That made sense. Grace was an experienced sailor. She and her brother had kept a beautiful yacht moored in a bay behind their house on Runa, and she’d used it to escape from the island during a storm. Although it had later been found wrecked, she’d evidently come by another. There were hundreds of miles of unpopulated bays, coves and islands along the Mediterranean coast, and provided the bigger ports and marinas were avoided, there’d be no need to worry too much about passports or paperwork. With enough money, it would be possible to live there virtually indefinitely.
‘The yacht was registered to a company owned by an accountant based in Geneva. He was the Strachans’ financial adviser, so you were right about Grace having help,’ Ward continued. ‘We’re still trying to tie everything together, but the yacht was bought not long after she disappeared, so we think she persuaded the accountant to buy it for her. He was a lot older than her and recently divorced, so it isn’t hard to guess how.’
No, it wasn’t. My own memory of Grace had been skewed by her actions, but I could still remember the physical impact of first meeting her. She had the sort of beauty that dazzled, blinding you to what lay underneath until it was too late.
‘Have the Swiss police questioned the accountant?’ I asked.
‘They can’t. He went missing earlier this year. Everyone thought he’d absconded with clients’ funds, but we found dried bloodstains in the yacht. Too old to say whose, although I think we can guess.’
The news that Grace had claimed yet another life was sobering, yet being able to fill in some of the blanks surrounding her after all this time was also a relief. It felt like a conclusion.
But there were too many distractions to dwell on it for long. As well as deciding where we should live, there was also the question of what Rachel and I would do for work. London was hardly the best place for a marine biologist, and there was no real need for me to be based there either. Although my position at the university seemed secure for the time being — Harris, the department head, was positively effusive after my involvement with such a high-profile inquiry as St Jude’s — there were no shortages of other opportunities. Not so long ago I’d been persona non grata: now, to my surprise, it seemed like every day brought another offer.
One morning I received an envelope with an embossed BioGen logo on its front. I felt apprehensive as I opened it. According to Ward, Mears was continuing to make a good recovery but still wasn’t ready for non-family visitors. I had the feeling she was being diplomatic, but I’d enough sense not to push. A letter from his employers seemed unlikely to be good news.
‘What does it say?’ Rachel asked. We were still at the granite island in the kitchen, taking time over coffee after a late breakfast.
‘It’s from the CEO,’ I said, reading it. ‘They’re offering me a job.’
‘You’re joking.’
I handed her the letter, sitting back with my coffee while she read it.
‘Senior Forensic Adviser in charge of Research and Operations,’ she said, frowning. ‘What the hell’s that supposed to — oh, my God!’
She’d got to the part where it mentioned my salary. She read it again, open-mouthed, then set it down on the table.
‘Are you going to meet him?’
‘Would you mind if I didn’t?’
‘Of course not. Is it because of Daniel Mears?’
‘Partly,’ I admitted.
The letter had made no mention of the forensic taphonomist, and while the post they were offering was more senior than his, after what had happened to him I wouldn’t have felt comfortable taking it. And a company that let someone inexperienced flounder on a major investigation wasn’t one I wanted to work with anyway.
Folding the letter, I put it back in its envelope.
It wasn’t only job offers that came my way. My involvement with events at St Jude’s must have leaked out, because I began receiving interview requests from journalists. Including another from Francis Scott-Hayes.
‘God, the man just doesn’t know when to stop,’ I grumbled to Rachel after reading it.
‘Is that the same freelance who’s been pestering you?’
‘For weeks. He doesn’t understand what “no” means.’
‘Maybe you should do it.’
I looked at her in surprise. ‘Seriously?’
She shrugged. ‘Why not? I know you don’t like talking about work, but you don’t have to discuss specific cases. Who does he write for?’
I read out his latest email. Rachel’s eyebrows went up as she listened to the roll call of high-end newspapers and magazines Scott-Hayes had been published in, on both sides of the Atlantic.
‘Wow, he sounds pretty serious,’ she said, impressed. ‘I think I even read that piece in Rolling Stone. Why don’t you hear what he has to say?’
‘I don’t know…’
She picked up her coffee cup. ‘Well, it’s up to you. But if you’re thinking about putting yourself in the job market, then an interview in a decent newspaper or magazine can’t hurt your profile.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ I said.
The registry office was booked for three weeks’ time. That was the first available date, and we only managed that because an existing wedding had been cancelled. Our good luck was someone else’s bad. I hoped it wasn’t an omen.
But dark thoughts were few and far between. I no longer felt the sense of vertigo on waking, and any disbelief was tinged with anticipation. The days were like mayflies, here and gone in a rush. With so many things to do and decisions to be made, I forgot all about the journalist until Rachel reminded me. An online search for Francis Scott-Hayes, journalist produced page after page of his articles, along with photographs showing a lean-faced man in his thirties, stubbled and broodingly good-looking. There was even a short Wikipedia entry. He’d been embedded with armed forces in Afghanistan, reported on communities hit by the drug war in Mexico, even won a national press award for his investigation into human trafficking. By the look of it, most of his stories involved him travelling to war zones or some of the most dangerous trouble spots on the planet.
‘Why would he want to write about me?’ I asked Rachel after dinner that evening. ‘I’m a forensic scientist, not some drug lord.’
‘You’re a forensic scientist who’s worked on some of the biggest police investigations in the last ten years. People find that interesting.’
I was less sure of that than she was. Still, bolstered by Rachel’s enthusiasm and a glass of wine, I reluctantly replied to his email.
An automated response came back immediately, saying he was out of the country without access to emails.
‘Well, I tried,’ I told Rachel, privately hoping that might be an end to it.
The next day he emailed back.
I would have been happy to leave the interview until after the wedding, but Rachel didn’t think I should wait. ‘He could have gone cold on the idea by then,’ she said. ‘At least say you’ll hear him out.’
It was arranged that Scott-Hayes would come to the apartment for coffee the following afternoon. I was reluctant to invite him there, but the alternatives were either to meet at the university or else in a pub or coffee shop, which would be too public given what we’d be discussing. Besides, as Rachel said, it wasn’t as if we’d be living at Ballard Court for much longer.
It was a Saturday, so I worked on my laptop in the study while Rachel made an early start on preparing dinner. Jason and Anja were coming round that evening and she’d insisted on cooking. Judging from the banging and language coming from the kitchen, she was beginning to regret it. The journalist was due at three o’clock, and as the appointment drew nearer I realized I was looking more at my watch than the laptop screen. Regretting ever having agreed to this, I watched the second hand tick up to the hour, then sweep past. After another ten minutes I went into the kitchen.