The Heights: A dark story of obsession and revenge. Juliet Bell

       Chapter Forty-Seven

       Chapter Forty-Eight

       Chapter Forty-Nine

       Epilogue

       Copyright

      JULIET BELL is the collaborative pen name of respected authors Janet Gover and Alison May.

      Juliet was born at a writers’ conference, with a chance remark about heroes who are far from heroic. She was raised on pizza and wine during many long working lunches, and finished her first novel over cloud storage and Skype in 2017.

      Juliet shares Janet and Alison’s preoccupation with misunderstood classic fiction, and stories that explore the darker side of relationships.

      Alison also writes commercial women’s fiction and romantic comedies and can be found at www.alison-may.co.uk.

      Janet writes contemporary romantic adventures mostly set in outback Australia and can be found at www.janetgover.com.

       Acknowledgements

      This book was written with the help and support of many people.

      First we must thank Emily Brontë for Wuthering Heights. Adapting her timeless story to our modern world was a huge challenge. We hope we’ve done her justice.

      Many thanks to Jon Sawyer, for sharing his memories of troubled times and the picket lines and inspiring some of the key moments of the story.

      Our thanks also go to our agent Julia Silk for believing in us and in this book, and to our editor, Clio Cornish, for her enthusiasm and love for the story we were trying to tell.

      Writing a novel is a curiously solitary task, even when there’s two of you, so we must also thank all our friends and family for supporting us during the process. Special thanks to all our friends in the RNA, especially the wonderful women of the naughty kitchen. And extra special thanks to John and Paul for, well, for everything really.

      And finally – thank you, dear reader, for picking up this book. We hope you enjoy it.

      Dedicated to Emily Brontë, for creating a world with the enduring power to inspire readers and writers to this day.

Prologue

      Gimmerton, West Yorkshire. 2007

      The searchers took several hours to find the body, even though they knew roughly where to look. The whole hillside had collapsed and, although the rain had cleared, there was water running off the moors and over the slick black rubble. The searchers were concerned about their own safety on the unstable slope. The boy, they knew, was beyond their help. This was a recovery, not a rescue.

      Twice during the search, the hillside started to move again, and the searchers held their breath. The blue hills were nothing but mine waste. There was no substance to them. They were as fragile as the lives of the people who lived below them on the estate that clung to the land around the abandoned pithead.

      Some of the searchers had worked in that mine. Years ago. The boy they were searching for was one of their own. Almost. He had the right name, even if most of them had never laid eyes on him. They knew his family. His grandfather had worked beside them at the coalface. His uncle too had been one of them. Not the father, mind. But still, they weren’t going to leave the lad buried beneath the landslip.

      The family weren’t out there on the slope. Maybe the police had told them to stay behind. But maybe not. Maybe they just hadn’t come.

      They’d been looking for a couple of hours when the photographer from the local newspaper arrived. He was told to wait safely beyond the edge of the slip. But he was carrying an array of big and expensive lenses. His camera would go to the places he couldn’t.

      The sun was sinking when they found him.

      One of the searchers had started yet another small slip, and as the rock slid away, almost like liquid, part of the body was exposed. Carefully they had pulled him free.

      The boy hadn’t died easily. Father Joseph, down at St Mary’s, was an old-fashioned priest, but there was no way this lad was going to have an open casket. His body had been pummelled by the sliding rock. The rain had washed most of the blood away, but it was still enough to make one of the men turn away and heave into the scrubby grass.

      Surprisingly, the boy’s face was hardly damaged at all. Just a couple of small scrapes and a cut on his temple.

      The team leader removed his rucksack and dug inside to find a body bag. Carefully, they lifted the boy and put him inside. There was a sense of relief when the bag was closed.

      They carried him down from the hills. The photographer followed. He took a few pictures, but then seemed to lose interest. As soon as they reached the road, the photographer broke away and walked quickly to the warmth of his car.

      The searchers carried the body to the ambulance and waited while he was gently placed inside. Then they too dispersed.

      The ambulance and the police were the last to leave. The ambulance was destined for the morgue. The police car turned into the estate and parked outside one of the few houses that wasn’t boarded up and deserted.

      The young constable got out, and carefully placed his hat on his head and straightened his uniform jacket. That’s what you did when you brought bad news to a family, even one that hadn’t bothered to come and join the search.

      He walked up to number 37 Moor Lane and knocked on the door.

Chapter One

      Gimmerton. 2008

      This was the place he had almost died. Lockwood shivered. In front of him, the chain-link fence was rusted and sagging. The sign hung at an angle, the words NO TRESPASSING all but covered with dirt and grime. Beyond the fence, in the grey light of the overcast afternoon, the buildings looked dark and decayed. Odd bits of iron, stripped from the disused mining machines, lay scattered about the ground and weeds were reclaiming their place in the filthy wasteland of the deserted pit. One building was open to the elements, the remains of its roof lying in a twisted heap between the crumbling brick walls. Not a single pane of glass remained intact. The men of this town had good throwing arms. Stones hadn’t been their only weapons. Nor had windows been their only targets.

      Lockwood reached into his pocket and retrieved the piece of metal he’d carried with him every day for more than two decades. The nail was twisted and bent, distorted almost beyond recognition when it was fired through the side of the police van. The newspaper reports at the time had declared it a miracle no one was injured as the nail ricocheted around the interior. Lockwood knew better. A tiny white scar on the left side of his neck showed how close death had come. After everything he’d seen in this job, that was the place his brain took him whenever he let his guard drop. To this day he still woke, sweating at night, hearing the sound of the nail gun beside his ear, and the screech of metal as the nail tore through the body of the van. He could still feel the sharp stab of pain in his flesh.

      Lockwood told himself he was no coward. Even then, working with the riot squad, he’d expected danger. The miners were tough, and they were angry. Desperation had seeped into the bones of their community. They were about to lose their jobs. More than that, they were about to lose