Ruin Beach

by Kate Rhodes

‘Tom’s a sweet kid. Jude taught him to dive when he was about twelve, and he’s hung around the boats ever since,’ Diane says. ‘He’s had a tough time since his dad left last year. The bastard scarpered a few months after Linda fell on the rocks outside their house.’

  Mike shifts forwards in his chair. ‘I told Jude he had a crush on her, but she didn’t listen. He’s keen on all the same things: boats, wrecks and diving. The lad followed her around every day last summer.’

  ‘Can I check your logbook again, Mike? I need to see how often Tom crewed for her recently.’

  ‘I’ll get it from the shop.’ He hurries away, with Eddie in tow, clearly glad to be given a task.

  ‘That boy would have done anything for Jude,’ says Diane. ‘You don’t think he’s been hurt, do you?’

  ‘With luck he’ll be home soon,’ I reply, with a calm smile. ‘Have you ever heard about a Roman shipwreck, off the Eastern Isles, called the Minerva?’

  ‘It’s a myth, isn’t it?’ Her eyes blink rapidly. ‘People have talked about it for generations, saying it’s packed with silver and gold. No one really believes it exists.’

  ‘Not even Jude?’

  ‘She would have told us if she’d seen anything.’

  I lower my cup onto the table. ‘Has Ivar come round much over the last few days?’

  Her expression sours. ‘Not once; it wouldn’t surprise me if he took Frida back to Sweden. We’ve seen more of Jude’s ex since we lost her.’

  ‘Jamie Petherton?’

  ‘He called round the day after we heard; he seems more upset than Ivar.’

  ‘How’s Shane coping?’

  ‘It’s easier for him to get angry than grieve. He stores it all inside, like Mike.’ She stares down at her hands. ‘You will find the bastard that killed Jude, won’t you? I couldn’t bear it if he walked away.’

  ‘We’ll do everything we can.’

  It crosses my mind to ask if she knows about her son’s affair with Sophie Browarth, but it’s not likely to be connected with the case. Her green eyes pin me to the chair until Mike and Eddie return, carrying the ledger that holds details of recent diving trips, then we say our goodbyes.

  When we return to the incident room, the logbook proves that Tom Heligan crewed for Jude on almost every trip last summer, cutting down to once a week when he started work at the café. The pair must have talked for hours during those long voyages. For a kid obsessed by the sea, Jude’s job would have seemed the ideal occupation. It’s impossible to know whether he volunteered on board for free diving lessons or because he was gripped by infatuation. When I scan the pages of the record again, it looks like the diving business survives by offering a range of services: seal-watching trips, scuba diving lessons, and wreck dives for groups of holidaymakers. Business dwindles when the season ends, but Jude found work from yachtsmen that visit the islands all year round, taking over her father’s role as a personal diving guide, with customers like the Kinvers employing her for days at a time. She spent most of the autumn taking groups out to the wrecks that lie beyond St Agnes. I feel more certain than ever that the answer to her death and Heligan’s disappearance lies under the sea, not on dry land.

  ‘Let me see the list of islanders who own boats again, Eddie.’

  He shunts the paper across the table, but the names fail to narrow the field. Lawrie Deane has only searched the boats that were in the main harbour today, and the killer has had plenty of time to hide any signs that his vessel is being used to carry out attacks. Most families own a dinghy for travelling between the islands, and more than half have cabin cruisers. Boats are like taxis here, kids learning to row as soon as they’re big enough to hold an oar. The ocean is everywhere you look, tempting people to swim, dive and sail all year round, but I can’t forget the certainty on my uncle’s face when he claimed that the killer used a boat with a powerful engine to escape from Piper’s Hole.

  When I look out of the window again, clouds are blocking the late afternoon light as Arthur Penwithick’s ferry cuts across the sound. The fact that Tom Heligan has been missing all day nags at me on a personal level as I reach for my jacket. His mother relies on him for company and help around the house. No one has reported seeing a body, which must be a good sign, and my spirits lift further when I see more than forty people gathering outside, ready to scour the island for signs of the boy.

