Mr. Sturrock led them to the end of the bridge approach, gave his stern welcome, and fished out his notes (he never spoke without them). Ron knew the speech by heart now, and as he half-listened, he watched the audience. They were younger than usual, and many had camcorders and cameras. There was something else different about them, too. They were warmed up for something. This was a gathering of ghouls. Gone were the quiet attention of the regular audience of locals and the earnest types interested in bridge design, the sad concentration of people hoping for answers, paying respects to the dead.
Mr. Sturrock was telling them about concrete. “We’re well ahead of schedule,” he read from his notes, “partly because we are fortunate in having suitable sites downriver for the casting sheds, thus minimizing the cost and transportation time for the replacement concrete components. Needless to say, we inspect every casting and reject it unless it meets our strict criteria.”
As he spoke, three or four people detached themselves from the group, wandered away, and began taking pictures. Mr. Sturrock counted on his fingers. “One, concrete has to cure properly, in temperatures above zero degrees centigrade. Two, on top of the temperature, you have to think about what we call air entrainment, which is-”
“Excuse me, are there any more bodies still down there?” somebody asked. Others murmured with interest.
“What about that woman? Have they found her yet?”
“Are the divers down there now? Have they called off the search?”
“That’s a police matter,” Mr. Sturrock said. “Three, your basic concrete recipe has to suit your actual conditions. There are various chemical-”
A few more people drifted away; two or three began a conversation.
“How long would it take a human body to decompose down there?”
“The fish eat everything, that’s what I heard. Everything. Hey, mister, is it true after five months there’d just be bones?”
Mr. Sturrock paused and looked past the crowd. Two of the first defectors had strolled to the barrier at the end of the bridge road and were scanning the river with camcorders, homing in on the crane barge that had lifted the car. Their safety helmets sat on the ground at their feet.
“Hoy!” Mr. Sturrock yelled. “Hoy, you! Stop right there! You’re in breach of regulations!” He pocketed his notes and strode toward them. “You fucking jokers, get your hats on! Get your fucking hats on and get your arses off the fucking bridge!” One man stopped at once and reached for his helmet. But the other swung his camcorder round and began filming Mr. Sturrock.
Ron wasn’t in time to stop it. Mr. Sturrock let out a roar, broke into a run, lunged at the man, and wrenched the camcorder away. Holding the man off with his free hand and ignoring his shouts, he strode to the barrier and flung it into the water. He swung round to the rest of the group. “Aye, and that goes for the lot of yous! This tour is canceled! Fuck off! You are no longer authorized on these premises! So fuck off, the lot o’ yous!”
Rhona came forward, protesting, but he held up a hand. “Rhona, hen, just get them out of here, okay? I’m no’ having it. Hear me? Get them fucking out of here.”
He strode off toward the jetty, stepped into the launch, took a seat in the bow as far as possible from where Ron operated the boat, and stared out at the opposite bank. Ron followed, started the ignition, and when they were midriver he slowed the boat right down so they could feel the soft tilting of the tide against the sides. The quieting of the engine or their distance from the shore, maybe the rhythm of the waves, calmed Mr. Sturrock. He turned and shuffled down until he sat close to the stern.
“Lost my rag for a wee minute there,” he said. “Maybe I went a bit far, eh?”
He had never before talked to Ron in a tone of voice that invited a reply.
“No, served them right,” Ron said. He smiled. “Shouldn’t have taken their hats off, should they?”
Mr. Sturrock laughed. “Aye, right enough, they shouldnae.” He shook his head. “See how they were carrying on, like it’s entertainment? Nae respect.” He paused. “It’s on my mind, I suppose. Him that wasnae there the day, the English fella.”
“What English fella?”
“Fuck’s sake, yon English fella, he’s here every time. Big quiet fella, comes up from Huddersfield.”
“I know who you mean. He wasn’t here today. First one he’s missed,” Ron said.
“That’s what I’m telling you,” Mr. Sturrock said. “You ken why? Rhona told me. See, she had him on his own for a wee minute, one time, over the coffee kinda thing. She makes an effort, Rhona. Turns out it’s his wife. The lady that hired that car, it’s his wife, for fuck’s sake. That’s why he keeps coming. And see they bastards the day, going on like it’s a photo opportunity…” He glanced back at the jetty. “Enter-fucking-tainment. Imagine being him when that fucking car came out the water.”
“Will they ever find her body?” Ron asked. “So at least he’d know what happened to her?”
“I’ve nae fucking idea,” Mr. Sturrock said. “Poor bastard. Put a bit of speed on, will you? I haven’t got all fucking day.”
Ron’s phone rang again, and he didn’t answer. After he’d delivered Mr. Sturrock to the jetty, he checked for messages. The call was from Silva’s number, but it was Annabel’s voice.
“She’s heard about the car,” she said. “I’ve been trying to get you. Can you come today? Please come.”
When he arrived at the cabin, he found Silva sitting on the floor in her room with photographs of Stefan and Anna in her lap. She’d been that way, Annabel told him, since the news came. She had taken Stefan’s drawing of the cabin down from the wall and lit candles around it, and rocked to and fro with her hands clenched against her mouth as the candles burned, gazing at the drawing and whispering to the smiling stick figures he’d made of the three of them in fierce, spitting bursts of language of which Annabel and Ron understood not a word.
All through Saturday and Sunday they tried to care for her, but she would scarcely be deflected by entreaties to eat or rest. When Annabel spoke to tell her there was food ready or to suggest she lie down and sleep, her voice seemed to reach her, if at all, from too far away to be understood. When Ron helped her gently to her feet and brought her to the table or to her bed, she walked carefully on her numbed legs and did not look at him. She ate and slept only to regain enough strength to return to her place on the floor.
But she did not weep, and on Monday morning she was up and ready early to go to Vi’s. The radio was now repeating that the police had confirmed the bodies were those of a man and a child and that the car was the one rented by a woman tourist, who was still missing. And so, Silva announced to the others, these were the bodies of two other people. Stefan never hitched lifts when he had Anna with him because he always said if he ran into trouble he could defend himself all right alone, but he couldn’t be sure of defending her as well. Besides, she said, the police didn’t even say the child was a girl.
She spoke in a firm but faded voice, as if she were under a kind of hypnosis of both hope and dread; an entranced, defiant look had entered her eyes. She got through the next few days at Vi’s, returning exhausted to her candles and photographs and incantations. On the fifth day, she did not go to work because she woke after a vivid dream of Stefan, who had borne a message that the answer to her prayers was nigh. This would be the day they came back. She waited at the cabin all day, and the next, and the next.