by Kate Rhodes
Shane slams out of the house without a backwards glance. The only evidence I have against him is circumstantial, but his tense behaviour is keeping him on my radar. All that’s left is to search the false floor in the kitchen, which is cleverly disguised. If he hadn’t mentioned it, the elevated boards would have been imperceptible. When I touch a small lever inside the pantry, a trapdoor rises by a few inches, revealing a two-foot-deep crawl space, big enough to conceal a family, or several tons of contraband. But today the space is empty, apart from a legion of spiders and decades’ worth of dust.
I flick through Jude Trellon’s book again before I leave. The pages have been heavily annotated, lines sketched across maps and pictures, as if she believed they contained valuable secrets. Once I’ve pulled the door shut behind me, I set off for Polrew’s home, with Shane’s laptop and phone in an evidence bag.
One of the beauties of living on the islands is that no one is ever out of reach, suspicions can be followed up in minutes. Polrew’s home differs from the simple stone cottages scattered across Tresco. It stands close to the abbey, copying the famous building’s grand style, three storeys high, with mullioned windows, the front garden so pristine it looks like someone has snipped the grass with nail scissors. I haven’t seen Dr Polrew since he addressed my school assembly the year before I left, giving an impassioned speech about local history that prompted sniggers from my year group. A grey-haired woman is watering hanging baskets that trail from her porch when I arrive. She’s around fifty years old, straight-backed, with a slim build and narrow, intelligent features. Her smile is tentative when she finally turns round.
‘Could I see your husband please, Mrs Polrew?’
An anxious look crosses her face as she takes off her gardening gloves. ‘Let me ask him first, please. He hates being disturbed when he’s writing.’
The Polrews’ hallway is decorated with ornate wooden panels. The house must be 150 years old, but its high ceilings and large rooms resemble an eighteenth-century nobleman’s mansion. I’m still admiring the artworks when Mrs Polrew leads me to an oak doorway. She taps on it twice, then ushers me into a dimly lit office which smells of cigar smoke. Dr Polrew sits behind a mahogany desk, squinting at his computer screen.
‘Bloody technology,’ he mutters. ‘I’ve lost an entire chapter.’
‘That’s easily done.’
He’s around sixty, with broad rugby player shoulders, a thatch of pepper-and-salt hair framing his craggy face. His braying voice carries the assurance that comes from a lifetime of privilege when he rises to his feet to shake my hand.
‘Miriam tells me you want to talk about Jude Trellon,’ he says. ‘There’s something dreadful about the old outliving the young.’ His words tail away, as if he’s just remembered that he has an audience.
‘Jude owned a copy of your book, Dr Polrew. I wondered if you knew her?’
‘We dived together often over the last two years. My field of expertise is marine archaeology; I needed someone to assist me, but my wife’s an art historian, so she was no bloody use. To put it bluntly, that girl had more balls than most men I know. I was happy to employ her.’ He slumps in a wing-backed chair, then gestures for me to sit opposite. ‘Do you know anything about diving?’
‘I’m certified to level two, but that’s my limit.’
He looks disappointed, as if I’ve failed a vital exam. ‘The Isles of Scilly rest on the largest underwater graveyard on the planet. No one knows precisely how many ships foundered here in the past five centuries, but it’s over a thousand. Only a tiny percentage of the local waters have ever been dived, because the water’s deep and currents are treacherous. Until Jude came along, no one was brave or foolish enough to join me.’
‘You chartered one of the Trellons’ boats?’
‘We used mine. I keep it in St Mary’s harbour; it’s equipped with echolocation and a decent GPS system.’ He rubs his hand across the back of his neck. ‘I want to map the local seabed before I die. You could say it’s my grand obsession.’
‘That sounds like a dangerous hobby.’
Polrew’s eyes are almost black when he stares back at me. ‘If I succeed, the whole community will benefit. No one can say that I wasted my time.’
‘Did you ever dive with Shane Trellon?’
He shakes his head. ‘Jude had more experience. I needed someone with local expertise; the waters plummet for hundreds of metres between most of the islands. The Scilly Isles used to be a single land mass, until sea levels rose, then only the highest peaks were habitable, and the archipelago was formed. Each island is the summit of a mountain, which explains why they’re studded with graves. Ancient civilisations buried their dead close to their sky-dwelling gods.’
