There was a strong possibility that the men from last night were based around here. Kane could feel his muscles tense as he walked, keeping an eye out for the red polo shirts. But he wasn’t going to achieve much trying to avoid people, and the heat had emptied the place anyway.

The island’s school had been built at the southern edge of the village. It had whitewashed buildings arranged around a lawn like a bowling green overlooked by a small clocktower, all of which lent the place some degree of formality. The entrance was open. Kane checked he was still alone, then walked in, past a framed photograph of the queen circa 1970, into a large hall with gymnasium markings on its polished floor. One teacher’s voice escaped a classroom in the far corner of the building—a man talking mathematics. It was quarter past three and Kane figured the class wouldn’t be finishing in the next five minutes, so he explored. Most of the rooms were open, empty, with whiteboards and maps of the world, dogeared British textbooks on shelves. There was something about the place that made him uneasy. The relative coolness felt unnerving. Kane studied the class photos on the wall until he saw Petra Wade. She sat beside Connor in the front row of last year’s photo. Kane took a photo of his own using his phone, then encrypted it.

Artwork had been displayed along the walls of the central hall. A lot of the more accomplished pictures were by the same individual. Kane recognized the style from the exercise book Rory had hidden. They were signed Connor. These images were less horrific—mountains, wildlife, portraits: several of Petra Wade. Kane tried to read obsession in the fine pencil lines. An obsessive eye, for sure. A talent. Somewhere, deeper within the building, a door opened and closed, and Kane made his way swiftly back outside. This wasn’t where he wanted to be found loitering.

The most eye-catching thing in Two Boats was the blue of a swimming pool visible through the entrance to a small bar that styled itself the Two Boats Club. The club had a yellow sloping roof and a board outside advertising lunches, snacks, and dinners. A poster promised live bands and discos with “mixed music.” The menu offered what it called Saint dishes: tuna fish cakes or “Plo” curry.

The woman managing the place was fifty or so, wearing flip-flops and a pink T-shirt that said Saint Helena. The only other customer sat nursing a Coke at the bar, holding a fan, wearing a billowing white dress and sun hat and large shades. Both smiled at him, and both smiles faltered as he came closer. They’d heard something, he could tell by the reaction. But it was too late to back out.

“Do you do coffee?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“What do you recommend to eat?”