  Most of the search party are locals, but a few have made the short journey from Bryher, including Maggie and Ray, with Zoe giving a thumbs up from the back of the crowd. I divide them into small groups, offering specific instructions about where to look, and making a point of thanking Denny Cardew for coming to help, aware that he’s been working since dawn. The fisherman shakes his head at the mention of his name, embarrassed to be singled out. The islanders listen intently as I ask them to search outbuildings and caves, as well as the shoreline. There’s no sign of Ivar Larsson; it concerns me that he has shunned social contact since Jude died, the rest of the islanders banding together to help find her killer.

  My search group includes members of staff from the New Inn, including Will Dawlish, and the postmistress, Elinor Jago. But when I glance around, several families are missing, including the Polrews. It doesn’t surprise me that the historian is keeping his daughter closeted away, instead of letting her join the search. I catch sight of Shane Trellon in the distance talking to Justin Bellamy, whose scruffy jeans and summer shirt look out of kilter with his dog collar. Mike and Diane are nowhere to be seen.

  Zoe falls into step beside me once we set off. ‘Where are you taking us?’

  ‘North along the shore, to Piper’s Hole.’

  ‘Do you expect to find him alive?’ she asks in a whisper.

  ‘He hasn’t been missing long, so his chances are good.’ I keep my voice level, in case anyone hears. I learned long ago that an investigation soon fragments if the lead officer shows signs of uncertainty.

  The tide is out as we follow the eastern shore. On any other day, I’d enjoy strolling with Zoe while my dog sprints ahead. The landscape is at its best today, waves cresting against the granite slabs of Braiden Steps, and yachts bobbing past Frenchman’s Point like a shoal of minnows, yet my thoughts refuse to settle. Tom Heligan could already have met with the same violence that ended Jude Trellon’s life, but the message the killer left behind must have a meaning. I’m struggling to understand the symbolism of leaving lines from old sea shanties and sailors’ prayers at each scene; the only suspects with a clear interest in history are Jamie Petherton and David Polrew, but no hard evidence links either of them to the crimes.

  The group walks in silence at first. Elinor Jago is to my left, stopping regularly to inspect thickets of brambles and peer through the windows of outhouses. The woman tackles the search with the same thoroughness she brings to her role as the island’s postmistress, completing every task with brisk efficiency. But when I try to make conversation, she replies in monosyllables, all of her attention focused on finding the missing boy. Justin Bellamy appears more relaxed while he chats to Zoe. The priest seems to relish the opportunity to rub shoulders with a stunning blonde, his expression animated as they talk.

  David Polrew’s words return to me when we climb Tregarthen Hill. The incline looks ghost-ridden today, the grass strewn with rocks that look like they’ve lain there for thousands of years, the terrain studded with entry tombs. But there’s no sign of their original purpose; the graves appear to be empty, apart from a few sweet packets and Coke cans left by local kids.

  The vicar approaches me outside the deepest cave. ‘Weird to think that Neolithic families held funerals here.’ He stops to peer up at the sky. ‘I can see why they chose the highest land for their burial sites. It must have felt like God was close enough to touch.’

  The rocky walls are grooved by the flint tools used to widen the entrance several thousand years ago. The island’s kids might be less keen to eat their picnics here if they knew it had once been a resting place for the dead. Elinor
Jago is standing outside when I emerge, her expression pensive.

  ‘I remembered something about Jude,’ she says. ‘I saw her and Denny Cardew talking, about a week before she died. They were outside the diving shop when I delivered some letters. It sounded pretty heated.’

  ‘Did you hear what it was about?’

  ‘I was too far away. Jude was giving Denny a hard time about something, but he kept his cool.’

  ‘How did it end?’

  ‘I didn’t stay to watch.’ She looks awkward. ‘It was none of my business, and it didn’t seem important at the time.’

  ‘But it does now?’

  ‘Jude could be hot-headed, but I’ve never seen Denny argue with anyone.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind. I never thanked you properly for rescuing Eddie. You deserve a medal.’

  ‘I’m just glad he’s safe.’ Elinor seems flustered as she gives a quick smile then backs away.

