by Kate Rhodes
I scroll through the details of each interview, reviewing each one in turn. Ivar Larsson has revealed little about his relationship with Jude, but the couple appear to be polar opposites, which may have created conflict. He could have left his child asleep at home, then used one of the diving school’s hire boats to motor round to Piper’s Hole and attack her. Jude would have been disoriented from surfacing in the dark cave, allowing him to rip away her breathing gear. Or it might have been a simple case of fraternal jealousy. Jude led a glamorous life through her teens and early twenties, travelling all over the world, while her brother propped up the family business. Maybe Shane killed his sister after a lifetime of feeling second best. There’s an outside chance that one of Jude’s acquaintances like the historian David Polrew or the Kinvers harmed her, but the only other interviewee to ring my alarm bells is her ex, Jamie Petherton. The museum keeper could be nursing a long-standing grudge over the knock to his ego when she ended their relationship, or the insults she threw at him a few weeks ago.
I complete a progress report for Madron, then flick through David Polrew’s book, oblivious to time passing. The man seems to have an encyclopaedic knowledge of local shipwrecks, including ones not yet discovered. The one that seems to have excited Jude Trellon’s interest is a Roman vessel called the Minerva, reputed to have foundered off the Eastern Isles in the sixth century, with a cargo of precious metal. The ship’s name is familiar from my father’s tales of a vessel that lay far below the waves, laden with treasure, but I didn’t realise the stories were based on truth. The page that describes the myth of the Minerva is covered in diagrams and indecipherable scrawl.
It’s only when my phone buzzes that I realise it’s almost midnight. A text has arrived from Zoe, inviting me for a nightcap. Shadow lets me exit the house alone for once, lifting his head from the sofa to give me a disapproving look as I slip away. Leaving the house without him feels like an odd kind of liberation. The tide is so far out, the sound of the waves is no more than a whisper, the hotel’s white outline glistening on the horizon. There are so few outdoor lights here, the constellations are free to dazzle, the North Star burning a hole in the sky.
When I trot up the steps to the bar, the panoramic window shines like a film set, but the place appears deserted. Only Zoe stands behind the bar, with her platinum blonde hair slicked back, a crimson top hugging her curves, looking like an old-time movie star. I would never dream of passing on the compliment; Zoe and I stopped flattering each other years ago. If I told her she looked like Marilyn Monroe’s younger sister, she’d laugh in my face.
‘No guests tonight?’ I ask.
‘They’re in the film room, watching Jamaica Inn.’
‘Lucky them. I could use some escapism.’
‘I got a new delivery of vodka today. Fancy a tasting session?’
‘Okay, but not too much. I need to be up bright and early tomorrow.’
‘How’s the case going?’ She’s too busy filling shot glasses to meet my eye.
‘Progress is slower than I’d like.’
She sashays out from behind the bar, a silver tray balanced on her fingertips. ‘Come and tell me about it. We can exchange sob stories.’
We settle at a corner table, the place silent apart from a hum of voices in the distance, as the last kitchen staff depart. ‘You go first,’ I say. ‘I’m sick of thinking about it.’
‘I’m planning some changes, but it’s still up in the air.’
‘Are we talking about that yellow folder again?’
‘You’ll know soon enough. Try this one first; it’s flavoured with peppercorns.’
I knock the vodka back in one swallow. ‘Are you going on a world cruise?’
Her grin is powerful enough to light up the room. ‘No, but I’d love a month doing bugger all except sunbathing and scoffing exquisite food.’ When she faces me again, her smile has vanished. ‘I’m stuck in a rut, Ben. Sometimes I’ll be chatting to guests, but my brain’s left the building. I’m thirty-three, with a first-class music degree and a half-decent singing voice. I love it here, but I’m not fulfilling my potential.’ She places another glass in my hand. ‘Don’t you ever fantasise about a parallel life?’
‘Not often since I came home. I used to stand on my balcony in London watching pavements full of people, marching to work like they were on a conveyor belt. It made me wonder what the hell I was doing there. The job was exciting, but undercover work got tougher each year.’
