Ruin Beach

by Kate Rhodes

  ‘Tom’s probably just popped out to see someone, Linda, but we’ll do a search anyway.’

  ‘My son hasn’t been himself lately, that’s why I’m worried. He cancelled his place at uni at the last minute, and Jude Trellon’s death has affected him terribly.’

  ‘Were they close?’

  She gives a vigorous nod. ‘Tom worked as a crew member in exchange for free diving lessons; it’s been his favourite hobby since his dad left. Jude let him hang around the diving school whenever he had spare time.’

  ‘How’s he been since she died?’

  ‘He’s stopped talking to me.’ She presses her hand to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry to burden you with this, Ben. I don’t know what I’ll do if he isn’t found.’

  ‘When’s the last time you saw him?’

  ‘I heard him go outside, around midnight, but I thought he’d come back.’

  ‘We’ll find him.’ I touch her arm. ‘Is there anyone to help you, till Tom gets home?’

  ‘Plenty of people, that’s the irony. My friends here will give me a hand: Diane Trellon, Elinor Jago, Sylvia Cardew. I’d have managed if he’d gone away to uni, but his sense of duty kept him here.’

  ‘You’re sure he isn’t with a friend?’

  ‘They all left the island last autumn, except Gemma Polrew.’

  ‘She’s his girlfriend?’

  Linda releases a broken laugh. ‘My son’s in love with the sea, nothing else.’

  I check the shingle in front of the house before I leave. A few cigarette butts lie between stones near the entrance, but there are no visible footprints running down to the beach, the tide wiping away evidence of the boy’s movements. I only spot something in the middle of the path as I straighten up. It’s another plastic water bottle, and at first I assume it’s been washed up with the latest tide, but the slip of paper inside makes my heart rate double. The killer is savvy enough to wear gloves when he leaves his taunts, so I don’t bother to use an evidence bag to pick it up: this time the writing on the scrap of paper inside is bigger than before, but still using the same block capitals, designed to mask his handwriting. I shove the bottle into my pocket before looking back at the house. Linda Heligan is stationed by her living room window, but she’s not watching me. Her eyes are fixed on the horizon, as if her son’s boat is due home from a long sea voyage.

  20

  I wait until I’m a safe distance away before reading the message:

  FORGET THE TRAITORS, THE LIARS AND CHEATS,

  LEAVE THEM ALL BEHIND, BOYS,

  LET THEM LANGUISH ON THE SHORE,

  THEY’LL SUFFER AND DIE WHILE WE’RE FREE AS BIRDS,

  LEAVE THEM ON THE SHORE.

  The cryptic message makes the muscles tighten inside my chest. The odd chant sounds like another verse from a sea shanty, and it must have a meaning for the killer, but who would harm an eighteen-year-old boy that never hurt anyone in his life? It must be linked to Jude and the diving expedition they took together on the day she died, although the connection will be hard to prove. There’s no way of knowing whether the boy has been abducted or killed, his body tethered to a rock somewhere, while the killer remains at liberty, like the birds in his message.

  My heart sinks when I see DCI Madron in the incident room; his grey mackintosh is buttoned to his throat, as if he fears contamination. My deputy pulls an apologetic face as Shadow bounds through the door.

  ‘That dog should be leashed, Kitto,’ the DCI says. ‘You’re not permitted to bring him on police business.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, we weren’t expecting you.’

  ‘That makes no difference. I expect my orders to be carried out, whether I’m here or not.’

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind, sir. Did you get my report?’

  ‘I prefer to be updated in person, and I wanted to check that Eddie’s recovering.’

  Madron’s expression hardens when I explain Tom Heligan’s absence. He peers at the verse from the sea shanty, before looking at me again.

  ‘Jude Trellon’s killer was on the island the night of the murder, Kitto. You must have a list of suspects by now. These messages are no more than distraction.’

  ‘The killer knew she would go to Piper’s Hole, then left the crime scene by boat. It was premeditated murder, carefully organised. I’ve asked Lawrie Deane to search all the vessels in New Grimsby Harbour today.’

