Elin steps away, so they’re out of earshot of Jared. “If it’s about the fact she was on the island at the time of the Creacher murders, I’m already aware.”
Michael’s shoulders relax. He nods. “She was asking what I knew about the school. Said someone had put the fear of God into her and her friends about the place when they came to the island for the Outward Bound course, but she’d never really understood what it was all about. The curse, she got, but not the connection to the school. Said it had always bothered her.”
“Did she say who it was who spoke to her?”
He shakes his head.
Elin looks back down at the piece of paper, her thoughts whirling. If Farrah was trying to get information about the school, then surely it indicates that it plays a role in this case. “And why did she come to you?”
“Farrah overheard me talking to that guest, the one I mentioned to you, the artist, who’d been to the school. She thought I might know something.”
“And I take it you do?” Her question is punctuated by a shrill shriek from a gull swooping overhead.
There’s no reply at first, before he nods. “When we spoke before, I didn’t quite give you the whole story. The artist, he was actually pretty emotional, seeing his piece in situ.” He tugs at his cap, a slight grimace on his face. “We got talking and he opened up a little about what went on at the school. Pretty odd punishments, from what I gathered.”
“In what way?”
“Said there was a room, hidden away, that they used to take the kids to. I didn’t probe, but he looked haunted, you know?” Michael shakes his head. “I knew it had to be pretty bad if it was still tearing him up, all these years later.”
Elin absorbs his words, heart starting to thud in her chest. A room. Like Will mentioned. Could this be somewhere they’ve taken Farrah? “Did he say anything else?”
A beat of hesitation. “Not explicitly, no, but the person I told you about, that I saw walking near the rock at night? It was the artist. When I clocked it was him, I wondered if he was all right, after what he’d told me, so I went out there, after him. I was about to approach him, but then he walked away, went past the rock.”
“Past it?” Her heart starts to beat a little faster. “There’s only woodland there, right?”
“Yeah, that’s what got me wondering. I followed.” Michael pauses. “He went a little way into the woods, to some kind of old bunker structure. I wondered if it was the room he’d mentioned, figured he might be trying to get some kind of closure.”
“Did you tell Farrah this?”
“I did, but when I showed her, she found, like I did, that nothing’s there. Definitely a bunker from what I could make out. When the retreat was built, the construction team blocked it in. Chucked half a ton of concrete down the steps leading there from the looks of it.”
Elin’s heart sinks. “There’s no way someone could access it now? No other entrance points?”
“Not unless they’ve excavated it. It’s fully blocked. I can show you if you like.”
Worth checking, she thinks, but it sounds like a dead end in more ways than one. “Thank you for being so honest.”
He nods. “Of course.”
Elin turns her attention back to the bag, frustrated. What Michael’s told her indicates they’re on the right track, assuming Farrah’s been doing some digging of her own, but it still doesn’t explain either where Farrah is now or why her bag would be here.
Bending down, she picks up the bag. “We need to get back. This storm’s picking up.” As if on cue, the wind gusts, sand blown in gritty bursts toward them. She shivers. “Let’s go.”
The relief on Jared’s and Michael’s faces is clear. They don’t want to be here any more than she does.
Halfway across the beach, their walk is punctuated by another, more violent surge of wind. It’s picked up a notch, she thinks warily. There’s an ominous creaking. Tipping up her head, she sees the trees on the cliff above bowing in the wind, trunks bending at an impossible angle.
“Let’s pick up the pace,” she says, rounding the corner. “I think—” Elin stops abruptly.
A splash of bright white in the sand beneath the overhang of the cliff.
She breaks into a jog, her eyes picking out a definitive shape: a profile. Head, torso, legs.
A flash of pale blond hair.
72
Elin sprints across the beach, fine spits of rain hitting her full in the face. Blinking them away, she stops just before the overhang, gasping for breath. Here, the cliff face has been carved away, striated with deep grooves, to form a natural lip. Just in front, blood marks the sand, little wells of red, then a messy arc of spray and spatter.