by Kate Rhodes
‘You seem afraid of something. Why not tell me the reason?’
‘Let me see Jude, please. That’s all I want.’
‘Will Mike and Diane look after your daughter till we get back?’
‘That’s not necessary.’ He shakes his head fiercely. ‘I want her with me.’
Larsson rises abruptly to his feet, then goes upstairs to fetch his coat, the dog gazing after him, whimpering quietly. Shadow never misses an opportunity to demonstrate that he would prefer a new owner, even when they’re hard to interpret. The little girl is humming to herself, still immersed in her drawing. When I walk into the kitchen, her expression is solemn, more like a small-scale adult than a child. Her gold-coloured eyes are so like her mother’s the resemblance is unnerving, until she offers me a smile.
‘You look like the giant in my story book.’
‘I only seem big because you’re little.’ I drop onto a stool to study her picture more closely. She has drawn three figures, with hands linked like paper dolls. The details are blurry, but it could be a family portrait, a lopsided white house in the distance. ‘I like your drawing.’
‘Mummy’s are better than mine.’
‘No way, I bet yours are twice as good.’
Frida bows her head over the paper again, using a crayon to mark a ragged yellow sun above the house. Her expression is so intent I’m left wondering how much she understands about her mother’s absence.
Soon Larsson reappears in the doorway, helping his daughter into a jacket before we set off for New Grimsby Harbour, with the dog trailing behind. The outboard motor churns sluggishly as I steer the smallest police launch across the sound. It’s a beaten-up old speedboat that can accommodate no more than eight people, with the police crest painted on its prow in flaking paint, and a fibreglass screen failing to protect us from the elements. When I look back, Larsson is sitting at the stern, upright and immovable as a masthead, his hand on Frida’s shoulder. His decision to bring the girl to the mortuary seems bizarre, but he must have his reasons. It reminds me that I need to find out why there’s no love lost between him and Jude’s mother, but there’s no point in asking questions until he has identified his girlfriend’s body.
The dog protests loudly when I leave him outside St Mary’s Hospital, half an hour later. The receptionist agrees to look after Frida while a young nurse leads us to the morgue. Larsson makes no sound as he studies his wife’s damaged face. Once the nurse has stepped outside the room, I retreat to the corner to let him say goodbye. Encroaching on his privacy makes me uncomfortable, but there’s no denying that women are most likely to be killed by their partners. If he was involved in her death, guilt may show in his gestures. He keeps his feelings hidden as he touches his girlfriend’s hand. His behaviour is so over-controlled, I can imagine him falling apart when the burden becomes too much.
Larsson draws the sheet away from his wife’s body, letting it drop to the floor. He runs his hands across her form in a way that would be erotic if she was alive, his fingers tracing the tattoos on her shoulders. My own eyes linger on a picture of an ancient longship that I didn’t notice when Keillor carried out his examination. The tattooist has drawn the boat across her left bicep in loving detail, a dozen oars protruding from its side, a picture of a modern cruiser outlined faintly behind it. Larsson murmurs a low stream of words as he bends over Jude’s body, but the sounds are unfamiliar. His long, one-way conversation is conducted in Swedish. When it finally ends, it’s a relief to escape into the sun outside. I’d like to know what secrets he told his dead girlfriend, but it feels intrusive to ask.
Larsson is too exhausted to speak on the ride back to Tresco, eyes closing as the boat toils over open water, his daughter busying herself by throwing pebbles into the sea. After I escort them back to their cottage, I’m still uncertain whether Ivar could have harmed his wife in a fit of rage, but moral niceties don’t bother Shadow, who has clearly taken a liking to the pair. Once the father and child disappear inside, he releases a heartfelt howl.
Eddie is hammering away on his laptop when I get back to the New Inn, his expression subdued. ‘I’m not getting much response, boss. No one saw Jude walking to Piper’s Hole.’
‘If she took the coast path there are no houses nearby, but a witness may still come forward. Have you spoken to the Kinvers yet?’
‘Their boat must be too far out for mobile signals. Do you want me to contact the coastguard?’
