by Kate Rhodes
For the heroic staff and volunteers of
the Royal National Lifeboat Institution
PART ONE
‘How that personage haunted my dreams, I need scarcely tell you. On stormy nights, when the wind shook the four corners of the house, and the surf roared along the cove and up the cliffs, I would see him in a thousand forms, and with a thousand diabolical expressions.’
TREASURE ISLAND,
Robert Louis Stevenson, 1883
It’s midnight when the woman begins her steep descent down Tregarthen Hill. Excitement washes through her system as she follows the rocky path, with the breeze warm against her skin, a kitbag slung across her shoulders. She pauses halfway to catch her breath, staring up at the granite cairn that lowers over the bay like a giant’s silhouette. When she drops down to the beach, she can feel someone’s eyes travel across her skin, but the sensation must be imaginary; if she had been followed, she would have heard footsteps pursuing her through the dark. The woman takes a calming breath, remembering why she must take this risk, as moonlight glances off the Atlantic’s surface. Her family need her help, there’s no other choice, and the tide is drawing closer. If she works fast there will be time to complete her task before the returning surge floods the cave.
She presses sideways through a chink in the granite, the temperature dropping with each step. A sense of awe overtakes her as the cave expands. Her torch traces a line of brightness over sea-scoured walls that soar like a cathedral’s nave. The smell of the place intoxicates her, reeking of seaweed, brine and ancient secrets. When she catches sight of the black water at her feet, the cave’s history fills her mind. Pirates were slaughtered here for stealing smugglers’ cargo, their ghosts hiding in the shadows. She has to suppress a shiver before retrieving the wetsuit and mask she hooked to the wall of the cave days ago, to prevent the tide from carrying them away. The woman checks the oxygen gauge on her aqualung, before clamping the regulator between her teeth. She takes the package from her kitbag, then lets herself fall backwards into the water. After diving alone hundreds of times, she knows how to avoid unnecessary risks. Nothing can disturb her now, except the measured rasp of her own breathing and her lamplight distorting the velvety blackness. She lets herself float for a minute, enjoying the solitude. Few other divers have experienced the beauty of this hidden fracture in the earth’s surface, extending far below sea level.
The woman understands that losing focus would be dangerous. She stops to check her pressure gauge at twenty metres, the beam from her headlamp catching grains of mica in the granite, glittering like stardust. She locates the familiar opening in the rock, then places the package in the crevice where it will be easy to find, her fingers gliding through clear water. She’s about to swim back to the surface when a light shines beneath her, then disappears again. It must have been a reflection; the depths seem to extend forever, the water a dense, unyielding black.
She kicks to the surface fast, relief powering each forceful stroke. It will be days before she must dive here again, and tonight she can rest easily, knowing she’s done the right thing. The woman is about to clamber back onto the rocks when something hits her so forcefully there’s no time for panic. The regulator is yanked from her mouth, a hand ripping away her mask. Her headlamp falls into the water, piercing the dark as it plunges. She lashes out, but someone has gripped her shoulders, her arms flailing as she’s pushed under again. A face looms closer, its familiarity too shocking to register. She fights hard, but the breathing control techniques she has practised for years are useless while her lungs are empty. The woman’s fists break the surface again, before something cold is rammed between her lips. Terror is replaced by a rush of memories. She pictures her daughter’s face, until a last flare of pain stuns her senses, and her body floats motionless on the water’s surface.
1
Monday 11 May
My day off begins with a canine wake-up call. Something rough scrapes my cheek at 6 a.m., and when my eyes blink open, Shadow is sprawled across my pillow, his paw heavy on my chest.
‘Get off me, you hellhound.’
I jerk upright to escape his slobber, wondering how he managed to break into my room again. Shadow skulks away to avoid my temper, a sleek grey wolfhound with glacial blue eyes. A stream of curses slips from my mouth as I emerge from bed, my lie-in ruined by an unwelcome pet inherited from my old work partner. Loyalty would never allow me to abandon him at a dogs’ home but it crosses my mind occasionally, depending on how many rules he breaks. When I open the front door, it’s impossible to stay angry. The dog bowls across the dunes, the cottage filling with the cleanest air on the planet.