  ‘What makes you so certain the attacker used a boat?’

  ‘It would have been impossible to escape by land. Whoever killed her would need to be an experienced sailor to get round the headland with the tide rushing in. I still think they had a personal grudge, to end Jude’s life so violently. We know she’d argued with her brother Shane the night she died, so he’s our best suspect. He’s having an affair with a married woman, but I don’t see why that would send him on the attack.’

  ‘Why not bring him in for questioning?’

  ‘There’s no hard evidence to implicate him, sir. Jude spent her final day with Tom Heligan and two professional wreck divers, but neither of them have a record. It’s still possible that her boyfriend killed her after an argument. He wasn’t surprised that she’d died at Piper’s Hole, and he’s had plenty of sailing experience. Maybe he attacked Heligan because he believes the boy knows he’s the killer.’

  Madron looks sceptical. ‘Is a university academic likely to commit murder?’

  ‘Anyone can turn violent. And he has enough physical strength to force an object into a victim’s mouth, then let her choke.’

  ‘I want to see more progress by the end of the week.’

  ‘So do I, sir, but we can’t make arrests without evidence.’

  ‘You realise the press will be all over this? If you don’t find the killer soon, you’ll have an invasion.’

  I feel like explaining that getting under the skin of an island community is like piercing the surface of a diamond. The islanders’ lives are so tightly connected, it can take months to uncover secrets. Madron doesn’t seem to realise that no one is more motivated than me to find Jude Trellon’s killer; the need for justice has nagged at me ever since I saw Frida clinging to her father’s side, and it’s grown even keener since Eddie was attacked.

  ‘Get this place cleaned up,’ Madron snaps. ‘Those windows are a public disgrace, and why not smarten your appearance while you’re at it, Kitto? You look like a castaway.’

  The DCI marches away at a rapid pace, while I grit my teeth. Eddie merely rolls his eyes, then continues to phone around for sightings of Tom Heligan, but my irritation lingers. Madron has grated on me from the start. His long spell as chief of police of the island force has been uneventful, apart from one murder case and the usual round of petty crimes. Fatalities make him panic, yet he’s wary of handing over the reins. He’ll carry on criticising everything I do until the case closes, making me even keener to find the killer fast.

  I put the mermaid figurine from Jude’s attack in my pocket, then leave the dog with Eddie. Shadow gives a howl of disapproval, but David Polrew’s Persian rugs and antique furniture wouldn’t stand a prayer if he broke loose. I have no idea whether the historian’s daughter will be at home, but Tom Heligan’s one remaining friend on the island might know where he’s hiding.

  This time Dr Polrew answers the door himself, dressed in old-fashioned corduroy trousers, his checked shirt open at the neck. The academic’s expression is animated, as if he’s looking forward to discussing his book.

  ‘Could I speak to your daughter please, Dr Polrew?’

  His smile is replaced by disapproval. ‘I don’t allow Gemma to have visitors during the day, it disrupts her study programme.’

  ‘This is a police matter. It won’t take long.’

  The historian chunters under his breath before climbing the stairs, leaving me to study the decor again. The grandfather clock, parquet floor and subdued oil paintings suit the age of the house but make its atmosphere oppressive. Beeswax lingers on the air, cloying and oversweet. When David Po
lrew returns, a slim teenaged girl follows in his wake, face veiled by a sweep of blonde hair. Despite the warm weather she’s dressed in jeans, boots and a baggy jumper. I smile in her direction but she doesn’t meet my eye.

  ‘I’ll stay, if you don’t mind,’ Polrew says. ‘Gemma doesn’t like meeting strangers on her own.’

  The Polrews’ living room combines grandeur with ostentation, a chandelier hanging above the inglenook fire. The historian stands sentry by the door while the girl perches on the settee, hands clasped in her lap. She’s got a pretty, heart-shaped face, but her expression is wary.

  ‘Have you heard from Tom Heligan recently, Gemma?’ I ask.

