by Kate Rhodes
‘You’re talking in riddles, Denny. Was Jude taking some kind of risk?’
He rises to his feet. ‘Sophie Browarth would know, those two were thick as thieves. She lives out at Pentle Beach.’
I want to ask more questions, but the fisherman has retreated into the hut to stow away his nets and bait pots, my presence already forgotten.
There’s no time to follow Denny’s lead because people are gathering outside the New Inn for the 6 p.m. briefing. Madron is waiting for me in our makeshift headquarters, surveying the dirty windows with distaste, dressed in full uniform. I consider telling him that while I’m the SIO, there’s no need for him to attend every public meeting, but he likes to believe he’s indispensable. The DCI’s expression is sombre as I update him on the case. When we go downstairs, he loiters in the background, observing my every move.
More than fifty islanders are grouped around the bar’s handmade tables, which are built from driftwood, carefully sanded and polished. I can see familiar faces from the hotel, shop and Abbey Gardens, most of the island families represented. Justin Bellamy is standing with Diane Trellon, the priest shepherding her to a front row seat. She looks frailer than before, but my admiration increases. It takes guts to attend a public meeting so soon after identifying your daughter in a morgue; every instinct must be telling her to hide at home. There’s no sign of her husband, but her son trails in her wake, giving me a hostile stare. It’s getting easier all the time to imagine Shane’s resentment towards Jude turning violent. I shunt my suspicions to the back of my mind when I rise to my feet.
‘Thanks for coming everyone. You’ll have heard the sad news about Jude Trellon by now.’ Faces are sombre as I scan the room; people’s existences are so closely entwined here that neighbours become like relatives. ‘We know she died between eleven thirty on Sunday night and seven on Monday morning. Jude was found in her diving gear, by Piper’s Hole. Evidence suggests that she was murdered near there, or inside the cave.’
A murmur of shock circulates the room. When my eyes skim the crowd, Shane still looks ready to punch someone, aggression evident in the set of his jaw.
‘I want you all to look at this photograph, please.’ I use my laptop to flash an image of the mermaid figurine onto the wall, beside the message left at the scene. Despite being made of tarnished green metal, the creature looks exotic with her form magnified, long hair undulating down her naked body, scales shimmering on her curved tail. The faces before me register appreciation, but they don’t know that the object ended Trellon’s life. I can hear a few voices mumbling about the scrap of verse. ‘The words come from a sea shanty that originated in the Scillies two hundred years ago. If you know anything about these items, or what happened to Jude on Sunday night, please tell me or Eddie today. This was probably an isolated event, but you should keep your homes secure. No one can leave the island without my permission for the time being. If you’ve got any concerns, we’re using the inn’s attic room as our base.’
There’s a murmur of dissent when the islanders realise that their travel plans will continue to be disrupted for days to come, the session unravelling into questions. Most of them concern where Jude was found, and why she was targeted, but I keep my answers neutral. I can’t prove that she was night diving alone in Piper’s Hole, because the sea cave floods each day, scouring away every shred of evidence, so the killer must believe he’ll never be found.
I scan the crowded bar again as the meeting closes. The islanders are supporting the Trellon family well. Elinor Jago is at Diane’s side again, her hand on the grieving woman’s shoulder. Denny Cardew is talking to Shane, the younger man’s gaze fixed on the ground, but there’s no sign of the fisherman’s wife. Working in murder investigation has taught me that everyone deals with loss differently. Some crave every piece of information, while others prefer to stick their heads in the sand. Most of the crowd look upset, but Jamie Petherton’s thin face is unreadable while he watches events unfold from the edge of the crowd, as if he prefers a bird’s-eye view.
