“Must have been so frightening,” Elin murmurs, struggling to imagine how or why someone would want to inflict such fear on kids.
“It was. A warped, psychological terror meted out on us for no other reason than to have control over someone who couldn’t fight back. As an adult, I can see it for what it was: an abuse of power. But as a kid . . .”
“I’m sorry.” She swallows hard, the weight of what he’s told them sitting heavily on the room. All the things she’d imagined about this case, but not this. “Was there any pattern to it happening?”
“Not really.” Again, the professional smile appears, quickly falls away.
“Did you ever find out who was acting as the reaper character?” Steed asks. “Which teacher?”
“No.” Ronan’s left hand comes up to his mouth, teeth finding the raw skin around the nails.
Steed is writing in his notebook. “No one ever spoke up about it?”
“We were too scared. One boy said he was planning to tell his parents, but the next day, he fell during a trip to the quarry. No one dared mention it after that. At the time, we really believed”—he makes quote marks with his fingers—“？‘the reaper’ was responsible. We weren’t little kids, but the fear we had . . .”
Someone wanted to shut them up, Elin thinks, and in the cleverest way—a way that would only cement the terrible narrative that the reaper would hurt them if they stepped out of line. “Manipulation,” she murmurs.
“Yes,” Ronan says heavily. “Of the worst kind.”
“And Porter Jackson, I’m assuming he’d have experienced the same thing?”
“I expect so. I’m pretty sure none of us were excluded from it.”
Steed looks up from his notebook. “And were you aware that Porter Jackson was working as a boatman on the island at the time of the Creacher murders?”
A pause before he nods. “Now you’ve mentioned it, yes. I think I read about it.”
“Did it surprise you? After his time at the school?”
“Strangely enough, no. I felt the same thing, the urge to come back here, to try to put some kind of a lid on what went on.” Ronan shrugs.
Like Will and Farrah, Elin thinks, and the artist who’d created the textile work. “And after the planning issues, you haven’t been in contact with Jackson?”
“No, but that’s not surprising.” Ronan looks up. “A school friend told me a few months ago that Jackson had died. He mentioned a funeral in Jackson’s hometown, Ashburton. The November before last, maybe.”
Elin meets Steed’s gaze, sees her own dismay reflected in his eyes. Grabbing her phone, she searches both his name and hometown. The more specific search terms yield an immediate result: a memorial page from over two years ago. There’s a photograph at the top. She tips the screen to show Ronan. “This him?”
He nods. Elin scans the text below the image, which details the specifics of Jackson’s funeral. There’s also a brief biography mentioning his time at the school, and his working life, including on the island.
It’s him. There’s no doubting it. Porter Jackson’s dead.
Bea’s, Seth’s, and Jo’s deaths—there’s no way he can be responsible.
“Guess that’s not what you both wanted to hear?” Ronan asks, watching them.
“Not exactly.” She’s still processing it. “Do you know if he has any family?”
“I’m not sure. I’m sorry.”
“And no one else who attended the school has been in touch recently?” Elin hears the desperation in her voice. She’d been so convinced. Jackson not only had genuine motive . . . but he was at the school and on the island during the Creacher murders.
“No.” Ronan hesitates, shaking his head. “But honestly, I’m struggling to understand why someone who’d been through what we endured would want to do the same thing to someone else.”
“Sometimes it can be part of a pattern. A cycle. Someone abused in that way becomes an abuser themselves. Mostly, of course, that’s not the case, but it can happen. I—” She stops. Her phone’s ringing. Will. “Sorry, I need to take this.”
“Of course. If you need anything else, I’ll be with the group.” Ronan gathers his stuff together. “I’ve been given pretty strong instructions to get on my way.”
“I’ve missed it . . .” Elin murmurs as they leave the room.