‘And what did you make of her?’
‘She was a quiet little thing,’ Grusche said. ‘Always overawed by Caroline and Eleanor. Grateful for their attention. They loved having an admirer, of course. It was very good for their egos to have Polly hanging on their every word. I knew that she’d do well, though. She worked very hard. And she wasn’t one then for weird imaginings.’
‘But that last time you saw her, when you took her out to lunch, you thought she was a bit flaky?’ Sandy asked.
‘She said she didn’t believe in the ghost, that there’d be some rational explanation for the girl she’d seen, but I think she was trying to convince herself as much as us. It’d be easy enough to frighten Polly and tip her into a panic.’ Grusche stared at Sandy as if she was telling him something important. ‘If that was what you wanted to do.’
‘Caroline said Polly had a panic attack at the dinner tonight and that’s why she ran out.’ Sandy finished his tea and thought he should get back to Sletts and see if there was any news of the woman. He shouldn’t sit here in the warm gossiping, though it was pleasant to be inside.
Grusche stood too and led him back to the front door. ‘They should never have dragged her and the others out to that dinner. It was Caroline’s idea. Lowrie was all for leaving them alone last night.’
‘Caroline’s a strong woman,’ said Sandy.
‘She is.’ Grusche allowed herself a smile. ‘But she loves my boy to bits, and in the end that’s all that matters.’
Sandy didn’t quite believe that. He thought Caroline might turn into one of those bunny-boilers, very jealous and possessive. He wondered how Lowrie would be in twenty years’ time. Would he be asleep in his bed after too much whisky and a day of being nagged by his strong woman? He thought Grusche wouldn’t have been an easy person to live with, either. Perhaps George could deal with her better when he was still working his shifts in the lighthouse and there was an escape for him every month. Perhaps she’d been happier then, when she just had Lowrie to keep her company. Caroline and Lowrie would be working and living together every day, though. Sandy couldn’t see how that arrangement could work successfully.
‘I should go and see what’s happening,’ he said. ‘Polly might be back at Sletts now and we could be worrying over nothing.’
‘Aye, maybe.’ But he could tell that Grusche wasn’t convinced. As he left the house, the cockerel in the hen house began to squawk and he saw that it was almost morning.
Chapter Forty-Two
Willow made her way down to the beach and felt a sudden spurt of anger. What the shit am I doing here? I’m the senior investigating officer in this case, not a rookie plod to be ordered around by the great Jimmy Perez. He wouldn’t have spoken to a male superior officer like that!
The anger was directed first at herself, because she hadn’t taken charge of the search when she’d had the chance. Because she’d allowed the man to walk all over her. Then it was turned towards Perez, who’d been cold and uncommunicative since they’d left Springfield House. What was it about the man that turned her into a pathetic girl, unable to assert her authority for a moment?
The tide was out and she walked on the damp sand, which was ridged, hard under her feet. Here the fog was patchy; sometimes it was so dense that she lost all sense of direction and wandered towards the water, and occasionally it lifted so that she could make out the lights in Sletts. She was shouting Polly’s name and swinging her torch in an arc so that it would be seen from all directions, but she felt this was pointless. Why would Polly be on the beach, when the holiday house and safety were close by? Surely there would be nothing in Sletts to scare her. No, Jimmy Perez was going it alone again, playing the hero. This was more about his ego, and proving to himself and to the world that he was back at the top of his game, than saving a young woman’s life.
There was a sudden breeze from the sea, which swirled the mist in strange patterns and she thought she saw a figure standing near the water. She told herself that she was dreaming or the faint light on the horizon was playing tricks with her imagination, but all the same she felt chilled, suddenly scared. As she got closer to the tideline she saw that it was no Peerie Lizzie, no young girl dressed in white. This was an adult clothed in a waterproof jacket and a hood. The fog thickened again and the figure disappeared. Willow screamed Polly’s name and ran towards the shadow, but on the flat sand directions were deceptive and she thought she could be running in completely the opposite direction. She stood still and listened. The tide must be turning now. She heard soft waves breaking. On a morning like this Elizabeth Geldard had slipped away from her adoptive mother, or had been led into danger by her, and been drowned as the water slid down the voe and filled the gullies behind her, cutting off her escape back to the shore. For the first time Willow realized how easily that could have happened.
There was another sound. Human, not supernatural. Choked sobs.
‘Polly!’ Yelling as hard as she could. But it was like screaming in a dream, when no sound comes out. Her voice was lost in the wide expanse of the beach and there was no response. ‘Polly, come away from the water, it’s dangerous there.’ She wondered if the woman had had a real breakdown, or had been attacked and left wandering on the shore. She listened again, but now there was silence, apart from the splash of the waves.
Then, like a curtain rising, the mist ahead of her cleared and she saw the figure clearly, still some way off to the north of her and on the part of the beach that was closest to the Meoness community hall. The water had already come up to the figure’s calves. Willow was reminded of a series of sculptures that she and her mother had visited on a beach in Merseyside. Antony Gormley’s cast-iron figures, which had been moulded from his own body, planted in the sand and covered twice a day by the tide. Each of them had seemed entirely lonely as the water covered them, and Willow had watched, fascinated, as they disappeared a little at a time under the sea.
She ran across the shore, determined to get there before the fog returned. Then she realized that the figure was too tall to be Polly. This was a man, standing motionless and waiting to be swallowed up by the tide.
‘David.’ Still the water came. He was wearing wellingtons and the water had started to spill inside the boots. ‘Come here. You’ll catch your death.’ She didn’t approach him because she wasn’t going to risk wet clothes until there was no alternative, even in midsummer, and he was so distraught that she worried she might spook him, so that he’d walk away from her and deliberately drown.
He turned slowly and, for the first time, seemed to see that she was there.
‘Come away from the water, David.’ No response. ‘Do you want to talk?’
He gave a deep breath, half-sob and half-agreement, and walked towards her. On the sand, under the Meoness community hall and just above the tideline, someone had built a bonfire, perhaps in preparation for a beach party. A pile of driftwood and dry garden clippings from shrubs and bushes, some rotten fence posts.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any matches.’ Whoever had built the fire would be hopping mad if they used the wood, but she didn’t want to take Gordon back to Sletts, where Caroline would be waiting, and he needed to get warm.
He felt in his pocket. ‘This was Charlie’s spare jacket. I thought I’d feel closer to him wearing it. Quite ridiculous!’ He pulled out a lighter.
She lit the scrub at the base of the fire and it flamed immediately. They sat on the powdery sand and stared into it. ‘What on earth do you think you were doing?’
‘I lied to you about the night of Eleanor Longstaff’s murder,’ David said. ‘Charles was here in Meoness when she died. I followed him.’ He turned and the orange glow from the fire caught his face. ‘Do you think he killed her? I’ve been going over and over it in my mind. It might explain why somebody wanted him dead.’