Ruin Beach

by Kate Rhodes

  4

  Offers of help flood in once the islanders hear of the fatality. The most useful one comes from Will Dawlish, manager of the New Inn Hotel. He’s in his mid-forties, with an unassuming manner, his shirt stretched tight over his paunch, bald head shiny in the overhead light. He looks more like an avuncular geography teacher than the landlord of a thriving inn. Dawlish’s voice is quiet as he offers us the hotel’s attic as our temporary headquarters. I ask to see it immediately, because public space on Tresco is hard to find, and the New Inn stands at the centre of the island, only five minutes from Dolphin Town. The place has expanded in recent years from a modest hostelry to a boutique spa with a swimming pool, yet the manager looks embarrassed as he presses the key into my hand.

  ‘We’re renovating this room next year. Sorry it’s such a mess, but it’s yours for the taking.’

  ‘Thanks, Will. If we use it, the room has to be secure. No one can enter without our permission.’

  ‘You’ll be left alone, I promise. I’ll get a table and chairs brought up.’

  Dawlish’s manner is flustered as he hurries away, and I can understand why. Hearing about another death in the same place as his wife’s drowning must have triggered bad memories. Instinct tells me that two fatalities in the same location can’t be a coincidence, but I’ll need to find out more before drawing conclusions.

  The room he’s offered us appears to be falling apart, but it’s better than nothing. Bare plaster is shredding from the walls, the floorboards are grimed with dust, and cobwebs shroud every corner, but the bird’s-eye view is a fine compensation. Through the smeared glass, I can see the sloping hills of Bryher, hazed by purple heather, and the Atlantic glittering for miles.

  When I take off my hooded top, the blue plastic bottle from the crime scene falls to the floor. It was attached to Jude’s ankle by a length of green plasticised twine, of the kind people use to secure plants to frames in their gardens. I pick it up without worrying about leaving fingerprints; DNA evidence will have been scoured from the bottle’s exterior by seawater long ago. It’s a far cry from the romantic notion of messages in bottles, cast into the brine by lovesick mariners. This one would have held half a litre of drinking water originally, but now the plastic is scuffed, its label soaked away. When I hold it up for closer inspection, the slip of white paper inside is neatly folded. I unscrew the cap and shake it out onto an evidence bag. Eddie passes me some sterile gloves before we both peer down at the message, which is handwritten in square block capitals, as if the killer went to great lengths to disguise his writing style.

  THE SEA GIVES, AND THE SEA TAKES,

  NEVER MIND THE DANGER,

  NEVER MIND THE CARE.

  THE SEA GIVES AND THE SEA TAKES

  YET TREASURES AWAIT FOR THOSE THAT DARE.

  Eddie gives a low whistle between his teeth, but makes no comment. The message is as simple and repetitive as a lullaby, and it interests me that the killer has chosen such a practical method of communication. A glass bottle would have been smashed on the rocks by the first tall wave, but he has insured that his odd statement reaches us intact. I have no idea where the phrases come from, but the message seems to blame Jude Trellon’s death on the sea itself, with its elemental ability to give and take life. A quick internet search reveals that the words come from an eighteenth-century sea shanty. Sailors would have bawled the song at the top of their voices while they battled with the elements, the wind lashing their ship, aware that the ocean could wipe out their lives in an instant. But why did the killer attach an ancient rhyme to his victim’s ankle in a used water bottle, of the type that litters our beaches by the thousand every year? There’s no time to discuss the message with Eddie before our next distraction arrives.

  A group of locals have appeared to enquire about Jude Trellon’s death, even though no formal announcement has been made. The people of Tresco have the same outlook as those on Bryher, where I grew up, always prepared to abandon petty conflicts in a crisis. Lives here are so tightly connected that weddings and funerals often last for days, the community celebrating and mourning together. The first person to approach me is Justin Bellamy, the vicar of St Nicholas’s church. He’s only lived on Tresco for a year, relocating from Birmingham, but he’s adapted well to island life. Apart from his dog collar, he looks like any other man in his late thirties; his lanky figure is dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved shirt, brown hair shorn into an ugly buzz cut that demonstrates his lack of vanity. The priest gives me a concerned look, as if he’s longing for opportunities to minister to his flock. His only distinguishing feature is a scar that bisects his cheek, running from his eye socket to his jaw, puckered by a dozen stitch marks. I’d love to know how a man of the cloth received such a savage wound but have never found reason to ask. Bellamy’s expression is earnest as he crosses the room.

