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‘For real, Fin. I swear.’
‘Is he there?’
‘Not right now. But you’ll see him ever so soon. OK, darling?’
A pause. A sniffle. ‘I lost Snig.’
‘I found him.’
‘You did?’
‘I have him here. He was in the back of my car. You must have left him there before school.’
‘That’s good.’ He swallows noisily. ‘Mummy?’
‘Yes, darling?’
‘Please be quick.’
Lucy’s pain is physical now. Her chest feels like it’s inside a vice. ‘Fin, I’ll be as—’
The line goes dead.
She screams. The third time in an hour.
Movement beyond the broken window. She looks up to see three herring gulls land on the back lawn.
FORTY-ONE
1
In the office, Beth McKaylin turns from the lighthouse to Abraham. ‘Is this connected to what happened on Friday? Billie Locke’s death?’
‘It could be, yes.’
She nods, pulling a key fob from a rack. ‘I don’t see his car. You want to take a look?’
The lighthouse climbs five storeys, a red-painted lantern room crowning its tapered white walls. They use a golf buggy to reach it. Outside, instead of a Lexus, Abraham sees a red Renault Clio so old its paint has started to lift.
McKaylin hammers on the lighthouse door. When there’s no answer, she lets them both inside. An L-shaped kitchen opens on to a tastefully decorated dining area. Beyond it, a sofa and two reading chairs are arranged around a wood burner. The view through the west-facing windows is of cold Atlantic sea.
The place looks spotless. Vacated.
Upstairs, the beds in both rooms have been neatly made. In the master, a single packed suitcase is the only evidence of occupation. Abraham ignores it for now. ‘Can we access the main tower?’
McKaylin leads him through a doorway set into a curved wall of bare brick.
It’s a remarkable space, perfectly circular. Sanded boards and whitewashed walls. A spiral staircase offers access to the upper floors. A west-facing window admits an oval of sky and sea.
In the centre of the room stands an artist’s easel. Abraham saw the same type in Wayland Rawlings’ hobby shop. Leaning against the wall are three large packages wrapped in grey polythene.
He coughs into his fist, bites down on his pain.
‘You want to get that checked out,’ McKaylin tells him. Uninvited, she picks up the largest package and places it on the easel. Then she offers him a penknife. ‘Shall we?’
Abraham considers. Then he takes the knife and cuts off the wrapping. They both stand back.
‘Holy shit.’