by Kate Rhodes
I scramble back over the rocks to peer through the narrow entrance to Piper’s Hole, but there’s no point in trying to go inside. The cave is still half full of water, thrashing against its walls. If Jude Trellon met her death there, any evidence will already have been claimed by the tide. I’m still muttering questions to myself when the islands’ biggest police launch arrives. It’s a powerful rescue vessel built from glass-reinforced plastic, with yellow and blue flashing marking its sides. The boat is capable of travelling at thirty-two knots, but it’s moving at a snail’s pace today. Constable Eddie Nickell is preparing to jump ashore, while my boss, DCI Alan Madron, steers the boat onto a newly exposed strip of sand. The men make an odd contrast. Eddie is pink-cheeked and excitable as a choirboy, face framed by blond curls; the DCI nearing retirement age, frowning with disapproval. They have taken an hour to cover the short distance from St Mary’s, but at least the ebb tide will make it easier to transport the body.
Denny Cardew finally swings his boat around, prepared to return to the harbour now my safety is guaranteed. I make a mental note to thank him, once the grim task of informing the relatives is over.
‘You took your time,’ I call out, as Eddie scrambles across the rocks.
‘Sorry, boss. The DCI said it was too dangerous to go round the headland at high tide.’
‘Great,’ I reply. It’s typical of Madron to observe health and safety protocols while I cling to the rocks like a drowned barnacle.
Eddie’s eyes turn glassy when he sees the body, and it hits me that he must know the Trellon family well, having grown up on the island. The woman’s parents are prominent members of the community – Jude Trellon’s father owns the local diving school and her mother manages Ruin Beach café.
‘How did it happen?’ Eddie mutters. ‘She’s got a four-year-old kid.’
‘Sit down for a minute, catch your breath.’
Nickell squats on the rock beside me, thin shoulders hunched, his face pale. His reaction proves that we’re chalk and cheese. A decade with the Murder Squad in London, witnessing many fatal stabbings, beatings and gun crimes, has dulled my sense of horror. Eddie is ten years younger than me; a smart, fresh-faced twenty-four-year-old. His fiancée is expecting their first baby in July, yet it’s deceptively easy to view him as a child. I’d like to give him more recovery time, but the DCI is beckoning urgently from the boat’s wheelhouse. I remove the plastic bottle from its length of wire and stow it in the pocket of my hooded top. Once Eddie has stumbled to his feet we carry the victim’s slim body over the rocks, the slick material of her wetsuit slipping from our hands. Madron is fuming when we clamber on board.
‘We haven’t got all day,’ he snaps. ‘The islanders mustn’t get wind of this before the relatives. How the hell did it happen, Kitto?’
‘She was attacked, then someone tied her body to the rocks. I think she died hours ago.’
‘You’re certain it wasn’t a straightforward drowning?’
‘Positive, sir. I took photos, showing how she was left.’
‘I’ll check them later.’
Madron’s face is pinched with fury, as if I had swum across to Tresco and killed the woman myself. Even at sea he looks immaculate, shielded from the cold by his smart black coat, grey hair cropped short, boots glittering with polish. He has managed the local force for eleven years with ruthless efficiency, but always reacts badly to crises, as if the population’s welfare was his sole responsibility.
‘She can’t have been gone long,’ he insists. ‘Someone would have reported her missing.’
I keep my mouth shut to avoid a row. I have only worked under Madron for a few months, but already understand that neither of us likes being contradicted. The ocean breeze sets my teeth chattering, penetrating my wet jeans, the sensation making me wonder what kind of hell the victim experienced before she died. I go below decks to grab a towel from the hold and rub brine from my hair, blotting the worst of it from my clothes.
‘You should change before you see the relatives,’ Madron says, when I return to the wheelhouse.
‘There’s no time, sir. Cardew will have told people about the body already. You’d better drop me at Ruin Beach.’