‘Straight away, please. I doubt they were involved, because they sailed on immediately after their dive with Jude, but they could tell us about her state of mind. Have you got anything else?’
My deputy glances down at his notes. ‘Only that Jude and Shane’s row in the pub got pretty heated. One of the barmaids told me she shoved him off his stool, before insults were exchanged.’
‘That’s interesting. Shane said it was just a few hot words.’
‘Maybe it was him that followed her to Piper’s Hole.’
‘Right now we can’t even work out if Jude was in the cave when she died. Did you find out anything else about the relationship she was in before Ivar?’
‘She had strange taste in men. Jude was a gorgeous party girl, and Jamie Petherton’s a geek, but he doted on her by all accounts.’ Eddie studies his notes again. ‘Her best mate was upset when she got together with Ivar five years ago; apparently she couldn’t stand him.’
‘What’s the friend’s name?’
‘Sophie Browarth. Do you know her? She got married last year to a bloke that works on the oil rigs.’
‘The district nurse.’ I can picture the pretty, softly-spoken red-haired woman who made home visits to my mother, helping her cope with her MS. ‘I’ll pay her a call. But right now we need evidence from someone who saw Jude leaving the pub; even better if they clocked whether someone was following her.’
‘I’ll keep asking around.’ Eddie rubs his eyes, as if too much screen time is making his vision blur.
‘Let’s visit Jamie Petherton first. We can find out if he’s still got hard feelings about Jude ending their relationship.’
The walk to the museum takes us over grassland below Vane Hill. I can tell that Eddie could march all over Tresco with his eyes blindfolded, even though he’s just moved to St Agnes. It was that bone-deep familiarity that made me flee to London as a teenager, but almost two decades later my attitude has changed. The Atlantic’s shifting tides refresh the landscape daily, pristine light showering over valleys farmed for millennia. Our route takes us past the bird hide by the Great Pool, where terns circle over the water’s surface. The reservoir is another feature that’s constantly changing. It’s mud green today, but in high summer it matches the vapid blue of the sky.
The Valhalla Museum lies inside the Abbey Gardens, Tresco’s biggest tourist attraction. I’ve always taken the place for granted, but now I’d like time to admire the huge sequoia trees by the entrance, plants imported from exotic countries over the last 150 years. Visitors are enjoying the peace and quiet, couples strolling under tree canopies, admiring the lush surroundings. From April onwards, day boats ply back and forth from St Mary’s, but at night the place empties, meaning that only an islander or a guest from one of the holiday properties could have harmed Jude Trellon.
Eddie turns to me as we walk through the arboretum. ‘I found something on Petherton’s file today, but it could be nothing.’
‘He’s got a record?’
‘A caution from four years ago. He did community service and paid a two-hundred-pound fine.’
‘For doing what?’
‘The guy nicked stuff from people’s homes. Trinkets and small items left lying around, nothing valuable. He agreed to get counselling; that’s why he escaped a custodial sentence. All the things he stole from friends and neighbours were found in a box in his parents’ shed.’
‘I didn’t know Tresco had its very own kleptomaniac.’
‘Petherton’s always been weird, boss. The bloke still lives with his m
um and dad, and he’s more interested in the past than the present. He’s so obsessed by the museum, he even goes there on his days off.’
The information slips to the back of my mind as we approach the Valhalla Museum. It’s a one-storey wooden-framed building, with deep porches sheltering a display of mastheads salvaged from local shipwrecks. Most of them are human-sized or larger, ranging from gryphons and unicorns to yellow-haired sea goddesses with glassy smiles. Figures loom from the wall, others hang from the low eaves, eyeing me with unsettling stares. The mastheads are as gaudy and cheerful as dolls, yet they represent huge loss of life. Their painted smiles never flinched while the ships they adorned plummeted to the depths and every crew member drowned.
