The Snowstorm

THE SNOWSTORM AN ABSOLUTELY GRIPPING, PULSE-POUNDING THRILLER PACKED WITH TWISTS TRÍONA WALSH BOOKS BY TRÍONA WALSH The Snowstorm  CONTENTS Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Epilogue Hear More from Tríona Walsh Books by Tríona Walsh A Letter from Tríona Acknowledgements For Dan, who never once asked when was I getting a real job. PROLOGUE INIS MÓR, ARAN ISLANDS In the summer, the cliff divers come. They line up to leap, fearless, from the temporary diving board. They twist and spin, tumble like inverted fireworks that head not heavenward but earthbound instead. They launch themselves from a platform extended from the cliff edge. The brave – or foolish, depending on who you talk to – men and women glide through the air one by one, falling with grace and trust into the mouth of the Serpent’s Lair. This cliffside pool is carved from the island’s limestone rock by nature, not man. A millennia of waves and fierce storms have formed this perfect rectangular pool, a witchcraft explained away in former times by stories of a sleeping beast, a serpent resident, resting within. Wide and deep, the pool is filled by seawater that crashes through underground channels to feed the swell. Eager now to receive the divers. With the best seats in the house, the cliff-dwelling seabirds – the cormorants, the guillemots, the jealous diving gannets – watch these strange featherless birds fall into the serpent’s hungry maw. Cheers rise from islanders and tourists, who gather to watch the spectacle, feeling the sea breeze on their necks, the summer sun on their faces. A glorious way to spend a summer’s day on their island, on the edge of the world. An island that has no neighbour on its western coast, only the vast, lonely Atlantic. The very edge of Europe, the gateway to the New World. There are ONE ‘Bloody hell,’ Cara exhaled, out of breath, as she pulled the door shut behind her. She shook herself like a wet dog. It was wild out there. Jostled by the wind like an unpopular kid in a school corridor, Cara had been pushed and shoved from the station door to her car. She looked through the windscreen out over the dusk-cloaked harbour. It was only 5 p.m. but the sun was already mostly set. The glittering Christmas lights strung between the coastal lamp posts jumped and shook in the wind as if being electrocuted. She watched huge waves crash against the pier, the fishing boats in the bay tossed like children’s toys during a rowdy bath time. The storm had descended with a personal grudge. Enveloping the island. From early afternoon Cara had lost sight of the mainland. It was as if the wind had blown their little island further out into the Atlantic. Further away from the world. And, they said, snow was coming next. Cara really hoped not. She started the car and pulled out, following the main road through the village, making her way to Derrane’s, Daithí’s pub. The streets were empty. Islanders heeding the warnings and staying safely inside, at home. Home, where Cara would like to be too. But she was the island’s only Garda. She had responsibilities. Compared to her colleagues on the mainland, she usually had a quiet life, corralling an island of 800 mostly law-abiding citizens. But when a storm cut them off,