The boy just in front of Stevenson looked tired. He was lean and had the built of somebody who did a lot of sport.
Shouldering a bulky backpack, the boy passed the fingers of his left hand repeatedly through his dark, wavy hair. He seemed to be travelling alone and was clutching his ticket and a Swiss passport firmly in his other hand as if they might be snatched away from him any second.
In front of the boy stood an elderly, plump woman who smelled of mothballs. Her husband was so skinny that his trousers looked two sizes too big on him.
Another couple with two pre-school girls were just zipping up their various bags after the control. One of the girls stuffed buckets and plastic shovels back into a pink backpack, her face grave with concentration.
As his suspects were still nowhere to be seen,Stevenson hoped his decision to fly to the Scillies hadn't been too rash. Had he come to the wrong conclusions? But it was too late now. He had to see it through and hope he'd find his prey. After all, Penzance heliport didn't serve any other destinations.
He passed the security check and sat down on one of the red plastic chairs in the tiny departure lounge.
"Check my suitcases? Whatever for?" a woman's voice asked loudly.
(To be continued)