The Hike

by Lucy Clarke

Genres: Mystery; Suspense; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

*The Sunday Times bestseller*

*DISCOVER YOUR NEXT ESCAPE WITH THE MILLION-COPY BESTSELLING AUTHOR*

‘A tear-those-pages thriller’ ABIGAIL DEAN
‘Secrets galore’ DAILY MAIL
‘Atmospheric, haunting, and beautifully written’ GILLIAN McALLISTER
‘Queen of the destination thriller’ CLAIRE DOUGLAS

_______________________________________________________________

THE PERFECT DAY FOR A HIKE

Leaving behind their everyday lives, four friends hike out into the beautiful Norwegian wild – nothing between them and the mountain peak but forest, sea and sharp blue sky.

THE PERFECT PLACE TO DISAPPEAR

But there’s a darker side to the wilderness. A woman went missing here one year ago, scarring the mountain with suspicion and unanswered questions.

Now, the friends are hiking into the heart of the mystery. And waiting on the trail is someone who’d do anything to keep their secrets buried – and to stop the group walking away alive . . .

_________________________________________________________________

Readers love getting swept away with Lucy Clarke’s destination thrillers:

‘Had me on the edge of my seat’ ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘Brilliant . . . kept me guessing the whole way through’ ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘Twists & turns galore, couldn’t put it down. Highly recommend!’ ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'Very clever and I was gripped throughout. Will be reading more from Lucy Clarke for sure!’ ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘Very evocative and you get really involved with the beautiful setting and characters’ ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘What a stonkingly fabulous read!’ ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

The Hike was a Sunday Times bestseller for w/e 7/05/2023

Release date: August 29, 2023

Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons

Print pages: 384

Sample

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

 

1LIZ

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.

 

2HELENA

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.’

 

3MAGGIE

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.

That’s why Norway had come at the right time. Maggie couldn’t stay at home without Phoebe. Every corner of their rented cottage was lined with reminders of Phoebe: the farmhouse door covered with curling paintings; the pine table where they had milk and biscuits in the afternoons; the giant beanbag they flopped in for story time; the windowsill where they’d planted cress in tiny pots made from newspapers.

She heard the exhale of brakes as the car pulled to a stop in front of the house. The engine quietened. A door opened and closed. Footsteps on gravel.

Maggie pasted on a big smile as she carried Phoebe to the door, saying, ‘You’ll have such a fun week.’

The doorbell rang.

Maggie wrapped her fingers around the handle and steeled herself.

‘Auntie Helena!’ Phoebe beamed, wriggling out of Maggie’s arms.

Helena was standing in the doorway, in cropped black trousers, red lipstick, her dark bob sleek. She crouched low, opening her arms as Phoebe barrelled into them.

‘We thought you were Daddy!’ Phoebe cried.

‘Oh no. I’m much better-looking than Daddy.’

Behind her, Liz, dressed in full hiking gear, stepped forward and gave Maggie a huge hug.

Helena glanced up, eyebrow cocked. ‘Not here yet?’

Late, Maggie mouthed.

Helena rolled her eyes.

‘I’m scared,’ Phoebe said, sidling even closer to Helena, fingers reaching for the gold horseshoe that hung from a delicate chain on her neck. ‘Are you a pony?’

‘Not today, because ponies can’t pass through airport security. But sometimes I am.’

Phoebe nodded sincerely.

‘Now, tell me: why are you scared?’

Phoebe pointed at the bright purple case and folded duvet that waited in the hallway. A cuddly leopard was sitting guard on top. ‘I’m going to Daddy’s house. I might want to go home.’

Maggie felt her heart squeeze tight. She had to stop herself from reaching for Phoebe, telling her, You don’t have to go. We’ll stay here! Mummy won’t leave!

‘Ah,’ Helena said, her expression matching Phoebe’s seriousness. ‘Yes, I have that feeling sometimes. In fact,’ she lowered her voice, ‘I have that feeling right now.’

‘In true life?’