Jamie Petherton is nowhere to be seen when we go inside. The museum is almost empty, warm weather keeping visitors on the beaches. Its interior is filled with cabinets and salvaged objects displayed on plinths, one of the walls covered with ships’ clocks, telescopes and navigational instruments, their brass casements glittering. My eyes scan the exhibits, looking for anything resembling the mermaid figurine that ended Jude Trellon’s life, but find nothing similar. The pieces include the smallest details of mariners’ lives, harvested by beachcombers: brass buttons from captains’ uniforms, dice made of ivory and carved pieces of whalebone.
When I finally catch sight of Jamie, he’s poring over a display case, making notes on a clipboard. My greeting makes the museum manager turn round slowly, and it’s only at close range that I remember why his appearance is disturbing. One of his eyes is brown, the other sea blue, when he fixes me with a curious stare. We attended the same school on the mainland, but like the Trellons he was several years below me; he used to stand at the edge of the playground, too odd or solitary to join the fray. Petherton still looks vulnerable, with dark curls falling across his thin, expressive face. No one would ever call me sensitive because of my hulking build, but he must attract that description all the time. He’s medium height and fine-boned, with a distracted air, as if his mind is fixed on higher things. The man looks like a throwback to a time when Keats and Shelley were writing sonnets. He’s dressed simply in a blue shirt and grey trousers, his expression wary when he agrees to talk.
‘Now’s as good a time as any, I was just closing for lunch.’ Petherton’s voice is so quiet, it’s a struggle to hear his words.
He hangs a closed sign on the door, then offers us seats at the counter, which carries postcards, mugs and key rings bearing the museum’s logo. The man’s asymmetrical gaze surveys Eddie’s face, then mine when I begin to speak.
‘We’re talking to everyone who was in the pub on Sunday night,’ I tell him. ‘Were you there long?’
‘I had a meal there around eight o’clock. I stayed about an hour.’
‘Did you notice Jude Trellon and her brother having a row?’
He shakes his head. ‘I was reading a newspaper. I only saw them briefly when I bought my drink.’
‘Can you tell us about your relationship with Jude?’
He shuts his eyes. ‘I can’t get my head around what happened to her. Was it a diving accident?’
‘The cause of death is still unconfirmed. How well did you know each other?’
Petherton’s voice is hesitant. ‘We had a relationship years ago. You could say we were the odd ones out here: misfits, to some extent.’
‘I’m not following you.’
‘How many heavily tattooed female diving experts do you know on Tresco? And I was bullied at school, for being different. But Jude was probably more interested in my boat than me.’
‘Did she teach you to dive?’
‘I often wish she hadn’t.’
‘Why?’
‘I had no skill for it; Jude had to drag me to the surface. She thought it was a joke that my family owns a boat but I hate diving. Maybe it’s because I see the oceans as sacred territory. Diving felt like entering a country I had no right to visit. It disgusts me when people throw rubbish into the water.’ Petherton’s eyes linger on my one piece of jewellery – my grandfather’s gold wedding ring, on my right hand. His gaze lands on it, then flicks away.
‘How did your relationship end?’
‘By text. She said she was in love with Ivar, so it was over.’
‘That must have been painful.’
‘In a place this small it’s a bad idea to have enemies. We were on good terms, most of the time.’
‘Until you argued a few weeks ago?’
‘We were both at a birthday party on St Agnes. She invited me on a diving trip, but I refused. She said I was too cowardly to face my fears. Jude humiliated me in front of my friends.’ A flash of fury crosses his features, then disappears. ‘Being near her was like flying too close to the sun.’
‘Did you see her much after that?’
‘Only in passing. I think life on land frustrated her; she had a quick temper, but she wasn’t a bad person.’
Eddie gives me a sideways look after we leave the museum, then whispers the word ‘freak’ under his breath. I can see where he’s coming from; the museum manager’s intensity is disturbing, but he doesn’t strike me as a murderer. I doubt that anyone could stew over being dumped for five years before taking action, or that a single row about a diving trip could drive a man to murder. But Jude’s ex gives the impression of being so highly strung, a single word could unravel him, still dwelling on being bullied at school. He seems the kind to nurse grudges, long after they should have been resolved. Petherton has found the right place to work, given his magpie instincts. He must be in his element, surrounded by hundreds of glittering curiosities dredged from the sea.
