by Kate Rhodes
Tom rises slowly, then brushes sand from his jeans. He walks past the high outline of Merchant’s Rock to reach his cottage. The boy wishes just for once to find the place empty, but his mother calls out a greeting when he closes the front door. Tom rushes to the bathroom without replying, his reflection confronting him in the mirror; his features are gaunt with misery, skin blotchy from crying. He splashes his face with cold water before returning downstairs.
His mother is in her wheelchair, a novel open on her lap. She looks up at him when he appears, her smile artificially bright.
‘You’re late tonight, love. Everything okay?’
‘Fine, Mum. What do you want for tea?’
‘Whatever’s in the fridge. Is something wrong? You look pale.’
‘It’s nothing.’
Tom’s gaze lingers on his mother’s face, taut with pain, behind a layer of make-up. He loves her, but the time when he could confide in her passed years ago; she has grown weaker since his father left, only her invalidity benefit and his small wage keeping them afloat. Sooner or later he must share the news of Jude’s death, but not now. He can’t face adding to her sadness, and his voice would give too much away.
‘How about pizza and salad?’ Tom asks, hovering in the doorway.
‘Perfect, love. Do you want a hand?’
‘No need. It won’t take long.’
‘Why not meet Gemma at the pub later? You haven’t seen her in ages.’
‘Her dad won’t let her go out till after her exams.’
‘All right, love, it’s up to you.’
His mother’s attention has already drifted back to her book, as if the people described on its pages matter more than the ones right under her nose.
6
Shadow is sprawled across the doormat when I get home. He gives a bark of disapproval, expressing his opinion of my absence. When I put my hand down to greet him, he bares his teeth.
‘Remember who feeds you, buddy,’ I tell him as he slinks inside.
His manner warms considerably after he’s demolished a bowlful of dog biscuits. He settles in front of the empty hearth, napping while I peel off my clothes. It’s a relief to shower away the salt that has clung to my skin all day, but the memory of Jude Trellon’s body in the mortuary is harder to remove. I always feel a mixture of excitement and tension at the start of a murder investigation, the thrill of the chase battling with concern about letting a vicious killer walk away. Nine times out of ten, the motives for a murder are easy to identify, but I need to understand the woman’s life better before jumping to conclusions. It still bothers me that her boyfriend guessed she had been found near Piper’s Hole, yet refused to explain why. I’ve always respected the victim’s parents. Diane has transformed the Ruin Beach café into a welcoming hub for the local community, and I can still remember Mike teaching me to dive as a teenager, explaining oxygen calculations with infinite patience. It’s a year since I last wore my wetsuit, but the first dive of the season used to be a summer ritual. My brother and I would sail Ray’s dinghy until Bryher was just a speck on the horizon, then hurl ourselves overboard, plummeting into a field of turquoise.
I sit at the kitchen table, too preoccupied to eat, picturing the island where Jude Trellon met her death. Tresco lies less than half a mile away, yet I know little about the place, apart from local folklore. Augustus Smith leased the island from the Duchy of Cornwall in the mid-nineteenth century, then built his lavish home beside the ruins of an ancient abbey. The man’s descendants still control the place, most of the properties rented, but the land was inhabited long before the monarchy got their paws on it. Some of its cairns and hill graves are Neolithic. I drop my pen on the table and rub my hands across my face, aware that I’m drifting off course. The island’s past can’t explain why a young mother met such a violent death. The message in the bottle proves little, except the killer’s interest in history and his desire to taunt us.
The second I rise to my feet, the dog’s eyes flick open.
‘Coming to see Zoe?’
Shadow jumps up at the mention of her name, the prospect of visiting his favourite islander cancelling his bad mood. He sprints ahead as I follow the shingle path down to the beach. The hotel on the far side of Hell Bay is owned by Zoe’s parents, who retired to the mainland five years ago, leaving her in charge. It looks like a row of clean white boxes strewn across the headland; the place is so popular with tourists, the summer season books up months in advance. Shadow chases my heels when I jog up the steps to the hotel’s veranda. There’s no sign of Zoe through the bar’s panoramic window, just a few dozen guests, lingering over nightcaps and enjoying the immaculate sea view, while waiting staff buzz between tables.
