THE HIKE

  Lucy Clarke

  Copyright

  HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  Macken House, 39/40 Mayor Street Upper,

  Dublin 1, D01 C9W8, Ireland

  First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2023

  Copyright © Lucy Clarke 2023

  Jacket design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2023

  Jacket photographs © Ebru Sidar/Arcangel Images (mountain in cloud) and Mehul Patel/Arcangel Images (forest)

  Lucy Clarke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008462420

  Ebook Edition © April 2023 ISBN: 9780008462444

  Version: 2023-02-27

  Dedication

  For Matt Clarke

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Arrival Day

  Chapter 1: Liz

  Chapter 2: Helena

  Chapter 3: Maggie

  Chapter 4: Joni

  Chapter 5: Liz

  Chapter 6: Maggie

  Chapter 7: Liz

  Chapter 8: Helena

  Chapter 9: Maggie

  Chapter 10: Liz

  Chapter 11: Joni

  Chapter 12: Maggie

  Chapter 13: Helena

  Chapter 14: Joni

  Chapter 15: Helena

  Chapter 16: Liz

  Chapter 17: Helena

  Day 1

  Chapter 18: Maggie

  The Search

  Chapter 19: Liz

  Chapter 20: Helena

  Chapter 21: Joni

  Chapter 22: Liz

  Chapter 23: Helena

  The Search

  Chapter 24: Maggie

  Chapter 25: Liz

  Chapter 26: Helena

  The Search

  Day 2

  Chapter 27: Liz

  Chapter 28: Maggie

  The Search

  Chapter 29: Helena

  Chapter 30: Maggie

  Chapter 31: Liz

  Chapter 32: Maggie

  The Search

  Chapter 33: Joni

  Chapter 34: Maggie

  Chapter 35: Joni

  Chapter 36: Helena

  The Search

  Chapter 37: Liz

  Chapter 38: Maggie

  Chapter 39: Joni

  Chapter 40: Maggie

  Chapter 41: Helena

  Chapter 42: Liz

  Day 3

  The Search

  Chapter 43: Maggie

  Chapter 44: Helena

  Chapter 45: Joni

  Chapter 46: Liz

  The Search

  Chapter 47: Maggie

  Chapter 48: Helena

  Chapter 49: Liz

  The Search

  Chapter 50: Maggie

  Chapter 51: Joni

  Chapter 52: Helena

  Chapter 53: Joni

  Chapter 54: Maggie

  Chapter 55: Liz

  Day 4

  Chapter 56: Joni

  The Search

  Chapter 57: Liz

  Chapter 58: Joni

  Chapter 59: Liz

  Chapter 60: Joni

  Chapter 61: Liz

  The Search

  Chapter 62: Helena

  Chapter 63: Liz

  The Search

  Chapter 64: Helena

  The Search

  Chapter 65: Liz

  The Search

  Chapter 66: Liz

  Chapter 67: Maggie

  Chapter 68: Joni

  Chapter 69: Liz

  Chapter 70: Liz

  Chapter 71: Helena

  Chapter 72: Maggie

  Chapter 73: Joni

  Chapter 74: Liz

  Chapter 75: Maggie

  Chapter 76: Helena

  Chapter 77: Maggie

  Chapter 78: Joni

  Chapter 79: Liz

  Afterwards

  Chapter 80: Helena

  Chapter 81: Maggie

  Chapter 82: Liz

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Keep Reading …

  About the Author

  Also by Lucy Clarke

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  Her body lies broken on the mountainside. It rests on a bed of dark rock, a thin pillow of green lichen beneath her cracked skull.

  Her irises hold the reflection of the sky, clouds travelling across unseeing pupils. Her face is undamaged – almost unnervingly so – her skin pale and clear. The breeze carries the scent of earth, salt, blood. It toys with a wisp of hair at her temple, then worries the collar of her top. Other than that, she is still.

  Blafjell mountain towers above her, an impassive, brute witness. It saw everything but tells nothing.

  In a few hours’ time, the first person on the scene will check her pulse. Radio in.

  They will speculate about what went wrong. Question why her pack is missing. Why there are crescents of dried blood beneath her fingernails. Why four heart-like bruises kiss the top of her left arm.

  Police will want to speak with the witness who last saw this young woman alive.

  Locals will ask why a female hiker was found on the mountain alone.

  Loved ones will pilgrimage to the spot, feet pounding the trails in their search for answers.

  For now, her body lies alone, undiscovered.

  The mountains give away none of their secrets. Yet out there, hidden within their granite folds, someone knows exactly how this woman died.

  And why.

  ARRIVAL DAY

  1

  LIZ

  Liz knotted the laces of her hiking boots, then eyed herself in the hallway mirror. Her friends would tease her for wearing them to the airport, but there was no space in her backpack. She’d been scrupulous with her packing. She enjoyed the efficiency of it, the paring back, whittling down, every gram counting. It was pleasing to be able to step out with everything she needed on her back. There was an autonomy about it that she liked – maybe a little too much.

