She got her phone out her pocket and nodded at his phone on the table.

‘I presume you’ve got a picture of her?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Send it to my phone, and forward me her number too.’

Ellie told him her number and he began pressing buttons. She got the picture on her phone and looked at it. A selfie taken in a bathroom, lips pouting, obvious make-up, blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders like she’d just shaken her head a second before. She wore large-framed geek glasses and a white T-shirt with a small black heart over the breast. She was still a kid, trying to be a grown-up like all girls that age. She was pretty in a gawky kind of way, a seriousness in her eyes that made her look older.

‘She’s eleven, yeah?’

‘Eleven.’

‘And your dad has been hurting her?’

His head still down, looking at his phone, a slight nod.

‘How long for?’

He didn’t speak.

‘Sam, it could be important.’

He looked up. ‘Why?’

‘It just might.’

‘I don’t know.’ Sam’s hands began to shake. ‘Today was the first time I actually saw anything but . . .’

His chest rose and fell, sharp breaths.

Ellie put her hand out and took his.

‘Take it easy,’ she said.

‘I’ve been thinking about it all day,’ he said. ‘She never said anything to me, not exactly, but I think she might’ve been trying to let me know. She used to come into my room late at night and just sit around. Like she was nervous. I thought she was just being a pest. I used to chuck her out. If I’d been a better brother, maybe she could’ve told me. I should’ve asked if anything was wrong.’

‘You can’t blame yourself. Your dad’s the one who’s been doing awful things, not you.’

Sam held her gaze. ‘Do you blame yourself for your son jumping off the bridge?’

Ellie took a deep breath. ‘It’s different.’

‘How?’

‘It just is.’ She hated the tone of her voice, like a strict schoolteacher. ‘Look, can you tell me exactly what happened today?’

He shook his head.

‘It might help.’

‘I can’t.’

His body was shaking again. He was on the edge of coming apart all the time. Ellie knew how that felt.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘But Libby left the house?’

‘After . . .’ He stopped, scratched at his hand. ‘I was just standing there looking at him. Then I went to find her but she must’ve run out the house. I was kind of in a trance or something. I don’t even know if she has her phone with her.’

‘Where might she have gone?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Could she be back home by now?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’

‘She saw me, and Dad. Saw the knife and everything.’

‘So?’

‘Would you go back if it was you?’

Ellie thought. ‘Maybe, if I had nowhere else to go.’

‘There is nowhere else.’

‘What about a secret place she likes to hang out?’

He shook his head. ‘Nothing like that.’

‘Are you sure?’

He looked up. ‘Shit. There was somewhere she mentioned, I never thought before.’

‘What?’

‘She’s been smoking with her friend Cassie. I told her it’s stupid. Cassie’s dad has a lock-up garage, they go there. I think it’s on the lane under the rail bridge, past the Hawes Inn?’

Ellie nodded. ‘I’ll try there first.’

‘And if she’s not there?’

‘I’ll try your home.’

‘That’s too dangerous.’

Ellie got up. ‘I need to find out what the situation is with your dad anyway.’

‘How are you going to do that?’

She put her phone in her pocket. ‘I don’t know yet. I’ll find Libby and I’ll find out what’s happening, then we can start getting things sorted.’

‘This is never going to be sorted,’ Sam said.

Ellie looked at him. ‘It will. Things won’t be the same again, but there’s still a way out of this for you, I promise.’

‘You can’t promise that,’ Sam said.

11

Back on the pier she stared at the old crane perched at the end of the quay, all rust and flaky paint. She turned to take in the marina. Decay everywhere. Port Edgar was going to the dogs and it was only going to get worse with the closure of the sailing school. Ben had worked there for seven years and they were shutting it down. The council said they would try to get him something else but that was just talk, they couldn’t afford to keep on staff, and besides, there wasn’t anywhere else on the east coast that taught sailing through local authorities.

She looked at the Porpoise. She was a rickety old thing, and they might have to sell her soon anyway. With Ben out of a job and her still signed off long-term sick from Marine Scotland they couldn’t justify it. The government’s enthusiasm for renewables meant that her research into the effect on marine life was bulletproof for now, but she couldn’t imagine ever going back to work. Sitting in that office, having meetings, taking minutes, working on action plans, giving presentations – it was meaningless now. Logan’s death had robbed her of any confidence that she knew what she was doing, so how could she sit there and tell others how to do their jobs? She had an appraisal meeting with HR coming up, assessing her fitness to return to work. She wasn’t fit, they would likely cut her loose, then she and Ben would be in much deeper water. Or maybe she would have to pretend to be capable, keep them afloat. Neither option held any appeal.

Beyond the boats and the breakwater, giant yellow cranes sat on barges in the water. The new bridge supports were just breaking the surface of the Forth. Work had been carried out underwater for months, structures being built unseen by anyone. She couldn’t imagine what the engineering involved, the scale of it eluded her. She tried to picture the finished bridge arching away into the night, but couldn’t. She wondered if the new bridge would help the marina, if Port Edgar would get a new lease of life from its proximity, but she couldn’t see how.

She wondered if Sam would take the pills, if they would work.

She walked to the end of the pier clutching the plastic bag of Sam’s clothes in both hands. She’d thrown a handful of stones from the Binks into the bag and she felt the heft of it now. She checked the knot in the top was firm, then looked back along the pier. No one in sight. She narrowed her eyes looking for CCTV, but the only camera was down at the entrance to the berths, pointing at the gate. She heaved the plastic bag with both hands and watched as it landed in the water then sank, dragged to the bottom by the ballast inside. She watched the ripples where the bag had been then turned away.

She looked at her phone, flicked to the picture of Libby. Zoomed in closer and she could make out spots beneath the foundation on the girl’s skin. She tried to imagine having a daughter, a female companion, but nothing came into her head. She wondered about those women on television who said their mums were their best friends. Had she been best friends with Logan? It never felt like it. She was always too much of a mother for that, too protective. And anyway, he didn’t live beyond the stroppy teen years so she would never know if they could’ve been grown-up friends. She liked to think so, imagined them going to gigs together, or out for a meal. Or maybe the three of them out for dinner, her and Ben proud parents, him keen to head off to meet his mates and go clubbing, her and Ben sharing a knowing, worn smile, this is what we made, between us, this one good thing.

Thinking like this was destroying her. Or maybe it had already destroyed her.

She walked down the pier, past the coastguard hut and the tumbledown storage buildings, cracked windowpanes, weeds tangled in drainpipes, crumbling brickwork.

She stopped at a memorial stone, wreaths of poppies round it. It was the one thing in this place that was well kept. She’d walked past it many times and never paid much attention. She read it now. It was a remembrance stone for the Navy’s minesweeping service that had trained here during the Second World War, erected by the Algerines Association, whoever they were. At least somebody cared, it was obviously looked after. Across the top of the granite stone was a line: