Chapter 28 Elin

28

Elin

Parque Nacional, Portugal, October 2021

‘Tourist office is over there,' Isaac points across the street. ‘But I need some water before we go in.' Hooking his rucksack off his back, he reaches for his bottle.

‘Same.' Taking a long glug from her own bottle, Elin peels her damp top away from her body. Although it's still early, the sun not yet at its peak, she's hot, sweating hard. ‘I know it's part of the appeal, being so remote, but being that far from civilisation … I'm not sure.'

As the crow flies, it didn't look too far to town from the Airstreams, but it had taken well over forty minutes, the terrain rapidly changing from rough, rocky trails to narrow woodland paths.

‘Same. Wouldn't fancy it if the weather came in.' Taking a last swig, Isaac hoists his pack back up onto his shoulder. ‘Ready to head?'

Elin nods, already walking across the cobbles to the street opposite.

The tourist office sat halfway down the street is a blocky, modern structure, abutted on one side by a rustic café, a hotel on the other. An outlier among the long stretch of buildings lining the main road that all share a faded elegance, an elegance that's overshadowed by its backdrop – the vast expanse of the hills behind.

Isaac follows her gaze. ‘So sedate, civilised, and then you look up there …' His eyes shift past her to the hillside beyond.

‘Wild.'

An understatement, Elin thinks, unable to drag her eyes away.

The immense scale of the land behind imbued the town with a strange sense of claustrophobia, as if the buildings were only a stone's throw from being consumed by the forest bearing down on them.

OBSERVA??O DE FAUNA E FLORA. FESTIVAL GASTRONóMICO. EXPOSI??O DE ARTE. PASSEIO NOTURNO

WILDLIFE WATCH. FOOD FESTIVAL. ART EXHIBITION. NIGHTTIME WALK.

Images of the park loop on a touchscreen in the centre of the tourist office – just about the only slice of modernity among the battered cabinets and the shelves bowing under enormous piles of leaflets and brochures.

The place is gloomier than it looked from the outside, windows obscured by posters and leaflets haphazardly stuck to the glass.

The middle-aged man sat behind the desk has a bored, hangdog expression, only emphasised by a greying ponytail that's elongating his features. He eyes them silently before speaking in fluent English. ‘Can I help? A map maybe?'

‘Not exactly.' Elin walks up to the desk and stops just in front of it. ‘We wanted to ask you about a friend of ours, called Kier.'

‘Okay.' He looks at them warily, for the first time properly appraising them, eyes travelling slowly across their faces.

‘We think she might be missing, and we know that she came here, at least once. We wondered if you might remember her—'

‘Missing?' The man interrupts, gesturing behind him to a jumble of Polaroids tacked to the wall, ponytail swinging. People hiking, biking. Camping. ‘We have a lot of people coming by. The chance —' He breaks off, the last words muffled by a loud, hacking cough.

‘But just in case …' Isaac slides his phone across the desk, points to the screen. ‘This is the woman we're looking for.'

The man's face is set as he picks it up with nicotine-stained fingers, the detached smile of someone ready to give an apology, before he slowly nods. ‘Sí, I recognise her. She came a few times.'

‘Did she say what she was doing here?' Elin asks.

‘She told me she was an artist. I assumed she was looking for inspiration in the park. A lot of artists do. She was interested in the gallery in the village.' He points to the watercolour on the wall opposite. ‘The woman that owns it, that's one of hers.' Glancing down at the photo of Kier again, he scratches his neck. ‘And you say she's missing?'

‘We think so. She was last seen here, in the park.'

‘Happens too many times.' The man's face tightens. ‘But sometimes, you know, I wonder if that's why people come.'

‘You think people want to get lost?'

‘I don't know … my father used to say, unless you're born here, or a tourist, you've come somewhere like this for a reason. Most likely running from someone or something.'

‘So do a lot of people go missing here?' Elin looks at him uneasily, discomforted by the resignation in his tone.

He nods. ‘A man last year, a tourist. Camping out with his friend. They were hiking on a trail near one of the falls. There one minute' – he clicks his fingers – ‘and gone the next.'

‘He was never found?'

‘No trace.' The man shrugs. ‘But look, there are theories, conspiracies about what happens to people who go missing here, but the reasons are mostly more mundane than you think. People aren't prepared for changes in weather, not enough water in hot weather, not enough layers in the cold. Wrong shoes for the terrain, and they fall.' He glances through the window. ‘Even if you're used to a park like this, you can still get disorientated …'

Elin follows his gaze, looking out a window at the imposing line of hills beyond.

Given the route they'd just walked, the treacherous paths making up the first half of the trail, she could easily imagine feeling disorientated in the wrong conditions, one set of hills and trees eerily similar to the next .

‘But what about the other cases?' Isaac presses. ‘The ones that aren't so mundane?'

‘Well, there's only so much ground the rangers can cover, and when the fog comes in, criminals take advantage of it. Smuggling. Extortion. People trafficking, drugs. Then of course there's' – an odd, unsettling expression crosses his face – ‘suicide or murder. Usually friends or family are responsible, but sometimes it's strangers.'

‘Does that happen, then?' Unnerved, Elin tries to read his expression. ‘Stranger killings in a place like this? I thought that was more of an urban myth.'

‘No, not an urban myth. It happens. I—' Another hacking cough. Reaching over for his glass of water, he takes a long drink. ‘I'm sorry.' He starts again. ‘Like I said, it happens. There's some odd people about.'

‘That's what the camp said.'

‘Camp?' the man says quickly.

‘On the other side of the hill,' Isaac gestures. ‘There was an explosion there earlier, one of the vans went up. They reckoned it might have been deliberate, someone who's taken a dislike to them.'

His face clouds. ‘Is everyone okay?'

‘They're fine. No one inside when it blew but could have been nasty.' Isaac pauses. ‘Do you know them? The camp?'

All at once, the man's face closes: a door slamming shut.

‘I do, but we don't have much to do with them. They keep themselves to themselves.' He looks Isaac right in the eye. ‘You know, people like that, they don't want bothering.'

Elin senses there's something more behind his words, but before she's able to probe, his computer loudly beeps.

Flashing them an apologetic glance, he gestures to his keyboard. ‘Look, I'd better … I'm sorry, again, about your friend.'

‘Of course. Thank you for taking the time. One last thing.' Elin points to the painting on the wall. ‘How far is the gallery from here?'

‘A few minutes' walk, on the right. Ask for Luísa.' A faint smile flickers across his features. ‘Tell her I said hello.'

Closing the door, they make their way onto the street. Elin blinks, the bright sunshine glaring after the dim interior of the tourist office.

Isaac's already started walking, but Elin turns to look back inside. He isn't working as he'd indicated, but talking intently into his phone.

As if sensing Elin's eyes on him, he glances up.

When he meets her gaze, his expression darkens.