HOLLY HAD PACKED HER BAG AND put it in her car, ready to head off back to the mainland when the text came through. A number she didn’t recognize. She’d given her contact details to Linz, in fact to everyone she’d met on the island since her arrival, so that didn’t provide any information about who might be ringing.
Understand you’re looking for the birder who was in the Seahorse on Friday night. Might be able to help. Just heading out to do a migration census in the area around the lough. Could see you there in half an hour? Phone reception impossible there so will have to meet in person.
There was nothing to identify the sender. Was the assumption that Holly had been told to expect the communication? Perhaps Linz had put the word out on the island, had asked anyone who might be able to help to get in touch with Holly direct. The text didn’t give a clue as to gender, but Holly assumed it was a man. She tried to phone the number, but it didn’t even go to voicemail, just cut off. Crappy reception, she supposed. She checked the time. The lough was just beyond the Pilgrims’ House, so she should be able to drive most of the way and park there. There was still more than an hour before she’d need to leave for the mainland. She went back into the Seahorse and paid her bill. Di was there, behind the desk in reception.
‘All done then?’ Curiosity oozing out of every pore.
‘For now.’
Holly got into her car and drove not towards the causeway, but down the main street of the village and into the centre of the island. The fog had lifted during the middle of the day, but was thicker again now. She almost missed the narrow turning towards the Pilgrims’ House. When she pulled up outside, there was another vehicle parked there. She wondered if this belonged to the birdwatcher who was offering information. She sat in her car for a moment and tried to phone Vera to let her know what was happening, but she couldn’t get through.
Outside the air was damp and chill. She couldn’t imagine how anyone would be able to see a bird in these conditions. This felt like a pointless game of hide and seek and she had the same tension as she’d felt when she’d been a child, searching for hidden classmates, anxious that they might suddenly jump out to frighten her.
She climbed a stile and walked east towards the lough. She could hear the calls of wading birds, and then heard voices. She didn’t see the group until she almost stumbled on them. Four people of indeterminate gender, dressed in wax jackets and wellingtons, crouched over a ditch. A fine net had been placed across it, only visible because of the drops of moisture caught on the mesh. They seemed to be extricating a bird from it. She waited, watching, before speaking. It seemed a delicate operation, and the bird was so frail that she was anxious an interruption might damage it.
‘I’m DC Clarke. Did one of you ask to speak to me?’
They looked blank.
‘The message said you were doing a migration census and asked me to meet you here.’
‘This isn’t a census.’ The youngest of the group straightened and gave a joyous laugh. ‘This is a bloody rarity. A paddyfield warbler. A new bird for me. A lifer.’
‘What are you going to do with it?’ She was distracted momentarily by his enthusiasm.
‘We’re going to ring it, take a few photos to convince the world that it is what we claim it to be, and then we’ll release it.’
‘Were any of you in the Seahorse on Friday night?’
‘No, when we’re on the island we use the Anchor.’ An older man who could have been the young speaker’s father. ‘But we weren’t here on Friday. It gets busy at weekends and it was clear. You need a bit of cloud and murk for a good fall of migrants.’
Holly thought this was ridiculous. Could the presence of these men be a coincidence, with the person she was supposed to meet waiting for her somewhere closer to the lough? She looked at her phone. Still no reception. But she did see the time. If she didn’t get to the mainland soon, she’d miss the tide and be stuck here for another night. She couldn’t bear the thought of returning to the Seahorse, to the noisy bar and the depressing room. She turned and followed the path back to the stile and the road.
All the way back to the lane she had the same sense that she was in the middle of an elaborate game of hide and seek. This time though, she thought, she was the hider. Somewhere in the gloom, the seeker was following. She caught the sound of long grass moving and once, she believed she heard the squelch of a boot in wet mud. But when she stopped to listen, there was nothing. Her imagination and the fog playing tricks with her. The noises could be anything: cattle in an adjoining field, the birdwatchers bringing their trophy bird to be ringed. The text message could have been a hoax, sent by a local who enjoyed taunting the police. Or from a genuine member of the public who was still waiting for her in the marsh. Well, she thought, let them wait. As soon as she got back to Kimmerston, she’d trace the number and speak to them.
When she was on the lane and she could see the grey silhouette of the Pilgrims’ House, her heart rate slowed. She pictured herself at home in her clean, white flat, running a bath, pouring herself a glass of wine. There’d be the evening briefing first, but she had plenty to report back. She didn’t imagine that Joe would have discovered as much.
She’d reached the car, when she saw there was a light in the chapel. The flicker of candlelight. It wasn’t dusk, just the gloom of late afternoon, but perhaps it was Robson, observing the ritual of peace and prayer. She was about to drive off, but curiosity got the better of her. Curiosity and the possibility of another snippet of information to pass on to Vera. Again, she wondered why Vera’s approval was so important to her, why she felt this need to please.
Holly pushed open the chapel door. Inside, everything was quiet. Nobody was sitting on the pews in silent meditation. It occurred to her that she should blow out the candles, because they might be a fire risk. Then there was a footstep behind her. She heard that, and then there was nothing.