Read an exerpt from the book

Chapter 1 

The closer Alan got to Clayton, the more it occurred to him he should have stayed in London after landing at Heathrow. He hated long-haul flights and could have done without the four hour drag up the motorway. It wasn’t as if there was any urgency to get back to the humdrum of country life, but something lured him back to the remote village he was supposed to call home.

It didn’t seem like only yesterday he’d finished the Trans Rockies Mountain Bike Challenge with his teammate, Chris. Sixteen hours of travelling had obliterated the glory of being the fastest British males aged over twenty-five. It had been a mind-blowing experience, yet now the whole six weeks sat with distant memories that didn’t flow into any sequence. There wouldn’t be any champagne celebration when he got home. Most likely, he’d get an ear-bending from his mother for not being around all summer to work on the family farm.

Winding through the country lanes, his neck stiffened as he turned the wheel to go round yet another bend. Daring to take one hand off the steering wheel, he pinched his nose and made his ears pop. They’d rung since taking off from Vancouver and now the buzz from the engine filled his head. Another hairpin bend came into view and he felt a twinge in his leg. He braced himself to use the clutch.

Pain hadn’t bothered him whilst he was riding his bike. There was no adrenaline rush now to null the throb that plagued his lower body. As soon as he put his foot out, shooting pains went down his leg. Gritting his teeth, he grappled with the gearstick. The car juddered as his foot slipped off the clutch, jarring his back even more. He held his breath until the sensation went from his leg, then he noticed the headache again.

Relieved to get onto a straight stretch of road, he risked screwing up his eyes and rubbed them to stem the itchiness. Even the late afternoon light made him squint. With only five miles to go, there didn’t seem any sense in stopping for a kip. He fumbled for the button on the door panel, the window whirred, and a nip of air sharpened him like a shot of caffeine.

With sharper eyes, he watched the rapid approach of a cyclist. Despite the distance between them, he could see the rider was female from the train of hair flapping out behind her. Overcome by nostalgia, he yearned for the exhilaration of hammering the terrain, pumping the front wheel over boulders. It was better than bloody driving. Sciatic pain shot down his leg. Maybe not.

 Coming closer to the Roebuck Inn, he noticed a red Vauxhall Corsa waiting to turn right at the T-junction. Bloody typical Sunday driver! Why wouldn’t he set off? The road was clear. As he got closer, he made out the pseudo country gentleman behind the wheel, wearing a trilby hat. The stupid twit was talking on his mobile phone. A few seconds later, the cyclist began to pass him.

Wheels screeching and engine revving hard, the waiting car pulled out. Shit! Trilby hat hadn’t even looked. Alan slammed on the brakes and yanked the steering wheel, bringing his Audi Q5 to a halt in the middle of the junction. A scream hacked the air. He turned his head and watched in horror as the cyclist tumbled off the bike.

 Grabbing his phone from the dashboard caddy, he leapt out of his vehicle. In disbelief, he watched the Sunday driver speed off into the distance. He held his phone up and framed a camera shot of the car then scanned the road for the cyclist. She was nowhere to be seen. His heart started racing and his breath quickened. Spotting the mangled bike on a grass verge above a shallow ditch, he ran towards it. Then he saw the woman, sprawled out in the ditch. Her face looked ashen and her lips swelled. Brown hair straggled into the dirt from beneath her helmet.

Alan feared the worst. A prickling sensation crept up the back of his neck whilst he gawped at the woman who lay like a discarded manikin. He dialled 999.

“I need police and an ambulance.”

The line crackled and his hair flapped in the wind, so he pushed his hand tighter against the phone.

“A cyclist’s been hit on the Grassington Road, about one hundred metres past the Roebuck Inn in the direction of Clayton.”

The red Vauxhall appeared in his mind.

“The police need to be on the lookout for a red Corsa, recent model.”

“Is the casualty breathing?” the operator asked.

He started to shake. “I don’t know.”

His voice gave out and he fell to his knees.

“The ambulance is on its way.”

