‘Hey, Squeezy, how much longer?’
The moron gave Ben the finger. With a laugh at this, Ben went up to the helm, presumably to make peace and tell him their great theory. Aleksey faced into the wind, completely delighted with life, despite shivering with the cold, being exhausted, and possibly even hungrier than he’d been in the gulags. His mood plummeted, however, when a quiet, muffled voice from under the blanket muttered, ‘I still think we should have called the police.’
Someone had murdered Orlando Frobisher to keep this secret.
How much did they know?
He pictured Colter’s sarcastic little wave as he’d motored away inRogue Wave. He had assumed the man had landed on Light Island so he could use the lighthouse as a vantage point to assess the likely position of theNicholas. But what if he already knew the legend of the Frobishers well enough to know the name of the house, and so make the connection to Light Island? Well, let him try another landing. His dogs of war were on guard, and Aleksey had a feeling that Radulf wouldn’t let anyone, and certainly not a fuckwit like Eliam Colter, get between him and his precious chewy feet.
* * *
Chapter FIFTEEN
It was only the remembrance of kissing his own father in very different circumstances that stopped Aleksey from grabbing Harry and doing just that to the old man. While they’d been away, six hours at least at sea at night in an open boat, Harry had stoked up the wood burner in Kittiwake so the little cottage felt like a sauna in contrast to the outside temperature, and he had made a thick beef stew, which was even then simmering on the boilerplate. His companions seemed similarly relieved, and Tim even emerged from his blanket, which he’d turned into an effective, if slightly eccentric, poncho. Soon all four of them were sitting around the table, spooning the piping hot food into their frozen bodies as fast as they could, relating all the details of their trip around chewing.
Trying to keep their narrative in order, Aleksey wanted to save his revelation about the sea caves to the last, as he was fairly sure once he’d told Harry, the old man would want to go and explore them. It would take a braver man than he, however, to separate Ben Rider-Mikkelsen from his huge bowl of stew, so he listened amused as the other three told the story of their visit to the ruinous house: scattered plans on the desk; thousands of books about the sea stacked around, many of them torn or defaced in what had appeared to be spite; the naval college book with recently burnt pages; and, of course, the upside-down man planted in the patio. At this point, he started to tell the old man of his new theory, but he’d not gotten much past his conversation with the bookshop owner, which gave context to his revelation, when he realised Harry wasn’t listening. The old man was staring at his son, his face wreathed in wrinkles from the intensity of his concentration. When Harry realisedhe’dstopped talking, he held up his hand and murmured,
‘Sorry, son. Give me a moment. Old brains need time to percolate ideas sometimes.’ Finally, the old man beamed a very self-satisfied grin. ‘Well, it seems we have another major piece of our puzzle now. What a disgrace I didn’t see it before! Right in front of me! It must be all this lazy living making the old noggin’ soft. Michael, it’s my turn to be hanged from the yardarm, son. String me up, string me up.’ He rose suddenly, startling the dogs who were napping by the burner. ‘I will return forthwith.’ And with that, he strode out.
The other three began to laugh, all apparently highly amused byhisexpression, so he schooled it to neutral disinterest and got back to his food.
Harry returned in a few minutes, carrying his copy of the history of Dartmouth under his arm. He sat down and began to methodically turn the pages, seeking something. Finally, he seemed to get to the chapter he wanted and nodded to himself, holding the place with his finger as he closed the cover.
‘I have a feeling some of the people who appear to be hovering around theNicholasmay have already made this connection. It’s an unforgivable lapse on my part. So, you see—’
Aleksey’s phone rang in his pocket. Everyone jumped, even the dogs. It was so incongruous a sound on the island that it took him a while to realise it needed answering, and he delved in his jacket pocket to fish it out. He frowned as he saw Babushka’s name. Showing the screen to Ben, he swiped and went outside, only then realising that day had arrived and the early-morning sun was lightening the sky, creating a shimmer of honey-yellow on the ocean in front of him.
Ben had followed him out, but Aleksey knew he would not understand the conversation, so he just held the green gaze as he replied in Russian,
‘What’s wrong? Emilia?’
‘Enid’s dead.’
He bent a little at the waist and felt Ben’s hand on his back. ‘What? When? How?’
‘I just went in to make her some breakfast. Miles is very good, but sometimes his idea of meals—anyway, they were sitting together in her glass room, and he was reading a story to her. But, oh, Alyosha, she was dead. She’d just slipped away listening to him, and he hadn’t even noticed.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Well, he’s here with me and Em now. What should I do? I know you don’t like…intruders.’
‘No, call an ambulance. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Look after him.’
Ben had not nagged him to know what was happening, but as soon as the call was finished he wrapped his arms around his neck, enfolding his head, pulling them close together.
‘I’m so sorry.’ He’d understood the gist if not the detail. ‘I’ll get the others. We’ll be there soon.’ Ben kissed his hair and began to turn to sort travel arrangements, but Aleksey put a hand on his arm.
‘Send Michael out before you say anything to Tim and Harry.’ If Ben heard anything odd in this very rare use of their friend’s name, he didn’t comment on it.
When Squeezy sauntered out, hands in his pockets, he must have seen something in his face that stopped whatever usual moronic comment he was about to make. ‘What?’
‘Enid died. That was Babushka. She found her.’
‘Huh.’ He carried on walking out to the shoreline, and Aleksey let him go. He didn’t have it in him to offer any comfort to one who, for some inexplicable reason, had also adopted this old woman into his heart and had put a joyous sparkle in her eye whenever he was with her. He glanced back into the lit cottage—Ben, head bowed; Tim on his phone, probably checking flights; and Harry, legs braced against life’s unexpected swells—and he realised that treasure came in many different forms, and that some were definitely more precious than others.
* * *
Chapter SIXTEEN
