The Reservoir Tapes

*

Usually, when the Mountain Rescue team got up on the hills, they found who they were looking for. They were all local, and they knew the place like their own back yards. They had a good sense of which way people would head when they got lost and in a panic. They knew where people would try and hide when the weather closed in, and where the likely falling places were.

But this was starting to turn out differently.

Vicky and Graham had been asked to open up the visitor centre, for use as an operations base, and over the course of the evening it kept getting busier. The police arrived, and a second Mountain Rescue team were called in. When Vicky brought fresh pots of coffee into the room where they’d spread out the maps she heard someone talk about expanding the search zone, which she guessed meant they had very little idea where the girl might be. It was going to be a long night. There were flashing blue lights outside, and helicopters overhead.

At one point Vicky saw the girl’s parents again, being escorted into the map room by a police officer. They weren’t in there for long, and were soon escorted out again and into a waiting car. A ripple of silence followed them through the building, as though people were afraid to say the wrong thing in their presence. She’d seen something like this before. The way people kept their distance, as if grief was contagious.

She wanted to go out to the car and tell them they weren’t alone. But they were, of course.

She realised that grief was probably the wrong word to use about what was happening just yet. But it had been hours already and the weather was only getting worse.

Irene arrived later in the evening, carrying bags of shopping into the tiny kitchen at the back of the visitor centre. Right then, she said, unpacking the bags. It’s Vicky, isn’t it? I’ve got enough here for six dozen bacon cobs. I’ll slice, you spread.

She looked over at Graham, standing behind Irene. He shrugged, making a face to say that there was no point arguing. They’d got the hang of doing this, communicating with glances and nods, over the heads of colleagues and members of the public. They’d reached a kind of understanding. He passed her the butter, and reached up for the frying pans.

*

By morning there were police vans parked all along the verges down the lane. The road had been closed, and there were torchlights flashing through the beech wood across the way. There were dogs barking.

Graham and Vicky were outside, taking a break, sheltering from the rain under the entrance-way roof. The blue lights and the police radios were making her think of the night of the accident again. Graham asked if she was okay. She looked at him. She wanted a cigarette. She wanted a drink.

I’m fine, she said. Tired.

That would seem reasonable under the circumstances, he said.

They watched more cars pulling into the car park. A helicopter passed by overhead.

I’ve arranged for the Cardwell team to come and take over, he said. I think we’ve done our share. Could I perhaps interest you in some breakfast?

She smiled. She was very cold. Yes, Graham, she said. You can interest me in some breakfast.

*

When they got to the house, Vicky took a shower while Graham started cooking. She was trembling and she felt a little sick and she knew she needed to eat. These were her vulnerable moments. They’d talked about these at the group. She felt bad for worrying about herself, with everything that was going on, but she also knew she had no choice. At the group they talked about putting on your own oxygen mask first.

While she was drying herself she felt dizzy and she had to sit down. Graham had lent her an old fleece and a pair of walking trousers to wear. They smelt musty and they were too big but they were at least clean. She felt comfortable in them.

In the kitchen Graham was just putting the breakfast out on the table. The radio was on and they were talking about the missing girl.

Suits you, he said, glancing up at her outfit. She sat down.

She wanted to say something about the girl’s mother. She could feel her eyes starting to sting. She looked at him. There was a question in his expression but she couldn’t read it.

Tea’s in the pot, he said.

3: Deepak (#uf337ae0c-ca6e-52ce-ba66-0b2125be437f)

The morning after the girl disappeared there were police going up and down the street, and journalists setting up in the market square. Deepak’s mum said there was no way he was doing his paper round that day.

It’s not safe, Dee Dee, she said. We don’t know what’s happening. You’re staying at home now. Anyone could be out there.

His mum still called him Dee Dee, sometimes. No one else dared.

His dad said there were that many police out there, the street was the safest place to be. He said people would be disappointed if they didn’t get their papers, and he opened the door for Deepak while the two of them were still arguing about it. Deepak headed out.

It was dark outside, and cold. He got his bike out of the shed. There was a misty drizzle which felt like it would soon turn to rain. He pushed his scarf up over his mouth and rode down to the shop to collect the papers. There were people everywhere. He usually had the street to himself, this early. He heard someone say there was a search being organised, up at the visitor centre.