  ‘Not lately. I’ve been busy revising.’

  ‘But you’re friends, aren’t you?’

  ‘We went to school together, that’s all.’ Her gaze shifts towards her father.

  ‘Your friends didn’t help you much last year, did they?’ Polrew snaps. ‘Tell the inspector why you’re still at home.’

  The girl’s voice drops to a mumble. ‘Dad wants me to retake my A levels, to get better grades.’

  ‘She wasted her time socialising. We’re having to pay a tutor to coach her, two days a week online,’ says Polrew. ‘Her brother, Kieran, never caused us this kind of trouble; he’s at Oxford, reading chemistry.’

  I return my attention to the girl. ‘I need you to check whether Tom texted or called you in the last few days, please.’

  ‘I’ll get my phone.’ Gemma is already on her feet, skirting past her father to retrieve her mobile.

  ‘My daughter fights me every step of the way,’ Polrew mutters. ‘She’s got the concentration span of a goldfish.’

  ‘All teenagers are the same.’

  ‘She needs three A’s to study psychology at Bristol, but missed the target, thanks to her hectic social life. She’s only got herself to blame.’

  Polrew sounds sublimely certain that he’s correct, but I have my doubts. His bullying manner leads me to believe that the girl could have been trapped indoors for weeks, the dark paint on the walls making the room feel as oppressive as a prison cell.

  ‘Tom sent a few texts, but nothing unusual,’ Gemma says when she returns, her phone clutched in her hand.

  ‘Could I see his messages please?’

  She looks awkward as she hands over the mobile, and the texts between her and Tom Heligan explain why. Hers are a litany of despair about being trapped indoors, haranguing her parents, the boy’s answers reassuring her that she’ll soon be free again.

  ‘Thanks, Gemma, that’s fine.’ I pass the phone back. ‘How did Tom act, last time you spoke?’

  ‘He seemed worried about something, but we didn’t talk for long.’

  Polrew glares at his daughter, as if a brief chat with a boy is a hanging offence. It’s clear she won’t open up in his presence, her expression tense with anxiety, so I give her my card instead of asking another question.

  ‘If you remember anything, please call me straight away.’ The girl vanishes from the room, her father still wearing an irritable frown. ‘Could you identify an item for me, while I’m here, Dr Polrew?’

  I produce the mermaid figurine and the coin from Jude Trellon’s kitbag, wrapped in separate evidence bags. Polrew carries them over to the window to inspect them in clear light. He keeps his back turned, exclaiming under his breath. When he finally turns round, the disapproval he showed his daughter has been replaced by excitement, his eyes glittering.

  ‘Jamie Petherton can verify my opinion, but I believe the figure dates from the Roman era, fifth or sixth century. It’s an amulet, cast from silver – high-ranking sailors carried them on long voyages for good luck. Where did you find it?’

  ‘At the scene of Jude Trellon’s murder.’

  His stare intensifies. ‘A cache of Roman items was found in a field near here years ago, but none this well preserved.’ He examines the figurine again, poring over every detail. ‘Historical records talk about a Roman vessel foundering on its way to Tresco. It was called the Minerva, loaded with artefacts made from precious metals. Have you heard of it?’

  ‘I read about it in your book. Do you think the amulet’s from the Minerva?’

  ‘It’s the right age, but I’ve been scouring the seabed for ten years. I doubt a casual amateur would find it before me.’

  The anger on Polrew’s face proves that his passion for undiscovered wrecks is more than academic. I’m almost certain that he employed Jude Trellon to help him search for a ship that’s featured in local folklore for generations.

  ‘What about the coin?’

  He shakes his head dismissively. ‘They’re not my speciality, but Petherton will know; he’s a self-taught expert on all things Roman. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a chapter to complete.’

  The historian’s tone is sour as he hurries me along the corridor, then barks out a hasty goodbye.

