He’d lost me at this point. “And . . . what has that to do with Patrick buying the land?”
“Ach, it’s just a theory.”
“Which is?”
He stroked his beard. “Well, with kids going missing and all that . . . Some folk say that archaeologists are going to dig up murdered bodies. And that’s why Patrick’s buying so much land. To control where they dig.”
I followed his train of thought. “So he doesn’t get caught for murder?”
He turned to me, the answer written all over his face. I recalled what Isla had said. He’s an odd one, that Roberts. I work for him to keep an eye on him.
I said, “But if everyone thinks he’s a murderer, how come he hasn’t been picked up by the police?”
“Well, Bram’s head of police,” he said. “And who is Bram married to?”
“Isla,” I said. He was implying that Isla’s influence reached right into the police department. That she had sway on who was investigated and who wasn’t. But Isla had told me she found Patrick to be odd. What would her motive be for keeping an investigation away from him?
“Anyway, enough conspiratorial talk,” he said suddenly, waving a hand in the air to disperse our speculations. “How’s about I propose a toast?”
“To?” I said, lifting my empty glass.
“You, Ms. Olivia Stay.” He raised his glass. “For all the work you’ve put into making the Longing a little less crap.”
I laughed. “Cheers.”
The timer on the oven buzzed. I set down my glass to retrieve the quiche I’d made. I could never cook very well, but quiche I could do, having learned at art school that eggs tended to be heavily marked down at supermarkets close to student digs because no student could be bothered with the faff. We called the girls to the dining table and I lit a candle.
“One minor detail,” Finn said, biting his lip. “I’m allergic to eggs. Sorry.”
I looked from the quiche—which had turned out beautifully—to him, and then both of us burst out laughing.
“Shit. I should have checked.”
“I love eggs,” Cassie piped up. “I’ll have Daddy’s portion.”
I stood and rummaged through the cupboards. I’d avoided the supermarket in Strallaig so stridently since that weird night at Isla’s café that all I had in was a half packet of crackers and a can of baked beans.
“Can I interest you in . . . six crackers and some baked beans?”
“Yum,” Finn said, holding up his plate. “Get in my belly.”
Despite its rocky start, the evening was relaxed and fun, with the three girls chatting and laughing and Finn joining in with their banter. Saffy’s absence both relieved and concerned me. She was free to go as she pleased so long as she adhered to a curfew and let me know where she was, but since we’d arrived she’d abandoned the second part of that rule, and my nagging hadn’t seemed to have achieved much. When Cassie started to wane, I saw Finn become anxious to get her to her bed, so I suggested to the girls that we say good-bye. Nobody wanted to.
“We can do this again,” I said.
“When?” Clover insisted. “Tomorrow?”
I laughed. “We’ll see.”
Finn scooped Cassie up and carried her to the car parked by the road at the end of the causeway. I told Luna and Clover to stay indoors while I carried Cassie’s shoes, which she’d taken off in the bedroom.
“Thanks for a lovely night,” Finn said, closing the passenger door and straightening before me.