The DCI gives a curt nod of agreement, then heads the boat into Old Grimsby Sound. On an ordinary day it would be a scenic trip down Tresco’s eastern coast, passing unspoiled bays, covered in glittering sand. The sea here is studded with outcrops that make night-time sailing treacherous, even with state-of-the-art GPS, it’s hard to avoid the spikes of basalt marking the entrance to Ruin Beach. The harbour is a low expanse of shingle, guarded from storms by the long arm of its quay. The café resembles four large beach huts with picture windows overlooking the beach, and steps leading down to the shore. A handful of white dinghies and motorboats are moored to the jetty beside the diving school fifty metres away. Half a dozen houses lie further inland, on the far side of the track.
‘The ambulance will take the body to the mortuary when I get back to St Mary’s,’ the DCI says. ‘You can see Jude’s family together, but don’t tell them she was attacked until we’ve had the pathologist’s assessment. Scaremongering won’t help anyone.’
Madron’s reaction makes my temper rise. He always errs on the side of caution, even when victims deserve the truth, but I keep my irritation quiet. Eddie observes me closely as we walk up the beach. He seems to believe that the skills of first-class detection can be learned by tracking my every move, but I’m not looking forward to giving the Trellons the worst news imaginable, then repeating the performance for Jude’s boyfriend.
My breathing grows shallow as we approach the diving school, but judging by the sleek speedboats waiting to be hired, the place has prospered since I took my first diving lesson there as a teenager. An ocean-going cruiser with state-of-the-art satellite antennae bobs on the tide, with the name Fair Diane stencilled on its prow. The diving school is a modest two-storey brick building, its front room operating as a shop. When we step inside, wetsuits are hanging from the walls, shelves are filled with halcyon flares and wrist-bound computers, and a box of underwater cameras is waiting to be unpacked. Mike Trellon emerges from the stockroom as we arrive. He’s around sixty, medium height, with chiselled features. Mike hasn’t changed much since he taught me to dive two decades ago; he still carries himself with the authority of a Hollywood film star. It must be life experience that has given him such natural confidence. He’s been diving here since he was a child, and no one knows more about the local waters. The lines bracketing his mouth may be deeper, his hair a lighter shade of grey, but his voice is the same baritone grumble when he claps his hand on my arm.
‘You’re soaked, Ben. Did you fall off the quay?’
‘There’s been an accident.’ I keep my gaze steady when he meets my eye. ‘Is Shane with you?’
Mike shakes his head. ‘He’s taken a party out seal watching, they’ll be gone all morning. What on earth’s happened?’
‘We need to talk to you and Diane together.’
I consider advising him to lock the door, to protect thousands of pounds’ worth of stock, but security here is rarely an issue. Mike Trellon marches away from his shop without a backward glance.
Ruin Beach café is only a minute’s walk south along the shore. Its tall windows reveal a scrubbed wooden floor, and waitresses bustling between tables positioned to enjoy the immaculate view of the Eastern Isles strewn across the sea. Diane Trellon is serving breakfast to some early holidaymakers, her wavy chestnut hair tied back with a green scarf, her top the same rich emerald. She must be fifty-five, but looks years younger, famous for her warm welcome. Diane’s grin widens when she catches sight of us, then quickly vanishes. Two police officers arriving on your doorstep rarely means good news, even when you’ve known them all their lives.
‘Can we have a word, Diane?’ I ask.
I stand beside Eddie in her tiny office. The room should feel comforting, with its wood-lined walls and the soft hiss of waves landing
on the beach outside, but it’s a tight squeeze for the four of us. The couple sit on hard plastic chairs, while Eddie and I stand by the door, like a pair of reluctant sentries. On the other side of the wall, strangers are laughing while they enjoy their breakfasts, the air salty with fried bacon, yet my appetite has deserted me. The couple watch me fumble for the right words, but there’s no good way to explain that their daughter has drowned. Mike collapses first, his face dropping forwards into his hands.
