Chapter 15

15

When Elin reaches the top of the steps from the beach, it's a few minutes to eight.

The retreat is stirring to life; white-shirted staff busy in the restaurant, a group of early swimmers walking toward the beach. It's clear that some of the guests have clocked something is up. They're milling around the yoga pavilion with that studied, false nonchalance—not wanting to appear as if they're staring but doing so anyway.

About to pull on a suit and overshoes, she hesitates, noticing Farrah approaching.

"I take it she's definitely—"

Elin nods. "A little while, I think."

Farrah's mouth tightens before she composes herself, gesturing to the restaurant. "Michael, the man who found her, is waiting in there. You wanted to speak to him..."

"That's right. Give me two minutes. I need to..." She gestures at Leon.

"Of course. Come over when you're ready."

Slipping the suit and overshoes on, Elin ducks under the tape. Leon's crouched beside the balustrade, dusting the glass. "All going okay?"

"Fine." He nods at some vomit a few feet away. "Apart from the occupational hazard."

"The guy who spotted her?"

"Yep."

Peering over the balustrade, Elin quickly draws back. However daunting it is looking up, looking down is worse—the sudden visual dive and plunge to the hooky spikes of rock below. The splayed, broken form of the woman's body hits her anew from this angle.

"What do you think about the height of the balustrade?"

Leon continues dusting the glass. "Definitely low enough to go over accidentally. I'd have had something higher in place given the location of the pavilion."

"Anything on it?"

"Yes. Unusual pattern of prints all over the other side—fingers and palm. I'm pretty sure from what the guy said that they're hers. Apparently the glass is cleaned every night and he'll mop up anything left in the morning. Everything points to her falling frontways, and then twisting—like she tried to hold on but lost her grip."

Elin leans closer to the balustrade. Silvery fingerprint powder highlights the various marks covering the glass—a blotchy segment of a handprint, smeared fingerprints—but she knows it doesn't prove anything. Those marks could result from an accidental fall as well as a push. "Did she drop anything here?"

He shakes his head. "I've done a quick search, but apart from the wrap"—a nod at a bagged-up piece of clothing on the floor—"nothing."

"Where was it exactly?"

"On the grass on the outside of the balustrade, but I don't think it necessarily lends weight to the falling idea. It might have dropped as she fell."

Elin examines the wrap through the bag. It's brightly patterned—a modern abstract print with bold splashes of pink and green. "You haven't found anything else?"

"Only this..." He points through the balustrade. "There's an indentation in the grass here, before the cliff drops away. Looks consistent with something fairly heavy being placed on it."

"Heavier than the wrap?"

"Yes, and it's in a different location anyway, a bit farther forward than where I found the wrap. Given the lack of wind or rain, it's held. Can't say for sure it's from last night, but if it was over a few days ago, I think the grass would have recovered."

"Any conclusions?"

"Not really. It's small and square. Maybe something else she dropped on the way down. Could have got dislodged in the fall."

"I'll get Rachel to have a look down there." She hesitates. "Right, I'll leave you to it. I'm going to speak to the guy who found her." Tugging off her suit and overshoes, Elin notices that the small crowd of guests has swollen, big enough to prompt a member of staff to shepherd them away toward the restaurant. She tags behind, then splinters off, walking toward Farrah, who is sitting beside an older man, talking quietly.

Farrah glances up. "Elin, this is Michael Zimmerman. I've told him you'd like to speak with him."

Michael gives a tentative smile. Elin immediately notices his eyes. They're striking—heavy-lidded, a pale blue that conjures images of a sky yet to deepen. She guesses he's mid- or late sixties, and judging from the deep lines on his face and wild castaway beard, most definitely what Will would call a "sea dog"—the older soul surfers born and bred on the coast.

Taking a seat opposite, she pulls out her notebook. "Michael, I understand this isn't easy, but I was hoping you could take us through what happened this morning. Starting with where you were before you saw her."

He nods, picking up the cap laid beside him on the table as if to put it onto his head, then setting it back down. The peak is bleached by the sun, salt stained. "I was up around five, like I usually am, early shift. I do all the final checks, cleaningwise, of the public spaces. Can't guarantee that the night crew hasn't missed something, or the guests haven't been out overnight, made a mess—" He looks up, tries to catch Farrah's eye in shared solidarity about the unpredictable nature of guests, but she's looking at her phone.

"What time was this?"

"Just after six. I'd finished up in the restaurant area and was walking over to the yoga pavilion. I was going up the steps when I saw a piece of clothing, the wrong side of the balustrade. Bright, you couldn't miss it." Michael picks up his cap again, turns it between his fingers. The gesture is oddly familiar, and Elin has a swooping sense of recognition, as if she's seen him or perhaps someone else do it before.

"Go on," she says softly.

"I walked over to pick it up and that's when..." He licks his lips. "That's when I saw her, down on the rocks. I could tell she was..." A pause. "I was sick, you probably saw, but when I got myself together, I called 999, then Farrah."

"And you didn't notice anything during your shift? Nothing suspicious, out of the ordinary? No one walking around who shouldn't be there?"

"During the shift, no, but..."

Farrah looks up: a sharp glance in his direction.

He changes position in his chair. "Look, it's probably nothing to do with this, but last week, something odd happened, during the night. I woke up as you do, nature's call when you get to my age. Getting back into bed, I saw someone walking about, near the rock. It struck me as strange, someone out that late."

"You saw this from the staff accommodation?"

He nods.

"And exactly what time was this?"

"Four, maybe a bit later. Whoever it was, they had a flashlight, was shining it up at the rock, like they were looking for something."

"Probably a guest." Farrah's tone is dismissive as she turns to Elin. "Some of them take photographs of the rock at night. No idea why, you can barely see anything."

Michael gives a mirthless laugh. "This place, nothing would surprise me."

Elin's skin prickles. "What do you mean?"

"This island, it's hardly had a glowing report card, has it? Don't get me wrong, they've transformed it, but you can still feel it sometimes, early in the morning, when no one's around."

"Feel what?" Elin leans forward, uneasy.

"Something... bad." He visibly swallows. "A guest, a few weeks ago, said the same."

"Really?" It's an effort to keep her voice steady.

"Yes. The artist that did the piece in reception told me he went to the old school here, the one that burned down. Said he'd come to see his piece, check out the retreat," Michael continues. "Loved it, but he said..." He pauses, his features frozen for a moment in thought. "He said he could still feel it," he says finally. "The evil here."

Farrah shakes her head at his words, the melodramatic delivery, but as Elin thanks him, closing her notebook, she can't dismiss what he's said quite so easily. She, too, can feel it the longer she's here—a presence and an energy that goes beyond all the stories.

Something intrinsic to the island itself.

"We'll need a formal statement later, but that's all for now. Thank you again." As Elin picks up her bag she notices a man walking toward them. On reaching Farrah, he murmurs something inaudible in her ear.

Farrah turns. "This is Justin Matthews, the security director. He's found the CCTV for the pavilion. I wasn't sure if there was a camera close by, but there is apparently."

A flicker of relief. "Can we look now?"

"Of course."

But she's only taken a few steps when she hears a noise: a skitter of gravel.

There's a tug on her arm. Elin pivots to find Michael behind her, uncomfortably close.

His hold tightens to a squeeze. "What I said before," he murmurs. "I mean it. What that man told me, he's right. There's something rotten here. You need to be careful."