by Kate Rhodes
I give a mocking laugh. ‘You’ve forgotten the joys of being young, free and single.’
My brother’s warning sticks in my mind as I lie down. Behind all his teasing, I know he worries about me, but being solitary is my natural condition, even if the bed sometimes feels uncomfortably wide.
I read a page of The Sun Also Rises, but Hemingway’s immaculate prose fails to dispel Jude Trellon’s drowned face from my mind, her skin ravaged by the sea. Tresco is populated by less than 200 people. Someone must know who tethered her body to a rock face, then sailed away into the night. I switch off the light and watch strands of moonlight seep through the curtains, while the dog whines quietly outside my bedroom door.
13
Wednesday 13 May
An encrypted email from Europol is waiting for me when I reach the incident room the next morning. I had expected Ivar Larsson’s record from Sweden to come back clear, but an old court case is outlined in detail. At the age of eighteen, Larsson stood accused of manslaughter. He had been driving friends home from a party in his father’s car when he ran down a middle-aged man, who later died of his injuries. Larsson’s parents must have employed a clever lawyer to let him walk free with only a suspended sentence and a driving ban. But the event marked a change in Larsson’s life, his family leaving their small village and settling in Gothenburg. The event could explain his remoteness; at that age the trauma of killing a man by accident would be hard to forget.
A second email from the forensics lab in Penzance tells me that the message attached to the victim’s ankle was written with a standard black ballpoint pen, on printer paper, and contains no DNA evidence. The killer is smart and organised enough to wear surgical gloves and choose materials that every islander must possess. The garden twine used to attach the bottle to the victim’s body is generic too: plasticised green wire available at every garden centre. I push the information aside to focus on my main task of the morning; discovering the location of the Kinvers’ boat. The coastguard officer at the end of the line has such a broad Cornish accent, it sounds like he’s been gargling with clotted cream when he explains that the couple’s cruiser is on the Atlantic Strait, too far out for phone contact. A radio message has been sent, instructing them to return to Tresco immediately, but the journey will take the vessel all day, so I decide to follow up Denny Cardew’s suggestion and visit Sophie Browarth.
The walk takes me down to the southern tip of the island, with Shadow bouncing across the dunes. Pentle Beach is a local beauty spot, its golden stretch of sand half a mile wide, only the low outline of Skirt Island marking the horizon. The shore is empty, except for a few kite fliers and a solitary tourist jogging across the sand. I send Shadow on his way, flinging my arms wide to let him know he’s free to roam. He bounds towards the tidemark with tongue lolling, clearly eager to perform his usual trick of rolling in fermented seaweed or rotten fish guts, requiring me to hose him down once we get home.
When I reach Pentle Cottage, someone has arrived before me. Shane Trellon is battering his fist on the door, so I conceal myself behind some bushes to watch. He thumps the wood again, giving it a kick for good measure. Expletives spill from his mouth as he finally turns away. It’s not clear whether he’s desperate to see Sophie Browarth in her capacity as district nurse or for personal reasons. The man’s aggressive body language makes me decide to follow my plan to search Smuggler’s Cottage today for evidence that could implicate him in his sister’s murder.
Something flickers in a top window of the cottage when I look up again. A woman’s face appears, pale as a ghost, and there’s a glimpse of flame-red hair before she vanishes. I knock lightly on the front door, hoping for a warmer welcome than her last visitor. The state of the place proves that either Sophie Browarth and her husband are living on low wages or they don’t care about home maintenance. The stone cottage has gaps in its mortar, the chimney listing at a dangerous angle. I wait five minutes before peering through the letter box. There’s little evidence of the woman’s presence, except a row of shoes in a rainbow of colours stacked against the wall. I’m still crouching in the porch when the front door finally swings open. The woman peering down at me is petite with delicate features, her vivid copper hair falling to just below her jaw as she watches me scramble to my feet. Her pale skin is littered with freckles, blue eyes observing me closely. She looks different from the nurse who paid regular visits to my mother during her last illness, her manner quiet and sympathetic. Today she seems preoccupied, wearing a cream linen dress that flatters her colouring.