  ‘I just heard the news, Ben. What can I do to help?’ His voice is a soft Midlands drawl.

  ‘The family are in shock, they’ll need all your support.’

  ‘I’ll pop round today,’ he replies. ‘It’s hard to believe. Jude was a force of nature; she’ll be missed by all of us.’

  ‘When’s the last time you saw her?’

  ‘Friday morning, she was teaching me to dive – it’s always been a fantasy of mine. We went out to St Helen’s for a few hours.’

  ‘Can we talk about that, when things settle down?’

  ‘Anytime, you know where I am.’ Justin peers deeper into my eyes, as if he’s checking the condition of my soul. ‘I hear it was you that found her. Are you all right?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. I’m trained to deal with it.’

  He taps my arm. ‘But no amount of practice prepares us for the reality, does it? Call me, if you feel like talking.’

  The vicar hurries away once we’ve said goodbye, leaving me envious of his ability to comfort people. My years undercover with the Murder Squad taught me to keep my emotions under wraps as effectively as Ivar Larsson, blunting my ability to show compassion. Eddie fulfils that part of the policing role much more easily. I can see him on the other side of the room, busy comforting Elinor Jago from the post office. She has been Tresco’s postmistress since I was a child, striding round the island delivering letters, cheerful even in winter’s storm-force gales. Her appearance is uncompromising, a big woman with grey hair cut into a mannish crop, her sturdy walking boots and jeans designed for practicality, but she’s one of the kindest people on the island. Her blunt manner disguises the fact that she’s always the first to help when someone is sick or in need. Jude Trellon’s death seems to have destroyed her unflappable calmness. She barely acknowledges me when I say goodbye, her face blank with shock as she listens to the few details Eddie can offer.

  A child is skulking in the porch when I step outside. I recognise the boy’s face, but his name escapes me. He’s thin as a wraith, eyes half hidden by curtains of chocolate brown hair, dressed in a grey T-shirt and designer jeans. When his gaze connects with mine, I realise that he’s older than he seems, probably late teens. The look in his eyes is much too serious for a child.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he stammers. ‘I was just passing.’

  ‘Did you want to talk about Jude Trellon?’

  The lad shakes his head. Before I can say another word, he’s hurrying away, hidden already by elder trees that line the track to Ruin Beach.

  ‘Nice to meet you too,’ I say under my breath.

  The boy soon slips from my mind as I take the five-minute walk to New Grimsby Harbour. Warm air has glued my salt-encrusted clothes to my skin as I wait for the ferry. My uncle’s boatyard stands on the quay on the other side of the channel. I wish that I could strip to my boxers and swim home to Bryher, like my brother and I often did in high summer, pitting our strength against the currents, but the boat is already chugging across the water. Arthur Penwithick is steering the Bryher Maid towards the jetty. The ferryman has changed little in the twenty years
since he carried me to school on the mainland, a navy cap is still glued to his frizz of brown hair, buck teeth protruding as he offers a smile of greeting. Penwithick is too shy to volunteer questions, even though he’s sure to know about the fatality, island gossip spreading like wildfire. Instead he focuses on collecting half a dozen passengers from the quay, before transporting us to St Mary’s at top speed. My fellow passengers are a party of French tourists, their faces pale as the small craft judders over choppy waves.

  I hurry along the quayside once we reach Hugh Town Quay. St Mary’s is going about its business as usual, fishing boats beached on the shingle like rows of colourful fish, while gaggles of visitors loiter outside gift shops, with ice creams in hand. Cars are proceeding down Quay Road at a respectful pace, as if the drivers know how lucky they are to live on the only Scilly island where driving is permitted. When I check my phone, DCI Madron has left three voice messages, advising me how to do my job, but his nagging can wait until the day’s worst duty is over.

