Lucy Foley - The Hunting Party

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018

Copyright © Lost and Found Books Ltd 2018

Jacket design by Claire Ward © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018

Jacket images © plainpicture/Cavan Images (trees), Shutterstock.com(animal skull)

Lucy Foley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008297114

Ebook Edition © December 2018 ISBN: 9780008297138

Version: 2019-07-24

For AC, my partner in crime.

Should old acquaintance be forgot

And never brought to mind?

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Now: 2nd January 2019 – Heather

Three days earlier: 30th December 2018 – Emma

Katie

Doug

Now: 2nd January 2019 – Heather

Three days earlier: 30th December 2018 – Miranda

Emma

Katie

Now: 2nd January 2019 – Heather

Three days earlier: 30th December 2018 – Miranda

Emma

Doug

Now: 2nd January 2019 – Heather

Three days earlier: 30th December 2018 – Emma

Miranda

Katie

Doug

Now: 2nd January 2019 – Heather

Three days earlier: 30th December 2018 – Katie

Miranda

Doug

Now: 2nd January 2019 – Heather

Two days earlier: New Year’s Eve 2018 – Emma

Miranda

Katie

Now: 2nd January 2019 – Heather

Two days earlier: New Year’s Eve 2018 – Miranda

Katie

Doug

Emma

Now: 2nd January 2019 – Heather

Two days earlier: New Year’s Eve 2018 – Katie

Emma

Miranda

Doug

Now: 2nd January 2019 – Heather

One day earlier: New Year’s Day 2019 – Emma

Miranda

Now: 2nd January 2019 – Heather

One day earlier: New Year’s Day 2019 – Miranda

Katie

Miranda

Now: 2nd January 2019 – Heather

One day earlier: New Year’s Day 2019 – Katie

Doug

Now: 2nd January 2019 – Heather

One day earlier: New Year’s Day 2019 – Katie

Now: 2nd January 2019 – Heather

One day earlier: New Year’s Day 2019 – Miranda

Now: 2nd January 2019 – Heather

One day earlier: New Year’s Day 2019 – Miranda

Emma

Now: 2nd January 2019 – Heather

One day earlier: New Year’s Day 2019 – Miranda

Emma

Now: 2nd January 2019 – Heather

Emma

Katie

Doug

Epilogue

Heather

Katie

Keep Reading …

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Lucy Foley

About the Publisher

I see a man coming through the falling snow. From a distance through the curtain of white he looks hardly human, like a shadow figure.

As he nears me I see that it is Doug, the gamekeeper.

He is hurrying towards the Lodge, I realise, trying to run. But the fallen, falling snow hampers him. He stumbles with each step. Something bad. I know this without being able to see his face.

As he comes closer I see that his features are frozen with shock. I know this look. I have seen it before. This is the expression of someone who has witnessed something horrific, beyond the bounds of normal human experience.

I open the door of the Lodge, let him in. He brings with him a rush of freezing air, a spill of snow.

‘What’s happened?’ I ask him.

There is a moment – a long pause – in which he tries to catch his breath. But his eyes tell the story before he can, a mute communication of horror.

Finally, he speaks. ‘I’ve found the missing guest.’

‘Well, that’s great,’ I say. ‘Where—’

He shakes his head, and I feel the question expire on my lips.

‘I found a body.’

New Year. All of us together for the first time in ages. Me and Mark, Miranda and Julien, Nick and Bo, Samira and Giles, their six-month old baby, Priya. And Katie.

Four days in a winter Highland wilderness. Loch Corrin, it’s called. Very exclusive: they only let four parties stay there each year – the rest of the time it’s kept as a private residence. This time of year, as you might guess, is the most popular. I had to reserve it pretty much the day after New Year last year, as soon as the bookings opened up. The woman I spoke with assured me that with our group taking over most of the accommodation we should have the whole place to ourselves.

I take the brochure out of my bag again. A thick card, expensive affair. It shows a fir-lined loch, heather-red peaks rising behind; though they may well be snow-covered now. According to the photographs, the Lodge itself – the ‘New Lodge’, as the brochure describes it – is a big glass construction, über-modern, designed by a top architect who recently constructed the summer pavilion at the Serpentine Gallery. I think the idea is that it’s meant to blend seamlessly with the still waters of the loch, reflecting the landscape and the uncompromising lines of the big peak, the Munro, rising behind.

Near the Lodge, dwarfed by it, you can make out a small cluster of dwellings that look as though they are huddling together to keep warm. These are the cabins; there’s one for each couple, but we’ll come together to have meals in the shooting lodge, the bigger building in the middle. Apart from the Highland Dinner on the first night – ‘a showcase of local, seasonal produce’ – we’ll be cooking for ourselves. They’ve ordered food in for me. I sent a long list in advance – fresh truffles, foie gras, oysters. I’m planning a real feast for New Year’s Eve, which I’m very excited about. I love to cook. Food brings people together, doesn’t it?

This part of the journey is particularly dramatic. We have the sea on one side of us, and every so often the land sheers away so that it feels as if one wrong move might send us careering over the edge. The water is slate-grey, violent-looking. In one cliff-top field the sheep huddle together in a group as though trying to keep warm. You can hear the wind; every so often it throws itself against the windows, and the train shudders.