  21

  Pain throbs at the base of Tom’s spine when he comes round. Someone has placed him on his side, the taste of salt lingering on his tongue, panic making his breathing ragged. All he can see is blackness, a blindfold obscuring his vision. He could be trapped in a nightmare, but the ache between his shoulders is too sharp to be imaginary. It’s impossible to move; his hands have been bound tightly behind his back, ankles lashed together with rope. He cries out at the top of his voice, his body squirming against its constraints like a fish on a line. When his strength finally fails, the silence deepens. The room must be tiny: if he swings his legs, he can touch walls on either side, the air thick with condensation.

  Tom gulps in a long breath, but it’s impossible to calm down. He can taste the reek of fish guts, and a smell he recognises from the diving shop: the synthetic odour of wetsuits and diving gear. At first there are no sounds at all, until he hears the murmur of waves hitting a hard surface. When the floor beneath him shifts in a rolling motion, the truth hits home. Someone has sealed him in the hold of a boat, a piece of human cargo with no value, and before long his oxygen supply will run out. He releases another yell, but no reply comes back, not even an echo.

  22

  Eddie looks surprised by the idea that David Polrew is as keen to locate the Roman cargo ship as the Kinvers. Unlike the professional wreck divers, his motive is likely to be academic acclaim, not money, but the prospect still appears to have gripped his imagination. A few checks on the internet confirm the historian’s claims about the area’s maritime history. The islands were an important Roman trading post; ships carrying valuable goods often foundered on the rocks, until pilots were paid to guide them through the danger zone to St Mary’s harbour. Reading about maritime history makes me follow my suspicions about the Kinvers, to see how they’ve spent the last year. There’s nothing to incriminate the couple in either Jude’s murder or Tom’s disappearance, apart from the fact that they both spent the day of Jude’s death on the Kinvers’ yacht. When I run searches through the Police National Computer, neither of them have records, but they’ve been travelling at a frantic pace, flitting from Indonesia to the West Indies, then back to the Mediterranean. I’m certain they’re involved in illegal trade, but following my instinct about the couple’s activities would only distract me from finding the missing boy.

  When I call Linda Heligan at 3 p.m., anxiety has sharpened her tone of voice. No one on the island will admit to seeing her son since yesterday, the message left outside her house making me concerned that Tom may have met the same fate as Jude Trellon. Our best chance of finding him alive lies in understanding the link between them.

  ‘We need to interview Jude’s parents again,’ I tell Eddie. ‘Shadow can come with us.’

  ‘The DCI will go mad if he hears.’

  ‘He’ll chew up the floorboards if we leave him behind.’

  The dog launches himself outside in a wild bid for freedom, leaving us free to walk to Ruin Beach alone. Clouds gather as we head north, shadows rolling across Vane Hill, while sheep cluster under elm trees.

&n
bsp; ‘Do you know how Ruin Beach got its name?’ I ask.

  ‘Because so many ships were destroyed here,’ Eddie replies. ‘Wreckers lured boats onto the shore, then stole their cargo. The offshore rocks claimed plenty of lives too. By the way, Lawrie didn’t find anything on the boats in harbour today. I can give you a list of the ones he searched.’

  ‘Bloody marvellous.’

  Now that the sun has disappeared, the view is ominous. A vast expanse of grey ocean lies under a pallid sky, with spikes of granite piercing the waters at the mouth of the inlet, ready to capsize all but the most experienced mariners. It’s perfectly possible that Jude Trellon’s attacker used a boat moored in a marina on one of the other inhabited islands, and hunting for him is starting to feel like searching for a single fragment of amber on a mile-long beach.

  Diane and Mike are alone when we reach their house, the kitchen littered with sympathy cards. The couple look worse than last time, as if the reality of their daughter’s death has finally registered. They listen in silence to the news that Tom Heligan has been missing since dawn. The hope on Diane’s face has been replaced by grim determination to keep going, while Mike glowers at me, his arms folded.

  ‘What’s that got to do with Jude?’ He gives me a bloodshot stare.

  ‘It was the same attacker. We need to understand the connection.’