Prologue: Halfhidden, West Lancashire, 1993

      That evening, Baz Salcombe’s old Range Rover, which was mainly used by his teenage son, Harry, and his friends, passed through the stone gateposts of the Sweetwell estate and paused briefly in the blackest of shadows by the turn to the Lodge, before pursuing an unsteady course up the dark, tree-lined tunnel of the drive.

      The road beyond the first sharp bend first hunched itself up and then dipped deeply into a hollow, but either the driver had forgotten that or was recklessly convinced that the car would fly over it, for it suddenly leaped forward with a roar – then the brake lights flashed and it swerved, flipping sideways into the trees with an almighty crash.

      The ominous sound, together with the incessant blaring of the jammed horn, carried as far as the Lodge and set off a cacophony of barking from Debo Dane’s Desperate Dogs Refuge. Judy Almond, her friend and housekeeper, who was starting out for the local pub to collect Debo’s niece, Izzy, stopped dead with the car keys in her hand, heart racing.

      Tom Tamblyn was halfway down the woodland path that led to his cottage by the Lady Spring when he heard the crash, but Dan Clew, Baz Salcombe’s gardener, was first on the scene, for he’d been so close by that he actually felt the resonance of the impact through the soles of his feet. Arriving at a run, he found the crumpled car lying on its side in a thick tangle of old trees, wheels still spinning and the headlights blazing out at a crazy angle.

      The uppermost doors had burst open and, to his great relief, he saw his son Simon climb out and then stagger up the bank, where he slumped with his head in his hands. A girl was screaming hysterically and even before Dan had fished out a torch from his pocket and investigated, he guessed it would be Cara Ferris, the local vet’s daughter.

      Cara, her face masked with blood from a deep cut, was already frantically scrambling out of the back seat and it looked as though she’d had a lucky escape, for a branch had impaled the car from front to back, as if preparing to spit-roast it.

      Dan moved the torch beam to the front and could see at a glance that his boss’s son, Harry, had taken the brunt of the collision and there was nothing to be done – and the girl slumped next to him had a bad head injury and didn’t look in much better shape. He paused for a moment, looking over his shoulder as if to check for any sign of other rescuers, before reaching in and gathering up her small, slight form.

      Tom Tamblyn was just in time to see Dan lift the unconscious figure out of the front of the car, before laying it down on a bit of flat turf next to the drive.

      ‘Is that young Izzy Dane?’ Tom gasped, still panting for breath, for he was somewhat beyond the age of sprinting up steep paths. ‘Eeh, she looks bad – and you shouldn’t have moved her with that head injury, Dan.’

      ‘Thought I’d better in case the car goes up – there’s an almighty stink of petrol,’ Dan said shortly, looking up. ‘She was in the front with Harry and they had the worst of it – my lad and the Ferris girl were in the back and got themselves out.’

      He nodded at Izzy. ‘If you think she looks bad, you should see Harry.’

      ‘Like that, is it?’ Tom got out his own torch, took a look inside the car, and came back, shaking his head.

      ‘Poor lad,’ he said. ‘But he’s in the passenger seat so … are you saying young Izzy was driving? She’s not old enough to have her licence yet.’ He took off his old tweed jacket and laid it over the still figure on the grass, after checking her airways were clear and she still had a pulse.

      ‘She was in the front next to Harry – it’s clear enough what happened.’

      ‘Your Simon always drives them back from the pub, though, doesn’t he?’ Tom said. ‘On account of being teetotal.’

      ‘Not this time.’

      ‘This is all Izzy’s fault!’ Cara exclaimed hysterically, the wadded hem of her T-shirt held to her bloody face. She’d scrambled up the bank and was sitting next to Simon, who was still slumped with his head in his hands. ‘I’m going to be scarred for life – and Harry?’ Her voice rose shrilly. ‘What’s happened to Harry?’

      ‘It was Howling Hetty’s ghost that did it!’ Simon slurred, looking up with a face as milk-pale as any wraith, and then he threw up copiously into the grass next to him, narrowly avoiding Cara.

      Tom blanched and said uneasily, ‘Nay, never say you’ve seen her!’

      ‘Of course he hasn’t! Simon, pull yourself together and ring for help, if you haven’t already,’ Dan snapped. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

      ‘Teetotaller or not, he’s drunk,’ Tom said, fishing a mobile phone the size of a brick out of his trouser pocket and dialling 999.

      ‘I’d better go down to the Lodge and tell them …’ Dan stopped, glancing at Izzy, still lying unconscious on the grass.

      ‘No need, they’ll have heard that damned horn and be here any second,’ Tom said. ‘The whole of Halfhidden will have heard it.’

      And he was right, for the sound echoing urgently up and down the valley was a siren for a disaster that had ended one young life and would forever change those of the other occupants of the car that night, but most especially Izzy Dane’s.