I trot up the back stairs but no one answers my knock on the door to Zoe’s flat. When I push it open, she’s sitting at her dining table, ears covered by headphones while she pores over something that looks like a legal document, with an ornate crest at the top of the page. I’ve enjoyed looking at Zoe ever since we were kids, so I linger in the doorway. Her short blue dress showcases her curves, long arms and legs tinted gold by the sun. My friend’s short hair is the same platinum blonde she’s favoured since she hit sixteen and decided brown was boring. She announced her plan to become a world-famous rock star in the same year, but her dream never materialised.
Zoe almost jumps out of her skin when she finally spots me. ‘Jesus, you scared the living shit out of me.’ She’s on her feet, scrabbling papers back into a yellow plastic wallet.
‘What were you reading?’
‘Just business stuff. I wasn’t expecting you till tomorrow.’
I can tell something’s bothering her, but it’s the wrong time to ask. Shadow has picked up on the atmosphere too. He’s behaving himself for once, his muzzle propped on her thigh while he gazes at her adoringly. Zoe fusses over him before fetching us both a beer. She slams the bottle of Grolsch down in front of me, hard enough to make the table rattle.
‘Is that how you serve all your customers?’
‘Only ones that piss me off royally.’
I take a long swig of beer. ‘What did I do?’
‘You wasted my morning, when I could have been looking after guests. I made a hamper for Ivar and Frida, then used the hotel dinghy to get over to Tresco. He’s got the place locked up like Fort Knox; he wouldn’t even let me inside.’
‘Larsson was shell-shocked when I left. I thought he might open up to you.’
‘I bet poor Frida hasn’t got a clue what’s happened.’ Zoe’s expression softens. ‘Ivar looked scared, under all that hostility. Do you think he’s afraid of someone?’
‘I won’t know till he starts talking.’
‘How are Diane and Mike taking the news?’
‘Not great. It’ll be a while before it sinks in.’
‘Was it a diving accident?’
‘Too early to say.’ It would be a mistake to give Zoe information; she’s always been lousy at keeping secrets. ‘Have you seen Jude and Shane recently?’
She shakes her head. ‘Not for a while. Do you remember what they were like, back in the day?’
‘Not really, they were a few years below us at school.’
‘All the boys fancied Jude, including you, I bet, by the time she hit sixteen. Her brother’s less confident, even though he’s a year older. She was so charismatic, Shane didn’t stand a chance. Jude was one of those people everyone wants to know.’
‘Were they close?’
‘I think so.’ Zoe stares out at the empty beach, streaked with light from the hotel’s windows. ‘Shane grew up in Jude’s shadow, but that didn’t seem to bother him.’
‘Do you know how she met Ivar?’
‘He came over from Gothenburg University to research a book; the guy’s so serious, it seemed an odd choice. Some of her friends disliked him from day one.’
‘That must have caused ructions. Do you know what he was writing about?’
‘Something to do with the se
a. Ivar doesn’t do small talk.’
‘Did they have a close relationship?’
‘Jude came here last summer and sat at the bar chatting when I was closing up. She said her dad’s business was having problems, but didn’t mention anything else.’ Zoe’s gaze slips from mine. ‘It’s so awful, Ben. She was a livewire, always the first to dance at parties, and she was so thrilled to be a mum.’
‘Where was Ivar the night she came over?’
‘With Frida in Sweden, visiting his folks. He goes back every few months.’
When I study Zoe’s face again, her smile is still missing. ‘That’s enough work for the night. I bet those papers are from a posh dating agency, aren’t they?’
‘I’m happier single. The last guy to ask me out was the vicar, but I declined. There’s something scary about him.’
‘Justin Bellamy fancies you?’