  I’m still wondering why the fisherman failed to mention his argument with Jude when we reach the island’s northern tip. There’s no chance of climbing down to Piper’s Hole today. The sea is at high tide, waves battering the base of the cliffs, the wind coming off the Atlantic cooler than before. Someone could have marched Tom Heligan up here, then cast him onto the rocks below, the sea claiming him before anyone noticed he was gone, but the idea soon fades. Instinct tells me he’s still alive, even though I prefer not to rely on hunches. The killer left Jude Trellon’s body tethered to the rocks, to make sure it was found, the messages in bottles part of a symbolic conversation that I need to decode. If he’s using the same MO, he’ll preserve the boy’s life until he’s ready to return the body. My best chance of finding the boy alive is to act fast, before the killer has finished with him.

  Shane Trellon is by himself when the search party heads back inland, so I fall into step beside him. My presence makes him bristle, but the reason for his dislike remains unclear. I can tell from his scowl that there’s no point in making small talk, so I ask the question that’s bothered me since Eddie’s attack.

  ‘How long have you and Sophie Browarth been involved, Shane?’

  Shock makes his shoulders jerk before he checks if anyone’s heard. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I saw you together last night. Shut the curtains, if you want it kept secret.’

  His frown deepens. ‘She hasn’t told her husband yet. It’s been a difficult time for both of us; I went round there to comfort her.’

  ‘That sounds like more than a casual fling.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it quiet.’

  ‘Why would I tell anyone? I’ve got an investigation to run.’

  He gives a curt nod, then strides away at a furious pace, like a soldier on a route march.

  23

  Dusk is falling when I call off the search. The crowd look tired as we return to the New Inn after searching woodland, fields and the Abbey Gardens. Every shed, fish hut and barn has been checked, yet I haven’t abandoned hope of finding Tom Heligan alive. The search party is still loitering outside the inn, waiting for my verdict.

  ‘Thanks, everyone, I appreciate you giving up your time,’ I tell them. ‘Please let us know if you remember anything that could help us find Tom.’

  They drift away, leaving Eddie and I to our own devices. Will Dawlish appears from the hotel’s fire doors with some meat scraps for Shadow, disappearing inside again before I can thank him. The action is a typical piece of island behaviour. Living in such a small community forces people to be generous; the unwritten code has existed here ever since families shared food during lean winters in order to survive. I’m still preoccupied when we climb back to the attic, trying to second-guess the killer’s next move, until I notice a slight stagger in my deputy’s walk, the bruising round his eye darker than before.

  ‘Get yourself home now, Eddie. Are you okay?’

  ‘I just want him found, boss.’ The tension in his voice has sharpened since yesterday’s attack.

  ‘That won’t happen if you wear yourself out. Go and get some rest.’

  Eddie has thrown himself into the day’s tasks with so much energy, it’s easy to forget that he narrowly missed becoming the killer’s second victim. I stand by the window after he leaves, trying to imagine where Tom Heligan could be. The killer has increased his pace, delivering two attacks in forty-eight hours, increasingly desperate to ram his message home. Our search has revealed that Heligan is no longer on the island; the boy must be at sea, whether he’s alive or dead. If he’s lost his battle already, it seems a cruel fate for a kid who has made big sacrifices to care for his mother.

  The channel between Tresco and Bryher is turning to graphite as the sun drops behind Shipman Head. My gaze skims the boats floating in the harbour: dinghies, cabin cruisers and fishing smacks jostle together, as colourful as children’s toys. Denny Cardew is loading lobster creels back onto the deck of his boat, ready for morning, no one else in sight.

  It doesn’t take me long to walk to Merchant’s Point, a dim light glowing from Linda Heligan’s living room. My old teacher must have been keeping watch, because the door swings open before I reach the porch. She manoeuvres her wheelchair back so I can step into the hall.

  ‘Tom’s still missing, isn’t he? Justin told me, half an hour ago.’

  ‘The vicar phoned you?’ I ask.

  ‘He called here, after the search. Justin spent time in Tom’s room, saying a blessing.’ Her face brightens slightly. ‘We’re lucky to have such a good priest.’