Bryher is at its best in early May, before the beaches are invaded by day trippers keen to photograph every bird, flower and stone. This morning there’s not a soul around. Sabine gulls spiral overhead, the Atlantic a calm azure, no sign of the storms that thrashed the western coastline all winter long. This is the view that summoned me home from my job as a murder investigator in London. I took the quality of light for granted as a kid; it’s only now that I appreciate the way it makes the landscape shine. There are no houses to spoil the scenery, except the square outline of the hotel on the far side of Hell Bay, ten minutes’ walk away. My own home is much humbler; a one-storey granite box built by my grandfather, with extra rooms added to the sides as his children arrived. The slate roof needs repairs since last month’s gales played havoc with the tiles, but my DIY plans will have to wait. I owe my uncle Ray a day’s labour in return for hours of dog-sitting, and an early start will give me time for a swim afterwards.
I glance at the letter that lies unopened on my kitchen table before I leave. My name and title are printed in block capitals on the envelope – Detective Inspector Benesek Kitto – and I already know what it contains. It’s a summons from headquarters in Penzance, telling me to report for a review meeting, to decide whether I can continue as Deputy Commander of the Isles of Scilly Police, now that my probation period is ending. I’ve spent three months fulfilling every obligation, but the judgement is out of my hands.
Shadow traipses behind when I take the quickest route through the centre of the island, my walk leading me eastwards over Shipman Head Down. The land is a wild expanse of ferns and heather, the fields ringed by drystone walls, with flowers rioting among the grass. If my mother was alive, she could have named each one, but I only remember those that are good to eat – wild garlic, parsley and samphire. No one’s stirring when I cut through the village, passing the Community Centre with its ugly yellow walls, stone cottages clustered together like old women gossiping. When I reach the eastern shore, I admire the repainted sign above my uncle’s boatyard. Ray Kitto’s name stands out in no-nonsense black letters, as clear and uncompromising as the man himself. I can hear him at work already, hammer blows ringing through the walls. The smell of the place turns the clock back to my childhood when I dreamed of becoming a shipwright, the air loaded with white spirit, tar and linseed oil.
‘Reporting for duty, Ray,’ I call out.
My uncle emerges from the upturned frame of a racing gig, dressed in paint-stained overalls. It’s like seeing myself three decades from now, when I hit my sixties. Ray almost matches my six feet four, his hard-boned face the same shape as mine, thick hair faded from black to silver. He looks less austere than normal, as if he might break the habit of a lifetime and let himself grin.
‘You’re early, Ben. Prepared to get your hands dirty for once?’
‘If I must. What happened to the boat?’ Its prow looks battered, elm timbers splintering, but its narrow helm is still a thing of beauty, just wide enough for two rowers to sit side by side. Gig racing has been a tradition in the Scillies for centuries, the vessels unchanged since the Vikings invaded.
‘It needs repairs and varnish before the racing season starts.’ He gives me a considering look. ‘Ready to start work?’
‘I’d rather have a full English.’
‘You can eat later. Bring the delivery in, can you?’
A shipment of materials has been dumped on the quay that runs straight from the boatyard’s back door to the sea. Three crates stand side by side, waiting to be carried into Ray’s stockroom. It takes muscle as well as patience to heft tubs of paint and liquid silicone onto a trolley, then shelve them in the storeroom, but the physical labour clears my mind. I stopped clock-watching weeks ago, no longer measuring hours by London time. Days pass at a different pace here, each activity taking as long as it takes, the sun warming my skin as I collect another load. My stomach’s grumbling with hunger, but the view is a fine distraction. Fishing boats are returning from their dawn outings, holds loaded with crab pots and lobster creels. Many were built by Ray years ago, when he used to employ shipwrights to help him construct vessels with heavy oak frames and larch planking, strong enough to withstand the toughest gales. I shield my eyes to watch them battling the currents that race through New Grimsby Sound, and an odd feeling travels up my spine.
