The Family Secret

The girl scratches at her dressing. ‘Confused.’

‘I presume Doctor Rashad explained about your injury?’ Jasper asks, looking at the clipboard at the end of the bed.

The girl nods. Amber sits down next to the girl’s bed and Jasper takes the seat on the other side. As he does so, Amber gets a flash of that night ten years before, one either side of Katy’s small bed, right in this very ward, one small hand in each of their hands.

Jasper catches Amber’s eye and she can tell he’s thinking the same.

He looks back at the girl. ‘So, any memories come back to you?’

The girl nods. ‘Little things. Like a man with a beard, a black beard. Curtains with robins on them.’ She scrunches up her covers in frustration. ‘But that’s it. That’s all I can remember.’

‘That’s more than this morning,’ Amber says gently. ‘That’s good.’

‘Not good enough though,’ the girl says, turning to look out at the window towards the sea.

‘We’ll get you there,’ Jasper says. ‘Have the police been yet?’

‘Tomorrow – they want to give me more time to remember,’ the girl replies. She puts her hand up to her dressing again. ‘Do you reckon they think someone deliberately hurt me? Is that why the police are coming?’

Amber tilts her head to one side. ‘Why would you think that?’

‘There’s no reason to think that,’ Jasper says softly. ‘Debris was found in your injury, according to the note, so there’s a chance it was just a fall.’

‘Debris could get there if someone injured me and I fell,’ the girl says.

Amber leans forward. ‘Have you remembered something?’

The girl’s eyes flicker and then she looks away, shrugging. ‘I don’t know,’ she mumbles.

Jasper’s pager buzzes. He looks at it and sighs. ‘I’m needed,’ he says, standing up. ‘But you’re in good hands with Amber. Keep me posted, won’t you?’ he asks Amber.

Amber nods, then turns back to the girl when he leaves. ‘Do you need anything? Another drink?’ she asks, reaching for the empty plastic cup on the table. As she does, she notices a small, dark leather notebook on it.

The girl follows her gaze. ‘They found that in my pocket. Not much use though. Just lots of notes about animals.’

‘Can I take a look?’ Amber asks.

The girl shrugs. ‘Sure.’

Amber picks it up and unwinds the leather string around it. She flicks through it. Its pages are crammed full of untidy writing alongside small pencil sketches of animals from penguins to polar bears to seals, all with notes written beneath them. There are dates at the top of some pages, ranging from 1989 to the present day. The girl wouldn’t have been born back then so it can’t be hers.

She goes back to the first page and reads it.

Ptarmigans are masters of adapting to their surroundings. Feathers will turn white in the winter to act as camouflage against the snow …

Chapter Four (#ulink_0fbb8018-229a-5546-8af6-338be4f497dd)

Gwyneth

Audhild Loch

24 December 1989

Ptarmigans are masters of adapting to their surroundings. Feathers will turn white in the winter to act as camouflage against the snow.

I came across the frozen loch by accident on Christmas Eve, lost after driving back from six months of filming on the Orkney Islands. I’d hired a car after jumping off the ferry at freezing Scrabster, right on the northern tip of Scotland. The rest of the crew were flying back to London but I decided to go on a road trip, staying at different hotels along the way. It would be easy, my producer Julia had told me as she’d handed over a battered map.

‘Easy,’ I hissed to myself now as I reversed out of another dead-end turning. ‘Yeah, right.’

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise really, considering that time Julia had got a whole crew lost while filming a documentary on emperor penguins in the Antarctic Peninsula. And now I was as lost as they had been, except I was alone, driving aimlessly down a dirt track in the middle of the Highlands, cursing Julia as I did so.

Then I caught sight of a glimmer of a loch on the icy horizon, fringed by frosty pine trees and a hump of a mountain beyond. I slowed the car down, gazing out at it. There was a lodge overlooking the lake with golden lights twinkling from its windows. I looked at the map that was angrily balled up on the passenger chair. Maybe Julia had been right – this was where the hotel was meant to be? I turned into a slip road leading to the lake, and followed it for five minutes. As I drew closer, I cursed. A gate stretched across the narrow road, a sign reading Private Property hanging from it.

‘Not a hotel then,’ I said with a sigh. I stopped the car anyway, getting out to stretch my legs and figure out my options. I could sleep in the car, God knows I’d done that a few times, but it was too bloody cold. Instead, I could drive all night, like I had been doing for the past hour. At least the engine would be on to keep me warm – not that said engine was that reliable, the number of turns it took to get it started each time.