  St Mary’s Hospital is one of the smallest in the UK. It doubles as a doctor’s surgery, with a basic operating theatre for emergencies and a handful of treatment rooms for patients too sick to be flown to the mainland. The room at the back of the building serves as a mortuary, a refrigeration unit built into the wall to accommodate the dead. Dr Keillor is drumming his fingers when I arrive. The pathologist is a portly figure, grey hair combed over his bald patch, dressed in a navy linen suit and Oxford brogues. The man’s black-rimmed spectacles magnify his eyes, making his stare inescapable. Keillor retired here after working for the Home Office, but still provides his services as a consultant whenever there’s an unexplained death. He gives me a brisk nod before pulling on his white coat.

  ‘Thanks for waiting,’ I say. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

  ‘Not a problem, but let’s begin, shall we? I’m missing a round of golf for this. The post-mortem can’t happen until the relatives have identified her, but I’ll try to establish cause of death.’

  The pathologist’s words are addressed to me, but he already seems more interested in the dead than the living. He pulls on surgical gloves, then draws back the white sheet. Someone has removed Jude Trellon’s wetsuit already; apart from the superficial wounds on her face and bruising around her throat, the woman appears to have been in athletic shape when she died, no spare fat on her muscular frame. It feels invasive to stare at a woman’s naked body, but it’s the only way to find out how she died. The thing that strikes me immediately when the pathologist rolls her body gently onto her front is that her back is almost covered in tattoos. Even in an age when body art is the norm, so much of her skin is covered with illustrations, she must have spent days in a tattooist’s chair.

  ‘Let’s find out what happened to you, young lady,’ Keillor mutters to the corpse.

  He takes his time examining the victim, checking the condition of her palms and fingertips, then shifting her gently onto her side. Her tattoos all have a nautical theme. A sea snake curls across her shoulder in blue-black twists, a detailed picture of a galleon riding out a storm inked across her shoulder blade. It’s only when I study the words that scroll down her arm that I realise they’re the names of ships: Destiny, Esmeralda, Good Fortune. Every dive the woman made seems to have been recorded on her body. I’m still staring at her illustrated skin when Keillor makes a startled sound. He pulls a piece of seaweed from Trellon’s mouth, then inserts surgical tweezers to draw something else from her throat. The pathologist mutters an exclamation before rinsing it under the tap, then showing me the item on the flat of his palm.

  ‘Here’s your cause of death, Inspector. I’ve cleared plenty of blocked airways in my time, but never seen anything like this. Don’t touch, it needs to be analysed.’

  The object is made of metal, six inches long, about an inch wide, covered in verdigris. It’s a figurine of a mermaid, her features glossy with water. If I’d spotted it in a gift shop window, I’d have said it was beautiful, with minute hexagonal scales carved across its tail. I stare at it in silence until my brain starts working again.

  ‘How did it get there?’

  ‘Someone shoved it down her throat. There are cuts in her oesophagus, enough swelling to seal her windpipe. It would have been a vicious attack.’

  ‘Could it have been put there after she died?’

  ‘She’s ingested very little water. This blockage stopped her breathing, not the sea. Someone rammed it into her mouth with considerable force.’ He turns away, attention drifting back to the corpse. ‘You’ll get my report tomorrow. We’ll keep her body in the fridge until the relatives have said their goodbyes.’

  ‘Did you carry out the autopsy on Anna Dawlish too, Dr Keillor?’

  He nods but doesn’t look up. ‘That was a different case entirely; she fell on a Tresco beach and drowned from a simple head injury. There was nothing unusual about the circumstances.’

  The pathologist’s certainty that Will Dawlish’s wife met her death accidentally is a relief, because it allows me to focus on the reasons for Jude Trellon’s death. Witnessing her autopsy has revealed the violence of her attack and made me more determined to find her killer.

  I’m still processing Keillor’s words as I return to Hugh Town. The police station is an unprepossessing grey building one road back from the quay, its front door permanently open. Sergeant Lawrence Deane sits behind the reception desk. He’s a stout, red-haired man of around fifty, inclined to long bouts of sulking. Deane still hasn’t accepted my appointment as Madron’s deputy. Until I arrived he was the longest-serving officer on the island force; the man must have believed the job was his by right.

  ‘Up to your usual heroics, Ben? I bet the girls are swooning.’ There’s no trace of humour in his voice.