One of the fleet is approaching the quay at full speed, black smoke spewing from its engine, while the rest head for St Mary’s to sell their catch. The boat is a traditional fishing smack called the Tresco Lass, with red paint peeling from its sides, skippered by Denny Cardew. The islands’ permanent population is so small I can name almost every inhabitant, despite my decade on the mainland. I don’t know Cardew well, but the fisherman’s son was a classmate of mine twenty years ago. I remember Denny as a quiet man, watching football at the New Inn, where his wife Sylvia worked as a barmaid, but his composure is missing today. He’s signalling frantically from a hundred metres as his boat approaches. As it draws nearer I can see that the decking is in need of varnish, and there’s a crack in the wheelhouse’s side window.
When I jog down the quay to help him moor, Cardew stumbles onto the jetty. He’s in his fifties with a heavy build, light brown hair touching his collar, skin leathered by a lifetime of ocean breezes. I can’t tell whether the man is breathless from excitement or because of the extra weight he’s carrying, banded round his waist like a lifebelt. Words gush from his mouth in a rapid mumble.
‘There’s something in the water, north of here. I saw it when I was collecting my lobster pots.’ His mud brown eyes are wide with panic. ‘A body, by Piper’s Hole.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Positive. I went so close, I almost hit the rocks.’
His tone is urgent, but I’m not convinced. Last week a woman on St Agnes reported seeing a corpse on an offshore rock. It turned out to be a grey seal, happily sunning himself, but the tension on Denny’s face proves that he’s convinced. The coastguard would take an hour to get here, so my day off is already a thing of the past.
‘Come on then,’ I reply. ‘You’d better show me.’
Ray is standing on the jetty as I climb over bait boxes strewn across the deck. The dog tries to jump on board, but I leave him on the quay, whimpering at Ray’s feet. My uncle watches the boat chug away, his expression resigned. He’s grown used to our time together being cancelled at short notice, even though I’d like to repay him for his support since I came home.
Denny Cardew’s skin is pale beneath his year-round tan as he focuses on completing the return journey, the fisherman’s silence giving me time to watch the scenery from the wheelhouse as we sail through the narrow passage between Bryher and Tresco. Cromwell’s Castle hangs above us as the boat chases Tresco’s western shoreline, its circular stone walls still intact after four centuries. The bigger island has a hard-edged beauty; its fields are full of ripening wheat running down to its shores, but the coastline is roughened by outcrops of granite, Braiden Steps plunging into the sea like a staircase built for giants.
Cardew steers between pillars of rock at the island’s northernmost point, waves pummelling the boat as we reach open water, nothing sheltering us now from the Atlantic breeze. A few hundred yards away, Kettle Island rears from the sea. It earned its name from the furious currents that boil around it. I can see a host of gannets and razorbills launching themselves into the sky, then winging back to settle on its rocky surface.
‘Over there,’ Cardew says, as we approach Piper’s Hole. ‘I’ll get as close as I can.’
The fishing smack edges towards the cliff, with the shadow of Tregarthen Hill blocking out the light. From this distance, the entrance to Piper’s Hole is just a fold in the rock. No one would guess that the cave existed without local knowledge; it’s only accessible at low tide, when you can scramble down the hillside, or land a boat on the shore. Right now, the cavernous space will be flooded to the ceiling, my thoughts shifting back to a local woman who died there last year, stranded by a freak tide.
I peer at the cliff face again, but all I can see are waves breaking over boulders, a row of gulls lined up on a promontory. Several minutes pass before I spot a black shape rolling with each wave at the foot of the cliff, making my gut tighten.
‘Can you land me on the rocks, Denny?’
Cardew gives me a wary glance. ‘You’ll have to jump. I’ll run aground if I go too close.’
‘Lucky I’ve got long legs.’
My heart’s pumping as the boat swings towards the cliff. If my timing’s wrong, I’ll be crushed against the rocks as the boat rides the next high wave. I wait for a deep swell then take my chances, landing heavily on an outcrop, fingers clasping its wet surface. When I climb across the granite, the soles of my trainers slip on a patina of seaweed. I give Cardew a hasty thumbs up, then turn to the wall of rock that lies ahead, marked by cracks and fissures. Below it a body is twisting on the water’s surface, dressed in diving gear, too far away to reach. I can’t tell if it’s a man or woman, but the reason why the ocean has failed to drag it under is obvious. The oxygen tank attached to the corpse’s back is snagged on the rocks, anchoring it to the mouth of Piper’s Hole.