  I nod in agreement, even though religion never convinces me. ‘Would you like someone to stay here with you tonight, Linda?’

  ‘People have been dropping in all day. I’ll be fine, till Tom comes home.’ She gestures towards the shelves lining the room. ‘I’ve got these stories to keep me company. I’ll read The Shipping News tonight, to remind myself that people can come back from the sea unharmed.’

  ‘Did I ever thank you, for keeping me on the straight and narrow? Without you, I’d probably be in jail.’

  ‘I doubt it, Ben. You were your own man, even then. But I bet you never finished The Canterbury Tales.’

  ‘Guilty as charged.’ When she manages a smile, I see a trace of the young woman who ignited my passion for books. ‘We’ll carry on looking tomorrow. I need to go up and search Tom’s things properly this time, is that okay?’

  ‘Be careful, won’t you? Some of his stuff is fragile. He’d hate it if anything got damaged.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m less clumsy than I look.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m being paranoid. Take as long as you need.’

  I spend an hour in Tom Heligan’s room, the search giving me an insight into the boy’s personality. Zoe would approve of the few clothes that hang in his wardrobe: classic jeans and plaid shirts from Zara and Superdry. He must have saved hard for each item since he started work, making sure he picked things to last. The room is far tidier than mine at his age, only a few discarded T-shirts lying on the floor. There are hardly any books, except a few thick volumes on marine biology and environmental science. The only typically teenaged thing about Tom Heligan is his taste in music; his iPod is full of American thrash and metal bands. I search every nook and cranny, but find nothing. The boy must have intended to return soon – his phone is still lying on his desk, beside his laptop. I’ll have to wait for the IT team on the mainland to hack into his email.

  My eyes scour the room again for clues, settling on a calendar pinned above his desk. Tom has marked his diving trips with red crosses, all the other days blank, as if nothing else mattered. It surprises me that there are no photos of his absent father, while there are half a dozen of Jude Trellon. His feelings for her seem to have been close to an obsession, since he took responsibility for his mother’s care. If people are fixated, they keep mementoes, yet I can’t see any items belonging to the woman Tom Heligan revered.

  ‘He must have kept something,’ I mutter to myself.

  Ther
e’s little in the other upstairs rooms, except discarded furniture and old clothes stacked on beds, proving that it has been a long time since Linda could access the first floor of her house. I’m about to return downstairs when I spot that the loft hatch is ajar and pull down the ladder. The attic smells of mothballs and damp newspaper, dozens of cardboard boxes lying side by side. I follow the outline of fresh boot prints through the dust, until I spot a piece of yellow insulating foam that sits higher than the rest. When I pull the material back, my eyes catch on a brown paper package and my pulse quickens. It contains another figurine, but this one is larger and less tarnished than the mermaid. It shows a man with a trident gripped in his hand, the laurel wreath in his hair picked out in gold. The discovery proves that Tom Heligan was lying when he claimed not to have seen anything like the mermaid amulet that caused Jude Trellon’s death. Not only had he seen the ancient figurines before, he chose to hide one in his attic. His mother would never have found it if he’d left the package in his room, but he must have feared that someone else might break into the house. The question I need to answer is why Jude would give him something so valuable.

  It’s 10 p.m. when I return downstairs. Linda listens in silence as I explain that her son’s phone and computer need to be analysed. When I show her the figurine, she shakes her head blankly, stating that she has never seen it before. She looks frailer than ever, refusing again to let me take her to a friend’s house. I wish her goodnight, then carry her son’s belongings with me, wrapped in evidence bags.

  Shadow has found company while I’ve been indoors. Someone is sitting on a rock at the far end of the beach, the dog lying at their feet. As I draw closer, a young woman scrambles to her feet and starts to run.

  ‘Wait!’ I call out.

  Gemma Polrew looks like a startled deer when I catch up with her, anxiety etched across her face, straight blonde hair shifting in the breeze.

  ‘This is a surprise. Do your parents know you’re here, Gemma?’

  ‘They didn’t see me leave. I often wait on the rocks, till Tom comes out to see me. We’ve depended on each other since our other mates left.’