Wishing that Connor was there, or that she could forget his warning – these men are dangerous – she swallowed hard and headed resolutely for the cave, discarding all alternatives. The WPA didn’t run to satellite phones, and going for help was obviously out of the question. By the time it came, the traffickers – for there was no doubt in her mind as to who the interlopers were – would be long gone, and very likely, Luke along with them.

Chapter Thirty-two

The narrow entrance was lighter than Tilly remembered. It halted her for the moment it took to realise that the glow must be coming from a torch, and, gritting her teeth, she crept forward, gripping the jack-handle, her palm sweaty against the smooth metal. The floor was smooth and the combination of dust and guano muffled her tread so that she was inside before the cave occupants heard her, or her eyes had made sense of the tableau confronting her.

It wasn’t a torch but a pressure lamp, and by its white glare she saw two figures bent over a third one slumped against, and partly screened by, a stack of crates. A horrified gasp escaped her as she realised it was Luke. He sat swaying on the floor, with a trickle of blood dripping through his hands, which held his head.

The stocky figure nearest her whipped around at the noise she made. Unsurprised, she stared at Matt’s familiar features. ‘You! You traitor!’ she yelled, just as Luke groaned and pitched sideways to lie in a boneless heap amid a little explosion of dust. ‘Oh, God,’ she cried, starting forward. ‘What have you done to him?’

The sound of her voice triggered the second figure, at whom she’d barely glanced, to turn towards her, his eyes widening to mirror Tilly’s own shock. ‘Gerry!’ she stammered. ‘What . . .?’ It was him – there was no mistaking that handsome face, even with its two-day stubble and his generally dishevelled appearance. The jack-handle slipped, forgotten, from her nerveless fingers. ‘So it’s true! Everything the police said – you’re just a dirty crook. What have you done to Luke?’

He winced at her tone. ‘Babe, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I couldn’t . . . I never meant to hurt you—’

‘Shut up!’ she said fiercely. ‘I don’t want your excuses or apologies. I couldn’t care less about you. All I want is to know what happened that night – why you let Francie die?’

‘I didn’t!’ he protested. ‘The runabout tipped over. She was safe in it, and then a wave came and rolled it. I tried . . . I really tried, babe’—he shook his head, face twisting as he lifted his hands towards her—‘but I couldn’t find her in the dark and the tide was taking us. It was like a rip out there.’ He shook his head again, and dropped his hands. ‘There was nothing I could do.’