‘Have you found any undiscovered wrecks?’
He shifts backwards in his chair. ‘My interest is purely academic, I’m not hunting for pirates’ gold. I want to create a comprehensive record, for future generations, pinpointing the location of every vessel.’
‘There was a problem a few years back, wasn’t there? Divers were stealing from wrecks, when the items should have been passed on to the Maritime and Coastguard Agency.’
‘I know the law, Inspector. Historic shipwrecks are the property of the state,’ Polrew replies in a clipped tone. ‘I would never harm a wreck site – most of them are reefs, with delicate ecosystems. I take photos, then leave them intact.’
‘Jude felt the same?’
‘I wouldn’t employ anyone who indulged in looting.’
‘Thanks for your time, Mr Polrew. If I have questions about your research, can I come back?’
His face softens into a rare smile. ‘Feel free to consult me. I hope my book kindles your interest.’
I leave the room with the dog-eared volume tucked under my arm. Polrew’s arrogance didn’t stop Jude Trellon diving with him frequently, despite the maniacal glint in his eye. The historian’s fascination with undiscovered wrecks is easy to interpret, but his touchiness when asked about taking items from the seabed may be more relevant to the case.
16
Tom walks to Dolphin Town once he finishes work. His heart sinks when he approaches Ivar Larsson’s cottage, yet he can’t turn back. Jude would expect him to pay his respects. No one locks their doors on the island, but he hears the metallic click of a key twisting before Ivar appears in the porch. He has only met him on a few occasions. The man looks fiercer than he remembered, his mouth set too rigidly to smile.
‘I wanted to say how sorry I am about Jude,’ he mumbles, even though he wishes he’d gone straight home.
‘Come in for a minute, Tom.’
Frida is asleep on the sofa in the living room, the girl’s features so like Jude’s his guts twist into a knot. Once they reach the kitchen, Tom’s distress increases; he can picture her sitting on the same seat, enjoying meals with her boyfriend and child. When he looks at Ivar again, the man seems lost in his own world.
‘When I wake up, everything feels normal, until I remember she’s gone. I have to go through it all over again.’
Ivar’s voice resonates with loneliness, making Tom feel ashamed. His own grief can’t compare, yet it keeps threatening to smother him, making it difficult to breathe.
‘We’re both in danger, aren’t we?’ Ivar stares at him again.
‘How do you mean?’’
‘We know what Jude did.’ The man’s pale gaze refuses to release him. ‘Someone wants what she found. It’s their obsession; they won’t rest until they have every piece.’
The desperation on his face makes Tom panic. When Ivar leaves the room to check on Frida, he rushes from the cottage without saying goodbye.
17
I check on Eddie’s condition once I get back to the incident room. His fiancée, Michelle, sounds shaken, but informs me that he’s showing no signs of serious concussion, which fills me with relief. My previous work partner’s death was one of the reasons why I left the Murder Squad; losing another colleague would be di
fficult to handle.
It’s late afternoon by the time I finally speak to Stephen Kinver. His voice has a hard-edged London twang when he explains that his boat is moored a kilometre off the north-east coast of Tresco. We agree that I will use the police launch to visit him and his wife, so I leave Shadow tied up in the yard behind the New Inn.
The black outline of St Helen’s expands on the horizon as I steer the speedboat across open water. On any other day, I’d take time to admire the sun dropping behind the furthest islands, but I want to get back to harbour soon. Light is already fading by the time I near the Kinvers’ forty-foot yacht, which bears the name Golden Diver, stencilled in bright yellow paint on its prow. Even from a distance it’s obvious that the sleek grey vessel is equipped with plenty of expensive kit, from the lights studding its waterline to the jet ski and speedboat suspended from the bow. The boat is kitted out for sea fishing as well as diving, and must be worth the price of a substantial house in the Home Counties.
The couple are standing on deck as my launch bumps over shallow waves. Stephen Kinver reaches down to tie my rope to the helm rail of his vessel. He looks like an ageing surfer, dressed in baggy shorts, a Hawaiian shirt and mirrored sunglasses, sun-bleached curls skimming his shoulders. His wife is an attractive black woman, with braided hair and a cautious smile. Apart from a few items of expensive jewellery, her casual clothes are almost identical to her husband’s. The couple could be anywhere between late-thirties and fifty, empty-nesters enjoying the trip of a lifetime.
