The Hawkshead Hostage by Rebecca Tope Read Free Book Online Page B

could hear her mother commenting on how useless the gadget actually was, however passionately it might be vaunted as indispensable.
    ‘Yes, it’s his,’ said the girl. ‘So he was definitely here.’
    ‘And just as definitely taken away against his will,’ flashed Simmy, impatient with Melanie’s faint attempt at being positive. ‘He’d never go without the phone if he could help it.’
    ‘So where’s the body he was talking about?’ asked Mrs Bodgett.
    They all scanned the ground, moving to the fence and gazing at the dense undergrowth between the trees. ‘Nobody could get through there,’ said Melanie.
    ‘No,’ Simmy agreed. ‘How far does the wood go?’
    ‘Not very far,’ said the manager’s wife. ‘There’s a tarn through there, called Priest Pot. You can’t see it from here – or anywhere, really. It’s surrounded by trees and rushes and stuff.’
    ‘Which way is Colthouse?’
    The woman pointed. ‘Over there. Why?’
    ‘Ben said he might go there.’
    ‘Well, he’d have to go round by the roads. Past the sewage works, up to the recreation field and it’s just a little way to the right from there. There’s not really any sort of shortcut, that I can think of.’
    ‘How long would that take?’
    ‘Fifteen, twenty minutes.’ The woman flapped impatiently. ‘There’s nothing here. We’ve called the police for nothing.’
    ‘There’s his phone,’ said Melanie. ‘That proves he was here. We should have a closer look.’
    They walked along the fence, the ground muddy in places. They passed the dead tree that Simmy had noticed. For a few feet there was a wooden fence with rails, instead of the barbed wire along the rest of the stretch. ‘You could climb over here quite easily,’ said Simmy.
    ‘It’s been flattened here, look,’ said Melanie, pointing at a patch of bent bracken just beyond the barrier. ‘Somebody might have been lying there.’
    ‘There’s the police,’ observed Mrs Manager. She pointed to the road some distance away. A car could be seen turning into the hotel’s entrance. ‘I saw the markings on the side.’
    ‘We should go and meet them, then,’ Simmy decided. They began to walk towards Esthwaite, following the course of the fence again. ‘You know what? I bet Ben saw somebody asleep and thought he was dead. Maybe he was with a girl or something. Or not supposed to be here. So when he woke up and saw Ben on the phone he hit him, or chased him. And Ben dropped his phone trying to get away.’
    ‘Yeah? So where is he now?’ demanded Melanie. ‘It’s way over an hour ago. If he’s still running, he’ll have reached Ambleside by now.’
    The jest went unheeded, because Simmy found herself watching a pair of swans making serene progress across the middle of the lake. They were so far removed from the turbulent worries of human life that she really wanted to join them, for a moment. Not just that, but to become one of them. Then she tracked back, her attention caught by a plop caused by a fish jumping out of the water. Anothercreature disporting itself in mindless pleasure, little knowing that a fisherman was out to get it. The lake itself was an oasis of calm, lacking all pretensions, ignored by almost every tourist in the region. The stark disjunction between the tranquil summer day and the extreme concern she felt for Ben was almost enough to justify Melanie’s flippancy. It was all mad, after all. Senseless, stupid and insane.
    ‘What’s that?’ Mrs Boddington-Webster suddenly yelped. ‘Look!’
    Warily, Simmy followed her pointing finger. Over the fence, where all three of them stood helplessly staring at the water, was a dark lump, almost entirely submerged. ‘It can’t be,’ she said, feeling horribly sick. ‘It absolutely can’t.’
    With no thought for dignity and heedless of her smart work uniform, Melanie scrambled over the wire, her weight making the whole fence sag and buckle. ‘Come on!’ she yelled, as if the others were half a