6

The stone skimmed across the water, dabbing delicate silvery ripples across its grey, mirrored surface as it bounced along – one, two, three – before plopping below a small wave.

He bent down and rummaged for another stone to throw, hating the way he grunted as he stooped. It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for – the shoreline was only fit to be called a beach in marketing brochures and travel articles. In truth, it was a bowed strip of stony ground that joined the two points of the bay together in a shallow arc.

“Subs, please check,” he said to the emptiness with a smile as he stood up. He paused for a moment, taking in the view. On the horizon, a yacht from one of the hotels further up the coast bobbed along like a special effect, seeming to drag a curtain of rain across the hills that jutted into the blue-grey sky beyond.

He had come here the moment he saw the story. He had been scanning the morning news – old habits die hard, after all – and saw it on the BBC site. Fatal shooting at newspaper offices, the headline read, a bland statement that did nothing to convey the enormity of what had happened. Clicking on the link, it told him nothing more than the bare facts: Jonathan Greig, editor of the Capital Tribune, had been fatally shot at the paper’s offices in central Edinburgh. Four other members of staff had been hospitalised, but none were thought to be seriously injured. Police were investigating.

He had closed the computer, grabbed his walking cane and headed out.

And now, here he was, admiring the view that never failed to deliver something new, soaking in the silence he had worked for all his life.

And it was over.

The shadows grew deeper, as if the sun was little more than a guttering candle in the breeze, and he watched as the curtain of rain began to pepper the surface of the water.

He dug into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone and a small, battered black notebook held together with an elastic band and a pen clipped over the front cover. Esther had told him he could store all his contacts in his phone; that he didn’t have to write them all down in the notebook any more. He smiled and told her he would look into it. What he didn’t tell her was that he didn’t need the notebook or the phone to remember things – he memorised the important numbers, always had. The book was merely a reminder of another time, another life. And a useful distraction if needed.

He dialled the number, silently mouthing the digits as he did, and rehearsed his first line as he listened to the phone ring.

After all these years, the storm was coming. Now he needed to know how close to shore it was.