The Wrong Direction

The path ran beside the water, with a strip of flattened grass between the paving stones and the bank. Grandad carried the boat hook over his shoulder. The children kept to the path.

Everything looked different in daylight. Among the reeds were leaves, a ball and a broken stalk that kept tapping against a post. There was no sign of a white roof.

“Perhaps it's sunk,” Bente said.

Grandad shook his head. There was a thick layer of cork underneath the model. It should float even with water inside it.

They walked on to the little pumping station. Here the water divided around an island of reeds. To the right it was wide and open. To the left, a narrow channel led to the old landing stage.

Grandad looked right. “If they've opened the lock—”

“Wait,” Noor said. She had unfolded the receipt again. The light had moved to the left. Away from the lock, towards the windmill: she had seen its sails just above it.

Sami turned round. The flag by the windmill was stretched out in the wind, pointing the same way it had the evening before.

“The boat's got quite a tall roof,” he said. “Wouldn't the wind catch it? My lunch bag blew that way yesterday. With my sandwich still in it.”

They looked at the narrow channel. A dead leaf was sliding slowly into it. Grandad nodded. “Could be. No need to guess, though. This path takes us to the landing stage.”

When they reached it, Bente looked under the boards. Then she straightened. “Listen.”

There was a faint tap. Then another. It wasn't the reed knocking against the post; they had left that well behind.

Noor knelt in the middle of the broad landing stage, behind the railing. Through a gap between two boards, she could see something red moving against a wooden beam.

“Two left boots,” she whispered.