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thought. Just that one bar …
    Almost afraid to look down at it.
    But she did. The bar still there. Now she had to hope Jack had a signal as well.
    She scrolled to his number, and pressed to call. Then up to her ear, hearing a ring which she knew didn’t necessarily mean a phone was ringing anywhere.
    But then:
    “Yeah, Sarah?”
    “Jack. Think I found him. I think—”
    Words failing her.
    “Okay, Sarah. Stay right there. I’ll find you.”
    Then, ever Jack: “You okay?”
    And Sarah lied. “Yeah.”
    She put the phone down not killing the call and hoping Jack did likewise as she waited, standing watch over the snowman at her feet.

8. Questions in the Woods
    Jack crouched down. Sarah had watched him gently brush away snow from the top of the figure until a face was exposed.
    She had to turn away from that for a moment.
    Then back, as Jack performed more dusting moves, clearing more encrusted snow away from the figure. And when she did turn back, she saw the man’s grey hair, frozen into spikes, sticking out at odd angles.
    Eyes shut as if sleeping. And at the neck, a bit of material showing the now-familiar pattern of the nursing home’s pyjamas.
    Jack had called Alan, who was now only minutes away.
    He turned to Sarah.
    “Poor guy. Wandered in here. God knows what he was thinking.”
    “Probably tripped on the same rock I did.”
    Jack looked away, and Sarah could guess what he was thinking. Then he said it.
    “I should have kept looking for him.”
    She touched his shoulder. “Jack, you did look, but it was night; he could have been anywhere.”
    She doubted her words helped much. But in a moment, he turned to her.
    “I used to tell rookie cops, when they second-guessed what they did or didn’t do … you can’t change the past.”
    “True enough.”
    “But, what you do next, well, that’s wide open.”
    She understood what he was talking about.
    “You mean — there’s something we can do now?”
    “Right. That Broadmead place there. Letting this guy out, with whatever addled thinking going on, it’s criminal.”
    “I’m sure there will be an investigation.”
    Jack let those words hang for a moment. She could guess how much confidence he’d have in that.
    “Yeah, there will be.”
    She made herself look down at the body again. Who was this poor man who should have been tucked up in bed, in the warmth, watching the snow fall through a window, not wandering alone at night, lost …?
    In the thick snow, she could see the trail of his footprints leading from deeper in the wood. The latest snowfall had almost filled them in, but not quite.
    She tried to imagine the old man’s last moments, walking through the darkness, his hands numb, grabbing at branches, stumbling, falling.
    Then she saw another trail of footprints leading from the body.
    She caught Jack’s arm and nodded in the direction of the prints.
    “Those aren’t our footprints, Jack, are they?”
    She watched him as he took in the extra set of prints, seeming to understand straight away why she’d asked.
    “No,” he said. “They’re not.”
    “Are they his?” said Sarah. “Looks like they’re going round in circles.”
    “Maybe he stopped here — turned around — went back and forth a bit.”
    “Or maybe he and Reg were here together …”
    “Could be,” said Jack. “Archy falls over, twists his ankle. Reg maybe goes for help …”
    “Then just … ends up at the pub. Forgets about his pal.”
    “Funny,” said Jack. “I’m thinking of them like runaways. Prisoners escaping.”
    “But what were they running away from?” said Sarah.
    “You’re right,” said Jack. “Gotta wonder how bad things really were up at that home.”
    And at that moment, they heard a siren roaring their way.
    Alan walked back with them to the road, lowering his phone
    “The undertakers are sending people out. They didn’t sound too happy, in this weather.”
    “Getting real bad out,” Jack said.
    “Yeah. You two best get to your