engraving had already been there when the keys were found in November. So was it just a fluke? Could it really be a coincidence that a film projector had been carved into a tree, feet from where a former actress had last been seen, inches from where her keys were discovered?
I looked at the words to its right: Lake Calhoun .
Unsure where that was, I immediately headed back to the car, grabbed my phone and put in a search for it.
As soon as I looked at the first hit – a Wikipedia article – a charge of adrenalin grabbed me. I scrolled down, looking for more in the way of corroboration, and saw the same thing confirmed over and over.
Lake Calhoun was a four-hundred-acre body of water, south-west of Lakeville.
The city in which Wendy Fisher lived.
And the place in which Lynda Korin had grown up.
10
It was 7.50 a.m. in the UK, making it 1.50 a.m. in Minnesota, so Wendy was either asleep or at work. I fired off an email to her, remembering how her job as a nurse made it hard for her to take calls on the run, and told her I needed to speak to her as soon as possible. I wanted to know why the name of a lake – a lake local to her and her sister as children – might be carved into a tree, just feet from where Lynda Korin’s keys had been found; and I wanted to know why a film projector had been scratched into the bark next to it.
As I thought of the projector, I thought again of the interview with Korin in Cine magazine, and grabbed my laptop off the back seat. I’d downloaded the digital edition of the issue the previous night but hadn’t had a chance to read it yet. I’d been up too early, the article was too long and dense to do on a quick run-through, and I didn’t want to miss anything. I’d planned to go through it once I got back to London. For now I just did a keyword search, hunting the PDF for any mention of Lake Calhoun. There were no matches.
Returning to Google on my phone, I tried to use the lake as a jumping-off point for stories that might be related to it – crimes, disappearances, things connected to Korin in some way – but there was nothing. Moments later, I noticed that the man at the gate was finishing up, his trousers hitched with a bicycle clip, the cabin beside him padlocked.
I started up the BMW and headed over.
As I got to him, I wound down my window. In myrear-view mirror, I glanced back at the place where I’d found the inscription, and then to the top of the steps that led back down to the peninsula. The wind had calmed a little, and I could see the sun above the trees, a white disc against a flawless blue sky.
‘You leaving already?’ the guy said to me.
‘I’m afraid so. This is the only way in and out of here, right?’
He frowned, looking towards the bridge binding the car park to the mainland, as if it might be a trick question. ‘Yeah,’ he said, frown still lingering, ‘it’s the only way in and out.’
I glanced again at my rear-view mirror.
‘Do people ever moor boats off the peninsula?’
‘Moor them where, exactly?’
‘I didn’t see a jetty.’
The frown stayed. ‘That’s ’cos there ain’t one.’
Clearly, he’d marked me out as some sort of crackpot, so I tried to move the conversation on.
‘I heard a woman disappeared from here last October.’
He seemed puzzled by the change of direction, but then his expression softened. ‘Tragic,’ he said. ‘I was the one that called the police about it.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yeah. I told them she must have abandoned her car here.’
‘That makes you Len Fordyce, right?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know that?’
‘My name’s David Raker,’ I said to him, offering him my hand, attempting to put him at ease. ‘I’ve been asked to try and find out how the lady disappeared.’
‘Oh,’ he said, and we shook hands. ‘You a copper or something?’
‘More like an Or Something. I work for myself.’
‘Like a private investigator?’
I gave him a business card and manoeuvred us
I looked at the words to its right: Lake Calhoun .
Unsure where that was, I immediately headed back to the car, grabbed my phone and put in a search for it.
As soon as I looked at the first hit – a Wikipedia article – a charge of adrenalin grabbed me. I scrolled down, looking for more in the way of corroboration, and saw the same thing confirmed over and over.
Lake Calhoun was a four-hundred-acre body of water, south-west of Lakeville.
The city in which Wendy Fisher lived.
And the place in which Lynda Korin had grown up.
10
It was 7.50 a.m. in the UK, making it 1.50 a.m. in Minnesota, so Wendy was either asleep or at work. I fired off an email to her, remembering how her job as a nurse made it hard for her to take calls on the run, and told her I needed to speak to her as soon as possible. I wanted to know why the name of a lake – a lake local to her and her sister as children – might be carved into a tree, just feet from where Lynda Korin’s keys had been found; and I wanted to know why a film projector had been scratched into the bark next to it.
As I thought of the projector, I thought again of the interview with Korin in Cine magazine, and grabbed my laptop off the back seat. I’d downloaded the digital edition of the issue the previous night but hadn’t had a chance to read it yet. I’d been up too early, the article was too long and dense to do on a quick run-through, and I didn’t want to miss anything. I’d planned to go through it once I got back to London. For now I just did a keyword search, hunting the PDF for any mention of Lake Calhoun. There were no matches.
Returning to Google on my phone, I tried to use the lake as a jumping-off point for stories that might be related to it – crimes, disappearances, things connected to Korin in some way – but there was nothing. Moments later, I noticed that the man at the gate was finishing up, his trousers hitched with a bicycle clip, the cabin beside him padlocked.
I started up the BMW and headed over.
As I got to him, I wound down my window. In myrear-view mirror, I glanced back at the place where I’d found the inscription, and then to the top of the steps that led back down to the peninsula. The wind had calmed a little, and I could see the sun above the trees, a white disc against a flawless blue sky.
‘You leaving already?’ the guy said to me.
‘I’m afraid so. This is the only way in and out of here, right?’
He frowned, looking towards the bridge binding the car park to the mainland, as if it might be a trick question. ‘Yeah,’ he said, frown still lingering, ‘it’s the only way in and out.’
I glanced again at my rear-view mirror.
‘Do people ever moor boats off the peninsula?’
‘Moor them where, exactly?’
‘I didn’t see a jetty.’
The frown stayed. ‘That’s ’cos there ain’t one.’
Clearly, he’d marked me out as some sort of crackpot, so I tried to move the conversation on.
‘I heard a woman disappeared from here last October.’
He seemed puzzled by the change of direction, but then his expression softened. ‘Tragic,’ he said. ‘I was the one that called the police about it.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yeah. I told them she must have abandoned her car here.’
‘That makes you Len Fordyce, right?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know that?’
‘My name’s David Raker,’ I said to him, offering him my hand, attempting to put him at ease. ‘I’ve been asked to try and find out how the lady disappeared.’
‘Oh,’ he said, and we shook hands. ‘You a copper or something?’
‘More like an Or Something. I work for myself.’
‘Like a private investigator?’
I gave him a business card and manoeuvred us
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