I couldn’t get the thought of the man Pat had seen by the office out of my head. The more I considered it, the more convinced I became that it was Dylan. Who else could it have been? I tried to call him for the third time in as many minutes, but still the same result:
The number you have dialed is currently unavailable. Please try later.
In the end I put a second coat of paint on the spare room. With another coat, the paint job on the siding was looking less patchy and more like a reasonable coverage. I would make curtains next, put in a chrome bar at the bottom to tuck the curtain into so that it didn’t swing when the tide came in and the boat rocked. I would build a shelf unit for the walls, use it for books. I might even build a cabinet for bed linens and towels.
I turned the radio up and thought again about the process of building the deck garden, wondered how much it would cost to get a glass roof custom-made, and whether it was something I could actually make myself or if it was beyond my level of expertise. I needed something waterproof for the bad weather, with a reasonable degree of insulation, so that even in the dead of winter my plants would survive.
As hard as I tried to distract myself, the thought of Dylan kept coming back to me. Where the hell was he? Why wasn’t he answering the phone?
By the time I was at the sink, cleaning the brushes again, it was dark outside and the marina was quiet. Tomorrow I would start planning the bathroom. I’d put it off long enough, finishing the easy jobs first. It would be a new project, something to sink my teeth into; something that would take all of my time and tire me out every day.
The radio was still blaring in the spare room. I should turn it off; it was getting late to be playing music so loud. The instant the radio went off, the silence descended again.
Something was wrong.
A sound, from overhead—on the deck? No, on the roof of the cabin, directly above my head.
I froze, listening with my whole body. No sound, nothing—just the waves lapping against the side of the hull.
A scrabbling, a scattering sound. It was probably a bird, I thought, exhaling. A gull . . . sometimes they landed on the docks and on the boats, especially when it was windy.
I went back to the sink and rinsed it with bleach, trying to cover up the smell of the paint. After that I decided to have a beer, maybe two. My nerves were jangling, and alcohol might numb them a little. Was every night going to be like this from now on? Waiting to get tired enough to go to bed and sleep?
I heard another noise from outside just as I opened my third beer. It wasn’t on the deck, and it wasn’t a bird, I was sure of it. It was an animal noise, a yowl, a yelp. Maybe Oswald was having an argument with the foxes.
Alcohol made me brave.
I unlocked the door to the wheelhouse, which made a noise, and took enough time to scare whoever was out there away.
I stepped outside.
“Hello?” No one on the dock. The marina was in darkness all the way up to the parking lot, a brisk wind blowing from the water, bringing with it the smell of rain.
I took a step forward onto the deck and stood for a moment, looking across the water to the lights on the opposite bank. I looked down onto the dock and I could see a dark shape lying on the wood at the end of it. Whatever it was hadn’t been there this afternoon. I went down the gangplank, trying to get a closer look, my arms folded across my chest against the chill of the wind.
The dock was completely dark. Even standing right next to the object, staring down, I couldn’t make out what it was. I nudged it with my foot and it moved—something soft. I crouched low, reaching out with my hand.
Fur, soft fur. Cold. Wet. I stood and lifted my hand to the little light that came from the highway bridge. I could see dark on my fingers.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” I found myself muttering under my breath. Again, looking out across the dock, over to the office, the parking lot. There was no sign of anyone.
I went back up the gangplank and turned on the light in the wheelhouse, the one I never bothered using because it attracted moths in the summer—and when I went back to the dock I saw what it was. A bundle of fur, black. Blood on my hand.
It was Oswald. Malcolm and Josie’s cat. Someone had killed him and thrown him onto the dock.
I bit back a scream, my breathing shallow and fast. I had a sudden notion that whoever had thrown the cat onto the dock had had no time to leave the marina and was probably hiding somewhere in the darkness, just out of sight.
I ran back up the gangplank, turned off the light in the wheelhouse and jumped down the steps into the cabin, slamming the door and locking it as fast as I could.
From outside came the sound of footsteps, someone walking away quickly, fading and then louder again on the gravel in the parking lot. Whoever it was had been just on the other side of the Scarisbrick Jean.
I stood in the galley in a panic. Everywhere I turned were the black circles of the portholes. Anyone outside on the dock would have been able to see in, to see me. I washed my hands in the sink, rinsing the blood away and scrubbing with soap, tears pouring down my cheeks.