‘Are you okay, Sophie? I saw Shane banging on your door just now.’
She nods her head slowly. ‘I couldn’t face another tough conversation.’
‘Has he been bothering you?’
The question makes her flinch. ‘He needs to talk about Jude, so he’s been coming here since it happened, but I’m a nurse not a counsellor. I can’t fix all of his problems.’ Her fingers touch the pale skin of her throat. ‘Come in, I’ll make some coffee.’
Sophie’s smile is warm, despite her distracted air. Her hallway is decorated with brightly coloured paintings of seascapes; a reminder that most islanders are passionate about the ocean.
‘I like your pictures; you’ve got enough to open a gallery.’
‘My husband, Phil, collects local art.’ She turns to face me when we reach the end of her hallway. ‘Sorry the place is a mess. It’s my day off; I’ve been doing chores.’
The kitchen smells of detergent and bleach; a pile of fresh linen is stacked in a laundry basket, the surfaces gleaming. Her table is crowded with folders labelled with islanders’ names, the nurse’s commitment to her job dominating her home. Her work requires her to travel between the islands each day, visiting the sick and elderly, carrying their treatment plans with her. Sophie sits down opposite, assessing me with a level gaze.
‘I haven’t seen you since you lost your mum, Ben,’ she says. ‘How have you been?’
‘Okay, thanks.’ The question wrong-foots me. In my last role, everyone I interviewed was a stranger, but there’s no escaping your history here. ‘I could use some leisure time; the case is keeping me busy. Can you tell me how you first met Jude?’
A smile illuminates her face, suddenly turning her into a beauty. ‘We were friends all our lives. You know how intense friendships can be out here. She was more like a sister.’
‘It would help me to hear more about your friendship.’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘Will that lead you to her killer?’
‘Anything that gives me a better understanding is useful.’
‘Jude and I met in nursery school. I was fascinated by her from day one; she always craved new experiences, unlike me. She loved danger and I’m a homebody, but we stayed close.’
‘Until she met Ivar.’
‘That was a difficult time for both of us.’ Her voice drops by half an octave, distress flattening her cadences. ‘She got on fine with my husband, but I thought Ivar would make her unhappy, and she hated me for saying it. She was passionate about life, but he’s frozen. I don’t know him any better now than I did five years ago. Our friendship recovered, but it was never quite the same.’
‘Maybe Ivar’s got reason to be guarded.’
‘He would never confide in anyone.’ Her eyes blink shut. ‘It’s my job to preserve life, but I couldn’t help Jude. It’s terrible that she died while Frida’s still so young.’
‘Did you see her in the pub on Sunday night?’
‘I stayed here by myself. I was tired from being on duty all day.’
The statement lacks detail, but she seems unwilling to offer more information. ‘Had you seen Jude recently?’
‘Just last week. She brought Frida round for the afternoon.’
‘How did she seem?
‘Preoccupied, but that wasn’t unusual.’ Her gaze settles on the waves, unrolling outside her window. ‘Jude always had big ambitions, maybe her dreams defeated her in the end.’
‘Everything Jude did involved danger. Each time she took clients out on a wreck dive she was gambling with her life.’ Her eyes are glossy with tears.
‘This must be hard for you, by yourself. Is your husband away long?’
‘He’ll be back next month.’
Sophie Browarth’s regret over Jude’s death is more overt than Ivar Larsson’s, even though their friendship had grown less intimate. The nurse’s manner is sympathetic, while Ivar’s coolness is impenetrable, but she gives no more details about Jude’s troubles. The raw grief in Browarth’s voice rings in my mind as I walk away. But, under all that warmth, could she have been so distressed by her friend’s withdrawal that she set out to kill her? It seems a ridiculous idea, but her cottage is so remote, no one would have seen her leave it late at night and sail to Piper’s Hole. There’s no logical explanation why Shane would want to see the nurse so urgently, unless he believes she has information about Jude’s death. The dog catches up with me as I head back to the station, tail wagging madly, even though his coat is filthy with green slicks of seaweed.
