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‘We’ll be checking out tomorrow, Mrs Collie,’ I say.
‘Aye. Good.’ She frowns. ‘How do yer know mah name?’
‘You must have told me,’ I say, smiling.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, somebody must have mentioned it.’
Maureen Collie gives a caustic snort and watches me as I walk to the stairs. So much for keeping a low profile.
Evie is in my room, sitting cross-legged on the bed, eating crisps and watching TikTok videos on her phone. I tell her about my meeting with Finn Radford, who admitted nothing, but was clearly haunted by his brother’s death.
‘Is he the Ferryman?’ asks Evie.
‘No, he’s a sad drunk, who sees ghosts.’
‘Maybe they’re real ghosts,’ says Evie, stealing my thoughts.
I show her the note left at the reception desk.
Her forehead creases. ‘I don’t want you to go. Let’s go home, instead.’
‘Tomorrow,’ I tell her. ‘Now lock the door and don’t open it for anyone except me.’
‘You’re scaring me.’
‘You’ll be fine.’
‘But what about you? Keep your phone on . . . and send me photographs . . . and don’t do anything stupid.’
‘When do I do anything stupid?’
‘You want examples?’
‘No.’
Evie puts her arms around my waist and her head against my chest, which surprises me. Normally, she baulks at physical contact and stiffens when anyone hugs her. Intimacy embarrasses her. This is a legacy of the abuse she survived as a child, which has made her less trusting and prone to bouts of negativity and low self-esteem. Her history is littered with drug-use, petty theft, self-harm and anti-social behaviour, but these are symptoms not the disease.
In Greek mythology, Prometheus was a Titan who was sentenced to eternal torment because he defied the gods. Bound to a rock, Prometheus was visited each day by an eagle which fed on his liver. Each night the liver would grow back, only to be eaten again the following day. Evie is trapped in the same sort of vicious circle and I don’t know if I can free her without breaking her in the process.
Leaving the guest house, I drive to a headland overlooking St Claire Bay. Parking the Fiat at a lookout, I gaze across the stone-grey sea, to where a bank of dark clouds is gathering on the horizon. Below me, a seawall juts out into the bay, providing a patch of calm water where the boats are moored at the marina. To the south are shipping warehouses and office accommodation of ASCO, the supply base that handles deck cargo, fuel and water for the container ships that use the port.
Having studied the lie of the land, I approach along an access road, past the sailing club. Leaving the car, I continue on foot. I can hear waves breaking against the seawall and taste the salt in the breeze. Yachts and pleasure craft are moored side by side and opposite each other along the floating pontoons. Each berth has a number, but the layout is confusing. I double back before finding the right one.
The boat is a large, blue-hulled cruiser with sloping angles, and a forest of antennae and radar dishes on the upper roof. The name painted on the stern is Watergaw. I notice a man appear at the opposite end of the dock. Another has followed me, blocking my escape. They seem small at first but get bigger as they get nearer. Both are dark haired and heavily built, dressed in matching waterproof jackets, black and orange.
I take out my phone and take a photograph of each of them, as well as the boat.
‘I’m taking holiday snaps for a friend,’ I say, sending the images to Evie and Florence.
‘Put tha’ away,’ says the older of the two, who has a booze-stained nose and a single silver stud in his left ear. ‘Arms out.’ He pushes me up against a handrail and roughly pats down my pockets, before frisking my legs and arms.
‘Shouldn’t you buy me dinner first?’ I ask.
‘Unbutton your shirt.’
‘I’m not armed.’