‘You must think about the future sometimes?’
The question pulls me up short. I’ve always imagined having a wife and kids one day, but never set myself a deadline. ‘I’m better at dealing with the here and now.’
‘That’s a good philosophy, I knew you’d say something sensible eventually.’ Her grin flares back into life again. ‘Tell me how the investigation’s going.’
‘We’re interviewing all the islanders, but Jude’s family are suffering. They need answers before they can rest.’ I swallow another shot, and by now I’m comfortably numb. It crosses my mind to tell her about the kiss I witnessed between Shane and Sophie, but discretion is not one of Zoe’s virtues. ‘What’s your take on extramarital affairs, if one of the partners is away for a long time?’
‘If someone cheated on me, it would be game over.’ She gives me a puzzled look, then shrugs her shoulders. ‘But infidelity’s a fact of life, I suppose; absence doesn’t always make the heart grow fonder.’
‘You’re the last of the great romantics, Zoe.’
‘Life cured me of it, big time.’ She studies me more closely. ‘I know you’re working hard, but that’s no excuse for a horrible beard.’
I rub my hand across my jaw. ‘It gives me a distinguished air.’
‘You’re just too lazy to shave.’
‘I need to find the bastard who drowned Jude Trellon and attacked Eddie. My appearance is the last thing on my mind.’
‘Promise to let me drag you round the shops in Penzance when the case closes.’
‘You’re worse than my boss.’ I knock back a shot of cranberry-flavoured vodka that tastes like cough mixture, the alcohol making my vision blur. ‘Do you know much about Jamie Petherton?’
‘The guy’s fragile, and those David Bowie eyes of his have always freaked me out.’ Zoe’s glass hovers in the air. ‘It must be tough living with your mum and dad at his age; I don’t think he’s been in a relationship for years. Jamie reacted badly when Jude dropped him for Ivar, years ago.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘It all got a bit Fatal Attraction. Jamie kept going round to her house, even when Ivar had moved in.’
‘But he got over it?’
‘He must have done, it was years ago.’ She offers me another shot. ‘The aniseed one’s best. It’s so strong, my tongue’s gone numb.’
My head’s spinning with vodka and conflicting information when I walk back across the beach, so I sit on a boulder to clear my thoughts. The Plough, Orion, and the Seven Sisters glitter overhead like strands in a pearl necklace as my ideas slowly reposition. It’s obvious that Jude Trellon inspired strong passions in everyone she knew: Ivar’s low mutterings over her dead body sounded like a love song, and her ex-boyfriend was too fixated to let her go without a fight. But the question I still need to answer is which islander held such deep feelings that they were driven to take her life.
18
It’s after midnight when Tom slips downstairs for his final cigarette. His mother is asleep already, lights out in her small room beside the kitchen. He tiptoes down the hallway, closing the door gently behind him, to avoid waking her. When he glances at the houses nearby, only their outlines are visible in the dark. His resentment builds with each mouthful of smoke. Maybe he’ll waste years like this, while his mates party the night away at university. He shuts his eyes and tries not to imagine years slipping past while he scrubs tables at the café. Now that Jude’s gone, there will be no more trips on the dive boat when the summer days length
en.
Tom grinds the embers of his cigarette into dust with the heel of his trainer. He wants to yell curses at the night sky but doesn’t make a sound. Jude would tell him to forget his self-pity and find a solution, but the answer lies beyond his reach. He carries on staring out to sea. The immensity of the flat plain of water is a reminder that his worries are insignificant. One day things will improve and he’ll forget about being trapped here, like a castaway, with no means of escape.
Something flickers in the corner of his eye as he turns back to the house. There’s a cracking sound before shock overwhelms him, then a sharp burst of pain between his shoulder blades. He tries to cry out, but his tongue refuses to move. Someone pushes him to the ground, his cheek scraping over raw granite. Now the pain in his back is so blinding he loses consciousness. When his eyes open again, footsteps crunch on the shingle as he’s dragged across the shore, the taste of salt water filling his mouth. The boy’s arms twitch feebly at his sides until pain sends him under again.
