They reached a gate which marked the end of the estuary path. It was hooked to its fence by a loop of tired red rope, and as Louisa released it she looked again at the figure making its way down the cliff path. Hard to tell how far away, with the snow. The usual reference points had been whitened out. But something about the way he moved was familiar; the shape of his body, or his outline . . . It was River Cartwright, she realised. River, descending to the shore. How the hell had he got there? Though the answer was immediate and fully formed: he’d come looking, once she’d gone dark. A thrill of gratitude washed through her, along with a wave of affection for River stronger than she’d known before, and she’d have run towards him if Lucas weren’t here; would, at least, have waved her arms above her head in greeting, had she not changed her mind in that same moment: the man was too broad in the shoulders to be River, unless he was just bulked out by the parka he was wearing, but no, he wasn’t; he was familiar, and River-like, but he wasn’t River.
He was Frank Harkness.
She said to Lucas, “We need to go back the way we came.”
“. . . Why? What’s happened?”
“Don’t make it obvious. Let’s just look at our watches, then turn round and head back.”
“It’s that man, isn’t it?”
“Don’t look at him, Lucas. Don’t draw attention.”
“But we’d be safe in the pub!”
They wouldn’t. Not if it was Frank Harkness.
Louisa made a show of looking at her wrist and shaking her head; a small pantomime probably illegible from where Harkness was, even if he were studying them and not watching his own footsteps. But it had to be done, just as she had to tap Lucas on the shoulder, and point back the way they’d come. She let the red loop drop around the fencepost again, and the pair turned and walked back towards the wooded estuary path. They’d wait until they were sheltered by trees before picking up their pace, putting as much distance between themselves and Harkness as they could.
Which meant moving towards whatever might be coming the other way.
Lars stepped out from the trees and glanced back. Covered with snow and leaves and loose branches, the woman’s body still looked like what it was: a woman’s body, covered with snow and leaves and loose branches. Shit.
But it was done. The choice was to carry on the way she’d been leading him and see if he could find this shed, or admit the job had just gone to hell and regroup, leave. Harkness wouldn’t be happy, but that didn’t mean he’d disagree. Sometimes, you cut your losses.
He looked at his phone, to see whose call had caused this mess, and rang back, talking as he walked.
Anton said, “It’s a waste of fucking time. They could be anywhere.”
“I found the woman. The second one.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” said Lars, his flat delivery filling in gaps.
It occurred to him he’d already made his choice: he was walking back towards the town. Away from the body.
Regroup; leave.
“What about the kid?”
“I think we’ve missed the moment.”
Up ahead, he could hear noises, a group of people it sounded like, and he remembered the couple he’d encountered earlier.
Great stuff.
“We might have a problem,” he told Anton, and rang off.
He’d found a stick, an actual walking stick, hung by its crook from a kissing gate, just before the footpath made its descent to the shore. How in hell, he wondered, did you forget your walking stick halfway to wherever you were going? Some kind of senior moment, he supposed, but hey: a stick would be damn handy, heading down to the shingled beach. There were signs warning you not to use the path in dangerous weather, and this counted, but if Frank Harkness had paid attention to warning signs, he’d either not have lived this long or be somewhere else entirely. One of those options betrayed some loose logic, but he was probably due a senior moment himself round about now.
Damn River . . .
He suspected half his left lobe was gone, but he’d done what he could with a handful of snow, and it was no longer bleeding. His parka was dark enough that you couldn’t see the gore. And his toes were sticking out of his boot, but he’d wadded up a handkerchief and patched the damage: all in all he looked a mess, but only when you got too close. In Frank’s experience that described about half the population, so he wasn’t too worried about it.