‘Don’t look so shocked. Men still try to seduce me, occasionally.’
‘The only reason I’ve never made a move is because you made me sign an oath of eternal friendship when we were twelve.’
‘I was wise before my time,’ she says, patting the back of my hand. ‘What happened to that girl you fancied on St Mary’s anyway?’
‘One date; no spark. Don’t change the subject, Zoe. Tell me about the folder.’
‘None of your business.’
‘Sooner or later I’ll find out, so why not come clean?’
‘You’re such a cop, Ben. Everyone’s got secrets, even you.’ She gives me a curious look. ‘There’s no way I could do your job, investigating all that evil. What made you choose it?’
‘I was too stupid to do something easy, but it was the right choice. It’s not just the victim that gets destroyed in a murder case; whole families fall apart if a killer isn’t found.’
She narrows her eyes. ‘I thought you’d end up in Ray’s boatyard, or journalism. You read all the time when we were kids.’
‘I still do. Should I hand in my badge and become a librarian?’
‘You’d last five minutes behind a desk.’ She lets out a hoot of laughter. ‘I’ve been thinking about my own future lately, that’s all.’
Our conversation echoes in my head as I walk back across the beach. My job is the one thing I rarely question, because the emotional pay-off when a killer is found always justifies the graft, and moving home has given me a clean slate. The tide is coming in as my house looms into view and the urge to swim overwhelms me. The hiss of waves against the shore is a direct invitation, so I make a quick decision, abandoning my clothes on the beach. I enter the water in my boxer shorts, the chill sharp enough to make me hold my breath. When I swim against the current, my thoughts clear, as cold air and exercise work their magic, while my dog splashes in the shallows. I left most of my mistakes behind in London, but I’ll need to uncover every error Jude Trellon made to find out what caused her death. Talking to Zoe has proved that the victim had more charisma than her older brother; she won prizes for diving in international competitions, yet someone wanted her dead. Jude’s adventurous personality is starting to emerge, but the only fact at my disposal is that her killer chose last night to snuff out her life. I swim a few more hard strokes, then let the tide carry me back to shore.
7
Tuesday 12 May
The ferry from Bryher to Tresco is packed on Tuesday morning, with more than a dozen people heading for work at the Abbey Gardens. Most of them sit on the narrow wooden benches that line the deck, but I stand by the gunwale at the bow, while Arthur Penwithick twists the wheel against currents that are rippling the surface of the sound. The journey to Tresco only takes five minutes, but it gives me time to remember my life in London, when I used to march through streets heaving with pedestrians, the sound of traffic assaulting my senses. There are no disturbances here, except occasional gulls squalling overhead and the drone of the ferry’s motor as it battles with the tide. Eddie is waiting for me on New Grimsby Quay, shifting his weight from foot to foot, like a kid before his first day at school. Words bubble from his mouth as Shadow leaps onto the jetty.
‘Good news, boss. I’ve found out how Jude spent Sunday.’
‘Slow down, Eddie. Leave it till we’re indoors.’
The fact that my deputy would happily blab confidential details in front of passengers leaving the ferry is another reminder that he’s inexperienced. At least he doesn’t have long to wait before spilling the beans. The bar of the New Inn is empty as we climb the back stairs. Through the open window I can see down to the quay, where Arthur Penwithick is preparing to sail back to Bryher, with miles of mid-blue Atlantic unrolling behind him.
Eddie starts gabbling immediately as the door closes. ‘Jude was with a couple from London called Stephen and Lorraine Kinver on Sunday. She was working as a diving guide on their boat.’
‘Are they still here?’
He shakes his head. ‘People saw them sailing west from Ruin Beach, the afternoon before she died. Jude went home for dinner, then spent the evening in the bar downstairs with her brother until around eleven thirty. Will Dawlish heard them rowing, before Jude stormed out. Shane left around midnight. One of the punters said he was in a foul mood.’