PART TWO
‘Still unresistingly heaved the black sea, as if its vast tides were a conscience; and the great mundane soul were in anguish and remorse for the long sin and suffering it had bred.’
MOBY DICK,
Herman Melville, 1851
19
Thursday May 14
Nausea is threatening to overwhelm me when I return to the New Inn. Booze doesn’t normally affect me so badly, but a combination of neat alcohol, too little food and concern about the case has kept me awake into the small hours. At 8 a.m., Will Dawlish is already filling out the menu board beside the bar. The landlord looks ungainly as he wields his chalk, belt tight around his paunch, his bald head shiny in the overhead light.
‘Want to try my guaranteed hangover cure?’ he asks, with a look of sympathy.
‘Is it that obvious?’
His face creases into a smile. ‘Only to the trained observer.’
‘I’ll give anything a go, Will. From now on, I’m sticking to beer.’
I settle on a bar stool and watch him squeezing oranges, then dropping mint leaves into a blender with a chunk of pineapple. The result tastes surprisingly pleasant, the ice-cold liquid settling my stomach.
‘That should clear your head.’
‘It’s doing the trick already. Can I ask you about Jude, while I’m here? I wondered if you’d remembered anything else about Sunday night.’
‘Why? Was I one of the last people to speak to her?’
‘It looks that way.’
Will frowns down at his hands, splayed across the bar’s marble surface. ‘Jude sat where you are now, with her brother. They seemed fine until the row kicked off. I was collecting glasses when I heard them yelling. She was out of here in a blink, slamming the door behind her.’
‘Do you know what started it?’
‘I was getting ready to close, but earlier on I heard them talking about money problems. She said something about how she was going to sort it by herself, then he called her an arrogant bitch.’
‘Did you see anyone leave straight after Jude?’
Dawlish frowns. ‘One of the younger lads went a few minutes later, but he was probably just going home. He’d been playing darts with some regulars.’
‘Who was that?’
‘Tom Heligan. A nice lad, from Merchant’s Point, wouldn’t say boo to a goose. He was first to leave, then people drifted away. I locked the doors soon after midnight.’
‘That’s helpful, Will, and thanks again for lending us the attic. You’re doing us a big favour.’ That’s the second time that the Heligan boy has been mentioned, first as Jude’s diving assistant and now because he could have followed her to Piper’s Hole. I’ll have to interview him as soon as possible. When I look at Dawlish again, he’s observing me more closely than before. ‘I never told you how sorry I was about Anna. I would have come to her funeral if I’d heard in time.’
‘Don’t apologise, you were working away. I still can’t believe it happened.’ His eyes blink shut for a second. ‘Anna went out for an evening walk; she must have slipped on the rocks and knocked herself out. She had a head wound when I found her in Piper’s Hole the next day. It was the only place we couldn’t search the night it happened, because of the tides.’ The landlord’s voice falters to a stop. ‘The whole island wants Jude’s killer found, Ben. If you need anything, just let me know.’
Dawlish’s raw tone sounds completely sincere. Jude’s death seems to have amplified his own grief, the loss of another young woman at Piper’s Hole affecting him deeply, yet I can’t suppress a flicker of suspicion. The man appears steady and dependable, running his business while attempting to reconstruct his life, but I’ve been an investigator long enough to know that anyone can commit murder. It’s an odd coincidence that his wife and the latest victim both died in exactly the same place, six months apart. We talk for another few minutes before I thank Dawlish again, then head upstairs to the incident room, with the dog already whimpering at the prospect of being cooped up indoors. I expect to find the hotel’s shabby attic empty, but Eddie is gazing owlishly at his computer; a white bandage is taped to his forehead, midnight-blue bruises circling one of his eyes. His appearance is frail enough to put my hangover in perspective.
‘I told you to take sick leave till you recovered, Eddie.’
‘Good luck with that. I’m staying here,’ my deputy snaps.