DCI Madron prevents me from visiting Sophie Browarth at the end of the meeting by insisting on a case review; he takes an hour to sift through our action log, then subjects me to a lengthy inquisition. His superiority makes me grit my teeth. I’ve always hated being micromanaged, but Madron loves being in control. He gives a slow nod of approval once he’s audited every report, but the meeting leaves me frustrated. I could have used the last part of the day to continue looking for Jude Trellon’s killer, instead of defending my strategy. When I finally exit the New Inn at seven thirty, the dusk is thickening. Someone is hunched on the drystone wall opposite. It’s the thin, dark-haired boy I saw outside the community hall. He’s dragging on a cigarette, and this time he stays put instead of rushing away. The lad’s presence makes me wonder why he didn’t return home with the rest of the crowd. I’ve got enough to do without worrying about an inquisitive kid, yet his interest in the case concerns me. I drop onto the wall beside him and let silence unfold, before asking my first question.
‘Why did you miss the meeting just now?’
‘I got here too late. I was needed at home.’
‘But you want to know what happened?’ The boy gives a single nod. ‘Tell me your name first.’
‘Tom Heligan.’
‘That’s why you look familiar. Your mum taught me English; she even stopped me playing truant for a while. I’m DI Ben Kitto, but you probably know that already, don’t you?’ He inspects me from the corner of his eye, judging my trustworthiness. ‘I held the meeting to find out if anyone knew how Jude Trellon died, and whether they could identify this.’ I show him a picture of the mermaid figurine on my phone.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it before.’ The words stutter from his lips.
‘It belongs to someone on the island. I’ll have to keep searching till I find out who.’ When I turn to the young man again, he looks more like a terrified child than a teenager. I want to ask what’s troubling him, but he seems so fragile, the question could do more harm than good.
‘I should go home, Mum can’t be left alone.’
‘Feel free to come back, if you’ve got questions. Give your mother my regards.’
The boy sets off in a hurry, almost tripping over his feet in his race to get away.
11
There’s no escape when Tom gets home. His mother is struggling down the hallway on her sticks. His longing to be alone is more powerful than ever, and he resents the way her dark brown eyes seem to peer inside him to read his thoughts. When he goes to the kitchen to prepare dinner, her sticks tap slowly across the lino, before she lowers herself onto a chair.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about Jude?’ Her voice is flat with anger. ‘Elinor let me know this afternoon. She was shocked I hadn’t heard.’
‘I didn’t want to upset you.’
‘So you let me be the last person on the island to find out?’
Tom drops his chopping knife on the counter. ‘Is that all you care about? You’re not bothered about Jude drowning?’
‘I wish you’d shared the news, that’s all.’ Her tone suddenly softens. ‘I know you two were close. Are you okay, love?’
‘Leave it alone, Mum. I don’t want to talk about it.’ The words snap from his mouth. ‘Dinner’s in the oven, I’ll come down when it’s ready.’
He sprints upstairs two at a time, but guilt hits him before he reaches the landing. The top floor is his domain, while his mother lives downstairs in her empire of books, the pair of them occupying separate worlds. He should never have shouted at her like that, but the cop’s hard stare has put him on edge. Tom’s breathing steadies once he reaches his room. The walls are lined with photos from recent dives: a huge seal grazing on kelp near Gimble Point, the rusting snout of a seventeenth-century cannon poking up from the seabed, and a broken plate that has spent two hundred years under fathoms of brine.
He listens to waves scouring the rocks outside. It feels like the sea is hi
s best companion now his dreams have fallen apart. His room is filled with telescopes, sextants and books about celestial navigation. He wishes he knew the local waters as well as the pilots who once guided ships through dangerous channels between the islands, but the ocean’s secrets are lost to him now. Jude had promised to take him on another night dive soon, the depths even more beautiful by moonlight, full of luminous creatures rising to the surface like ghosts.
Tom stands on a chair to reach a package from the top of his wardrobe. Two weeks ago, Jude asked him to keep it safe, making him promise not to open it. She wanted her father to have it if anything bad happened, but that will have to wait. The narrow parcel is less than a foot long, wrapped in brown paper. He must deliver it to Mike once life on the island gets back to normal, but until then it needs a better hiding place. He climbs the ladder to the loft to conceal the package in a safer location, his breathing calmer as he climbs back down.