Whom could I call? Whom could I talk to? I tried Dylan’s number again. The same message.
I kept coming back to the same, reluctant thought. He was probably at the club.
I didn’t even stop to think about what I was going to say to him. I put Dylan’s phone back down and picked up mine. I dialed the office number for the Barclay and waited an age for it to be answered.
“Hello?”
I could hear the music, a low, thumping bass in the background. It sounded like Helena’s voice, but I couldn’t be sure.
“Can I talk to Dylan, please?”
“He’s not here.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Who is this?”
“Genevieve.”
“Who?”
“Genevieve. Viva. I used to work there?”
“Hold on.”
The music cut out and was replaced by an “on hold” bleep. I waited. This is ridiculous, I thought. What am I even going to say to him if he’s there? What could I say about Caddy? Was he grieving for her, or had he not given her death a second thought?
“Genevieve.” Fitz’s voice was loud and took me by surprise.
I swallowed. I should have disconnected the call the moment the woman had told me Dylan wasn’t there. I just hadn’t quite believed her.
“Hi,” I said, as cheerfully as I could manage. “How are you?”
“Well, this is an unexpected treat. What can I do for you?”
“I just—just wanted to see how you all are. And I wanted to say I’m sorry—about what happened to Caddy.”
There was an awkward silence, a long one. I could hear him breathing and, muffled this time, the low percussion of the music.
“You don’t really want to know about everyone, do you? You were asking for Dylan. He’s not here, though. You want me to pass on a message?”
“No, no,” I said, too quickly. “Is he in tomorrow? I could try then. It’s not urgent.”
“Yeah, all right. I’ll tell him you phoned, shall I?”
“Whatever,” I said, hoping that I didn’t sound as panicky as I felt. “If you like.”
“So what are you up to, these days?” he asked then.
“Oh—nothing much. I moved out of the city,” I said.
“How’d you hear about Caddy?” he asked, his tone casual.
I had no idea what to say. My hands were shaking and then I felt the tears starting at the horror of it, the shock at finding the cat, covered in blood, and the lunacy of calling the Barclay and ending up with Fitz, of all people—and that Dylan was obviously fine, still happily working there and deliberately not answering my calls.
I couldn’t think of anything to say and the prolonged silence had become too much to deal with. I disconnected the call. Cut him off. Well, I thought, that was an unbelievably stupid thing to do.
There was only one place left to turn. I took the scrap of paper with Carling’s number on it from the table and turned all the lights off in the galley and the main cabin. I went through to my bedroom and scrambled onto the bed, to the far corner, tucked into the side of the hull. Above me, the skylight—someone looking in would not be able to see me, here, in the shadows—but I would see them, outlined against the dark sky.
I huddled in the corner and dialed the number.
It rang for ages and I thought he wasn’t going to answer.
And then: “Hello.”
It took a long moment for me to find my voice, so long in fact that he said, “Hello?” a second time.
“Is that Jim Carling?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“It’s Genevieve.”
There was a pause. I wondered if he was trying to remember who I was.
“Hi. How are you?”
“I’m sorry to call you so late,” I said. My voice was hoarse. “I’m . . . I’m afraid. Something’s happened.”
“What is it?”
“I was here on my own and I heard noises outside. I heard a bump on the deck. I went up to look, and . . . and . . .”
“It’s okay,” he said gently. “Take your time.”
“Someone’s killed Oswald. I found him outside. I don’t know what to do.”
“Oswald?”
“The cat. My friends’ cat. He’s lying outside and I’m afraid, I’m so scared. Please help me.”
There was a pause. I realized that maybe I should have just dialed the number for the police, whatever it was. Called the main switchboard.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask if you were on duty. You said I could call you.”
“To be fair,” he said, wearily, “I did say to call me if you remembered anything else, not if you found a dead cat.”
I felt very small and suitably chastised.
“I’m coming over,” he said.
“Really?”
“Yes. Don’t go anywhere, okay? I’ll give you a call on your cell when I get to the marina, so you won’t get a fright when I knock on your door. All right?”
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you so much.”
I shrank back into the corner in the darkness and waited. On the deck above my head I could hear more noises. Bumps, scrapes. As though someone was crawling over the roof of the cabin. I stared and stared at the skylight, but all I saw was the dark, stormy sky.