‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. But let me check with Smeed and I’ll get back to you.’

‘What’s this about anyway? You’re not usually so secretive.’

‘Nothing important. Just a person we thought had gone missing. But like I said, I’ll get back to you.’

She ends the call, bends over her desk, and puts her face in her hands.

She’s back.

Fuck.

Chapter 18

18

The sound is like a haze that covers the islands. Lurking in the background most of the time but rising occasionally to deafening levels.

The light of flickering bonfires both near and far can be seen in every direction. Noise and fires, drums, ratchets, ladles banging potlids, hollering, laughter and shouts; anything to keep witches and other dark creatures from homes and cattle. May has to be ushered in properly. Tomorrow, in accordance with ancient custom, the animals will be let out of their barns, and the land must be secured against the forces of evil.

Or maybe it was that thing with Saint Walpurga.

Or maybe it’s just another reason to celebrate that winter is finally over, for now.

Opinions differ on why the last day of April has to be celebrated with a level of dedication worthy of New Year’s or Oistra. But whether the tradition springs from some canonised lady, pagan lore, or general rambunctiousness, everyone seems to agree.

The start of spring needs to be celebrated, loudly.

This particular year, though, the weather gods seem to have decided to skip spring entirely and go straight to summer.

There’s not a windcheater in sight. No Dogger shirts, hats, or mittens, all of which experienced Dunker residents usually wear on this night to protect themselves from icy winds and near-zero temperatures. Instead, people are strolling along streets and promenades in summer clothing, with happily surprised smiles on their faces.

Fragments of the obvious topic of conversation can be heard in the streets, in shops, in cafés and restaurants: ‘ . . . how about this weather’, ‘I can’t remember Walpurgis ever being this warm before . . .’, ‘Let’s hope it’s not because of climate change . . .’, ‘Crikey, can’t we just be happy when something good happens anymore . . . ?’, ‘Bloody hell, I’m not going to think about crap like that on a night like this, cheers!’

*

They’re in luck. Manage to score a table in one of the big outdoor seating areas in the New Harbour with an unobscured view of the sea. Marike spotted the gesture made by a member of a large group. That index finger-writing in the air could mean only one thing: they wanted to pay. Before anyone else had time to react, she dashed over and now she’s hovering like a famished vulture over the table where the waiter is handed a credit card.

A few minutes later, the group, some of them with annoyed glances in Marike’s direction, get up and leave.