‘Yes, in true life. You see, Liz is making me go to Norway and camp in the mountains – and I’ve not done that before, and I’m a bit scared that I might

 want to go home.’

Phoebe tilted her head, considering Liz.

‘I’m not exactly making her …’ Liz added.

Phoebe looked unconvinced. After a moment, she strode to her case, plucked the stuffed leopard from its perch, and held it out to Helena. ‘You can borrow Leopold.’

Maggie bit down on her bottom lip. Leopold was Phoebe’s favourite toy. She slept with him tucked beneath her chin, the fur on his collar worn thin from loving him so hard.

‘Oh, sweetheart,’ Helena said, ‘you are the kindest. But Leopold might be nervous about staying somewhere new, too, so you need to look after him, okay?’

Through the open door, they all turned to see Aidan’s red sports car crawling down the narrow lane. The paintwork. He’d hate to scratch the paintwork.

He parked behind Liz’s Ford and cut the engine. A moment later he stepped out with expansive arms, beaming. ‘Phoebe!’

Phoebe pressed herself against Maggie’s legs, tiny fingers bunching around the skirt of her lemon dress.

‘Hello, Aidan,’ Maggie said, trying her hardest to smile and mean it.

‘Maggie.’ He nodded. ‘Liz. Helena.’

Helena was watching him with the disdainful expression reserved just for him. It was something to do with the poise of her jaw line, her chin lifted just a few degrees higher than most people’s, giving the impression that she was literally looking down her nose at him. And in Aidan’s case, she was.

He scanned the exterior of Maggie’s terrace, and she could guess he’d be noticing the peeling paint where the render showed, or the overgrown window box she’d not had the chance to weed. What he couldn’t see was the fun she and Phoebe had had planting those flowers together, tucking seeds into secret earthy beds in the spring, and afterwards soaking their hands in a sink of warm water, popping soap bubbles with crescents of earth still pressed beneath their fingernails. Aidan had always seen mess where Maggie saw joy.

‘You all ready, trooper?’ he said, stepping forward and ruffling Phoebe’s hair. ‘I’ve got a treat for you in the car!’

Already with the counterfeit love, Maggie thought.

‘Let’s get you buckled in,’ Maggie said bravely, scooping up Phoebe. She carried her to the car, pressing her love into her daughter, ingraining it, their bodies stamped with each other.

She fastened the belt as she told her, ‘I love you so much, baby. I’ll miss you. Look after Leopold, okay?’

Phoebe nodded. Then she whispered, ‘Look after Auntie Helena. She’s scared of the mountains.’

‘I will,’ Maggie said, smiling. She kissed her and kissed her and kissed her, and then she forced herself to step back, close the car door, mouthing,

‘I love you.’

Behind her, Aidan was remarking to her friends, ‘Maggie’s climbing this mountain?’

With a smile, Helena replied, ‘She was married to you for two years, so scaling a mountain should feel like a walk in the park.’

Maggie had a thousand things she wanted to say to him – If Phoebe wakes in the night, sing her ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’. She crashes after eating too much sugar. Don’t plonk her in front of the television when you get bored. Don’t drink too much when you’re with her – but all she said was, ‘Please, keep her safe.’

Phoebe’s face was turned to the car window, eyes glistening with tears, Leopold squeezed to her chest.

No, she couldn’t do this. Couldn’t let her go. As she stepped forward, she felt Helena catch her hand. Liz linked her arm through Maggie’s other, her friends holding her up from each side.

Aidan started the engine. Phoebe’s palm was flattened to the window as if she were trying to break free.

‘The dance,’ Helena said, kicking out her left leg like a showgirl. ‘Do the dance.’

Maggie’s throat constricted. A sob was heaving up from her chest.

‘Do the dance. Right now, Maggie. Do it!’

It was a dance from a musical they’d watched one afternoon last winter, and Phoebe had thought it was the funniest thing when Auntie Helena and her mummy copied the moves, can-canning their legs, while making jazz hands.

Helena kicked her other leg, Liz joining in. ‘Come on!’

