“You weren’t to know.”
“But what if it was about this case? . . . I’ll call her.” Elin pulls out her phone, dials Farrah’s number. It goes straight to voice mail. “No answer. Let’s check outside.”
Straightening up, she follows Steed through the open door. The outdoor area is a big space, as Farrah has the corner office, encompassing not just the back terrace but a portion of the side as well. Not a woodland view, but the sea, the islet with its dense thicket of trees. The growing bank of cloud is casting the islet into a dappled shade. The effect is curious, somehow isolating it from the rest of the vista, making it seem even more remote.
Steed steps down off the terrace onto the grass, where the land drops sharply away toward the cliff. “Looks like there’s access down to the rocks this way.”
She nods, noticing a handrail at the edge of the cliff—perhaps the start of steps. “Any CCTV?”
Walking in a circle, Steed peers up at the building. “Doesn’t seem to be.”
Again, she feels a niggling sense of unease. “Reckon someone could have gone unnoticed?”
“I’d say so. Pretty deserted around here. If you timed it right.”
She nods. “Let’s head in. Ask around.”
Back inside, they’re only halfway across the room when her eyes alight on the bin beside Farrah’s desk. From this angle, she picks up on something that wasn’t visible as they entered. Among the crumpled paper and wrappers, there’s a strip of card stock pressed against the wire mesh.
She tips her head. A photograph.
“Found something?” Steed asks.
Stopping beside the bin, Elin squats down to get a better look. “I thought it was a photo, but it’s too pixelated.”
He looks over her shoulder. “A photocopy, from the looks of it. Maybe from a newspaper.”
“Could be.” Pulling a pair of gloves from her bag, Elin slips them on, gently tugging the strip out. No more than a few inches wide, it’s been roughly torn, the edges ragged. While the image looks like a newspaper, the paper’s far too thick. “Definitely a photocopy.” Bringing it closer, she can make out not just one face now but several, one behind another, as if lined up for a group shot.
Elin flips it over but the back is blank. Curiosity piqued, she puts the first strip on Farrah’s desk, then methodically starts fishing in the bin for the larger pieces of paper.
More strips, caught among the other rubbish. She lays them beside the first and carefully places them in order. Her hand wavers over the fourth strip as the image knits together: the faces, matching T-shirts, the old building looming behind.
“Looks like a photograph from one of the Outward Bound courses on the island.” Steed points. “That’s the school, isn’t it, in the background?”
“Yeah.” One by one, she picks out the faces of what were assumed to be Creacher’s victims, the same faces they’d discovered tacked to the wall of the cave. She swallows hard: it’s unnerving—the cheery, carefree smiles of kids who had no idea what was coming.
Scouring the pixelated faces, she finds Farrah in the middle row, cap sitting slightly askew, looking directly at the camera.
Hard proof that she was there on the island during the Creacher killings.
“Why would she have this here?” Steed murmurs. “And torn up like this . . .”
“Has to be connected to what’s going on. Torn up because she probably doesn’t want to shout about the fact she was on the island at the time. But if that’s the case, why have a copy of it in the first place?” She thinks it through. “Maybe the fact that it’s a photo of the group is significant.”
There’s a glimmer in his eyes. “I get where you’re going . . .”
She nods. “Perhaps she’s also made a connection between what’s going on and the Creacher murders. Refamiliarizing herself with the kids on the Outward Bound course.”
Steed narrows his eyes. “She’s recognized someone?”
“It’s possible.” Looking back at the image, Elin’s eyes move from face to face. Something stirs, a vague familiarity. The feeling nags at her until she’s left with an overwhelming sense that her subconscious mind is trying to flag something.
But as she gathers the strips and puts them into a bag, she still can’t place what it is.
“I’ll take another look in the bin. She might have discarded something else.” Steed’s already walking over.