Two members of the same group dead in as many days. What are the chances?
“You recognize him too?” Tom mutters.
“Yes. He’s one of the group . . . Bea, the woman who fell. Seth’s her sister’s boyfriend.” Elin belatedly picks up on the “too.” “You remember him from yesterday?”
“Not exactly. I’ll be honest, when you and I spoke, I knew you’d been chatting to Seth, but that wasn’t the first time I’d seen him. We’d already met. He’s actually been to the retreat a fair bit.”
“A regular guest?”
“Not sure if I’d describe it like that. I don’t know if you’re aware, but Seth’s father owns the island.” A pause. “Ronan Delaney. Not something many people know. The retreat is leased to a hotel chain, so he’s not really involved in the day-to-day.”
“I didn’t know.” Why had none of the Leger family mentioned it? Surely it would have come up when they’d spoken? “When Seth comes to the island, does he usually dive?”
“Yes, and that’s what I find so odd, that he’d be out there on his own, get himself into this situation,” Tom replies, a bead of water running from his hair down his cheek. “Experienced divers have the protocol drilled into them—you never dive alone. Seth knows that, usually takes either an instructor or a friend with him.” He swallows hard. “I also don’t like how he’s positioned down there, on his side. After an accident a body usually settles cylinder first, following the heaviest part of the body.”
He hesitates, as if finding it hard to get his words out or debating whether to say something.
“Is there something else?” Elin gently prompts.
Tom nods. “The valve on his air cylinder has been switched off.”
“That would cut the air supply?”
“Yes.” He flinches. “He’d have suffocated.”
“Is it possible to do that yourself, accidentally?” Steed asks, still looking at the image.
“No, I don’t think so, and even if it had, he could have corrected it.”
Elin picks apart his words, his tone, a cold bead of realization settling in her chest. He’s not saying it explicitly, but she’s getting the gist.
“And his hood . . .” Tom reaches for the phone, scrolls, then hands it back to her. “It’s like it’s been pulled back.”
Elin looks down at the image. There’s nothing natural about the pinches and creases in the fabric. Someone or something has had ahold of it.
37
Ineed to make a few calls to get the right team in place, but in the meantime, can we get a boat out here? Make sure no one comes in the vicinity?” Elin says quickly. Even underwater, securing a scene is vital. If this isn’t accidental and any evidence is disturbed, it could compromise the investigation.
“Of course.” Tom nods, face still pale. “Anything we can do to help.”
Steed glances back to the shore. “Is there anywhere off this beach that we can work from?”
Tom considers, then nods again. “There’s a shack, just below the cliff. Not sure how clean it is, but it’s private.”
“Thank you.” Elin passes Tom’s phone back, reaching for her own, but as she does, it rings.
Farrah’s number.
No greeting: “I’ve got news,” Farrah starts. “The missing man turned out to be not so missing. He was snorkeling, apparently, on the other side of the resort. Had his phone with him but it was turned off. Switched it on about twenty minutes ago to find a ton of messages. Bit insulted, I think, that his friend had thought the worst. Said something along the lines of ‘I loved her, but not that much . . .’？”
“And the mess in his room?”
“Looking for his waterproof phone case.”
“Good news.” Elin hesitates, reluctant to burst Farrah’s bubble. “But I’m afraid I’ve got to follow it with some bad. That bag that was spotted . . . We’ve found a body nearby.”
* * *
—
I know it’s not exactly up to par with the rest of the retreat, but will this do? I don’t know when it was last opened.” Tom turns, feet kicking up a cloud of dust.
Steed starts coughing, pressing a hand to his mouth. “Years would be my guess,” he manages to choke out.
Elin glances around; the contrast with the water sports shack on the main beach is striking. A musty, saline damp pervades the air, the stale smell of an unused building on the beach, amplified by detritus—battered life buoys, jackets, an old radio on top of a stained icebox. Each scratched square of window is thick with grime, leaving only a small circle of glass in the center for watery strips of sunlight to filter through.