Free The Risk of Darkness by Susan Hill

run, the cricket game continue. Anything to keep himself from remembering who was next to him, inches away on the narrow ledge and why and what she had almost certainly done. If he thought of that, he knew he might make a single movement to send her over the edge of the cliff.
    He had seen Sam raise his bat to acknowledge the applause for his half-century, when there was asudden noise which, after a moment, he recognised as the beep of his mobile, buried in his inside pocket.
    “Simon? What the hell are you doing?” The line crackled, the voice breaking up.
    Simon told Jim Chapman in half a sentence. As he spoke, he saw the woman’s back stiffen.
    “Bloody lucky you’re alive.”
    “Yes.”
    “Right, coastguard’s been alerted and he’s just come back to say RAF 202 Squadron have scrambled a rescue helicopter. On its way.”
    “Thank God for that.”
    “Any injuries?”
    “Nothing much … I’m restraining myself.”
    “Right, well, you go on doing that, we want this one whole.”
    “Too right. Anything up there?”
    A fraction of a pause. Then Chapman said quickly, “You’ll get a full briefing later,” and cut off.
    Simon had been close to violent criminals often enough, close to murderers and wife-beaters, handcuffed to them, his own flesh touching theirs, making his skin crawl. But this was different. He had complete authority and complete power over Edwina Sleightholme, barring the fact that she might still make a sudden bid to leap off the ledge to her death. But he did not think she would do that now. Fear was paralysing her.
    He wondered how long they would be here before the helicopter arrived, and whether he could summon up the will to have a conversation with her. If it was aquestion of minutes, he had no need to, but if they were to be here for hours, he would have to talk, keep her going, keep her awake.
    He looked at her legs, in the black jeans, her cap of dark hair falling forwards over the knees. Had she taken those children and killed them? How could this be? The profile was all wrong. This was not a woman’s crime. This should have been a man.
    If she was innocent, why had she failed to stop for the patrol car, why had she tried to break her neck, and theirs, racing for this coast? What else would have made her dive down the precipitous cliff path to get away from them, except guilt and fear of arrest?
    The ledge was cold and his back ached. His arms were stiff and his cut hand throbbed.
    The storm was grumbling away inland now and the sky had lightened to a paler grey over the sea. It began to rain again, at first lightly, blown into their faces with the sea spray, but then hard pins of rain lashing them to the cliff. But Simon was conscious of something inside himself that he had missed, something he had once known and almost lost touch with. His tension and excitement were under control, the buzz was helping him not blurring his focus.
    “I’m going to be sick.”
    “Don’t lean over, lean back. Close your eyes.”
    “Makes it worse.”
    “Look down at the bit of rock in front of you.”
    “I’m scared shitless.”
    He could have pounced then, asked her how she liked it, whether she realised this was how the childrenhad felt, but worse, a thousand times worse. He wanted to put her through it, describe them to her as he had seen them on the conference-room wall, the pictures of three bright, cheerful, hopeful young faces, to tell her how it had been for the parents, to …
    He said nothing.
    His phone rang again.
    “RAF helicopter ETA fifteen minutes. Can you hold on?”
    “Yes.”
    “Want the good news?”
    “What?”
    “The kid’s alive.”
    “Where?”
    “Tied up in the car boot.”
    Simon did not look at Edwina Sleightholme. He might have kicked her over the edge on to the rocks below.
    “The chopper’ll take you to Scarborough hospital. We’ll get over there as soon as we have it in sight. Hang on to him.”
    “Oh, don’t you worry.”
    “We’ll make the