On the news, the police had said they wanted people to keep their eyes open. They wanted to know about anything unusual, any suspicious behaviour, any changes in routine. Any detail could help, they said; no matter how small. It felt like they were talking to him personally. If there was anything to notice, he’d notice it. He was good at that. He knew about people’s routines. When he was doing his paper round he could always tell who was still in bed, who was having breakfast, who had gone out to work already; he noticed when anything was different. They should make him some kind of detective. DCI Deepak had a ring to it.

The Jackson house was the first on his round. Usually a couple of the Jacksons were out in the yard, moving sheep around in the stock shed or loading up the trailer. There was always a smell of bacon and cigarettes, and they never said hello. Place was quiet this morning, though. That was one change in routine to make a note of already.

Irene’s house was next, back up the main street. Her son had special needs and went to a different school. Her lights were always on when he got there, just like this morning, and there was always steam coming out of the tumble-dryer vent under the kitchen window, just like there was now. She was an early starter. Nothing to see here.

The butcher’s shop was empty. Mr Fowler would usually be behind the counter, setting everything out, and would shout hello as Deepak pushed the paper through the letter box. He was friendlier than some. Deepak’s dad thought it was funny that he kept offering to stock halal meat for the family. He’d stop him in the street and go, Vijay, listen, it’s no trouble at all. And Deepak’s dad was always like, mate, we’re not even Muslim, we don’t really eat meat. And then Mr Fowler would forget, and offer again the next time.

After the butcher’s he crossed the square to the pub, the Gladstone, which took four papers. The square was full of police vans and journalists and people just standing around. But there was nothing he could say was suspicious. He carried on up the back lane to Mrs Osborne’s house. It was steep, and the gears on his bike kept slipping. When he got there Mrs Osborne opened the door, as always. Usually she asked if he had any good news for her, like the news was his responsibility or something. But today she just smiled in that old-person sad way and took the paper.

He rolled back down the cobbles and across the square. DCI Deepak had nothing of note to report. He headed up the main street towards the edge of the village, and as he turned into the lane past the allotments he hit a pothole and his chain came off.

Calling headquarters: request mechanical assistance. Would be cool if he could do that. He got off and started fixing the chain back on. He wondered what the police really meant by something unusual, or something suspicious. They said any detail could be vital, but how would you know? Would it be some piece of clothing, like a lost glove on a railing, or like a hairband in the gutter? Or would it be if you saw someone dodgy in a van? Or something really bad, like a tiny bloodstain, or a strand of hair?

It must be pretty hard being a detective.

It was pretty hard being a bike mechanic as well. The chain was wedged between the frame and the sprocket, and he couldn’t get it out. He took his gloves off to try and get a better grip. It was too cold for this kind of thing.

The front door of the house on the corner opened and a man came out. Deepak had seen him around, but he didn’t know him. The man asked if he needed a hand, and Deepak said no, thanks, he was fine. The man stood and watched. It was well awkward. The chain was totally jammed, and he couldn’t get it shifted. It was cutting into his hands when he pulled at it. The man was just watching. It was embarrassing. He was standing too close.

Deepak, lad, he said; I’d say that chain’s stuck. I’ll get some tools.

He went back into the house. Deepak wondered who he was. He pulled at the chain again. Time was getting on.

The man came back out with a toolbox, and budged Deepak out of the way. He said it wouldn’t take a minute. It was all about having the right tool for the job, he said, and gave Deepak a funny look as though he’d told a joke.

He asked if Deepak was surprised that he knew his name. When Deepak said yes, he said: well, I’ve seen you around. You stand out a bit round here.

He did something with a screwdriver and got the chain sorted. It took less than a minute. Deepak said thanks, and went to get back on his bike.

The man said: hang on there a minute, let’s just pop inside and get you cleaned up.

Calling headquarters again: request guidance. Request backup.

The guidance was obvious. Going into a stranger’s house was one of the things you weren’t supposed to do. But this man wasn’t exactly a stranger; he knew Deepak’s name, and Deepak had seen him around. But even so. He could basically hear his mum shouting at him as he walked towards the front door: you don’t even know this man, Dee Dee! It’s not safe, Dee Dee!

She worried too much, though. His dad always said that.

A real detective would take certain measures in this situation. There would be a colleague waiting in a car further down the road. A uniformed officer covering the back door. He would be wearing a wire. As it was, he took mental notes. Just in case. A description of the car parked outside, and the registration number. A description of the house. For example: there were piles of junk mail and free papers just inside the front door. The curtains in all the upstairs windows were closed. The man was wearing a waxed jacket, and trousers with lots of pockets. He was old. Sixty, at least.