  She checked her watch. If she left now, she’d arrive at Helena’s fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. Her backpack was waiting in the car. The tank was filled with petrol. Her checklist was ticked. There was nothing left for her to do except say goodbye.

  Hard to believe that, by this evening, she, Helena and Maggie would be in Norway. It had been her turn to choose the holiday destination. In previous years she’d picked Corfu, Madeira, the south of France. She’d loved those beach holidays – the kiss of the sun, the buzz of being with girlfriends, the languid days poolside – but recently she’d been thirsting for something different. She was thirty-three, a wife, a mother, a GP. Her everyday life was organised, buttoned down, scheduled. What she needed was an adventure.

  ‘You’re serious?’ Helena baulked when Liz pitched the idea of four days wild hiking and camping in Norway.

  Liz was. ‘I’ve always wanted to see the fjords and mountains.’

  ‘So book a cruise.’

  A few months earlier, thanks to a broken fan belt that the garage took an age to repair, Liz had been forced to walk into the surgery. As she’d walked, something magical seemed to happen; with each step, it was as if she were shaking off the chaos of lost homework, packed lunches and missing uniform items. She noticed birdsong, learned the names of the trees she passed, took the time to wave good morning to neighbours. By the time she arrived at work, her thoughts felt more spacious, her body grateful for the movement. She had been out in the weather and felt the day. The action of moving her feet, step after step, meant she arrived fresh and energised.

  Liz being Liz, she wanted to understand the physiological benefits of walking, so she’d dived into the research. She discovered that regular walking improved the immune system, lowered cholesterol, and strengthened feelings of wellbeing. She shared these findings with her patients. ‘I’m prescribing you a daily walk.’ It was simple, free, do-able for most. Life-changing in some cases.

  Right now, Liz needed life-changing.

  She glanced towards the kitchen. She could hear the morning symphony of breakfast: the clink of bowls set on the table, the gush of the tap, the scrape of a stool, Evie’s voice pitched above Daniel’s, the calming tone of Patrick mellowing them both.

  She moved towards the noise and warmth of her family. The thick-soled tread of her boots made her gait feel unfamiliar. She found herself standing in the kitchen doorway unnoticed and – for a few disconcerting
moments – it was as if she were watching someone else’s life. How much would they miss her, she wondered? Patrick knew the routines of family life so well: he was the one who made the packed lunches, did the school run, and helped with homework.

  Evie, hair mussed from sleep, was the first to spot her. ‘Mummy! Are you leaving now?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, feeling tears lodged at the back of her throat. She’d never liked protracted goodbyes. Out the door and get on with it. That was best.

  Patrick turned, warm brown eyes sliding over her face, but not meeting her gaze. ‘So, you’re picking up Helena first? Then Maggie?’

  ‘Then Norway here we come.’ She tried for upbeat, but her tone fell flat.

  ‘Please get a photo of Helena in hiking gear!’ He grinned.

  Liz moved towards her son, who was sitting at the breakfast bar, shovelling cornflakes into his mouth. She pressed a kiss on his cheek, feeling the machinations of his jaw.

  Evie put down her spoon to wobble a front tooth, asking, ‘Will this have fallen out by the time you’re back?’

  Liz nodded. She would probably return to find her daughter with a new gap in her perfect line of baby teeth. She would miss that sweet moment of slipping into a dark room to swap a tissue-wrapped tooth for a shiny pound coin.

  She was used to missing things: Evie’s first word (Dan-dan); Daniel’s first steps across the lounge floor – caught in Patrick’s arms; watching the twins in their first swimming lesson. But there were many more things that she had been there for, and Liz knew that tallying up the misses and the been-there-fors only led to a scorecard etched in guilt.

  ‘Look after each other while I’m away,’ she said, breathing them in. She kissed their heads; told them she loved them.

  She followed Patrick to the front door. He opened it onto a sun-bright September morning and there was something about the gesture that made Liz feel like a guest.

  ‘Excited?’ he asked.

  She forced a smile, nodding. ‘I’ll see you when …’ she faltered. She wouldn’t see him when she got back. The arrangement was a month apart. A trial separation, taking it in turns to be out of the house so it wouldn’t affect the children: a week in Norway for her, then a week for him visiting his brother, and then more switching and organising on her return. A month apart to give them time to decide what they wanted.

  What do you want? she wondered, looking briefly at Patrick.

  ‘Bye, Liz,’ he said, leaning down to press a kiss against her cheek. He smelled of toast and coffee and the fabric of their home.

  She had a strange vertiginous feeling – as if she needed to reach out, grip onto his solidity, as the rest of the world spun away from her.

  She blinked quickly, looking down at her neatly laced hiking boots. She took a deep breath, then turned and stepped out of her life.

  2

  HELENA

  Helena eyed her backpack. It leaned with jaunty arrogance against her front door, blocking her exit. Buckles and straps strained against the bulk of its contents. She’d cut the price tag from it this morning, nicking her thumb with the nail scissors. A single bead of blood had dripped onto the front of the pack, leaving a tiny dark stain. If Maggie noticed it, she’d believe it was a bad omen. But Helena didn’t believe in omens. She believed she needed to be more careful with scissors.