Eddie’s triumphant expression suggests that the case is solved, but I feel less certain. Jude’s route to Piper’s Hole will be impossible to retrace without any witness information. She could have crossed the fields to Tregarthen Hill, or followed any of the winding paths that lead north from the village. There was no evidence on the shore where I found her either, the sea destroying any clues to how she died.
‘Have you got much background information on Jude?’ I ask.
‘Only that she had no record, and was popular with the islanders.’
‘Come on, Eddie, you grew up here. There must be gossip; this place thrives on it.’
‘It won’t help us, boss. People make up crap for the hell of it.’
‘Tell me anyway. I need to hear people’s opinions.’
‘Jude was a big name on the island when I was a kid, winning diving championships and being interviewed on TV. Her confidence came over as aggression sometimes; she wasn’t afraid of men, that’s for sure. Jude never stepped down from an argument if something pissed her off.’
‘Was she on bad terms with anyone?’
‘Only her ex-boyfriend, Jamie Petherton, the manager of the Valhalla Museum. He was in the pub early on Sunday night, on his own. Apparently the two of them fell out a few weeks ago. I don’t know why.’
‘We’ll have to follow that up. What do you know about her current partner?’
‘Ivar doesn’t socialise much, apart from diving trips in the summer. Jude often went out with friends and her brother, but he spends his time at home, even though plenty of people could babysit.’
‘Not a great relationship then?’
‘Who knows, boss? They say opposites attract. She was the outgoing type, but he prefers his own company.’
‘Can you check his record with Europol? We need to know more about his time in Sweden. The guy’s reaction to Jude’s death was muted, to say the least.’
Eddie’s mouth purses shut, as if he’s reluctant to criticise the dead. I flip open my notebook and stare at my to-do list. The couple Jude spent her last day with will need to be interviewed, her relatives, then friends and acquaintances, to find out who hated her enough to watch her drown. Jude’s parents must be taken to see her body too, but not until I’ve broken the news that their daughter was murdered. Shane’s argument with his sister on the night of her death makes him an obvious suspect, but suppositions are pointless without evidence to back them up.
‘Look after the dog, can you, Eddie? I need to see Shane. Where does he live these days?’
‘Smuggler’s Cottage, on Cradle Point.’
‘Start phoning round for more witness information. Contact the couple she dived with on Sunday too; see if you can set up an interview.’
‘I’m on it, sir.’
&nb
sp; ‘Stop calling me “sir”, for Christ’s sake. Ben’s fine, unless Madron’s here.’
Eddie gives an uneasy nod. My deputy is easily the brightest member of the islands’ force, studying law at university until he opted for a more practical career. He prefers rigid protocols to thinking outside the box, but he’s always industrious. Before I’m halfway to the door, he’s on his phone, scribbling notes at a hectic pace.
My curiosity rises as I approach Shane Trellon’s home. I can’t forecast how I’d react if my only sibling was killed. Ian is two years older than me, and his endless Skype calls from America can be annoying, but the gap would be hard to fill if they ever stopped. Our childhoods were shaped by the wildness of these islands; the pair of us turned feral every summer, only returning home when hunger overwhelmed us. I’m guessing it was the same for Shane and Jude Trellon, but they were even closer in age, making the experience more intense. The landscape is a child’s paradise, with hundreds of bays, caves and hill graves to explore.
When I head south along the coastal path, the sun is obscured by cloud, a freighter on the horizon keeps its distance from the rocks. Lumps of granite that pierce the water’s surface are surrounded by hidden outcrops, making the Eastern Isles a ships’ graveyard for centuries. Smuggler’s Cottage stands alone in a small inlet, above a pebbled beach; it’s one of the oldest houses on Tresco, with a commanding view of the Atlantic. Local folklore says that it was a haven for smugglers carrying contraband from Europe, using their navigational skills to escape the excisemen, but now it’s too pristine for such lawlessness. The cottage looks like an advert for elite holiday homes, with a herring-bone brick path snaking through a garden full of lavender and jasmine, its six large windows facing the sea.