  ‘I doubt it. Pulling a corpse from the sea isn’t exactly glamorous.’

  ‘The DCI’s waiting for you. He’s not in the best mood.’

  Deane’s attention flicks back to his computer screen. The other officers on the team claim that Lawrie has a sense of humour, but at this rate it could take years to make him crack a smile.

  Madron listens in silence when I pass on Keillor’s view that Trellon was murdered by asphyxiation. The only sign that the DCI is displeased by the news is his rigid posture, backbone stiffer than before, his chest puffed out like a sergeant major.

  ‘Have you put a stop on people leaving the island, Kitto?’

  ‘We’ve told everyone on Tresco that all journeys have to be authorised.’

  He gives a rapid nod. ‘Nothing like this has happened there before. The islanders might panic; I don’t want the family upset.’

  ‘I’ll handle them with care.’

  ‘Remember you’re still on probation. Your final evaluation is next month; my report will decide the outcome.’

  ‘The review meeting’s in my diary, sir.’

  ‘You can be too plain-spoken, and I want you to smarten up. An SIO should wear full uniform.’

  ‘I’ve worked in plain clothes for ten years. Everyone here knows who I am.’

  ‘It’s a matter of showing respect. I could get a detective from the mainland to lead the investigation.’

  ‘The islanders will clam up if outsiders interfere.’

  The DCI looks exasperated. ‘I’ll keep the press at bay, but they’re bound to leap to conclusions and assume it was the boyfriend. What’s your impression of him?’

  ‘His distress seemed genuine when he heard about Jude. He’s a cool customer, but I don’t want to prejudge him. I’ll wait for more evidence. Right now, all I have is the murder weapon and the written message left at the scene; they’ll be sent to the lab for analysis.’

  ‘Don’t take any risks. One sign of drama will make me change my mind.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll want Eddie on Tresco for the investigation. If we need more officers, I’ll let you know.’

  I back out of the door before he can change his mind. I’m the only member of Madron’s team with
experience of murder investigation and a glowing reference from the Met, but after so long in charge, the DCI hates ceding control. He’s dangled the threat of my last evaluation over me for months. I’m not sure why the desire to find Jude Trellon’s killer is building inside my skull, like a headache coming to the boil. There’s something obscene about the way she was choked to death with a trinket designed to adorn someone’s mantelpiece. The woman was five years younger than me, but we grew up in parallel, with just half a mile of water separating us. I heard that she was a talented diver, making a living from the sport for years before returning to Tresco. She used to be a wild child, but must have grown up since then, leaving her daughter motherless. The afternoon light is starting to dull as I reach the quay. A few people from Bryher are queuing for the ferry, but I keep my head down, too preoccupied to communicate. My mind is already clicking through pieces of evidence, working on angles to pursue when I get home.

  5

  It feels like a miracle that Tom has passed the day without breaking down. Shutters still cover the diving shop’s windows, but the café has remained open, the boy’s movements mechanical as he unloads the dishwasher. Steam damps his face when he leans inside, his mind echoing with questions. What will he do now? The person he cared for most is gone, and only he knows why, but there’s no one he can tell. The big cop he saw outside the New Inn stared at him like he deserved to be in jail. Since then his grief has turned to anger. Through the serving hatch, he can see diners gorging themselves. Many of them knew Jude well, yet they’re ploughing through fish and chips like nothing has happened. He wants to march over and empty their plates onto their laps, but forces himself to continue polishing wine glasses.

  At six o’clock, Tom hangs up his apron and nods goodbye to the manageress. His home is ten minutes away, but he walks at a snail’s pace. The sun fades as he crosses the sand, avoiding a handful of beachcombers and joggers, until he reaches the next bay and finds himself alone. When he drops behind a breakwater, sobs spill from his throat with the raw sound of an animal in pain. It has been years since he let himself cry, but now there’s no choice; the rush of grief is overwhelming. Once the outburst passes he dries his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. His guilt feels too heavy to carry when he thinks of all the days he spent with Jude. She taught him to dive for no payment, always teasing and encouraging him, treating him like a kid brother. He owes it to her to discover the name of her murderer, but speaking to the police would only get him into trouble.