by Kate Rhodes
‘Why don’t you sit down for a minute?’
‘I can’t stay long.’ The girl perches on a boulder, body language so tense it looks like she’s about to flee.
‘The best way to help Tom is to share his secrets, Gemma.’
‘I came here, the night before he went missing. He told me someone was following him.’ A tear rolls down her cheek. ‘If I’d made him report it he’d still be safe.’
‘You had no idea the threat was serious. Don’t blame yourself.’
Some of the tension slips from her face. ‘Tom thought he was in danger because he knew too much.’
‘About what?’
‘He didn’t say, and I can’t think of anyone who hated him. He wasn’t keen on Shane Trellon, but never said why. He got on fine with everyone else.’
‘Let me walk you home.’
Panic crosses her face. ‘My dad mustn’t know I’ve been out, he’d be so angry.’
‘I won’t tell anyone, but you must stay indoors at night, until the island’s safe again.’
She gives a rapid nod, and more details slip out as we head inland. Her father’s bullying seems to be psychological, not physical, but it still makes me angry. His disapproval lasts for days, if she breaks the rules. He has always been ambitious for her future, and won’t accept second best; the man doesn’t listen when she pleads to stay on the island. I understand her friendship with Tom Heligan better as she speaks. Both teenagers are carrying heavy burdens, the boy overloaded with duty, the girl by the weight of her father’s expectations. It must have been a relief to compare notes. I tell her to call me with any concerns when we come to a halt near her house, then watch her slim silhouette vanish through the gate, her bedroom light flicking on when she gets upstairs.
There’s no sign of life when I reach the harbour. The ferry is moored for the night on the opposite shore. Shadow at my side, sniffing the air. I borrow one of the dinghies that floats by the jetty, the dog jumping onto the prow as I begin to row. The boat will be back on its mooring so early tomorrow, no one will notice the temporary theft. When I drag the oars through the water, discs of moonlight float on the current, while the lost boy fills my thoughts.
24
Tom can’t tell whether it’s day or night, no light penetrating his blindfold. His throat is dry with thirst, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, his body aching from hours of confinement. His jeans are saturated with his own urine, the stink of piss adding to other foul smells that taint the air. The one thing he knows for sure is that the sea is calm. The boat is motionless, no movement beyond the rise and fall of his own breathing. He flexes his hands, but the rope binding his wrists is so tight that his fingers are numb. Thoughts of his mother struggling alone keep filling his mind, but he bats them away. All he can do now is fight to stay alive.
The boy drifts into a fitful sleep. Nightmares flow through his imagination, until a sound startles him awake, the pain in his back sharper than before. He focuses his energy on identifying new sounds. The high-pitched whine of a mosquito is growing louder; it could be a dinghy’s outboard motor. When the noise rises to a roar, it sounds close by, his hopes rocketing. A rescue party from Tresco must be coming to take him home. He raises his voice to yell out, but his throat is so parched, only a dull murmur emerges. There’s a thud as the two boats rub together, then the heavy sound of feet landing on the deck overhead. When he calls out again, there’s no reply; someone is standing directly above, ignoring his shouts for help. Tom’s whole body tenses as darkness presses against him, the thick air making his lungs ache. Then he hears a woman’s voice babbling out a long speech, her tone sour with anger. When he hears footsteps pounding towards him, he can only wait in silence for his next punishment.
25
Friday 15 May
I should have realised that my crime would be discovered. Living in a tiny community means that someone always has your back in times of need, but there’s no hiding when you break the rules. Elinor Jago is standing on the quay when I row across the sound, just after 7 a.m. The postmistress watches me moor the borrowed dinghy with a hawk-like gaze. Her expression suggests that she would give me a tongue-lashing if I were a teenager, only my status as deputy chief of police protecting me from her wrath. It’s a surprise when her face breaks into a smile.
‘Feel free to use my dinghy any time, Ben. I was wondering where it had gone. Fancy a coffee before I open up?’
‘You’re a lifesaver, I never refuse caffeine.’