The boy catches sight of a figure from the landing window, perched on the granite outcrop that runs down to the sea, and when he hurries outside the air is cooler than before. The girl is wearing a thin summer dress, her long blonde hair ruffled by the breeze. He can see how pretty she is, yet it was Jude that caught his attention, even though she was out of reach.
‘I thought you had to stay indoors, Gemma.’
She gives a quick smile. ‘I was worried about you. I wanted to check you were okay.’
‘It’s good to see you.’ He sinks onto the rock beside her. ‘But it’s best you stay away for a while; it might not be safe here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Someone’s watching me.’ He’d like to say more but the words choke him. ‘Jude had been going to Piper’s Hole, leaving stuff for people to collect. Something bad’s going on there; I got chased out of it today.’
‘Tell the police, if you’re scared.’
‘I’d only get into trouble.’ He shakes his head, urging her to drop the subject. ‘How are things at home?’
‘Dad keeps going on about my retakes. I don’t even want to do psychology, I’d rather study garden design.’ She checks her watch. ‘I’d better head home before they notice I’ve gone.’
‘You’ll be off to uni like all the rest when your exams finish.’
‘Not if I can help it. I love it here, they can’t make me leave.’ Her head drops onto his shoulder, just for a second. ‘Answer my texts, Tom, so I don’t have to worry.’
He waits until the girl vanishes across the bay, then his eyes fix on the flickering lights of merchant ships heading for the Atlantic Strait. He would rather cross rough seas than remain here forever, yet leaving his mother isn’t an option. He’s trapped, but no longer safe. A pulse of fear travels along his spine. Jude’s killer was waiting in Piper’s Hole; the man must have seen him running away on the night of the murder. He may already be planning how to silence him.
12
My uncle is sitting on the bench outside the boatyard when I walk up the quay, smoking a roll-up. Ray’s habits are unchanged since I was a kid. He still allows himself two needle-thin cigarettes each evening, the smell of Old Holborn lingering on his clothes.
‘There’s food if you want some,’ he says.
‘I already owe you half a dozen meals.’
‘Who’s counting? Come and eat, or it’ll be wasted.’
Ray’s flat above the yard is furnished with items he’s built himself. The kitchen table is fashioned from cedar deck boards, stools made from leftover squares of oak, everything stowed away neatly, as if his old naval commander might return to criticise his quarters. He passes me a plate of fried halibut, mayonnaise and a hunk of bread, then sets down a bowl for Shadow. My uncle often receives gifts from the local fishing fleet for services rendered, if they take a good catch.
Ray lets me eat in silence, sitting in his armchair, facing the sound. His flat fascinated me as a boy, the nautical maps on the walls marked by routes he’s travelled, picked out in red. Years of designing boats for fishermen have taught Ray everything there is to know about the local waters, but little about communication. We could spend the rest of the evening in companionable silence unless I ask the question that’s been bothering me all day.
‘Jude Trellon left the pub around eleven thirty on Sunday night, then we found her body tied to the cliff face by Piper’s Hole yesterday morning. Do you think the killer approached the cave by land or sea?’
My uncle rises to his feet, to peer at a tide table that’s pinned to the wall, then spends a few minutes studying one of his maps. ‘The tide would have cut the cave off from the beach by 1 a.m. He couldn’t have climbed back up the hill after that. He’d have needed a fast boat, good sailing skills and a strong set of nerves.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The tide races in quickly, north of the island, and the eddies round Kettle Point have strong circular currents. It would take a powerful engine to escape them or the boat would be thrown back onto the cliffs.’
I scrub my hands across my face. ‘Why would anyone dive in a sea cave at night, for God’s sake?’
‘To prove they’re invincible?’
‘Maybe she had a death wish.’
‘Piper’s Hole is the wrong place to get marooned. The cave’s part of an old mine shaft that drops for hundreds of feet. Once the sea traps you, there’s no escape. It’s easy enough to climb down from Tregarthen Hill, but people have died trying to claw their way back up the cliff when the tide cuts them off.’
‘It sounds like that’s what happened to Anna Dawlish.’ I look at him again. ‘You’re certain the killer used a boat?’
