Elin thinks it through, discomforted by the idea that someone would try to scare the kids, about the school too. What was the fascination with the place? Things keep circling back to it . . .
As the conversation winds down and they say goodbye, Elin’s thoughts shift back to Farrah. Nerves prickle her stomach. There’s no escaping it; she’s the only person who was on the island at the time of the Creacher murders and is here now. She needs to speak to her.
Making her way back to the main lodge, she’s only a few yards from the entrance when Michael Zimmerman passes her. He’s holding some kind of tarpaulin, an edge trailing across the floor.
He makes fleeting eye contact with Elin before she turns away.
63
Farrah . . . shit . . .” Steed runs a hand through his hair. “Take it she never mentioned it?”
“No. Neither did Will.” It’s this that still stings: how he’d kept something of this magnitude from her. Her open book, as she’d always thought of him, had been anything but.
“So what do you make of it?”
“Not sure. Johnson clearly had doubts over whether Farrah was giving the full story. Given her testimony was key in the prosecution’s case against Creacher, it starts to make the case against him look pretty shaky.”
“Particularly now you know he wasn’t on the island when the other girl went missing.”
She nods, glances around reception. No sign of Farrah. “Any progress on the cross-checking front?”
“Yeah. I’ve sent the list of guests and staff currently on the island to the intelligence unit. Might be a while before we get answers, though. The incident on the mainland is escalating from the sounds of it. They’re pulling in people left, right, and center.”
“Okay, let’s find Farrah and then come up with a plan—” Elin is stopped by the shrill sound of raised voices a few feet away.
“I think you need to tell us what the hell’s going on.” A petite woman in a robe is standing close to the reception desk with a friend. The ends of their hair are wet, small droplets dotting the floor. Their swim’s been disturbed by the news. “No explanation. Just some garbled instructions that we need to pack our bags and come here.” She turns to her friend. “We should have gone with everyone else. Not given them the benefit of the doubt.” A violent clatter as her key fob drops, skitters across the polished concrete floor.
Elin shrinks back, letting the member of staff deal with the situation.
“Only the start,” Steed murmurs.
She nods, aware that once everyone is together, she’ll have to brief them properly. Deal with the inevitable onslaught of questions.
Circumnavigating the pair, she walks around to the other member of staff behind the reception desk. “Sorry to disturb, but have you seen Farrah?”
“Yes, she was here a few minutes ago, speaking to Jared, one of the supervisors.”
The other receptionist leans over. Elin glances at the now-retreating couple; pacified for the moment. “Actually, I think she went to her office, or at least in that direction. Said something urgent had come up.”
“Would you mind showing us where it is?”
“Of course.” The woman leads them toward the corridor at the back of the room. Fifty yards or so down, she stops, gestures in front of her. “There. Hers is the corner office.”
“Thank you.” Elin clocks Farrah’s name at the top of the door. Nerves clutch at her throat. Moving closer, she can see that the door is slightly ajar, but there’s no movement inside.
Steed peers through the gap. “Doesn’t look like she’s in there.”
Taking a deep breath, she knocks. “Farrah?”
No response, so she tries again. Nothing.
Elin walks inside, Steed a few steps behind. She immediately catches the light scent of Farrah’s perfume, but the room is empty.
The desk in the center is almost bare, apart from several photo frames, a laptop, a neat pile of papers.
Elin’s about to withdraw, then hesitates, a breeze lifting the hairs on her bare arm. She glances up, sees that the glass doors at the back of the room are partially open. “She might be outside.”
But they haven’t gone more than a few feet toward the doors when Elin’s eyes lock on Farrah’s radio.
It’s smashed; splintered pieces of black plastic littering the floor behind Farrah’s desk.
Elin meets Steed’s gaze, panic flaring in her chest.
Not Farrah. No.
64
The drooping branch of a pine is scratching at the window.