Eddie’s expression is serious when I reach the incident room, his mobile clamped to his ear as he murmurs reassurances. It’s several minutes before he returns the phone to the table with a quiet sigh.
‘Is the DCI nagging again?’
He shakes his head. ‘Mike Trellon thinks we’re taking too long to get answers.’
‘That’s not unusual. Relatives often go on the attack when they feel powerless.’ I glance down at his notes, which are written in immaculate schoolboy script. ‘It looks like the killer must have made his getaway from Piper’s Hole by boat. He left it too late to escape on foot, without being swept away, so he must be a good sailor. The sea would’ve been treacherous. Can you check which islanders own a boat, while I visit Mike? I want every vessel searched.’
Eddie gives a rapid nod, then grabs a folder from one of his piles. ‘The lab report on the mermaid just came back. Do you want to read it first?’
According to the forensics team on the mainland, the sea has helped the killer to conceal his identity. Salt water has dissolved any fingerprints on the figurine that ended Jude Trellon’s life, which carries no DNA except the victim’s blood and bile. It’s only when I reach the bottom of the page that my interest rises. The six-inch tall mermaid was cast from bronze, hundreds of years ago, the salt water causing little damage to its structure. I drop the report back on the desk, considering its meaning. Who would take an antique figurine and ram it down a woman’s throat? The item must hold a symbolic meaning for the murderer, and it could have a high monetary value too, yet no one on the island can identify it.
Shadow is curled up asleep in a corner of the incident room when I head for the door, exhausted from dashing across the sand, yet he shakes himself awake to follow me outside. When I walk through Dolphin Town, the curtains in Ivar Larsson’s house are tightly drawn. Food parcels wrapped in tin foil are stacked inside his porch. After my father died, people gave us an endless supply of pies, cakes and casseroles, most of which got thrown away. I need to interview him again, but another visit so soon after the last might make him clam up even further. The man’s tendency to shut people out must be making his situation harder to bear. His character seems so over-controlled, it’s possible that something flicked a switch, bringing his violence to the surface.
When I reach Ruin Beach, it’s clear that the victim’s parents are dealing with their sorrow differently. The front door is ajar, windows gazing down like startled eyes. Mike Trellon appears in the porch before I raise my hand to knock. It’s the first time we’ve met one to one since he heard that Jude had died two days ago. Weight has slipped from him since then, accentuating his bone structure, making him look even more like a veteran actor auditioning for a serious role.
‘I expected better from you, Ben. We’ve heard nothing since yesterday morning.’
‘Can I come in please?’
He allows me across his threshold, but keeps his back turned in the kitchen as he makes coffee. ‘Diane’s gone to Ivar’s; he’s not making it easy for us to see our granddaughter.’ He dumps sugar into my cup, then shoves the mug in front of me. The look on his face reveals the origin of his children’s hot temper, his unblinking stare searing my face with the force of a laser.
‘I stayed away to give you both time to recover, Mike.’
‘That won’t happen till we know who killed our girl.’
‘We’re making progress, but I need more information. Have you got records of Jude’s boat trips, and the people she taught to dive?’
He nods vigorously. ‘The insurers make us keep them for every boat trip, with passengers’ names as well as crew. It’s all in our logbook.’
‘Jude must have upset someone on the island, Mike. There were just over a hundred people here the night she died. Who hated her enough to do this?’
‘God knows.’ Mike rubs his hand across the back of his neck. ‘I can’t sleep, trying to figure it out. Jude couldn’t hide her feelings like Ivar; she was hot-headed. If something bothered her, she yelled it to the rafters, but most people respected her honesty.’
‘I hear you and Jude were very close.’
‘Diving brought us together. She was a natural in the water from day one, but now I wish I’d never taught her to swim. Jude always had to push the boundaries.’ There’s a mixture of shame and admiration on his face.
