I still have nightmares about it now. I’ve started putting it into my art . . . it’s the only way I can go about processing it.
Let’s take this private. I don’t think a public forum is the place to discuss.
Elin keeps reading, but that’s the last mention of the room.
“I don’t know what drives some people.” Steed grimaces. “Vulnerable kids . . .”
“Yeah. The very people who were there to protect them too . . .” As Elin scrolls back to a particular part of the conversation, her eyes hook on one phrase: I’ve started putting it into my art. “This bit, about the art, it’s got me thinking about the piece in reception with the motifs of the rock woven through it. What if, rather than motifs, they’re representations of the stones described in this room?”
“Maybe a way of trying to process it, like this guy says here.”
“And perhaps our killer never has. I think we’ve got pretty substantial motive here; what if our killer is echoing their experience of this room through the murders? Going through this . . . a massive trauma. If you’re delusional as well . . .”
Steed slowly nods. “But if that is the case, then surely it implies that the killer has to be someone who was at the school, went through it? Or at least has knowledge of it.”
“You’re right.” Elin’s mind darts to the one person whose name drew her attention to this thread in the first place. “The only person who fits is Porter Jackson, but the question is whether he was also on the island when Lois Wade went missing. I’ll message Johnson.”
He replies almost instantly. Elin turns back. “Jackson was the boatman when Lois went missing. Johnson never thought it significant: Jackson apparently dropped the kids and left, and people verified that.”
She catches a fleeting light in Steed’s eyes. “But just because he left doesn’t mean he didn’t come back.”
“Exactly.” It’s a theory, but one she can’t help stumbling on—while Jackson was on or around the island at the time of the Creacher murders, there’s no evidence he is now.
“Let’s see if we can get anything on current whereabouts.” Elin quickly searches his name on her phone, but it brings up pages of results. “Bad idea. This will take hours to trawl through. Let’s call the intel unit, get their help. In the meantime, I want to speak to Michael, get a look at this building he mentioned. He reckons it’s been blocked up, but after seeing this, I’m wondering if there’s another access point.”
“You’re thinking somewhere the killer might be holding Farrah?”
“It’s a possibility. You keep an eye on things here and I’ll find Michael.” Reaching for her bag, she feels a sharp prickle of excitement, adrenaline rising in her so fast, she stumbles as she makes her way across the room.
They’re getting there. Piece by piece things are pulling together.
78
That’s it. The entrance, at least.” Reaching up, Michael tugs at the mass of tree branches smothering what remains of the doorway.
A faint smell of old vegetation wafts toward her as Elin holds up her flashlight, the beam highlighting an intricate spiderweb, tiny water droplets clinging to the filigree. A guttural rumble of thunder sounds out, followed by a gust of wind that makes the branches above thrash wildly from side to side. As the wind subsides, Elin surveys what’s beneath with disappointment: a packed-out infill of rubble and cement.
No mistaking it: the entrance to the room is completely blocked.
“Hard to see now, but there’s the outline of the doorway.” Michael gestures to the left of the infill, the hood of his mac slipping down as he moves. Above him, lightning flares: an explosion of harsh white light. Trees, leaf litter, Michael, bounce out of monochrome into fleeting, brittle color.
As the light fades, Elin scopes out the structure. It looks like a bunker of some description, presumably leading downstairs to the room he’d described. The hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention. Despite the infill, a horrible atmosphere pervades the area. The more she sees, the more she can’t stop herself envisioning what might have happened down there.
Elin walks farther, past the entrance. “And you’re sure there’s no other way to access it?”
Michael shakes his head, blinking rainwater out of his eyes. “Unless someone’s tunneled in, I think it’s highly unlikely, and besides, once they got down there, the room would be filled.”