I dig my phone from my pocket and call Eddie Nickell. The young constable listens in silence as I instruct him to bring a police launch from St Mary’s; it will have to anchor nearby until the tide ebbs and the body can be carried aboard. The breakers cresting the rocks are taller than before, but the Tresco Lass is still bobbing on the high water, ten metres away. I make a shooing motion with my hands to send Cardew away before his boat is damaged, but he gives a fierce headshake, and I can’t help grinning. The fisherman is a typical islander, unwilling to leave a man stranded, despite risking his livelihood. I turn my back to the pounding spray, knowing the wait will be uncomfortable. It could take an hour for the tide to recede far enough to let me reach the body. When I lift my head again, the corpse is rolling with each wave, helpless as a piece of driftwood.
2
Tom Heligan reaches Ruin Beach earlier than planned. He looks more like a schoolboy than a young man on his way to work, an overgrown fringe shielding his eyes, his legs spindly. He pauses on Long Point to catch his breath, images from the sea cave making panic build inside his chest. From here he can see the black outlines of Northwethel, Crow Island, and the Eastern Isles scattered across the sea. On an ordinary day he could stand for hours, picturing shipwrecks trapped below the ocean’s surface. Spanish galleons lie beside square riggers and tea clippers. He could draw a map of the wooden carcasses that litter the seabed with his eyes shut, but even his favourite obsession fails to calm him today. Tresco’s rocky shores have destroyed hundreds of boats, their precious cargo stolen by the waves, ever since Phoenicians sailed here to trade jewellery for tin. Now his own life is foundering. He drags in another breath, weak as a castaway stumbling ashore.
The boy crosses the beach towards the café at his slowest pace. How will he be able to work after what he saw? He should never have followed Jude Trellon from the pub last night; it was a pathetic thing to do, especially after spending the day i
n her company, but he hates letting her out of his sight. Tom comes to a halt, eyes screwed shut, trying to erase the memory. The shame of his cowardice will last forever. He saw a figure emerge from behind a rock in Piper’s Hole, but was too afraid to act: he hid in the darkness until the terrible cries and splashing ended, then ran for his life. Fields passed in a blur as he sprinted home to Merchant’s Point. Last night he convinced himself that everything he saw was a waking dream, but now he’s less certain. Surely the woman he’s obsessed with is strong enough to defend herself from any threat? There might be nothing to fear after all.
3
Cardew’s boat is still bobbing in the distance. The lifebelt he has thrown towards me floats close to the rocks; at least I’ll be able to grab it if the next breaker drags me into the sea. I cling to wet granite for another twenty minutes with waves lashing around me, until the tide recedes, then scramble across to the diver’s body, still trapped by the cave’s entrance. Curses slip from my mouth when I see that it’s Jude Trellon, a local woman in her late twenties, employed at her father’s diving school. I remember her as an attractive dark-haired girl who attended my school with her older brother. When we were in our teens she was full of restless energy, but the sea has erased her beauty; the skin on her face and hands is blanched with cold, her cheek marked by a ragged tear. I know immediately that she’s been murdered. Someone has wedged her oxygen tank between two boulders, a rope bound tight around her thigh, tethering her body to the cliff.
When I lie the victim on her side, brine gushes from her mouth. I remember hearing that people can sometimes survive long periods of immersion, the cold slowing their metabolism. My first-aid training rushes through my head as I pull her tank free, then lift her body from the water. Something hard is lodged in her throat when I try to clear her airway, too deeply embedded to remove. CPR would be pointless while her throat is blocked. It’s clear that she drowned hours ago, face misshapen from being pounded against the rocks. She looks nothing like the woman I saw enjoying herself last summer in my godmother’s pub, surrounded by friends. All that remains is to work out how she met such a painful death. The mouthpiece from her aqualung is dangling at her side, but when I check her oxygen monitor, the tank is almost full. Such an experienced diver should never have drowned while she had access to a good air supply. It’s only when I straighten up again that I notice something else. A blue plastic bottle has been tied to her ankle with a piece of wire, but the object seems irrelevant, compared to the bigger questions. What made her risk diving alone, and who hated her enough to leave her body tied to a cliff face, to be tormented by the waves?