It’s only a short walk up the quay to the post office, following in Elinor’s brisk stride. She’s dressed in her usual androgynous clothes: chinos, boat shoes and a crisp white shirt, her grey hair cropped shorter than mine. If the woman has had any romances recently, it’s a well-kept secret. I remember her living with a girlfriend when I was in my teens, and the woman leaving Tresco a few years later, yet Elinor doesn’t seem bitter about her solitude. She doesn’t say a word as she unlocks the post office. The space is tiny but well-organised, from a display of special edition stamps to miniature scales for weighing parcels. She flicks on the kettle and measures instant coffee into mugs so clean they glitter, all of her movements precise. Even though her distress is obvious, I know from experience that it would be pointless to press an islander to talk until she’s ready. My only option is to wait for her to open up.
‘How’s the investigation going, Ben?’
‘Tom Heligan’s disappearance has thrown us off track, but we’re making progress.’
‘Diane and Mike are two of my oldest friends. It’s hard, watching them suffer.’
‘I’m sure they appreciate your support.’
‘At least they’ve got each other. It’s Ivar I’m worried about; I keep popping round, but he never invites me in.’
‘Everyone deals with loss differently. He’s just focused on his daughter.’
She shakes her head. ‘It’s wrong to keep Frida away from everyone, she must be missing her grandparents terribly. Can you remind Ivar that I’m keen to help? You’re one of the few people he’s spoken to since Jude died, apart from the vicar.’
‘I’m going there later today; I’ll talk to him then.’ Elinor gives a grateful nod. Knowing that she’s a repository for local knowledge makes me throw out a question that’s been playing on my mind.
‘What do you know about the Minerva?’
She looks startled. ‘I dreamed of finding it on swimming expeditions when I was a girl. A film crew scoured the seabed years ago, but if it exists, it must be very deep. It still comes into my head sometimes when I’m out on my boat.’
‘Do you think Jude Trellon could have found it, on a diving trip?’
‘Her dad’s the one to ask. Mike’s been deep-water swimming for forty years; if anyone knows the local wrecks, it’s him.’
‘That’s good advice.’
‘Has the Minerva got something to do with Jude’s death?’
‘Probably not, Elinor. I could be barking up the wrong tree.’
Her gaze is so thoughtful it’s tempting to offload my theory that Jude and Tom may have discovered something that put them both in danger, including the mermaid amulet that ended her life, but I can’t share details from the case, even with the island’s most trustworthy residents. I’m about to leave when I spot some books on a shelf above the door. I scan the titles rapidly and see that she has a taste for tales and poems with a maritime twist: Moby Dick, The Old Man and the Sea, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. When I spot a hardback entitled Sea Shanties from the Isles of Scilly, I pluck it from the shelf, then thumb through it rapidly, but fail to find either of the verses left at the crime scenes.
‘That was my father’s,’ Elinor says quietly. ‘Men used to sing shanties in the pub after a few pints when I was young. I haven’t looked at it for years. I like a good novel on a winter evening, but I normally read on my tablet these days.’
It may be imaginary, but the postmistress seems to blush as she says goodbye, embarrassed t
hat her intellectual pursuits have been exposed when she prides herself on practicality. It interests me that the killer shares her passion for old literature, but Elinor’s innocence has been proved by saving Eddie’s life. I doubt that she’s strong enough to have overpowered him, and it’s unlikely that a killer would haul a man into the sea, only to pluck him out again and call the police. Anyone could have downloaded the verses of local sea shanties from the internet.
There’s no sign of Eddie when I drag Shadow over the threshold of the New Inn’s attic. I scan the list of boat owners again, already aware that David Polrew owns a small yacht, fully equipped for diving trips. Sophie Browarth uses a restored fishing smack to travel between the islands to visit her patients, instead of relying on ferries, and the museum manager Jamie Petherton co-owns a converted lifeboat with his parents. When I scan the rest of the list, my frustration increases. The killer could have changed his modus operandi, abandoning Tom Heligan’s body to the waves without a second thought.
It’s mid-morning when I set off to see Denny Cardew again, to check the story Elinor told me yesterday afternoon. It’s only a short walk to the fisherman’s home in Dolphin Town, at the opposite end of the hamlet from Ivar’s house, but his cottage is in better condition. The window frames gleam with fresh white paint, brass letter box shining as I walk through the front garden. Denny’s smile takes time to unfold when he finally appears. His big frame is dressed in ancient jeans and an oil-stained shirt, as if he has just returned from today’s fishing trip. His ancient black Labrador sniffs at my shoes, before waddling back to his basket.
