Reservoir 13: WINNER OF THE 2017 COSTA NOVEL AWARD. Jon McGregor
Читать онлайн.| Название | Reservoir 13: WINNER OF THE 2017 COSTA NOVEL AWARD |
|---|---|
| Автор произведения | Jon McGregor |
| Жанр | Зарубежные детективы |
| Серия | |
| Издательство | Зарубежные детективы |
| Год выпуска | 0 |
| isbn | 9780008204877 |
4th Estate
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This eBook first published by 4th Estate in 2017
Copyright © 2017 Jon McGregor
Cover photographs © Shutterstock
Photograph © Sandra Salvas
Extract from ‘Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird’ from The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens by Wallace Stevens, copyright © 1954 by Wallace Stevens and copyright renewed 1982 by Holly Stephens. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, and Faber and Faber Ltd. All rights reserved.
Jon McGregor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780008204853
Ebook Edition © April 2017 ISBN: 9780008204877
Version: 2018-05-01
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
– Wallace Stevens
i.m.
Alistair McGregor
1945–2015
Contents
They gathered at the car park in the hour before dawn and waited to be told what to do. It was cold and there was little conversation. There were questions that weren’t being asked. The missing girl’s name was Rebecca Shaw. When last seen she’d been wearing a white hooded top. A mist hung low across the moor and the ground was frozen hard. They were given instructions and then they moved off, their boots crunching on the stiffened ground and their tracks fading behind them as the heather sprang back into shape. She was five feet tall, with dark-blonde hair. She had been missing for hours. They kept their eyes down and they didn’t speak and they wondered what they might find. The only sounds were footsteps and dogs barking along the road and faintly a helicopter from the reservoirs. The helicopter had been out all night and found nothing, its searchlight skimming across the heather and surging brown streams. Jackson’s sheep had taken the fear and scattered through a broken gate, and he’d been up all hours bringing them back. The mountain-rescue teams and the cave teams and the police had found nothing, and at midnight a search had been called. It hadn’t taken much to raise the volunteers. Half the village was out already, talking about what could have happened. This was no time of year to have gone up on the hill, it was said. Some of the people who come this way don’t know how sharply the weather can turn. How quickly darkness falls. Some of them don’t seem to know there are places a mobile phone won’t work. The girl’s family had come up for the New Year, and were staying in one of the barn conversions at the Hunter place. They’d come running into the village at dusk, shouting. It was a cold night to have been out on the hill. She’s likely just hiding, people said. She’ll be down in a clough. Turned her ankle. She’ll be aiming to give her parents a fright. There was a lot of this. People just wanted to open their mouths and talk, and they didn’t much mind what came out. By first light the mist had cleared. From the top of the moor when people turned they could see the village: the beech wood and the allotments, the church tower and the cricket ground, the river and the quarry and the cement works by the main