I unpack my bag, shower, and then lie on the bed, the soft breeze cooling my naked body. Had this been a normal day in someone’s normal life, perhaps some of the other students and I might become friends. But I’m starting to recognise that while it is important for me to blend in, I also need to keep myself to myself. This whole exploit has occurred in a mad, frenetic rush. In less than two hours I will be meeting the woman I’m certain knows what really happened to Michael on the night he died.
Focus on the present. Easy to say, but the past, present and future all seemed to be mingling into one colossal confusion. Deal with the task at hand. But what is the task at hand? I take out my notebook and begin writing.
Try to get in with Desra McKinley, get close to her/ find out everything I can about her
Try to get her to talk about her past, about Michael
Confirm that she is Diving Fish
Find out if she was on the beach that night, and what really happened
If none of the above works – confront her!
Point six remains blank, even though there is only one thing I really want to do.
Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, I get dressed and make my way to the common room on the first floor. The room is empty apart from the pink-haired Geordie lady who is quietly sipping a cup of tea.
‘Hi, again.’
‘Kate, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘And you are?’
‘Sally,’ she replies, and, studying me carefully adds, ‘not local, are you?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ve lived in Devon for the last fifteen years but born Cornish through and through.’
‘More power to you,’ she replies, raising her cup of tea in salute.
The door to the common room opens. A man in his early sixties enters. He has curly grey shoulder-length hair and deep brown eyes. He gives us both an open, engaging smile.
‘I’m Dave,’ he says, making his way unashamedly towards the plate of biscuits on the table.
‘I’m Sally.’
‘And I’m Kate.’
‘Very nice to meet you,’ he mutters through a mouthful of ginger nut. ‘I know lunch is in fifteen minutes but I’m starving.’
‘Newcastle?’ asks Sally.
She’s clearly interested in where people come from.
‘Durham,’ replies Dave, dusting the crumbs off his shirt. ‘Via Musselburgh to see my granddaughter. I left at six this morning and I’m exhausted.’
We nod sympathetically. A gentle gong begins reverberating throughout the room and I find myself looking around in confusion.
Both Sally and Dave begin to laugh.
‘You haven’t read the programme, have you?’ says Sally. ‘That gong indicates either mealtime or the start of classes.’ She points to a small speaker bolted on the wall near the ceiling. ‘During term time I think there’s also a gong for lights out. As liberal as the school likes to present itself as being, I still get the impression the routine is pretty regimented.’
‘Which is great news for me,’ says Dave, holding the common room door for us. ‘Because I like my meals on time.’
I meet Marie-Claire and Julia in the hallway and we’re all making our way outside when I hear a door close behind me. I turn to see the tall, fair-haired man who arrived with Sally. He smiles and follows.
Lunch is a buffet that includes smoked salmon, homemade cheese scones, salad, and a tower of cakes and biscuits. A special area has been set up for the group in the conservatory that adjoins the dining hall. The French doors have been opened and a cooling breeze drifts in from the loch, bringing with it the scent of pine and fresh lavender. I’m just debating as to whether I should have another shortbread round when Malcolm appears.
‘Good afternoon everyone.’ He seems to have come to life now that Becky isn’t present. ‘I hope you all enjoyed your lunch. If we can all make our way to the Ishutin Building, your afternoon session will begin.’ I try to stifle a yawn. ‘We realise that many of you have travelled some distance and may be feeling a little tired, but we also want to make sure you get the most out of this week. There will be plenty of free time for you to relax later this afternoon.’ He gives a nod and, indicating towards the open French doors, adds, ‘So if you’ll kindly all follow me.’
28
As we make our way along the Cobbles, I am filled with anticipation, apprehension, and, most strangely of all, a sense of acute exhilaration. I am finally going to meet the person who will give me the answers I need. This is where it will all begin; and hopefully all end.
The foyer area of the Ishutin Building is light and airy. There are displays of student work, open-plan work areas, and to the rear, a large auditorium-cum-theatre. There are posters on the walls announcing the Summer Lecture Series, including Professor Findley Cardew’s address on Friday. I follow the group into the auditorium and cross into shadow. It takes a few minutes for my eyes to adjust. The seating area descends gently to the stage, where twelve chairs are laid out in a wide semi-circle and face a large drop-down screen. Facing the audience is a stool, a lectern, and a flip chart. The chairs are in muggy gloom,
