The Burnout(53)

“You might,” I object, more for the sake of objecting than because I’m particularly convinced. “Maybe August eighteenth is when they’re going to open up again. Or maybe August eighteenth next year,” I amend, thinking through how long it will take to knock down the lodges, build new ones, and open them up. “Anyway, whichever year, this is for publicity—”

“It’s the accident,” Finn interrupts, and I stiffen.

“What?”

“The kayak accident. I’ve just googled the date and ‘Rilston Bay’ and I got a series of news reports.” He looks up, meeting my gaze. “It’s the accident. It happened on August eighteenth.”

I feel a tingle down my spine. This is all getting a bit weird.

“Is it a shrine?” I peer again at the message. “A memorial? But no one died. No one was even hurt, were they?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“I mean, the boy who came off the kayak, he was OK, wasn’t he?”

“I thought so. I mean, I guess he was a bit freaked out and chilled after being in the water, but …” Finn shrugs, looking baffled.

We both survey the message again. I’ve never been more mystified by anything in my life.

“Who saved him?” I ask in sudden inspiration. “Is that what this is? Was it a couple on the beach?”

“It was a dad, wasn’t it?” Finn scrolls down his phone. “Yes. ‘Quick-thinking father-of-three Andrew Ilston pulled James Reynolds to safety.’ ”

“James Reynolds.” I nod. “That’s right. I’d forgotten what he was called. Did you know him? Was he a pupil of Terry’s?”

Finn shakes his head. “I think he was only there for the day. There was a stack of day-trippers and they all wanted to go on the water. That’s why they ran out of kayaks and James Reynolds ended up with a damaged one which should never have been hired out.”

“Right.” I digest this. “I don’t think I ever knew the details.”

“Well.” Finn shrugs again. “Long time ago.”

On impulse, I jump down off the rock to examine the message more closely, and Finn follows me.

“ ‘To the couple on the beach,’ ” I read again. “What couple on the beach?”

I swivel round as though some random couple will come walking up and say, Ah, this must be directed at us. But the beach is as windswept and desolate as ever. There isn’t anyone in sight, let alone a likely couple.

“I think this is somehow for you.” I pivot back to face Finn. “You said you were out on another kayak. You said you swam over to help. It can’t be coincidence. Maybe James Reynolds thinks you saved his life.”

“But I didn’t save him!” retorts Finn. “I didn’t get anywhere near. And I’m not a couple. Maybe the date is just a coincidence.”

“It can’t be. Come on, look at the facts.” I tick off on my fingers. “You were on the beach that day and you tried to save him and now there are flowers on the beach saying thank you. They have to be for you.”

“As I said, I’m not a couple,” repeats Finn, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, if he was going to thank anyone, he would thank Andrew Ilston. I don’t think the jigsaw fits together. Give it up.” He bends down, picks up one of the pebbles, examines it, then replaces it. “If it’s anything, it’s art. It’s probably worth five million pounds.”

“Art.” I roll my eyes disparagingly. “That is not art!”

“Well, shall we agree we’ll never know?” suggests Finn.

“No,” I reply stubbornly. “I’m convinced this is to do with the accident. Maybe James Reynolds knows you’re staying here. He knows you tried to save him, and … Yes! He thinks you made the attempt with someone else.”

“Who?” demands Finn at once.

“Unspecified. But he thinks the two of you tried to save him.” I point at the message. “Hence ‘the couple on the beach.’ ”

I knew I would come up with a theory if I thought about it hard enough.

“That’s bollocks,” says Finn forthrightly. “How would he even know I was here?”

“Because … he saw you.” I whip round, scrutinizing the surrounding area. “He recognized you. Maybe he’s here!”

“You think he’s hiding behind the lodges?”

“Maybe!” I peer at the derelict lodges for a moment, then get out my phone. “I’m going to track him down and ask him. He’ll be on Facebook.”

Finn stares at me. “What, you’re just going to contact him, out of the blue?”

“Why not?” I say, summoning up Facebook. “That’s what social media is for. Cracking mysteries.”

“Didn’t know you were such a detective,” says Finn, sounding amused. “Is this your hobby?”

“It’s my last case,” I say, typing busily. “I was looking forward to a nice easy retirement, but now this comes along, so …”

“Got it.” Finn nods. “Drawn back in.”

“Exactly.”

“And I’m, what, your sidekick?”

“Not sure,” I say absently, scrolling through profiles of people called James Reynolds. “Maybe you’re the cop at the precinct saying, ‘Why are we opening this cold case? Don’t we have more important things to do?’ ” I look up, my eyes narrowed, and jab a finger at Finn. “Which probably means you wrote the message yourself and there’s a body underneath it.”