The Hiking Trip: An unforgettable must-read psychological thriller


 The Hiking Trip
 
 
 Cover
 
 
 Title Page
 
 
 Chapter One
 
 
 Chapter Two
 
 
 Chapter Three
 
 
 Chapter Four
 
 
 Chapter Five
 
 
 Chapter Six
 
 
 Chapter Seven
 
 
 Chapter Eight
 
 
 Chapter Nine
 
 
 Chapter Ten
 
 
 Chapter Eleven
 
 
 Chapter Twelve
 
 
 Chapter Thirteen
 
 
 Chapter Fourteen
 
 
 Chapter Fifteen
 
 
 Chapter Sixteen
 
 
 Chapter Seventeen
 
 
 Chapter Eighteen
 
 
 Chapter Nineteen
 
 
 Chapter Twenty
 
 
 Chapter Twenty-One
 
 
 Chapter Twenty-Two
 
 
 Chapter Twenty-Three
 
 
 Chapter Twenty-Four
 
 
 Chapter Twenty-Five
 
 
 Chapter Twenty-Six
 
 
 Chapter Twenty-Seven
 
 
 Chapter Twenty-Eight
 
 
 Chapter Twenty-Nine
 
 
 Chapter Thirty
 
 
 Chapter Thirty-One
 
 
 Chapter Thirty-Two
 
 
 Chapter Thirty-Three
 
 
 Chapter Thirty-Four
 
 
 Chapter Thirty-Five
 
 
 Chapter Thirty-Six
 
 
 Chapter Thirty-Seven
 
 
 Chapter Thirty-Eight
 
 
 Chapter Thirty-Nine
 
 
 Chapter Forty
 
 
 Chapter Forty-One
 
 
 Chapter Forty-Two
 
 
 Chapter Forty-Three
 
 
 Chapter Forty-Four
 
 
 Chapter Forty-Five
 
 
 Chapter Forty-Six
 
 
 Chapter Forty-Seven
 
 
 Chapter Forty-Eight
 
 
 Chapter Forty-Nine
 
 
 Chapter Fifty
 
 
 Chapter Fifty-One
 
 
 Chapter Fifty-Two
 
 
 Chapter Fifty-Three
 
 
 Chapter Fifty-Four
 
 
 Chapter Fifty-Five
 
 
 Chapter Fifty-Six
 
 
 Chapter Fifty-Seven
 
 
 Chapter Fifty-Eight
 
 
 Chapter Fifty-Nine
 
 
 Chapter Sixty
 
 
 Chapter Sixty-One
 
 
 Chapter Sixty-Two
 
 
 Chapter Sixty-Three
 
 
 Chapter Sixty-Four
 
 
 Chapter Sixty-Five
 
 
 Chapter Sixty-Six
 
 
 Chapter Sixty-Seven
 
 
 Chapter Sixty-Eight
 
 
 Chapter Sixty-Nine
 
 
 Chapter Seventy
 
 
 Chapter Seventy-One
 
 
 Epilogue
 
 
 About the Author
 
 
 Also by Jenny Blackhurst
 
 
 Copyright
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Cover
 
 
 Table of Contents
 
 
 Start of Content
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Chapter One
 
 November 2019
 It took just three little words to ruin my life the second time around.
 Human remains found.
 It’s a Saturday, which is a particularly inconvenient day for my life to be ruined, because I have both of the children with me. Faye, seven, and George, four, are sitting in the back of the car arguing over whether Mr Tumble is a poo-head as I line it up ready to reverse into the last parent and child space at Asda – score – when a guy in a black Mercedes drives from behind the spot, straight in.
 I slam on the brakes and wind down my window as Mr Mercedes jumps, child-free and blatantly conscience-clear, out of his car and presses the key to lock it.
 I lean out of the window and wave. ‘Sorry, I was just about to park there,’ I say, in case for some reason he can’t see my shiny silver people carrier stuck out in the road.
 Another car stops, the driver looking impatient for me to get out of the way, but she’s going to have to wait.
 ‘No worries, love,’ Mr Mercedes says. He’s wearing a suit that doesn’t quite hide his middle-age paunch and is tall, hair shaved because he thinks it will hide the fact that his hair has receded, with any luck into his nose and ears. He has that kind of all-year-round tan that he hopes will say ‘summer in the Med’ but instead screams ‘tanning bed three times a week’.
 ‘I didn’t actually mean that I was sorry,’ I say, opening my door to get out and ignoring the woman in the waiting car who has started to make frantic hand gestures. ‘I meant that was my space. And you don’t even have children. It’s a parent and child space.’
 He looks at me as though I am a persistent mosquito and I swear I can feel my blood actually start to boil. ‘I am a parent,’ he says. ‘I just don’t have my kids with me. And I parked in the space first. You can see that, because my car’s in there, isn’t it?’
 ‘But I was just about to—’ I start.
 ‘But you didn’t,’ Mr Mercedes cuts in, his voice infuriatingly low and calm. ‘So get back in your car and find another space. You’re causing a traffic jam and being very selfish.’ He carries on walking towards the supermarket.
 I stand watching him go, stunned.
 ‘I’m selfish?’ I shout to his retreating back. ‘I’m selfish? You utter PRICK!’
 One of the drivers in the queue waiting leans on their horn heavily.
 I let out a huge huff and get back into the car, my face burning red. I spin the wheel around and drive past the line of cars, my hand up in a conciliatory gesture.
 ‘Swear jar, Mummy,’ Faye says sweetly.
 The space I find is about a mile from the front entrance, but it has a curb next to it so at least I’m able to open the door wide enough to heft George out without hitting anyone else’s car.
 As I lock the door, I slide the keyring into the palm of my hand, the key sticking out from between my fingers, the way women learn to hold them when they walk around after dark. Don’t play on your phone, don’t wear headphones, don’t drink too much and if anyone tries to grab you, jam your key into their eye.
 ‘Come on, babes,’ I say, taking George’s hand with my free one. Faye grabs his other one and we hurry across the car park.
 ‘Mummy, you’re going the long way,’ Faye complains. ‘The door is over there.’
 ‘Yes, I’ve got something to do over here,’ I say, heading for the black Mercedes. As I pass it, I let my cardigan fall over my hand and jam the key in-between my fingers into the shiny black paintwork.