  She sipped her coffee, luxuriating in the deep, velvety flavour, knowing it would be her last Aero-Pressed coffee for a while. Four sachets of instant coffee were sealed in a pocket of her backpack – one for each morning of the hike. She’d Googled travel-sized coffee makers, picturing the romance of one perched on a hissing camp stove, framed by a beautiful Norwegian backdrop. She’d liked the image enough to press Buy, but once the coffee maker had arrived and she’d laid it out on the spare bed alongside the other packages that landed almost daily – dry bags, waterproof over-trousers, merino wool socks, two-man tent, down sleeping bag, lightweight roll mat, camping stove, gas canister – she knew she couldn’t justify the extra weight.

  She moved cautiously towards the backpack, the way you might approach a wary horse, slowly placing a palm to its flank. Was she really going to lug this through the wilderness for four days?

  She laughed at the absurdity of it. Her, Helena Hall, going wild camping in Norway!

  Bloody Liz. It was her year to choose the destination. When it had been Helena’s turn three years earlier, she’d picked Ibiza. Even Joni had shown up, flying in for two nights in the middle of her tour schedule, hooking them up with VIP club passes. The four of them had spent a week lazing in the sunshine, swimming in rocky coves, and partying until sundown. That was a holiday.

  Hiking in Norway? It’ll be an adventure, Liz had assured them, her lips working a bit too hard to stretch into a smile. Still. She wasn’t going to stick here alone in her flat while the others went off together. When you’re single in your thirties, you jump at the chance to go anywhere with your girlfriends.

  Earlier in the week she’d messaged Liz at midnight: Toilets! Where do I go for a crap? And Liz had sent back an emoji of a poo and a forest – and then sent a link to a trowel.

  Fine. It was going to be absolutely fine.

  She finished her coffee, rinsed and dried the mug, then returned it to the cupboard, handle pointing outward. She smoothed her hands against her thighs. Looked around. The granite surfaces were empty. The downlights switched off.

  She glanced at her watch. Liz would be here in fifteen minutes.

  Moving into her bedroom, she looked wistfully through the open window onto the city. Outside, the early September light held a golden warmth to it – the last breath of summer. Her city – Bristol – smelled of diesel and concrete and warm bins. She filled her lungs with it. Oh, the beauty of pavements, and buildings, and traffic, and the clip of heeled footwear. Not a hiking boot or fleece in sight. She pulled the window closed reluctantly.

  She caught sight of a package resting on her dressing table, still in a carrier bag. She eyed it for a moment, lips pressed together, heart rate picking up speed, deliberating. Then she snatched it up, tore free the bag, and stared at the pregnancy test.

  A hot flush of dread swam through her. She didn’t want to take the test. She didn’t want to even look at it. But she needed to get it done. Then she could put it behind her and enjoy the trip. It would be a good anecdote for the plane. Liz and Maggie could poke fun at her feckless single lifestyle.

  She ripped open the box and scanned the instructions without reading a word. She knew the drill. Pee on a stick. Wait for three minutes, sweating.

  She carried it to the en suite, irked to notice her hands were trembling.

  Do I even need a wee? she wondered, slipping down her knickers and crouching over the toilet.

  She held the pregnancy test between her legs. Closed her eyes. Tried to concentrate on relaxing.

  She’d been poised for only a moment when the door buzzer blared. ‘Christ!’ she cried, leaping from the seat.

  She snapped up her knickers, then strode into the hallway, zipping up her trousers.

  ‘It’s me!’ Liz’s voice beamed through the intercom. ‘I’m outside.’

  Course Liz would be early.

  ‘You ready?’ she trilled.

  Glancing at the unused pregnancy test, she felt a bolt of irritation at Liz for arriving early – but, beneath that, Helena felt a sense of reprieve, of a bullet dodged.

  She pressed her mouth to the speaker. ‘Ready.’

  3

  MAGGIE

  Maggie studied her daughter, watching her tiny fist gripping the crayon, the tip of her tongue poking from the corner of her mouth as she concentrated.

  Outside, gravel crunched beneath tyres. Phoebe looked up, eyes large and round. A crease appeared on her otherwise smooth brow. ‘Daddy?’

  Maggie made sure her voice came out warm and bright. ‘Yes.’ She glanced at the kitchen clock: he was an hour late. Arsehole.

  ‘Don’t want to go.’

  ‘I know,’ Maggie said, opening her arms to the warmth and weight of Phoebe’s body as she climbed into them. She pressed her face into her daughter’s neck, inhaling the sweetness of her skin.

  Phoebe had never stayed at Aidan’s. Maggie had put it off, citing the need for breastfeeding, and later co-sleeping, but now that Phoebe was three, Aidan had insisted that he finally have her overnight. It was fair, she knew that. She did. And Maggie wanted him and Phoebe to have a relationship – yet the thought of being apart from her was a physical, wrenching pain. There was something instinctive and primal about the need for her daughter’s flesh to be pressed to hers, to feel her heartbeat each night through her cotton pyjamas.