Making a fuss of moving the grapes to her side table, she grabs the packet of Yumnuts Will left her. “Saved one for you.” She passes him the box.
Giving her a grateful smile, he digs his hand in, pulls it out. It’s gone in two bites.
“So what’s happened now, with the case?” Elin asks.
“Postmortems confirmed what we suspected,” Anna replies. “Jackson confessed to it all, gave details. Bea Leger was collateral damage, as we thought. From the sound of it, the cliff fall was another option he had planned for dispatching Delaney, but then Bea threw a spanner in the works, forced him to improvise.”
“And the cave, the reaper stuff?”
“You were right. All a ruse once he realized that the accident narrative wouldn’t stick. Wanted to distract us into thinking the case was linked to the Creacher murders, so he could crack on with getting rid of Ronan Delaney.” Steed wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “He told us his father was responsible for the murders Creacher was meant to have committed. Lois Wade too.”
“What about Jo Leger?” Elin clears her throat.
Anna frowns, pausing. “That’s the one thing that’s still bothering me,” she says finally. “Jackson’s still saying he didn’t do it. Steed reckons he’s toying with us.”
Steed eyes the empty Yumnut box, nods. “I know it happens. A power thing. Not giving every piece of the puzzle away.”
“And the tweets? He ever fess up to those?”
Anna falters. “No, but we’re pretty sure he’s responsible. The fact there’s been no messages since . . .”
Elin nods, discomforted. Until Anna and Steed arrived, she wasn’t even sure whether she was going to bring it up. “It’s just—”
“What?”
“I’m probably being paranoid, but I’ve still got this feeling that someone’s”—she clears her throat—“someone’s been watching me.”
“You’ve seen them?” Steed’s brow furrows in concern.
“No, it’s more a feeling.” Elin flushes, unsure of how to word it. “The other day someone came past the ward and I thought—” She shrugs, forcing a laugh. “Forget it, probably all the meds making me loopy.”
Anna and Steed exchange a glance.
Elin changes the subject. “How’s it going with Creacher?”
Steed places a newspaper on the table. “Funny you say that. It’s all in here. Not exactly light bedtime reading, so don’t feel you have to look if you don’t want to.” He hesitates. “There’s mention of Farrah and Will too.”
She scans the headlines, the subhead.
larson creacher has been released from hmp exeter . . . the police are satisfied that there is sufficient evidence to prove that porter jackson was responsible for the murders of five teenagers in 2003. the police have confirmed that they are not looking for anyone else in relation to these deaths.
Her eyes skip over the text: No further police action will be taken against Farrah and Will Riley.
A rush of relief. Closure. She leans back against the pillow, suddenly tired.
“You look knackered,” Anna says, watching her. “We’ll leave you to it.” Standing up, she leans over the bed, hugs Elin.
Steed bends down, lightly pecks her on the cheek. “If I don’t see you before you go on holiday, I want photos, okay? Lots of them.”
“Guaranteed. You won’t be able to escape my ugly mug. I’m going to be one of those annoying vacation braggers, posting photos every day.”
Steed grins, grabbing a last grape from her container as they leave the room.
Watching through the glass as they make their way down the corridor, Elin picks up the newspaper Steed left. She starts flicking, trying to find the article on Creacher, when her phone buzzes.
A message, from a number she doesn’t recognize: a screenshot of a tweet.
Her heart seems to stop in her chest midbeat: she doesn’t want to look, but at the same time, can’t stop herself.
They’ve tagged Torhun police station again, but this time there’s text next to it.
Two lines.
Want to know a story about this detective?
A clue: this one doesn’t always tell the truth . . .
Elin sucks in a breath, but any fear she has of the wording is supplanted by a raw terror at the image below.
A photograph of her in her hospital bed, Steed’s newspaper in hand, taken a few moments ago.
TWO WEEKS LATER
It’s a couple of weeks since she got home, but only now Maya feels ready to unpack. She hauls her bag into the kitchen, empties it beside the washing machine. The crumpled clothes smell of beach and sea. Sand is embedded in the folds of the fabric; little off-white grains, fragments of shell—tiny half-moons, purplish slivers of mussel.