Maggie forced herself to kick out her right leg, then her left, falling into rhythm with her friends, the breeze filling her dress.

Making jazz hands, Helena said, ‘There we go! We’re dancing! We’re moving! We’re waving!’

Phoebe’s little mouth lifted into a smile, her fingers peeling away from the glass as she gave her own little jazz-fingered wave.

They carried on dancing as the car crawled down the lane, until it had disappeared altogether, and Phoebe was gone.

‘It’s okay, Mags,’ Helena said, ‘you can stop dancing now.’

Maggie felt her body collapse into her friends, who held on tight.

‘That’s the hardest bit – the leaving. And you’ve done it.’ Liz squeezed her as she said, ‘Now you get to look forward to the coming home, okay?’

Maggie sat in the back seat on the way to the airport. She’d stopped crying about twenty miles ago, but a tension headache still viced her temples.

In the seat pocket, she spotted an age-worn book from their schooldays. N-O-R-W-A-Y was spelled on the front in bubble writing, coloured in the red, white and blue of the Norwegian flag. Liz and Joni’s names were written beneath.

‘Your Geography project!’ Maggie said, pulling it onto her lap. ‘You found it!’

‘It was in the attic,’ Liz said.

Beneath the title was a picture of a woman standing on a pinnacle that jutted from a sheer-sided mountain, arms spread wide to a clear sky, an 

arctic-blue sea stretching west, and below her, the trace of a silver river, cutting through a landscape made of undulating hills and valleys.

‘So this is the mountain we’re going to climb?’ Maggie asked.

Liz nodded. ‘That’s the one. Blafjell.’

Maggie remembered that, as teens, Liz and Joni had made a pact during Geography class that, one day, they’d hike to that spot together. It had been February. A relentless grey sky. A world of school bells, damp satchels and wet concrete. The mountains had looked like a different world – one they wanted to explore. She’d seen them pinky-promise, little fingers hooked together across their school desks.

‘Still no word from Joni?’ Maggie asked.

‘Nothing,’ Liz said.

Maggie caught the arch of Helena’s brow in the rear-view mirror.

It would be the second year running that Joni hadn’t shown up for their holiday. She’d been silent on the group chat for weeks.

‘She’s touring,’ Liz said, loyally, but Maggie knew how disappointed Liz must have been. Joni was always good company: game for anything, happy to strap on a backpack, or laugh when she needed to shit in the woods. She’d have made everything golden and more fun because she was Joni.

‘Let’s send her a photo,’ Maggie said, passing her phone up front to Helena.

Helena leaned in so all their faces were in shot. Liz took a hand briefly from the wheel to salute. Helena pushed out her red lips in an exaggerated duck pout. Maggie gave the peace sign. The shutter clicked.

Taking back the phone, Maggie stared at the image. Then she typed: There’s still time– and pressed Send.

 

4JONI

Naked except for a black thong, Joni staggered across the hotel suite in search of her leather jacket. She passed a mirrored table covered with empty champagne bottles, lipstick-kissed glasses, and a powder-trail of coke. A girl she’d never seen before was sprawled on the chaise-longue, a false eyelash dusting her cheek.

Through the open door to the bedroom, she could hear Kai’s ragged snores, and beyond that the drone of traffic mixed with music pulsing from a speaker somewhere.

She screwed up her eyes. What city is this? What country am I in?

Two solid knots of pain were lodged at her temples. Her throat felt like bark. She hadn’t warmed up last night. She’d been running late because—

Berlin! she recalled with a surge of relief. That’s right! They’d played at Huxley’s. A packed crowd, a girl bursting onto stage during the final song, T-shirt soaked with sweat …

The thought broke free as she spotted her jacket slumped on the floor. She crouched, bare knees pressing into the thick carpet, patting down the pockets. Her short nails were polished black, a lightning bolt striking her left thumb. Joni hadn’t asked for the lightning – Rhianne, her make-up artist, couldn’t have known Joni was terrified of thunderstorms. As she’d snatched her hand away, Rhianne had protested, ...