Diane’s green eyes are glassy with disbelief. ‘That can’t be right. Jude dropped in last night, on her way to the pub.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Eightish, the place was packed; we had a big party over from St Mary’s for dinner.’ Hope still burns in her eyes, like she’s praying for a miracle.
‘It happened later. Jude’s body needs to be identified, but I’m afraid we’re certain it’s her. She was in her diving gear, by Piper’s Hole.’
‘It’s my fault.’ Mike’s head rears back suddenly. ‘I should have stopped her night diving, the bloody idiot. I knew it would kill her in the end. She always has to do everything bigger and better than her brother.’
The statement strikes me as odd; there’s no clear reason why Mike Trellon should blame himself for his daughter’s death.
‘Shut up, for Christ’s sake,’ Diane snaps. ‘It’s too late for talk like that.’
‘Jude always has to break every rule.’ His fist smacks down on the table, sending a cup and saucer smashing to the floor.
His wife ignores the sound and turns to me. ‘Does Ivar know?’
‘We’re seeing him next. Will he be at home?’
‘He’s looking after Frida. I should be there when he hears.’
‘We’ll call you afterwards, or bring them to your house.’
I want to ask more questions about whether Jude had worked the previous day, and how her brother Shane spent the evening, but the couple are in no fit state. When we get up to leave, Mike Trellon’s fury has already turned to grief. He’s weeping into his cupped hands, Diane’s arm circling his shoulders, our visit shattering their peace with the force of a grenade. Eddie is quiet as we leave the café, his chatter silenced by the couple’s misery.
We walk towards the centre of the island at a steady pace. Tresco is dominated by the Abbey and its famous gardens, which attract thousands of tourists every year, yet the place has kept its tranquillity. There are no cars here, but the lane is wide enough to accommodate local traffic, which consists of horse-drawn carts, bicycles and golf buggies for the elderly. Dolphin Town sits in a valley lined with grassy fields, where goats and sheep are grazing. The village would only qualify as a town on an island two miles long, with a permanent population of less than 200. It consists of a row of photogenic cottages, the old vicarage beside St Nicholas’s church, and a one-room primary school. Jude Trellon’s property is a small whitewashed house at the end of the village. I come to a halt fifty metres away, to plan my speech to her boyfriend.
‘When did Anna Dawlish drown at Piper’s Hole, Eddie?’ The landlady of the New Inn died sometime last winter, while I was still living in London, but I remember hearing about her funeral.
‘Last November, she wasn’t much older than Jude. The tide caught her when she was taking an evening stroll.’
‘We’ll have to check the details.’ I study the victim’s cottage again, where a child’s red tricycle stands beside the front door. ‘We’d better break the bad news.’
‘Do you want me to do it, boss?’ Eddie asks. ‘At least I’m a familiar face.’
‘It’s my job. The senior officer always draws the short straw.’
I rattle the door knocker, but there’s no answer, so we approach the back entrance, and Ivar Larsson steps out to greet us. The dead woman’s boyfriend has a slim, tennis player’s build, his blond hair slicked back to reveal pale blue eyes and high Scandinavian cheekbones. His features are so flawless they look computer-designed. When I lived in London, I forgot about the lack of diversity here until I came home; most of Tresco’s permanent residents have been rooted in island soil for generations. But the reason why a Swedish academic would choose to live on a piece of granite barely two miles long is obvious. I fancied Jude Trellon too, back in the day, the woman’s good looks and high spirits making her hard to resist. I remember hearing that Larsson came here to do scientific research, but know little more about him. He’s dressed in faded jeans and a black T-shirt today, clutching some papers in his hand. The expression on his face is so resolute, I can’t imagine him taking orders from anyone.
‘If you’re looking for Jude, she’ll be at work by now.’ His voice has a strong Scandinavian inflection, its tone cool.
‘Can we come in, please, Mr Larsson?’
