He flipped a Polaroid out of the back of the book. “Did she take this for him?”
I took the Polaroid and gasped. It was a picture of Saffy, but I almost didn’t recognize her—she was naked, her red lips stretched into a seductive smile, one hand cupping her breast. My little girl.
I looked up at Bram, unable to speak for horror.
He flicked a grim look at PC Thomson. “Bring Roberts in for a chat.”
III
For several hours, I fell into the infinite abyss of despair made by imagining what Patrick might have done to my daughter. How I’d neglected to keep as close an eye on her as I should have done. How I should have seen that she was desperate for attention, for love.
I had failed as a mother.
When Bram called to say they’d let him go, my despair only widened. I had so many questions, and no answers.
Needless to say, I missed my GP appointment. I did not sleep or eat. Time passed in strange bursts.
Bram and PC Thomson insisted on interviewing Luna several times over the next few days. Even though I could see she was suffering with guilt and devastation, I allowed it. They said the slightest detail that Luna could remember—a throwaway phrase Saffy had used, some minor action that was in some way out of the ordinary—could point the way to Saffy. Boats docked and sailed away dozens of times a day; she might have been dragged off by anyone, halfway across the ocean in any direction. Or she could have drowned. Or she might have simply decided to punish me for real and hitchhiked back to England, or farther.
Isla and Mirrin came to the bothy with food and videotapes for Clover and Luna. It was this last touch that warmed me to them, for a few moments after they’d put on Barney & Friends, the girls were glued to the screen, their crying about Saffy temporarily halted. Finn and I went out and waded across the causeway. Rain was coming down in great ropes, the horizon bruised and thunderous.
We walked along the beach toward Strallaig, then took the path toward the hill that Finn had said offered views of the whole island. The rain was so heavy that the hill seemed to be disintegrating into a muddy river, and several times we had to lower on all fours to stop from sliding back down. I was soaking wet, blinded by rain, but I kept going until I reached the top. I knew it was ridiculous—I had no binoculars, no way of seeing Saffy from that height, even if she’d stood in the village square—but perhaps, I thought, perhaps she might see me. Perhaps, if she spotted me on the hill from wherever she might be on the island, the sight of her small, broken mother searching desperately for her would persuade her to come home.
But it didn’t.
Back at the bothy, I sat at the kitchen table, shaking with cold and shock, my mind shattered into a million pieces. Finn had taken Cassie home to rest, and I had felt indescribably bereft as I watched his car pull away. It hit me in that moment how isolated I was, how alone. How sinister the sea, creeping toward the causeway and finally swallowing it.
Isla made me a cup of hot tea and Mirrin set about doing the dishes and gathering laundry.
“The whole island is searching for her,” Isla said gently. “Everyone’s out with their dogs and torches. We’ll find her.”
When the phone rang again, I pounced on it. It was Bram.
“As you know, we’ve spoken with a fair few people on the island. But there’s one man we’re classing as a person of interest just now.”
“Patrick,” I said.
He cleared his throat. “No. Not Patrick. I believe you know a man by the name of Finn McAllen?”
IV
I don’t really remember much about that day. I was in shock. Finn was a person of interest in the disappearance of my daughter. Rowan had said that she saw him with Saffy the night before she went missing. Another witness stated that they’d seen Finn’s car parked near the woods that night. They’d searched Finn’s car and found another three Polaroids of Saffy in sexual poses.