His nod is categorical. ‘How else would he avoid drowning?’
I thank Ray for the meal, then go on my way, still absorbing the fact that the killer accessed the cave by sea. It’s pitch dark by the time I walk back across the island, stars blurred by a skein of cloud. I spend fifteen minutes on the beach in front of my cottage, hurling sticks for Shadow to chase with joyous abandon, as a reward for being cooped up all day. A dog’s life may have its limits, but the pleasure he draws from the simple game is enviable. When he lies down to sleep tonight, no nagging questions will keep him awake. On the other side of Hell Bay, breakers lash the shore, the hotel glittering like a string of fairy lights. It’s tempting to stroll across the shingle for another nightcap with Zoe, but something stops me in my tracks. An inbuilt safety mechanism tells me not to rely on the pleasure of seeing her every day.
Once inside, I do an internet search on Jude Trellon. A YouTube film shows a younger version of her diving backwards from a speedboat into azure water: she’s wearing a wetsuit, flippers and face mask, but no breathing apparatus. Trellon’s body cuts a vertical line through the water, movements sinuous as she dives for the seabed. I hold my breath, trying to imagine her lungs aching as the pressure increases. When the water starts to blacken, she performs a rapid spin, swimming hard for the surface. My own breath gags from my mouth long before she emerges. The camera catches her face cresting the water, giving an ecstatic grin. Trellon’s free dive lasted seven and a half minutes. I gaze at the screen in disbelief. Holding her breath for so long must have taken immaculate self-control, aware that a miscalculation would be fatal. A perverse part of me would like to try it, but that degree of breath control takes years of practice. The woman must have been in love with danger to court so much risk.
I watch a few more clips of Trellon talking about her passion for the ocean, and the Zen-like calm that comes from free diving, her face alight with enthusiasm, and for the first time I understand what Jamie Petherton meant about her being a misfit. Free diving is a male domain, yet she chose to battle with the ocean, keen to sink deeper below its surface than anyone before. Very few people would enjoy that degree of danger, yet she stopped chasing adrenalin highs when she had her child. Watching the ten-year-old film makes me uneasy. There’s something voyeuristic about hearing a ghost describe her greatest passion, even though it’s necessary resear
ch. Some part of her behaviour inspired an islander to kill her, but the cause remains out of reach. Maybe her thrill-seeking put someone’s nose out of joint, or the bravery that made people idolise her, or want to knock her down.
I’m about to hit the off button when the Skype symbol flashes on my computer. My brother Ian’s image fills the screen, a tidier version of mine, clean-shaven, his black hair cropped short. He’s sitting in his consulting room in upstate New York, still wearing his white coat, fresh from visiting the hospital wards. His fingertips are pressed together, like a shrink, preparing to diagnose me.
‘What do you want?’ I ask. ‘It’s midnight, for fuck’s sake.’
‘To see your ugly mug, of course.’
‘How’s my niece?’
‘Great, if you don’t mind tantrums.’ He grabs a photo from his desk and holds it in front of the camera. Five-year-old Christy’s image beams at me, face haloed by a mass of blonde curls.
‘Lucky she’s got her mum’s looks.’
‘Her charm comes from me. What are you up to anyway?’
‘Work mainly, a woman was killed, over on Tresco two days ago.’
‘How do you stand it? At least most of my patients survive.’
‘Normally I’m just telling kids off for painting graffiti on a neighbour’s wall. Go home and let me sleep, for God’s sake.’
A sly smile crosses his face. ‘What happened to that veterinary nurse you asked out? Samantha, wasn’t it?’
‘It went nowhere. Her laugh drove me up the wall.’
‘One giggle and it was game over?’
‘It sounded like a squeaky door, one hell of a passion-killer.’
‘Come over for a holiday. Some of Ella’s friends are seriously hot.’
‘And two thousand miles away.’
‘Zoe’s close by.’ Ian narrows his eyes. ‘How is the blonde goddess these days?’
‘Out of bounds, so don’t go there.’
‘Ship a woman over from the mainland then, before you die, friendless and alone.’