His daughter is kneeling on the kitchen floor, so focused on completing a wooden jigsaw puzzle she barely registers our presence. Frida must be around four years old, a wave of dark hair obscuring her face, and I feel a pulse of sympathy. Losing my father at fourteen was bad enough, but she’s far too young to make sense of her mother’s death. Ivar must have been working while the girl plays: a nautical map is spread across the table, the metre-wide sheet marked with dotted lines and small red crosses. He turns the paper over, concealing his documents. I’d like to know what he’s researching, but it’s the wrong time for curiosity.
‘I’m in the middle of something. Is this important?’ Ivar’s gaze shifts between Eddie’s face and mine.
‘I’m afraid so. Is it okay to leave your daughter here for a minute?’
‘If we keep the door open.’
When Larsson leads us to his living room, framed photos of his homeland stand on the mantelpiece: pine-clad mountains are outlined against clear skies, brightly painted cabins studding the foothills. Jude’s face beams out from a set of pictures taken on a local beach, her golden-brown eyes giving the camera a forthright stare. She is sitting with her daughter by an elaborate sandcastle. Larsson’s arm circles his girlfriend’s waist, while her dark hair billows in the breeze. Jude looks gorgeous and carefree, but even on a day out with his family, Larsson’s smile is reserved. When I look at the man again, his posture is rigid with tension.
‘There’s no easy way to say this, Mr Larsson. I’m afraid your girlfriend’s body was found a few hours ago, in the sea.’
His eyelids flutter rapidly. ‘You’re telling me she drowned?’
‘That’s right, I’m sorry.’
‘Is there someone we can call for you?’ Eddie murmurs. ‘Jude’s parents, maybe?’
He gives a fierce headshake. ‘I don’t need anyone. Just tell me what happened.’
‘We think Jude was diving, then ran into difficulties.’
‘At Piper’s Hole?’
‘You knew she was going there?’
His gaze slips from mine. ‘She was planning to stay at Shane’s overnight. We ate dinner together, before she went out.’
‘How did you spend the evening?’
‘Someone had to look after Frida, and Jude likes seeing her brother alone now and then.’ Ivar’s hands twist in his lap. ‘Someone killed her, didn’t they? We’ve dived together dozens of times, she knew her limits.’
‘We can’t be sure what happened yet. Did you leave the house at all last night, Mr Larsson?’
‘Of course not, I was looking after Frida.’ He rises to his feet suddenly, then stands there swaying, his veneer of toughness slipping away. ‘Leave us now, please. I want to be alone with my daughter.’
‘I’ll send someone round to help you later today.’
Shock is seeping through his composure as he retreats into the kitchen. Larsson stands with his back to the window, eyes glazed, clearly willing us to go. When I turn round, his daughter has appeared in the doorway, clutching a battered doll. She scurries past me to her father’s side, hiding her face against his hip, the man’s hand settling on her shoulder.
‘Finish your puzzle, Frida,’ he says quietly. ‘You don’
t need to worry.’
Eddie and I step into the living room, to give him time on his own. The DCI calls my deputy a few minutes later, already requesting an update, his hectoring tone leaking from the handset. I put through a call to my friend Zoe Morrow, asking her to catch the ferry to Tresco immediately. Any of the islanders would keep Ivar company, the community drawing close during crises, but I have a feeling that Zoe’s presence will be easier for him to handle. He seems unwilling to face Jude’s parents’ distress, or questions from well-meaning friends. Zoe is around the same age, with a warm, no-nonsense manner. She seems like the right person to penetrate his frozen exterior and coax out details to reveal whether his girlfriend had enemies.
I take a quick look around the ground floor of the cottage on our way out. Books on shelves in the hallway provide the only evidence of the victim’s passion for diving. There are dozens of trade magazines featuring the latest breathing apparatus, glass-bottomed boats, and submersibles, beside marine surveys of the Great Barrier Reef. But her possessions can’t explain why she took the night dive that led to her death, or her boyfriend’s knowledge that she had been found at Piper’s Hole, before he was told. He could easily have left the house once his daughter was asleep, then walked to the sea cave to kill his girlfriend, after a bitter row.
