looked through it, and directly at him.
In the early weeks of March 1998, it was leaked to the press that the police were interviewing Mark Derbyshire in connection with the case.
It got a lot of coverage. On television, Nathan saw it announced that an 'item relating to the case' had been found on Mark Derbyshire's property. This didn't sound remarkable to Nathan; everyone knew that Elise had been there. God knew what she might have dropped or left behind. But whatever the item was, it was enough for the police to take Mark in for questioning.
Once again, Mark Derbyshire's past was rehearsed in every newspaper and on every news report.
Mark was released after questioning: he was never charged. But the country knew he'd done it, even if nobody was legally allowed to say so. And so Mark Derbyshire's long career finally ended.
The police didn't find Elise's body, and nor did anyone else.
Nathan couldn't imagine why; he didn't think he and Bob had done such a terribly good job of burying her.
Perhaps the police were simply looking in the wrong place.
Every morning, he woke and immediately turned on the radio expecting to hear an announcement that her body had been found.
But the announcement never came.
11
That spring, he bought a rucksack and a six-week European travel pass. But he took Elise with him.
He was too old to be sharing late-night trains with gap-year students. After six weeks, he found himself alone at 3 a.m., dangling bare, tanned legs over the dock on Icaria. He'd sat all night outside a restaurant, alone with a book he was pretending to read, half-hoping somebody might strike up a conversation. But nobody did.
Since leaving England, he'd barely spoken, except to order a drink, or dinner. His orbit was marked by something dark. People didn't come too close.
He pretended to himself that he wished he'd gone to America instead, that he'd chosen this cheap travel pass because he was trying to conserve money. But that wasn't true.
When Nathan was eighteen, he'd come to the Greek Islands with Chloe, his girlfriend. It was their first and only time away - and for its three weeks they were happy-sad, because they knew this trip was an extended goodbye. They were about to start at different universities, and they knew that what was to come would change them. There was no way to maintain their relationship - Chloe had seen her two brothers make that mistake, and it had brought them nothing but unhappiness.
Now -- alone on the dock at Icaria -- he saw that over the last few weeks he'd followed almost exactly the route he and Chloe had taken, when he was a child who thought himself nearly a man.
He spat into the dark and watched it loop and spin into the lapping, oily Mediterranean. Then he got up, brushing the grit from his arse and slinging the rucksack over his shoulder. He found an all night bar and sat in the corner drinking Amstel until the sun came up. Then he slapped a pile of euros on the bar, didn't wait for his change, and walked out to greet the early morning ferry. His flip flops slapped to the rhythm of his feet.
He watched the ferry dock. It was rusted and ponderous, weathered as a coastal rock.
At length, it discharged blinking, fuzzy-headed young backpackers, American and German and Dutch, British and Canadian and Australian, on to the dock. Some of their faces were still marked with the weave of the ferry's dirty carpet.
Nathan was one of three or four people to embark. He sat in a patch of ringing sunlight, cooled by the sea breeze, and stared past the corner of a lifeboat, into the ferry's frothing wake.
In Goa, he saw a Hindu funeral. The corpse, draped in white, garlanded with roses and jasmine and marigold, was carried on a stretcher to a riverside pyre. On the pyre, it was arranged with its bound white feet facing south - the direction of the dead.
The chief mourner walked round the pyre three times, sprinkling water. Then he put the pyre to flame.
Nathan watched the body burn. The
In the early weeks of March 1998, it was leaked to the press that the police were interviewing Mark Derbyshire in connection with the case.
It got a lot of coverage. On television, Nathan saw it announced that an 'item relating to the case' had been found on Mark Derbyshire's property. This didn't sound remarkable to Nathan; everyone knew that Elise had been there. God knew what she might have dropped or left behind. But whatever the item was, it was enough for the police to take Mark in for questioning.
Once again, Mark Derbyshire's past was rehearsed in every newspaper and on every news report.
Mark was released after questioning: he was never charged. But the country knew he'd done it, even if nobody was legally allowed to say so. And so Mark Derbyshire's long career finally ended.
The police didn't find Elise's body, and nor did anyone else.
Nathan couldn't imagine why; he didn't think he and Bob had done such a terribly good job of burying her.
Perhaps the police were simply looking in the wrong place.
Every morning, he woke and immediately turned on the radio expecting to hear an announcement that her body had been found.
But the announcement never came.
11
That spring, he bought a rucksack and a six-week European travel pass. But he took Elise with him.
He was too old to be sharing late-night trains with gap-year students. After six weeks, he found himself alone at 3 a.m., dangling bare, tanned legs over the dock on Icaria. He'd sat all night outside a restaurant, alone with a book he was pretending to read, half-hoping somebody might strike up a conversation. But nobody did.
Since leaving England, he'd barely spoken, except to order a drink, or dinner. His orbit was marked by something dark. People didn't come too close.
He pretended to himself that he wished he'd gone to America instead, that he'd chosen this cheap travel pass because he was trying to conserve money. But that wasn't true.
When Nathan was eighteen, he'd come to the Greek Islands with Chloe, his girlfriend. It was their first and only time away - and for its three weeks they were happy-sad, because they knew this trip was an extended goodbye. They were about to start at different universities, and they knew that what was to come would change them. There was no way to maintain their relationship - Chloe had seen her two brothers make that mistake, and it had brought them nothing but unhappiness.
Now -- alone on the dock at Icaria -- he saw that over the last few weeks he'd followed almost exactly the route he and Chloe had taken, when he was a child who thought himself nearly a man.
He spat into the dark and watched it loop and spin into the lapping, oily Mediterranean. Then he got up, brushing the grit from his arse and slinging the rucksack over his shoulder. He found an all night bar and sat in the corner drinking Amstel until the sun came up. Then he slapped a pile of euros on the bar, didn't wait for his change, and walked out to greet the early morning ferry. His flip flops slapped to the rhythm of his feet.
He watched the ferry dock. It was rusted and ponderous, weathered as a coastal rock.
At length, it discharged blinking, fuzzy-headed young backpackers, American and German and Dutch, British and Canadian and Australian, on to the dock. Some of their faces were still marked with the weave of the ferry's dirty carpet.
Nathan was one of three or four people to embark. He sat in a patch of ringing sunlight, cooled by the sea breeze, and stared past the corner of a lifeboat, into the ferry's frothing wake.
In Goa, he saw a Hindu funeral. The corpse, draped in white, garlanded with roses and jasmine and marigold, was carried on a stretcher to a riverside pyre. On the pyre, it was arranged with its bound white feet facing south - the direction of the dead.
The chief mourner walked round the pyre three times, sprinkling water. Then he put the pyre to flame.
Nathan watched the body burn. The
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