Page 86

DAY 4

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Elin’s not sure how long she’s been asleep for when a voice sounds out, stirring at the back of her consciousness.

Opening her eyes, she startles. Ronan’s standing over her, phone in hand, turning it between his fingers.

“Sorry to wake you.”

“It’s fine.” She hauls herself into a more upright position. “I shouldn’t have fallen asleep.”

Around her, the room is dimly lit, people asleep on chairs and the floor. A few are still awake—the telltale glow of mobile phones lending their faces an eerie glow. Glancing across at Steed, she sees that he, too, has succumbed, fast asleep in his chair, head lolling to the side. Elin puts out a foot to nudge him awake, but all it does is prompt a soft snore.

Ronan nods. “Understandable, and I should have done the same, but my mind’s been on a loop ever since we spoke. I’ve been thinking about Jackson, what you asked about whether he had any family.” He shakes his head. “It’s just come to me. The day of the protests, Jackson was with someone. He half introduced me to him, his son, I think, said they were working together. There were so many people there, it was a bit of a blur.”

“Can you recall anything about him?”

“Not much. He was wearing a cap, and he had a beard, and similar eyes to Jackson... close set.” A pause. He furrows his brow. “Actually, there is something. He had a slight stutter, like Jackson. That’s probably how I came to the conclusion that they were related. I know it can run in families. My uncle had a stammer and my cousin had one too.”

A stutter. As Elin absorbs his words, something stirs in her brain. Something she’d picked up in the very first conversation they had; the very deliberate way he spoke. An almost imperceptible pause at the beginning of each sentence, as if he were having to line up the words in his head. Another association: the blue T-shirt she’d glimpsed on the figure she’d seen heading into the woodland. The same color as the T-shirt he’s wearing now.

The ages worked.

“Give me a moment.” Elin reaches into her bag, pulls out the plastic bag containing the torn-up image. With fumbling fingers, she lines the strips of paper up roughly on her lap and scrutinizes the photograph.

Faces appear from the jumble. Girls. Boys. Teachers. Camp leaders.

Her eyes scour them again, until they come to rest on one in particular.

Caleb.

There, in the back row; one of the camp leaders.

For a moment she doesn’t see Caleb at all; it appears to be an entirely different person, the soft jawline of today eclipsed by the presence of a beard, long straggly hair that elongates his face. The cap pulled down over his face camouflages him even more as she looks closer.

Now she knows what she’s looking for, the similarities are clear. The eyes, the set of his mouth. It’s this her subconscious had flagged to her when she’d first found the photograph in Farrah’s bin, put the torn-up pieces in order.

Her pulse is pounding as her mind draws the once disparate strands together: the stutter, Steed’s observations about Caleb being disparaging about Seth, the retreat, Hana’s words about Caleb losing his father.

That father was Porter Jackson.

“It’s him,” Elin murmurs. The wind again keens against the side of the building, muffling her words.

Caleb was on the island at the time of the Creacher murders.