“You kept up,” he said, smiling. He caught his breath, then retrieved a flask from his bag and drank. He offered Kane the water.

“This is my bit of peace, this place. That’s how you make somewhere home: You find your bit of peace. All you can ask for.”

Kane drank, gave the flask back.

“How long have you been on the island?”

“Eight long years.”

“Miss the States?”

“Know where I miss? Finland. Haven’t been there for forty years. But I remember the air.”

“Helsinki?”

“Much further north. Do you know the country?”

“No. I’ve always wanted to go.”

“I’m from a little place called Inari. I’m a country boy.” He stared into the pond. Sweat dripped off the end of his nose. “What were they saying in the café?”

“Sounded pretty crazy.”

Thomas laughed gently, as if embarrassed by Kane’s caution.

“About the girl who went missing,” Kane said.

“About Connor.”

“Yes.”

Thomas nodded, leaned forward so his elbows were on his knees, still gazing into the pond.

“So people are saying my son’s a murderer.”

“No one seems to know anything.”

“People think they know.”

“They said he was with her that night.”

“He was. They were friends. They were together that evening, sure. He didn’t kill her. Do you have kids?”

“No.”

“Okay. Well, it’s not easy for kids here, as you can imagine. As far as Carina’s concerned, it’s all she knows. But Connor remembers the States. Even before all this happened I knew he needed to get off this island, start building a life for himself. The more he developed here, the harder I could see it was going to be for him to adapt anywhere else.”

“So what happened?”

“He was with Petra. They were messing about. He says he doesn’t exactly remember what happened, he’d been drinking. At some point they met up with a guy called Rory Bannatyne—a Brit, working over here on installing broadband. He’s not here anymore because the night Petra went missing he hanged himself.” Thomas turned to Kane, spread his hands as if to say Draw your own conclusions. Kane’s heart raced hearing Rory’s name for the first time on the island. He had to check himself, check his cover.

“Really?”

“What do you make of that?”

“It would put him pretty high on my list of suspects.”

“Right.”

“Was he . . . dodgy? Why was he meeting with teenagers?”

“Dodgy? Is anything here not dodgy? This is the thing—this is what I’m trying to tell you, Edward. Do people ever call you Ed?”

“Not really.”

“Okay. Something’s gone wrong on this island. I appreciate you need to write your book and I’m sure you’ll get some good local color for it, but don’t try understanding more. Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Do people in the UK know about this place?”

“Hardly at all.”