‘Welcome to our floating gin palace.’ Stephen Kinver gives an ironic grin, acknowledging that the cruiser would be dwarfed by a millionaire’s yacht.
When Lorraine offers me a drink, her manner is less effusive, dark eyes watchful as I shake her hand. The deck is scattered with diving equipment: wetsuits hanging over the rail, a box full of acetylene flares and a shot line wrapped in a coil. An array of nets, lamps and rods prove that the couple like to fish as well as dive.
‘Thanks for coming back to Tresco,’ I say. ‘It took a while to track you down.’
‘It cost us two days’ sailing,’ Kinver replies. ‘We wanted to catch the tide on Sunday night, so we sailed till dawn. We had no idea Jude had died until the coastguard radioed us.’
‘Her poor family must be in pieces.’ Lorraine Kinver’s voice is less strident than her husband’s, her manner more sympathetic.
‘I’m trying to trace her last movements. Can you tell me how the three of you spent last Sunday?’
Stephen Kinver gives a rapid nod. ‘Jude took us out to the Western Isles; we picked her up from Ruin Beach in the morning, around ten. She brought a young lad with her, to take care of our equipment.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Tom Heligan; the kid didn’t say much, but he was a good diver. We spent the day exploring a few old wrecks, then dropped them back on Tresco in the late afternoon. Jude was good at her job, but I could tell I got on her nerves.’ Words spill from Kinver’s mouth at high speed, racing to deliver his message.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I don’t have an off switch, Lorraine says I should learn to edit myself. Jude’s dad tolerated me better. We’ve dived with Mike loads of times, but the guy’s heading for retirement, which is a damned shame.’
‘Steve’s a natural motormouth,’ his wife agrees. ‘He’s like Marmite, people love him or loathe him.’
‘I’m the opposite; people tell me I say too little. Where are you both from originally?’
‘Essex,’ Kinver replies. ‘But I’ve been based in London twenty years, that’s where we met.’
‘You seem to take your diving seriously.’
‘We’ve been addicted since our first dive. Both of us gave up banking careers to buy this boat. There’s a world down there that’s more fascinating than ours, with twice as many secrets. I swear I’ve seen fish that have never been identified.’
‘It’s the marine life that interests you?’
‘Hell, no.’ His laughter is as rapid as machine-gun fire. ‘I’m looking for Atlantis. Blame my mother for reading me Treasure Island at an impressionable age.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘The lost city may never be found, but I know it exists. You’ve heard the legend of Lyonesse, haven’t you?’ Kinver seems more interested in folklore than the death of a woman he recently employed.
‘It’s a myth, isn’t it?’
‘There’s stuff about it all over the internet,’ he replies. ‘We were hoping to see submerged villages from the days when the Scillies were connected to the mainland. We’re marine salvage experts. Lorraine’s set up a website; divingforgold.com. If we report a find, there’s a spike in traffic to our site, but some weeks it’s slim pickings.’
‘Are many people interested in shipwrecks?’ It strikes me as unlikely that the couple can support their oceangoing lifestyle from a website’s advertising revenue.
‘Tens of thousands follow us, worldwide. Every diver fantasises about discovering an ancient wreck, and people visit the site who’ve never boarded a boat in their lives. We’re feeding a hungry audience. I suppose you’d call it wish-fulfilment.’
Lorraine touches her husband’s shoulder. ‘Stop babbling, Steve. DI Kitto doesn’t want to know about our business. He’s here to talk about Jude.’
‘Feel free to shut me up,’ Kinver replies. ‘Everyone else does.’
‘But you always start again, that’s the trouble.’ Lorraine softens her comment by resting her hand on his shoulder, proving that despite Kinver’s bluster, her calm temperament gives her equal power in their relationship. ‘We love diving in the Scillies; we’ve visited Tresco often in the last five years.’
‘When were you here last?’