Truth was that breaking down in that snow-sodden country, no matter how beautiful it was, wasn’t too appealing.

As I thought that, something caught my eye: a fluff of white soaring across the grey skies over the lake, its soft white wings almost blending into the sheet of wintry clouds above.

A ptarmigan!

I quickly pulled on my cream hat and wool-lined gloves before going to the boot to grab my camera. Hitching it onto my shoulder, I ran towards the lake before it was too late and that beautiful bird was gone from sight. The sun was starting to set now, meaning soon red and pink hues might start to seep through the gaps in the cloud, reflecting on the loch’s surface.

Perfect for filming.

Excitement made my heartbeat accelerate. I hitched a leg over the gate, being careful not to drop my heavy camera as I lifted my other leg over. It was a good ten-minute walk to reach the loch so I zipped up my white puffer coat – ideal for blending into the snow-clad landscape, just like the bird I was chasing – and headed down the road, searching the skies for more ptarmigans, the first one I saw long gone now.

Damn it.

I knew there would be more though. They rarely came down from the mountainsides so it must have been particularly cold for them to seek a semblance of warmth in the forest edges. I’d never seen one up close, but had long been fascinated by how their plume adapted to snowy environments in winter by turning completely white.

I reached the loch, placed my camera on the hard, icy ground, put my hands on my hips and surveyed the scene before me. It was silent and still, apart from the mist coming from my mouth and the sound of my breathing. Just as I’d predicted, the sky started turning pink, stunning against the stark white mountains and snow-fringed trees of the forest ahead. The house that stood on the edge of the loch was the only thing that wasn’t white here with its rich wooden walls and the Christmas lights twinkling from its vast windows.

The thought of Christmas gave me a brief pinch of sadness. It was just another day for me now, no different from other days. While the rest of the crew I’d been stationed with were desperate to get filming wrapped up so they could return to their families, I would have been happy for filming to continue. That time of year meant nothing to me now.

I picked up the camera and approached the gate blocking the way to the loch. The ‘Keep Out’ sign creaked in a swift, bitter wind. How would the lodge’s occupants feel about me trespassing on their land on Christmas Eve? I was usually able to talk my way out of situations … or into them. But this might be a step too far.

As I thought of that, I caught a glimpse of white against white again.

Another ptarmigan! Or maybe the same one, teasing me.

I quickly lifted my camera onto my shoulder, filming the bird as it flew over the loch. It hovered for a moment, seeming to look over at me, and my heart swelled. I still had to pinch myself every day to make sure I really was doing the job I’d dreamt of doing since I was a teenager. The dream had started when I’d had to leave home at fourteen and work at the hotel my aunt ran in London. There were so many horrible things about that time: how desperately I missed my parents, our only contact in the form of stilted weekly letters. My aunt had worked me so hard, pleased to have an extra pair of hands at no extra cost. ‘You need to earn your accommodation and food, Gwyneth,’ she’d say. ‘You’re lucky I took you on after what you did.’ Not to mention the way some of the male guests would pat my bottom or make lewd comments. The one bright light was the fact the hotel was close to the British Film Institute’s headquarters so it was often frequented by documentary-makers who would stay during events. I’d escape the sadness of my life by listening in to their conversations as I served them tea over breakfast, or beer and wine late into the night. Civil rights marches in Memphis or starving children in Nigeria. There would always be a harrowing story to listen to. But it was the stories from the wildlife documentary-makers that fascinated me the most. I’d always loved watching the BBC’s Survival documentaries as a kid, awestruck by the stampedes of the great African elephants and soaring flights of proud birds of prey. And I had been in the company of the very people who filmed shots like that! It thrilled me.

And now I was feeling that same thrill as I watched this rarely sighted bird, the colour of snow, swooping down beneath a pale pink sky before landing on the iced-over loch. I smiled as I imagined what my mentor Reg Carlisle, the famous wildlife documentary-maker, would say.

‘Keep quiet. Keep steady,’ he’d whisper. Then a wink. ‘Nice spot, Gwyneth.’

I felt the leather notepad in my pocket that he’d given me as a gift just before he died then I took a step forward, then another before I reached the loch, where I carefully tested the ice beneath my snow boots. It was set, surely strong enough to sustain my weight. I was tall but thin, weighing less than usual after all those months of living on boil-in-the-bag camp food.