Had he seen her, or not?
For a moment she’d been a spot of red just the other side of the lighthouse.
He’d tied off the jib sheet as quickly as he could and grabbed for his camera. But by the time he had the tiller trapped between his knees and the camera aimed, the red coat was disappearing into the fog bank.
He had snapped an image, but it was inconclusive—no more than a fading blur in the fog.
There one moment and then gone the next.
Twenty minutes. It took twenty minutes to anchor safely behind the spit of land, dowse the sails, lower his dinghy over the side, and get ashore.
He was the only one there. There was no one at the picnic tables and no one wandering around the narrow end of Dungeness Spit.
An elderly man and his wife came out of the house at the base of the lighthouse
