way behind Tom who was convinced there had been some interest in his flies. Henry pointed to a precarious-looking rocky outcrop under the crag which jutted out into the water.
‘Don’t break an ankle,’ Tom warned him. ‘I’m too old to be carrying you back to the car.’
‘Airlift me if necessary,’ Henry suggested. He gave Tom a pat on the shoulder and walked on, keeping to the shore, then having to cut slightly in before reaching the rocks which were jagged and broken with fissures of varying sizes between them – some merely cracks, others wide and deep crevices which took long strides to negotiate.
Henry picked his spot, clambering across the rocks, glad he had taken Tom’s advice to wear proper walking boots for protection. He stood on the edge of the rocks and scanned the water – and maybe saw a fish rise, or maybe he was kidding himself.
He did a few test casts, then finally allowed his line to sail long and rest on the surface without causing a ripple.
A good cast. He flushed with a tiny bit of pride.
He began to draw back the line, fully concentrating, focusing.
Then he felt it: a gentle tug on the line.
He gasped. His heart did a little flutter as a surge of excitement skittered through him.
There were definitely fish in there.
If he could just entice … the line suddenly went taut and he responded by bringing it up quickly, hoping to imbed the hook into the fish’s mouth, then the surface of the water exploded as a lovely brown trout broke through, trying to jettison the hook.
Henry tried not to panic. That was the thing that would lose a fish.
Calm calculation was necessary to hook the beautiful little thing.
He drew his line in smoothly by hand, not too quickly, allowing it to spool down at his side while at the business end the trout dived and writhed and fought to free itself.
Henry worked it, followed it, loosed the line, tightened the line, all the while bringing it closer and closer to the net. He knew he was smiling, almost laughing with glee. What an incredible feeling.
But he also kept a lid on it. Kept control. The whooping and hollering could come later.
For now, concentrate – something he’d been unable to do for a while.
Reel the little beauty in.
Which he did – up to the point when he bent down to reach for the handle of his fishing net at his feet, while keeping an eye on the line and position of the fish which he had brought to the surface.
He felt for the net with his fingertips but did not look down.
Until he had to because he could not quite find it.
He glanced down to his right – and took his eyes off the water.
It was as if, somehow, the fish knew.
And just that microsecond of reduced drag gave the fish the chance it needed. The hook came out and it was gone.
With disbelief, Henry deflated visibly, sat back on his bottom on the cold rock and, with a wry smile on his face, drew in the remaining line, fishless. He looked across at Tom on the other side of the lake who gave him a gesture which said, ‘Bad luck, mate.’
Henry chuckled, but the thrill stayed with him as he laid down his rod and reached for his rucksack to get his flask of coffee, at the same time glancing around at the scenery, across the water and craning his neck to look up the face of the crag, feeling excited and pretty happy to be out here in this awesome environment … up to the moment he saw the hand protruding out of one of the wider fissures at the foot of the rock face.
He stood up slowly and walked across to look down to see, jammed between the rocks, the body of a young woman who, on first glance, would seem to have fallen from the top, straight down into this wide gap.
Henry exhaled and swore.