It had taken her ages to catch Trip, who could be a stubborn little sod and generally didn’t take any notice of anyone who wasn’t John Morahan. Marnie hadn’t had the energy or stamina to play her usual games with him, so resorted to sitting still and trying to tempt him to her with cheese she’d cadged from the travelling woman who made the sandwiches in the clubhouse. Eventually he’d come close enough for her to grab his collar. Then, in the searing heat, she’d carried the furiously wriggling terrier round the holiday park perimeter, along the road and back into the caretaker’s cottage, where she’d filled his bowl with water that he’d emptied in one furious, thirsty drinking session, splashing drops all over the floor. Only after all that, after at least two hours had elapsed, had Marnie forced herself out again, to go down to the shoreline to fetch Alice’s tin from its hiding place in her secret cave.

Only she couldn’t. She had left it too late. The tide had come in. The cave was cut off.

* * *

At the edge of the agility field, in the rain, surrounded by dogs and people, Marnie watched Tessy, who was gazing off into the distance where three ducks were flying in formation across the Levels.

It wasn’t my fault, she told herself, but what she meant was: it was.

Nobody had ever blamed Marnie for Alice’s disappearance but nobody knew she had been supposed to fetch Alice’s tin and take it back to the caravan, or that she had promised that she would.

Marnie had always worried about breaking that promise and now that she knew that Alice had been murdered the oversight was more significant. If Marnie had delivered the tin to Alice, if Alice had received whatever it contained that was so important, then maybe she wouldn’t have been killed. Maybe whatever-it-was would have protected her.

It was too late now. No harm could come from opening the tin, no good either.

Marnie decided that, when the opportunity arose, she would return to the cave and fetch the tin and find out what was inside.

39

‘Will?’

Will felt a hand on his shoulder and jumped. He turned to see a thin, swarthy face framed by short dark hair. It was Finn Jackson, art-photographer-cum-paparazzo; Ciara’s partner.

‘Hi,’ said Finn in a manner so consciously relaxed that Will immediately smelled a rat.

‘What are you doing here?’ Will asked.

‘Came to see what was going on.’

‘Yeah? Did Ciara send you?’

‘I was thinking of coming down anyway. Saw the reports on the news and thought this looked an interesting place.’

Finn didn’t believe that.

‘So Ciara sent you to spy on me?’

‘Not Ciara,’ said Finn, ‘Saoirse.’

Will laughed disbelievingly.

‘Why? What does she think I’m doing?’