Page 137 of The Love Letter

‘I left it in there under the floorboards. I’d a feeling ’twas the safest thing.’

‘Would the damp not have got to it by now?’

‘No. That house might be old, but it’s dry. It was built to withstand the worst of weather. Besides –’ Ciara’s eyes glinted – ‘I put it inside a tin box under the window in the bedroom where she died. The one that you can see this very cottage from.’

‘Then . . . should I go and get it? If I’m going to prove that neither of us are mad, I need it.’

‘Be careful, Joanna. That house, it holds bad spirits, so it does. I still hear her crying, sometimes from across the bay . . .’

‘I will.’ Joanna refused to be spooked. ‘How about I get it tomorrow morning when it’s light?’

Ciara glanced out of the window, lost in her own thoughts. ‘There’s a storm brewing. The estuary’ll be swollen by the morning . . .’

‘Okay.’ Joanna stood up, the darkness and talk of storms and ghosts galvanising her into action. ‘Thank you, Ciara, for telling me all you know.’

‘You take care now.’ She squeezed Joanna’s hand. ‘Don’t be trusting anyone, will ye?’

‘No. Hopefully, I’ll be back here tomorrow with the letter.’

Outside, the wind was now howling across the estuary, the rain scudding at an angle. Joanna shivered uncontrollably as she saw the black mass of the coastguard’s house outlined against the sky. Struggling in the darkness to unlock her car, she climbed inside with relief and slammed the door shut against the gale. She switched the engine on to stem the noise outside, and drove off up towards the village. A hot port and the warmth of the fire would comfort her frayed nerves, she told herself, give her a chance to sort out her thoughts.

She was just switching off the engine, ready to go back into the hotel and tell Margaret she was staying for an extra night, when a familiar figure emerged from the front door of the hotel a few yards away from her. She instinctively ducked down as he stepped out onto the pavement.

Please God, don’t let him see me . . .

The blood pumped in her ears as headlights bathed the car in bright light for a few agonising seconds, then there was darkness once more. She sat up, leant her head back and breathed again. They were obviously on to her, which meant she had very little time left and couldn’t wait until the morning. She had to go to the coastguard’s house now and retrieve the letter before someone else did.

There was a tap on her rear window and Joanna nearly jumped out of her skin. She turned round and saw another familiar face smiling at her through the glass. She rolled down her window reluctantly as he walked round the car towards her.

‘Hi, Lucy.’

‘Hi, Kurt,’ she said carefully. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine.’

‘Right.’

‘I thought I’d missed you. I dropped by the hotel and they said you’d gone. I was just on my way back to my hotel in Clonakilty when I saw you out here in the car.’ He studied her. ‘You look awful pale. Anything wrong?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You going somewhere?’

‘I . . . no. I just got back. It’s bed for me now.’

‘Sure. You positive you’re okay?’

‘I’m fine. Bye, Kurt.’

‘Yeah, bye.’ He gave her a cheery wave as she rolled the window back up, waited until she saw him walking away, then legged it through the rain to the entrance of the hotel. Peering out of the window, she waited until Kurt’s car had driven off out of sight, then ran back to her car and started the engine.

She drove back along the causeway towards the house, her eyes continually darting to the rear-view mirror, but no other car appeared behind her.

Simon drove through the lashing rain towards the Garda police station at the other end of Rosscarbery village. He’d stopped off at the hotel to quickly check out the room Ian had been staying in, before going to identify him. Margaret, the woman in charge, had told him that the room had already been cleared by the guards and all Ian’s possessions taken down to the station half an hour ago. As for Joanna, Margaret had not seen her since she’d checked out and left for the airport at four o’clock that afternoon.

He pulled up in front of a small white terraced house, its lit ‘Garda’ sign outside the one indication that this was a police station. The reception was deserted. He rang a bell and eventually a young man came through a door.

‘Good evening to you, sir. Terrible weather we’re cursed with, isn’t it? How can I be helping ye?’