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Among the names on Derricks list was one Cormac Pearl. He went missing in June 1985, disappearing from the family home near Blackpool, aged 19. The mugshot shows a good-looking, dark-eyed lad; young for his age, with longish curly hair and slender, strangely feminine features. Hes smiling for the camera: an incongruous thumbs-up obscuring a portion of his lower face. Hes bare-chested, but the image is black and white so it’s impossible to say if it was an intimate snap, or simply a candid moment on a sunny day. Beside it is a graphic projection of what Cormac might look like now. Digital software has been employed to age his fine features. Hairless, a little jowelly, the fifty-something version of Cormac Pearl looks thoroughly unremarkable and any hopes Rowan held that he might recognize him were quickly dismissed as fanciful. Despite that, he is getting better acquainted with the young man’s disappearance, cross-referencing the name against the National Crime Agency’s missing persons archive: a grisly database full of digitally reconstructed faces of corpses as yet unidentified. He knows that Cormac was the only son of Deaglan and Siobhan Pearl, but can find little other information online about the family. He’s managed to track down an In Memoriam announcement in the Blackpool Gazette, dated 1992. Siobhan died at a private nursing facility after a short illness. She was 44. The family asked that donations be made to a charity set up in memory of their son. The accompanying memento mori was in Gaelic but translated as: No matter how long the day, the evening comes. He glances at the screen again and begins to think about the Irish families he has had dealings with – great sprawling clans of half-cousins and step-nephews spread out across the globe, united by the faintest bonds of blood. He widens the internet search and changes the language settings. Quickly finds mention of Siobhan Pearl and her untimely death: the accompanying classified notice incomprehensible to his English eyes. He runs it through a translation service and the jumble of consonants turn into names he can search for. Sisters, brothers, nieces. He sits forward, all other thoughts forgotten. Types a half dozen keywords into a generic search engine and finds himself grinning as he spots what he’s looking for. He often hopes to proven wrong in his cynicism about the nature of people but it hasn’t happened yet. People need to share. They need to have their stories told. The internet has been a true leveler: an equalizing platform granting the illusion of an audience to those who may otherwise have had to stand at bus-stops shouting their stories into the air. The family history website administered by one Tegan Pearl, based in Boston, USA, is ab abominable collusionof lurid yellows and pinks and seems designed entirely to give the user a migraine. Rowan has to squint to navigate his way through the mess of anecdotes, family trees and links to other, paid-for sites, with links to the family surname. He searches under the name Cormac’. It comes up with twohits. One is under the heading:A Prayer for Cormac. Shed been within her rights to do what she did. Shed imagined that it would be harder to do to somebody that she cared about what she had done to so many strangers. But it had been easier. If anything, she had taken more pleasure in the act. In the shelter of the cave, Shan slumped against the rock wall, fighting the bone-deep weariness of constant pain. As a member of the Shistra-Phail—the elite warriors of the Feyna—he possessed unearthly powers of recovery, but no one was invulnerable. Shan had seen his kindred die of wounds like this. Only their Seers healed the Shistra-Phail. It had always been that way. Now it seemed a deeply stupid tradition. Life without Shan would be no life at all. She knew that now, recognised and accepted it. She would endure, survive because he would not wish her dead, and one day—one day in the far distant, bleak future—she might even find it in her to smile again, but it would not be a life. So would mine, says Rowan, surprising himself. He hadnt intended to bring up his past, or his lack of funds. He cant seem to get a hold of himself at the moment. Keeps saying and doing things that offer no obvious advantage. Rowan chews his lip, unsure how to proceed. The recording device in his pocket is only picking up the sounds of the gale and the faintest muffle of conversation. He wants to get inside and get comfortable. Hes good at getting older ladies on-side. A few compliments, a few variations on the theme of youre never really 75 are you? and usually its less than half an hour before they’re giving him everything he wants over fruit scones and loose leaf tea. Evelyn Cater doesn’t seem like a standard OAP. She looks as though she’s cracked a few kneecaps with a hammer and isn’t above doing it again. He has a vision of some crook-backed East European peasant woman, carrying twice her bodyweight in hay: a cast-iron will and bloody-minded refusal to succumb to age. Rowan stares through the glass into the dark room: an explorer gazing into the untold wonders and mysteries of an unopened tomb. It feels as though millipedes and scarab beetles and are scuttling and wriggling upon his skin. Indarins face turned white. Dont tell them. Whatever you do. Theyll kill him at once. Samara released her grip.I thought… But…not even here… But she had to contemplate it if she was going to survive. Id be safe with you. Thats why I left. Come with me now. Lets go somewhere else. There has to be another— It makes all of us guilty of something, but I agree with Max. Our priority has to be finding Christian Salyer and Dakotas daughter. I could pass the information along to Don, and he could call it in as an anonymous tip. It would help if we knew who the girl was. With special thanks to Dayna, Patti, Not exactly a firm, smiles Vicky. But yes, I clean. Ive got three young kids and one big one at home so if Im not earning money for cleaning Im usually picking somebody’s stuff up for free. She gives him a little grin. “What was it you wanted from Eve, anyway? She’s not the sort who enjoys a chat, though she’s always nice to me. I got tickets for a spa day at the Sharrow Bay last Christmas – I proper filled up when they fell out my card. My mate Violet said not to worry about it – that it was her way of putting up with being a cantankerous cow some days. She suffers, you see.” I remembered something Christian said when I was walking into the house. He said he hadnt always been evil. Thatthey made him that way. He wanted me to love him and go away with him to be a family. Then he saidshe would have made me that way, too, but my father saved me. He had to be talking about my mother. And he mentioned Emma. I walked out the gate and waited for Karen to join me. What do you think he meant when he said she would have made me that way too? I choose her. I choose my people, even if he will not. I willalways choose my own people! Shan smiled, squeezed her hand affectionately. He recognised her fear and comforted her with a touch alone.Hopefully both..