10
The rest of the afternoon is spent investigating where the islanders were on the night of Jude Trellon’s death. It’s so early in the season that most of the holiday cottages are empty, just a few rented out to tourists who will need to be interviewed before leaving Tresco, but something about the attack convinces me that Jude was killed by someone familiar. The modus operandi was horrifyingly intimate. To force an object into a woman’s mouth, then casually watch her choke, would require rage as well as a murderous instinct. Most victims are killed by family members, or people known to them, but no one I’ve interviewed so far seems an ideal fit, except Shane, who may have hated his sister for a lifetime of stealing his glory. Mike and Diane had no reason to harm their much-loved daughter, and although Ivar is mysterious, his manner seems too restrained for savagery. Jamie Petherton’s an oddball, but that doesn’t make him a cold-blooded killer.
It takes effort to write up interview reports for the case file, to provide Madron with an up-to-date set of documents so he has no reason to remove me from the case. My need to find Jude Trellon’s killer has become a personal mission. The image that sticks in my head is of her daughter, hunched over her drawings, trying to swap the adult world for a simpler place, full of colour and sunshine.
It’s five o’clock when I leave Eddie behind and head for New Grimsby Harbour, with Shadow at my heels. I stop at the island store to buy a gift for Denny Cardew, and discover that the shop has expanded, to cater for the tastes of rich holidaymakers. Its shelves are loaded with exotic cheeses, olive oil, sourdough bread and packets of locally grown herbs. There are plenty of sugary treats too: an array of biscuits and cakes, as if the hardships of island life could be softened by indulging your sweet tooth. I select a bottle of Rioja, then go on my way.
The quayside looks much as it did in photos from a hundred years ago. A narrow concrete slipway runs down to the sea, and a line of ramshackle wooden huts face the sound, the air still salty with last night’s catch. Denny is sitting on a crate outside his hut, mending a lobster creel. The fisherman’s powerful build and quiet manner remind me of my father, as well as his shabby clothes, but Dad would have been a decade older if he’d survived the storm that capsized his trawler on the Atlantic Strait. Cardew gestures for me to join him when I arrive.
‘Recovered from your dousing, Ben?�
�
‘More or less, I’ve still got brine in my ears.’
The fisherman looks shocked when I hand him the bottle. ‘There’s no need for any fuss.’
‘You took a risk, sailing so close to the rocks.’ He seems determined to ignore my gratitude. ‘How’s your wife doing these days? I haven’t seen her at the inn.’ I remember being told that Sylvia Cardew was unwell, but not the nature of her illness.
‘She’s been poorly since she lost her job there, but she’s not one to complain. The news about Jude upset her though. Sylvia’s been worse since she heard.’
‘Will she be at the meeting later?’
‘I doubt it.’ A look of concern crosses his face.
‘Tell her I’ll drop by if she’s got any questions.’ The fisherman is keeping his hands busy, patching the creel with strands of willow. ‘How’s the fishing these days?’
‘Most days half my crab pots come back empty, but you’re not here to talk about my job, are you?’
‘Did you know Jude Trellon well, Denny?’
‘I’m friendly with her dad. Last year wasn’t great for either of us; Mike had to raise the capital to replace his diving boat, and my wife fell ill. We kept each other sane through the worst days. Losing Jude must be terrible for his family.’ The fisherman shifts uneasily on his crate.
‘You’ve heard something about them, haven’t you?’
‘Only that Mike wanted to retire from the diving business, but his kids argued over who should take charge. Mike was afraid his business would go down the drain.’
‘Did that cause tension between Jude and Shane?’
‘No more than usual,’ Denny replies. ‘They often fought when they were small; strong characters, the pair of them. Jude threw her fists around, just like a boy. She was the fearless one. I saw her dive off Pentle Rock once; no one’s had the guts to do it since.’
‘Just as well, the drop must be fifteen metres. Diving there at low tide could break your neck.’
‘That didn’t bother her. If something was off limits, she wanted it, whatever the cost.’