The operator’s voice sounded like an echo then the line went dead.

Left confused, all he could do was gape at the injured woman. Through her torn clothing, he could see where the gravel had grazed the left side of her body. Rubbing his fingers over his moist palms, he wondered what the hell to do. Why couldn’t he deal with this? He was a first-aider. But his head was in a vacuum, and he dared not hold her wrist in case he found no pulse.

Reaching towards her left side, he brushed her grazed skin. She winced, although her eyes stayed shut. Consumed by relief, he watched her chest rise and fall.

“Thank God,” he whispered.

She was so lucky to be alive. He rolled her into the recovery position then peeled off his fleece and wrapped it round her. Sirens wailed in the distance. All he had to do was keep an eye on her vital signs until the ambulance arrived. Sliding his hand beneath her wrist, he raised her arm. Her hand flopped but he could feel her pulse strumming his fingertips. He moved his head towards her mouth and felt her breath on his cheek.

Edging back, he gazed at her face. The colour was returning but he got an eerie feeling. Her long lashes and high cheek bones looked like those belonging to a face he’d seen before. He dismissed the thought. Too long ago. It couldn’t be her.

The approaching sirens made him look up, then a police car and ambulance pulled onto the grass verge. A kneejerk sense of unease came over him as a police sergeant and constable stepped onto the road. He’d spent too many nights in police cells as a teenager to be comfortable around the law. Hoping he could avoid speaking to the officers, he stayed put. Two paramedics hurried towards him.

“Casualty's breathing but she's not fully alert,” he said when they were within hearing distance.

“We appreciate what you’ve done,” said the elder of the two paramedics. He glanced at the woman. “We’ll take over from here. I think the sergeant wants to speak to you.”

Pausing for a second, Alan swallowed. As he hauled himself to his feet, a sciatic twinge jolted him. He limped over to the panda car, where the sergeant stood. Glancing back, he noticed the constable crouched beside the mangled bike.

“What’s your name, sir?” the sergeant asked, poising his pen over a pad of paper.

He placed his hand on the roof of the car so he could take the weight off his left leg. As it went into spasm, he clenched his teeth and spoke.

“I’m Alan Bell.”

The sergeant looked him up and down, making him feel like he was under suspicion.

“It looks like you’ve been in the wars as well.”

Rubbing his leg, Alan said, “Sciatica.”

“Painful! Hit and run was it?”

Alan narrowed his eyes.

“The accident? Yeah, yeah, hit and run. The driver of the other car was on his mobile.”

The sergeant’s face soured. Alan could tell what he was thinking, and for the first time in his life, he felt on side with the law. Retrieving the phone from his pocket, he brought up the image of the car and handed the phone to the sergeant.

“I’m sorry; it’s a bit far away.”

The sergeant surveyed the picture.

“Good lad. We can track the vehicle down from this. You’d be surprised what we can do with imaging technology.”

He took the phone to the panda car.

Not paying much attention, Alan stared into space with no sense of time passing. Everything that had happened replayed in his mind: the woman tumbling off the bike, the car driving off down the road and that pompous arsehole in a trilby hat. The adrenaline steadily drained from him as if his blood had pooled in his feet. Through the spots in front of his eyes, he watched the woman being carried on a stretcher towards the ambulance.

Hearing the crackle coming over a radio, he blinked and glanced across at the constable making his way towards the panda car.

The sergeant stepped out onto the tarmac.

“HQ has located the Vauxhall. They're sending someone to an address on Broughton Road.”

The constable nodded.

“I’ve just heard it over the radio. We'll need to take the bike so we can match the paint work. Thankfully the car hit the bike and not her.”

Alan took the phone back, trying to keep it in his grip. His sweat had smeared the screen.

“Thank you very much,” the sergeant said. “I wish there were more people like you around.”

The two police officers got back in the car. As Alan hobbled away, they set off down the road after the ambulance. Over Alan the sky was still a pale grey-blue. Drawing in a deep breath, he returned to his vehicle with the image of the young woman’s face imprinted on his mind.