‘Right, just had an interesting update about your mother,’ Detective King says, walking back into the living room. He looks down at Lumin. ‘A colleague managed to track down her boss in Iceland just now, a lady called Hekla Jonsdottir. She had an email from your mother last night about some client or another. And in it,’ he says with a smile, ‘she said she was on her way here, to Winterton Chine.’

Chapter Thirty-One

Gwyneth

Winterton Chime

24 December 2009

Fieldfares are large, colourful thrushes which are known for their distinctive walk, moving forward with purposeful hops. They flock to Winterton Chine in the cold months, making it their home for the season. These wintering birds will happily form into large flocks, and if one strays, it will eventually find its way back into the fold.

I stepped off the train, taking a moment to breathe in the seaweed-scented air. The last time I was in Winterton Chime was when my parents drove me out of the town thirty years ago.

Thirty years. Had it really been that long?

After I’d told Lumin everything that day before she left for university, she was quiet at first. It was a lot to take in. But then she’d pulled me into a hug. ‘I can’t believe you’ve lived with this for so long.’

‘Now you understand why I can’t go back to Winterton Chine,’ I’d said, wiping tears from my eyes.

‘That’s ridiculous! Thirty years have passed, Mum. You have to go back.’

‘No. I’m pleased I told you. But I’m not going back.’

‘We can go together! I’m off in December, we can—’

‘I said no, Lumin!’ I’d shouted back.

Lumin’s mouth had dropped open.

‘Look,’ I’d said, voice softer now as I picked her bag up for her. ‘It’s already been ten minutes. If you miss your train, you won’t be able to go until tomorrow.’

‘Maybe that’s a good thing,’ she’d said, concern registering on her face. ‘I can stay, we can talk.’

‘Absolutely not. You need to settle in, meet new friends, have a few drinks. Go,’ I said, steering her down the path.

She’d reluctantly taken her bag from me and started to walk off. Then she’d paused, turning back to me. ‘You’ll always regret it, not trying. Dad lived his life with regret over what happened to the girl who drowned. I think you need closure, Mum, I really do.’

But I’d just laughed, and given her a hug, telling her I loved her. ‘You should be a psychiatrist.’ Then I’d watched her walk off, her ponytail swinging across her back, the notepad of my scribblings and her dad’s drawings in the front pocket of her bag, a small link to us.