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eyes were upon him.
    When the first dark smudge that was the Île de Groix emerged from the gathering gloom, Enzo stood up and moved forward to the arc of large windows that looked out across the bow of the boat. Driving rain distorted his view of Port Tudy between the twin lighthouses that marked the opening to the harbour. Beyond a forest of masts, he could just make out the white, pink, and blue-painted cottages built along the low cliffs that ran up the hill toward Le Bourg.
    He turned around to find almost every face on the passenger deck looking at him. Almost expectantly. As if they anticipated that he might say something, utter some words of wisdom. They looked almost ready to applaud. He wanted to shout: what are you looking at! But an announcement over the loudspeakers welcoming them to the Île de Groix, saved him from the humiliation, and the moment passed. Passengers suddenly forgot about him in their haste to disembark, rising from their seats, gathering belongings, and hurrying for the stairs.
    But the feeling of being watched returned once more as he stepped up on to the jetty. Fishermen on the rusted green fishing boat, the
Banco
, turned curious eyes upon him as they docked at the wharf, and he was aware of yet more heads turning in his direction as he hurried along the pier. He could see the lifeboat station away to his right, a white building with blue shutters. The
Societé Nationale de Sauvetage en Mer
. Ahead, beyond a small circle at the end of the jetty, stood a couple of hotels, bars with covered terraces looking out across the harbour. He was tempted by the prospect of a chance to escape the cold and rain, and a couple of whiskies to warm him. But he spotted the garish yellow frontage of Coconut’s car rental and supposed he really ought to pick up his rental car and drive out to the house before it got dark.
    He was about to cross the street, when he felt a firm tugging on his arm. He turned to find himself looking into the face of a man almost as tall as himself, but perhaps ten years younger. A broad-built man with dark hair rain-smeared across his forehead and straggling over his upturned collar. His jacket was soaked through, and his blue eyes fixed Enzo with a disconcertingly unblinking gaze. Enzo smelled the rancid stink of stale alcohol on his breath.
    “You think you’re so smart, monsieur.”
    “What?”
    “You think you’ll come after me and prove what no one else could. Well, you’re wrong.”
    And it dawned on Enzo who he was. “You’re Thibaud Kerjean.”
    “They still think I did it.”
    “Who?
    “Everyone. Twenty years on. Even after the court acquitted me. Well, fuck them, monsieur. And fuck you. I wasn’t guilty then, and I’m not guilty now. So if you’re as smart as you think you are, you’ll stay well away from me. And if you don’t, you’ll regret it.”
    Enzo was aware for the first time that Kerjean was still holding his arm. He pulled it free, and stared back directly into the islander’s hostility. “How the hell do you know who I am?”
    Kerjean’s lip curled into something halfway between a sneer and a smile, and he turned away, walking briskly toward the bar at the Café de la Jetée. Enzo stood watching him go, angry, confused, before becoming aware once more of faces turned in his direction: passengers from the ferry, customers in the bars standing in doorways and at windows. A car, newly disembarked from the ferry, turned through a puddle on the circle, and Enzo felt the splash of it soak the legs of his trousers with muddy rainwater. He cursed and stooped to wipe at his trousers legs with the back of his hand, then turned to glare after the driver. Which is when saw the newspaper billboard wired to an Île de Groix welcome sign. It promo-ed a headline in that day’s edition of
Ouest-France
. SCOTS EXPERT TO SOLVE GROIX MURDER . Beneath was a black and white photograph of Enzo. Taken a few years previously, but unmistakable, with the dark ponytail