“I’ll go.” Elin turns to Steed. “You start speaking to the staff.”
* * *
—
When Elin steps outside, it’s like walking into another world.
The dull scene of just a few moments ago has become something wilder, more desolate, clouds scudding across the sky, the sea crested with white foaming peaks.
“He still down there?” she calls.
“Yes.” Jared runs ahead toward the steps down to the beach.
Elin follows. When they reach the beach, a gust of wind grabs a layer of sand and flings it into her face. She rubs at her eyes as Jared leads her left, past the beach shack. It’s been locked up, but in a hurry—one of the freestanding kayak racks has been left out. The wind is rattling it, kayaks shifting from side to side on their rests.
“There he is.” Jared raises a hand, points.
Looking up, Elin sees a member of staff beside the rocks, raising a hand in the air in greeting. It’s Michael Zimmerman. He’s wearing a thin raincoat, unzipped, the rounded dome of his belly pulling at his polo shirt. Once again, that sense of recognition flares.
Why can’t she place him?
It takes a few minutes to reach him and when they finally stop beside him, both Elin and Jared are breathing heavily.
“I haven’t touched anything.” Michael gestures to the bag. “As soon as I saw it, I radioed.” He shakes his head. “Don’t understand it. We searched this right at the beginning. Nothing was here.”
Elin follows his gaze to the tote bag lying half on the rocks and half on the beach. It’s open, spilling its guts onto the sand—a brush, a sunglasses case, a battered tube of sunscreen—but it’s not the contents that catch her attention, it’s the bag itself. The tan color, the wide strap . . . it’s Farrah’s, she’s certain.
But why would it be here, of all places? It’s possible that the attacker dumped it, but why this location? From here, all she can see is water. A wide expanse of gray blue, getting angrier by the minute.
Her thoughts swirl. There’s nowhere to go from here other than off the island. Could the placement of the bag be deliberate? Some kind of setup or diversion?
Or had Farrah run, scared by the threat? It’s not implausible that she’d found a way to leave.
There’s also another possibility—and her heart drops as she considers it. Had Farrah gone off of her own accord, for a more sinister reason? She can’t prove that Farrah didn’t put that screen saver in place to confuse them.
At this stage, she can’t discount the idea that Farrah might be involved in some capacity. Farrah lied to the police and they have only Will’s word as to why. Perhaps something happened that he isn’t aware of, something Farrah was desperate to keep hidden, and so lied in her testimony? Could her questions about the school relate to that?
Her mind teases apart the different scenarios as she wriggles her phone from her pocket. Crouching down, she takes a photograph of the bag as they found it, before pulling on a new pair of gloves, sifting through the contents. Items she recognizes: sunglasses case, hairbrush, planner. She’s about to zip the bag back up when she notices a piece of paper protruding askew from the address book.
Her pulse picks up.
A torn edge. The same as the paper from the notebook in Farrah’s office.
As she carefully unfolds it, her eyes lock on the handwriting at the very top. Again, the same.
Farrah’s: the last part of the word on the piece of paper they’d found in the bin.
The word is now complete: School.
She was right: Farrah had written down the name of Rock House School.
But that’s not the only thing on the page.
Her eyes move down. Another name below it.
Michael Zimmerman.
71
Elin keeps her back turned, the piece of paper flapping against her fingers in the breeze.
Rock House School. Michael Zimmerman.
Part of her had known somehow that the school was connected to this case, to the Creacher murders too. Clearly Farrah had come to the same conclusion. But how does it link to Michael? Fear prickles the back of her neck as she remembers him watching her.
Slowly, she turns to him, holding the paper out in front of her. “I’ve found this, in Farrah’s bag. She’s made a note referring to the old school . . . your name is under it. Do you know what it means?”
Michael glances down at the paper and then nods. “She was doing some research, as far as I could gather.” Farrah was doing some digging of her own. Looking at Jared, Michael lowers his voice to a murmur. “But look, what she told me, I don’t think it was meant for public consumption.”