‘When I told you about her death, you said it was your fault, Mike. Can you explain why?’
He fumbles for the right words. ‘If I’d never taught her to dive, she’d still be safe, on dry land.’
‘She’d have done it without anyone’s help, if she was determined. How would you describe her relationship with Shane?’
‘They were sparring partners; Jude was a tomboy, not letting him beat her at anything. She adored Frida, but found motherhood tough at first. It meant she had to give up some of her dreams.’ He pushes his mug away, his lips setting in a thin line. ‘My kids argued a lot, but never hurt each other. Shane adored Jude when they were small. There’s no way he’d attack her. You’re wasting your time if you go after him.’
‘Sophie Browarth says he’s been visiting her every day.’
‘He must have his reasons.’ His gaze slips out of focus. ‘Sophie never took to Ivar; he kept Jude all to himself when they got together, which upset her friends.’ He looks out of the window, as if he’s longing to escape. ‘Jude was angry with me when she died, that’s what hurts most. She wanted the Fair Diane for a private trip, but I refused. Diesel costs a fortune these days. If a boat goes out, it must cover its costs.’
‘Has business been hard?’
‘The recession’s hit us, but we’re managing. There’s no way I’ll let everything I’ve worked for go to waste.’
‘Why did Jude want the boat?’
He pauses before replying, his arms braced across his chest, as if he’s holding himself together. ‘She never said. Frustration’s the hardest part of all this; it feels like there’s bugger all I can do to find out who hurt her.’
‘I’m on my way to Piper’s Hole. The first high tide will have washed away any evidence, but I want to check again, just in case. Would you like to come?’
Mike nods vigorously. The walk should focus his energies, and have the side benefit of making him talk more openly about his daughter. He remains silent as he collects a torch then follows me outside, the dog appearing again as we cut a diagonal path inland. Mike’s silence continues as we pass a wheat field, the crop vivid green and barely a foot high, our conversation slipping back twenty years as Mike describes Jude’s childhood. It sounds like she loved to defy people’s expectations: swimming before she could walk, a competitive diver by the age of twelve, beating adults for top prizes while she was still a child. It’s only when we reach the summit of Tregarthen Hill that his monologue expires. Mike
gazes down at the beach, wide-eyed, like it’s finally registering that he’s about to enter the place where his daughter died.
‘Go home, if you prefer, Mike. I can climb down easily enough.’
‘I need to see where it happened.’
‘Only if you feel ready.’
The shore below is covered in fist-sized pebbles, a wilderness of granite rocks strewn across the beach. Far in the distance the sea is an empty strip of blue, with Kettle Island punctuating the open water; America – the next landmass – 2000 miles away. I wouldn’t want to stand here in winter, with no protection from the wind that howls in from the Atlantic. The dog bounds down the steep hillside, far more sure-footed than his human companions, while I take my time descending, with Mike stumbling behind. The path narrows as it winds between boulders, then there’s a sheer fifteen-foot drop to the shore. I find a foothold, then help him down, clinging to the rocky surface, until we both land on the beach. It could be foreknowledge that makes the place look desolate; man-sized boulders sprinkled along the tideline, as if giants have been playing marbles on the sand.
The first time I entered Piper’s Hole was with a gang of schoolmates, spending a summer afternoon yelling at the top of our voices, laughing at echoes that bounced back from walls dripping with condensation. The entrance seems to have narrowed since then, and for once Shadow refuses to follow. He whimpers loudly as I head through the slit in the rock face, my feet unsteady on slime-covered rocks, the air reeking of salt and decay. I have to walk sideways as the passage thins, Mike’s conversation suddenly falling silent. Black air presses in on us with each step, no light except from our torch beams. We follow the path down for twenty metres until the cave splits open, shards of rock jutting from the ceiling like blackened teeth. The place unsettles me, even though I’ve never suffered from claustrophobia. Anyone superstitious would say that bad spirits lurked here, but it could just be sea mist trapped from the night before. When I look round, my companion is crouching between two boulders, head low over his knees.
