The Search Party: A Novel - Softcover

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Hannah Richell was born in Kent and spent her childhood years in Buckinghamshire and Canada. After graduating from the University of Nottingham, she worked in the book publishing and film industries in both London and Sydney. She is a dual citizen of Great Britain and Australia, and currently lives in the southwest of England with her family. Richell is the author of several books, including The Search Party, The Peacock Summer, and The River Home. Her work has been translated into nineteen languages.

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1. Dominic Dominic

Sunday afternoon

He has no idea how long he’s been sitting there. There’s no clock in the room, just a table, three chairs, and a single, narrow window set high into the wall—too high to offer anything but a glimpse of the blank gray sky outside. It could be twenty minutes since the police ushered him in and asked him to “wait here, please”; it could be far longer. Dominic knows in moments of heightened stress that seconds can feel like minutes, and minutes like hours, though the vending machine cup of tea someone brought him cooled ages ago. He also knows that every time he thinks about what might be happening outside this room he feels a painful constriction in his chest, a tight band pressing viselike against his lungs, making breathing hard.

He would have been more help out there. Not shut away in a hospital consulting room, sitting in his damp clothing, waiting to answer questions—questions he’s certain he won’t have the answers to. But the two detectives have been insistent—he was to assist with their inquiries. Almost, he thinks, as if they suspect him of something.

The door opens and Dominic springs from his chair. “Any news?” he asks, his eyes darting from the lead police detective in her gray suit to her burly, blond colleague just behind.

“Nothing yet I’m afraid, Mr. Davies,” she says. “Take a seat please.”

Dominic hesitates. The last thing he wants to do is sit. “I think I’d be more use—”

The detective raises her hand. “We’ve got a team scouring the site now. As soon as we know anything—anything at all—we’ll be sure to let you know. Right now, Mr. Davies, we need you to take us through everything you can remember.” She gestures toward his chair, before pulling out her own with a screech, slapping a thin, cardboard file on the table between them. The second officer takes his seat, his huge frame swamping the small plastic chair. He opens a notebook and uncaps a pen.

Dominic eyes the chair with frustration. He wants action and consequences, not talking and note-taking, but sensing the resolve rising off the female detective, he takes the seat.

Lawson, he remembers. DI Sue Lawson. She’d introduced herself earlier. Her younger colleague, the rosy-cheeked young man with the bleached-blond hair and shoulders that would be better suited to a muddy rugby shirt than a starched police uniform, is Barrett. No, Barnett. DC Barnett.

Lawson nods and Barnett starts the recording device resting on the table between them.

“To reiterate,” states Barnett, clearing his throat, “your participation in this interview is entirely voluntary. You can leave at any time, though of course,” he adds, “the more information we can gather about the weekend’s events, the more successful we are likely to be with our investigation.”

“I’ve already told you,” says Dominic, “it’s not me you need to talk to. It’s that kid. He’s got something to do with it, I know it.”

Another nod from Lawson. “As I said, we’ll be talking to everyone involved.”

“They’re always making excuses for him, but trust me, there’s something wrong with that boy.”

“Mr. Davies,” DI Lawson leans forward and fixes him with her level gaze, “I hear your concerns. I know how worried you must be.” Her eyes, he notices, are an intriguing color, gray like sea pebbles, an almost perfect match for the streak running through her short, dark hair. “But I’m afraid we do urgently require your assistance. We’d be grateful for your full cooperation.”

There’s a part of Dominic that can’t help wondering if they are deriving some small pleasure from this. It can’t be every day they get to interview someone off the telly. This whole incident will no doubt provide a flutter of excitement at the station. Guess who we had in the chair today. God forbid this should reach the press. He should probably call Barry. Give him the head’s-up in case the tabloids come sniffing for another salacious Dominic Davies story. They’d certainly raked him over the coals a few years back, around the time of his divorce. He frowns, glancing between the two detectives. “Do I need to call my lawyer?”

“Would you like legal representation?” Barnett glances up from his notepad, pen poised.

It’s like falling into one of those gritty crime dramas, Dominic thinks, the kind Tanya loves to watch on a Sunday night, curled up on the sofa in her pajamas with a glass of wine in her hand and her phone on her lap. He’s always thought them silly—overblown and too predictable—and yet here he sits, in an airless interview room with a recording device on the table between them, blinking its red light like an evil eye. “No,” he says, “of course I don’t need my lawyer. Let’s just get on with it.” He folds his arms across his chest. “What do you want to know?”

Lawson leans back in her seat and nods again at Barnett to continue.

“It was a reunion amongst friends? Four families meeting up for the May Day weekend?”

“Yes.”

Barnett checks back through his notes. “And there were fifteen in your party?”

Dominic considers this for a moment, counting in his head. “Well… we were sixteen, if you include the baby.” He reaches for the plastic cup in front of him before remembering it’s cold and undrinkable. At the sight of the brown film floating on its surface, he slides the cup away.

“You were all invited to Wildernest?” Barnett is consulting his notes again. “The site belonging to Max and Annie Kingsley, located out beyond the Cape, near Morvoren Point?”

“That’s right. I’d just wrapped filming on the latest series of the show, so it was good timing. Star Search,” he adds. “You’ve probably seen it.”

Barnett nods, but the female detective maintains her inscrutable stare. Dominic can’t hide his smile. He knows her type. Wants to pretend she’s above reality TV. Doesn’t like to admit she’s one of the ten million viewers tuning in religiously each week, cheering on her favorite contestants, texting her votes.

“No matter,” he says, with a small wave. “Max and Annie had invited us for the bank holiday to road test their new ‘glamping’ business.” He lifts his hands and emphasizes the apostrophes. “You know the sort of thing. All the rage: save-the-planet, sustainable ecotourism. Max’s dream.”

“I understand the Kingsleys had relocated to Cornwall last year, with their son?”

He nods. “To tell you the truth, none of us quite believed it when they announced they were leaving London. We were supportive, of course. You have to be, don’t you? It’s not exactly the done thing to tell your friends that you think they’re making a terrible mistake.”

“Why did you think it a mistake?”

Dominic lets out a sharp laugh. “They’d spent years building up their architectural firm, making it a success. Only last year they won a prestigious RIBA award for the ‘Grand...