‘Last November. The marine survey keeps pulling us back; it lists hundreds of missing ships around the islands’ coastlines, dating back hundreds of years. Jude showed us a Spanish galleon and an American tea clipper, but both wrecks had been stripped years ago. We decided to cut our losses and spend a few days fishing, before heading for the States.’
‘Do you ever collect things from the seabed?’
‘There’s no law against it, if you hand over your finds inside twenty-eight days,’ Kinver chips in. ‘Often we just record the location for our website, instead of bringing stuff to the surface.’
‘Doesn’t that encourage looters?’
‘That’s not our problem. We’re not breaking any laws.’
‘Would you mind showing me below deck?’
His smile vanishes. ‘Surely you don’t think we hurt Jude? People must have seen us sailing away, after we left Ruin Beach.’
‘I’m just interested. I’ve always been keen on boats.’
‘We’re citizens of the world, Inspector, we like our freedom. Satisfy your curiosity when you’ve got a warrant.’ He releases a long breath, as if he’s blowing out candles on a birthday cake.
I’d like to know more about Jude Trellon’s behaviour the day before she died, but Stephen Kinver seems keen for me to leave, and his wife’s manner is cooling. Their defensiveness makes me believe the couple could be hiding stolen items in their hold, but the crime of looting is separate from the murder investigation. When it becomes clear that they have nothing more to say about Jude, I instruct them to stay within a three-mile radius of Tresco until they get clearance to leave.
Dusk is thickening as I carry my frustration back to shore. It interests me that Tom Heligan went along for the ride, but Stephen Kinver’s attitude could be more relevant. He’s got the kind of ego that has to score points in every situation. Maybe Jude’s greater expertise grated on him, but it’s hard to believe the man could have persuaded his wife to circle back to Piper’s Hole to kill a woman they barely knew. He could easily have attacked Eddie this morning, by mooring their boat in one of Tresco’s coves then rowing ashore to follow him around the island. Kinver’s abrupt manner has set my alarm bells ringing, but there’s no obvious rea
son why he would attack two islanders in quick succession, unless the guy’s a psychopath.
I moor the launch by the quay at Ruin Beach, then take a final walk south, with stars overhead already piercing the sky, the sun dipping below the horizon. I want a last look at the stretch of beach where Elinor Jago found Eddie floating lifelessly in the water; she was delivering post to the cottages on Rowesfield Lane when she caught sight of him. The killer would have to be organised and physically fit to carry out the attack. But which islander is warped enough to leave a sailor’s prayer attached to a cop’s body before condemning him to drown?
The lights are on in Pentle Cottage when I reach the far end of the bay. Sophie Browarth must have returned from her home visits, but when I look through her living room window, a new piece of information falls into place. She’s standing in the middle of her lounge, with her arms locked around Shane Trellon’s neck, kissing him like he’s her new source of oxygen. The scene I witnessed this morning must have been part of a lovers’ tiff, while her husband’s away. I’m surprised by their carelessness; even though the cottage is remote, anyone could spot them while the curtains hang open. Their kiss lasts for another minute and shows no sign of ending. Adultery isn’t a crime, but I’d like to know whether Shane Trellon’s affair with his sister’s best friend has any bearing on her death.
Darkness has dropped over the beach like a blackout curtain when I finally get home to Bryher. Shadow curls up on the sofa once he’s fed, but my own appetite is harder to satisfy. Eddie is alive due to a piece of good luck; if circumstances had been different, the vicar would be writing another eulogy to deliver at his funeral. Going to the pub while my mind is so preoccupied doesn’t appeal, so I toast a bagel, then use the entire contents of my fridge to construct a cheese omelette. Once my makeshift meal is eaten I sift through notes on my laptop. Three days have passed since Jude Trellon’s death, facts about her personality slowly emerging. She was a thrill-seeker who suppressed her love of danger once she had a child, but may have found other risks to satisfy her thirst for excitement. I’m even more certain that whoever killed the young mother knew of her failings, and had no qualms about subjecting her to a terrifying death. It would take cold, intense rage to force an object into someone’s mouth then watch her drown. The killer’s method needs to be taken into account, as well as motivation. Whoever murdered Jude must have had access to a boat and strong sailing skills to escape the incoming tide, so every vessel that has visited Tresco recently needs to be searched.
