The Lighthouse Witches(75)

Isla and Mirrin came to the bothy with food and videotapes for Clover and Luna. It was this last touch that warmed me to them, for a few moments after they’d put on Barney & Friends, the girls were glued to the screen, their crying about Saffy temporarily halted. Finn and I went out and waded across the causeway. Rain was coming down in great ropes, the horizon bruised and thunderous.

We walked along the beach toward Strallaig, then took the path toward the hill that Finn had said offered views of the whole island. The rain was so heavy that the hill seemed to be disintegrating into a muddy river, and several times we had to lower on all fours to stop from sliding back down. I was soaking wet, blinded by rain, but I kept going until I reached the top. I knew it was ridiculous—I had no binoculars, no way of seeing Saffy from that height, even if she’d stood in the village square—but perhaps, I thought, perhaps she might see me. Perhaps, if she spotted me on the hill from wherever she might be on the island, the sight of her small, broken mother searching desperately for her would persuade her to come home.

But it didn’t.

Back at the bothy, I sat at the kitchen table, shaking with cold and shock, my mind shattered into a million pieces. Finn had taken Cassie home to rest, and I had felt indescribably bereft as I watched his car pull away. It hit me in that moment how isolated I was, how alone. How sinister the sea, creeping toward the causeway and finally swallowing it.

Isla made me a cup of hot tea and Mirrin set about doing the dishes and gathering laundry.

“The whole island is searching for her,” Isla said gently. “Everyone’s out with their dogs and torches. We’ll find her.”

When the phone rang again, I pounced on it. It was Bram.

“As you know, we’ve spoken with a fair few people on the island. But there’s one man we’re classing as a person of interest just now.”

“Patrick,” I said.

He cleared his throat. “No. Not Patrick. I believe you know a man by the name of Finn McAllen?”


IV

I don’t really remember much about that day. I was in shock. Finn was a person of interest in the disappearance of my daughter. Rowan had said that she saw him with Saffy the night before she went missing. Another witness stated that they’d seen Finn’s car parked near the woods that night. They’d searched Finn’s car and found another three Polaroids of Saffy in sexual poses.

I tried to retrace Finn’s movements over the last week, the times I had seen him and the times he had gone home or gone to work on the rewilding project. Saffy had left the bothy sometime between Thursday evening and Friday morning, which was when Luna had taken her food and discovered she was no longer in the hut in the woods. Brodie had seen her at around four on Thursday afternoon, then spent the evening with Rowan. He returned home at nine thirty, where he stayed all night until the following morning. His parents confirmed this. Finn was at home on Thursday night with Cassie. I had seen him that afternoon, when I picked up the girls from school. Saffy wasn’t there, but then none of the friends she’d made were—they were all still in the woods, finishing up a poetry project. I assumed she’d be home later.

Finn had dropped me, Luna, and Clover back home at the bothy.

“Aren’t you coming in?” I’d said to him when he left the engine running. “I’ve made lasagne. No eggs.”

He smiled. “I promised Cassie I’d spend some time with her tonight. Didn’t I, Cass?”

She pouted and looked from Luna and Clover to her dad. “But, Daa-aad! Luna and Clover said we’d do a pony party tonight. Didn’t we?”

All three girls nodded in dejection.

“Aw, come on, Cass,” he said. “You’ve got to make time for your old man.”

And she’d relented. But even at the time, I’d noticed that Finn had seemed pointedly unwilling to come inside. A part of me had taken it as a sign that he was distancing himself from me.

I couldn’t believe that he’d taken Saffy. But doubt crept in, and I felt horrified at what he might have done to her. Who could I trust?

I retraced my steps, thought carefully about every detail, every word spoken. On Friday evening I’d taken Luna and Clover for a nature hunt around the small island of the Longing. We’d gathered up some shells and flowers, then stood on the outcrop and waved to Basil, who was still hanging around the bay. That night, we’d stood and tried to find the major constellations until the cold forced us indoors. I’d heard the door open and close, and I could have sworn that I heard Saffy go upstairs and climb into bed.

I hated myself for not checking. Two minutes. That’s all it would have taken for me to discover that she wasn’t at home.

I don’t think I could bring myself to fully imagine why Finn might have taken Saffy. My mind lurched to those moments I could recall her being with us. How had he looked at her? How had he spoken to her? Jokes he’d told, moments where I might not have seen him touching her . . .

I woke up the next morning, shocked to have dozed off. I was in the living room, still fully clothed and curled up in the armchair Finn claimed was his grandfather’s.

“Mum?”

I looked up to find Luna standing there in her day clothes. Her dark hair was disheveled from sleep and she’d dragged her duvet with her and wore it wrapped around her like a cape.

“Where’s Clover?” she said sleepily, looking around the room.