I stare at him in amazement, before letting myself grin. His choirboy face may be pale, but it’s fierce with determination. The attack he suffered yesterday seems to have cured his politeness once and for all.
‘If you keel over, don’t blame me.’
‘I want to find the vicious bastard, before he hurts someone else,’ he mutters.
I let him complete his work in silence, his features stony with concentration. The first document my eyes light on is the post-mortem report I ordered from the coroner’s office, neatly printed out. It gives a long account of Anna Dawlish’s injuries, but I flick forwards to the summary paragraph, which confirms that she was thirty-eight years old and three months pregnant at time of death. It supports her husband’s claim that she died by accidental drowning, with no mention of foul play. I finish scanning the report with a sense of relief: Will Dawlish strikes me as a decent guy, unlikely to harm anyone.
My phone buzzes in my pocket just as I’m sliding the report back into its wallet, the answering service delivering a short voice message. Linda Heligan is requesting an urgent home visit, the rest of her speech too garbled to make out. The visit should give me the chance to learn more about her son and why he accompanied Jude Trellon on her last diving trip.
I set off for Merchant’s Point at a rapid march, the dog following a scent trail in the opposite direction, muzzle glued to the ground as he tracks imaginary prey. I think about Linda Heligan as I cut north across the island, the path winding over the rocky headland. She was younger than the other teachers, pretty, and bubbling with enthusiasm; her English lessons were all that interested me at school, apart from rugby. I found myself going to the library each lunch break to read the American novels she recommended, much to my mates’ amusement. Under ordinary circumstances it would be a pleasure to see her again, but the tension in her voice indicates that she’s in difficulty.
Merchant’s Point is beautiful but bleak, the shore a raw waste of granite, with shards of stone rising from the sea like ancient swords. The Heligans’ cottage is the only property in sight, a small, two-storey property that’s seen better days. From a distance, it looks like a piece of flotsam brought in by the tide, with no garden separating it from the shore.
A woman gazes up at me from a wheelchair when I approach the house. I do a double take before recognising my old teacher. Pain has turned her into an old woman, even though she can’t be much past forty; her thin form is hunched over, shoulder-length dark hair streaked with grey. She has lost so much weight since she kept my class entertained, there are hollows under her cheekbones, he
r eyes set too deeply into their sockets.
‘Don’t look so shocked, Ben. Didn’t you hear I’d broken my back? I can walk a few steps, but that’s my limit.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it, Linda.’
‘It’s not important now. My son’s been missing all night; I have to find him.’ Her voice is a low murmur.
‘Why don’t we talk inside?’
She wheels her chair into a small living room, lined from floor to ceiling with books, the air smelling of dried paper and firewood. ‘Tom left the front door open last night. He works at Ruin Beach café, but they haven’t seen him.’
‘Try not to worry. Most times when someone goes missing, they’re back the same day, safe and sound. Could he be visiting someone?’
‘There’s no way he’d just leave, my son’s incredibly responsible.’ She swipes a tear from her cheek as if she’s removing a troublesome fly. ‘It’s my fault he’s gone.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Tom’s got no life of his own. He’s spent all year looking after me.’
‘Don’t think about that now. Can I look in his room?’
‘Go ahead, if it helps.’
Mrs Heligan wheels her chair back into the hallway, waiting expectantly while I jog upstairs. The boy’s room is the opposite of his mother’s bookish lounge. It looks like a monument to the sea, with charts of marine creatures and pictures of a diving bell hovering over a coral reef plastered to the walls. The shelves are crowded with mollusc shells, pebbles and polished chunks of amber. His pinboard shows photos taken with an underwater camera, but it’s the biggest image that catches my attention. The dark-haired lad I saw outside the New Inn swims towards the camera, beside the woman I found dead by Piper’s Hole, her smile visible through her oxygen mask. The lad’s friendship with Jude Trellon could have exposed him to the same dangers. His phone is lying on his desk, beside his wallet, even though he’s been gone for hours. I’d like to search the room more thoroughly, but Linda’s voice drifts upstairs, checking whether I’ve found anything. I put through an alert call to Eddie before facing her again.