‘Coming in for a cuppa, Ben?’
‘That would be great, thanks.’ I could explain that Elinor has already given me coffee, but island hospitality dictates that every visitor must accept food and drink, even if they’ve just finished a three-course meal.
Denny’s home is far tidier than his appearance as I follow him down the hall. The wooden floor is polished to a high shine, doilies protecting the hall table from stains, the chemical sweetness of air freshener lingering on the air. The fisherman hums quietly as he makes our drinks. Through the open doorway I can see into his lounge, which is shabby but pristine, dominated by a widescreen TV beside his wood-burning stove. He sets down mugs filled with tea that looks strong enough to strip the enamel from my teeth.
‘This place is spotless, Denny. Been having a spring clean?’
‘That’s Sylvia’s work. Cleaning’s her favourite hobby.’
‘Send her round to mine, will you? It could use an overhaul.’
‘That won’t happen any time soon. My wife hasn’t left the island in months.’
‘Never mind, the dust won’t kill me.’ My first gulp of tea sears the back of my throat. ‘Did Sylvia’s illness stop her working at the inn?’
‘She fell sick with stress after losing her job last autumn.’ His face clouds over. ‘There was a misunderstanding with Will Dawlish about some missing money. We should have taken legal advice, but in the end she preferred to walk away. She’s still bothered by the upset.’
‘I don’t want to pry, Denny. I just need to ask about Jude Trellon; I hear you had some heated words on Ruin Beach before she died.’
The fisherman’s gaze falters. ‘I was walking the dog and we got talking. Jude apologised for mouthing off at me the next day, but I wasn’t bothered. It takes more than a few swear words to get me riled.’
‘What triggered it?’
‘She asked to borrow my boat, but it’s not insured for third-party use, so I refused. Jude said she’d only need it for a few hours, and went on about some wreck dive she wanted to make. In the end I walked away.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me the other day?’
Denny’s face grows sober. ‘Jude was a complicated girl, but she didn’t mean any harm. I’d almost forgotten about it. I’ve got bigger worries, to be honest; it’s getting harder each year to make a living from the sea.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘We’ll get through it, me and Sylvia. We always do.’
The fisherman lapses into silence, but at least the conversation has confirmed that Jude Trellon believed she knew the location of a valuable wreck. She asked her father to lend her the Fair Diane, then Denny for his fishing boat, without success. The fisherman ploughs through a handful of biscuits while our talk continues, answering in monosyllables as I tease out details. Denny is reticent when I ask whether he had seen Jude lose her temper before, unwilling to bad-mouth another islander, even posthumously.
‘Is Sylvia here, Denny? I haven’t seen her in years.’
‘She’s outside, gardening,’ he says quietly. ‘My wife spends time in the garden, but that’s her limit. Agoraphobia, the doctor calls it. It’s played havoc with her nerves; she’s afraid I’ll drown every time I take the boat out.’
‘That must be tough on both of you.’
‘Harder for her.’ He turns his back to dump our mugs in the sink. ‘She lives with it every day, not me. Go and say hello if you want. It might cheer her up.’
It’s easy to spot his wife when I walk through the French doors. She still looks like the outgoing barmaid I remember from the New Inn: Sylvia’s short hair is bleached to a brassy blonde, her electric-blue top standing out against the muted shades of her garden. She’s kneeling beside a border, digging weeds from between tidy rows of geraniums with a trowel. The panic that crosses her face when she finally spots me is unexpected. She rises to her feet and backs away, as if she would prefer to bolt back inside the house. It takes time for her to gather enough confidence to muster a smile.
‘Benesek Kitto, I heard you were back.’ She plants a quick kiss on my cheek. Her round face is calm again, but her hand trembles when she touches my arm.
‘I’ve been here nearly six months, Sylvia. It’s good to see you again.’
‘You too, I hate it when our best young people desert us for the mainland. I’m glad you’re looking for whoever killed Jude. It still doesn’t feel real that she’s gone.’ She studies me again, her watery blue eyes assessing my face. ‘You’re so like your dad, it’s uncanny.’
‘So they say.’
‘But not a fisherman, thank God. Keep your feet on dry land, won’t you?’
‘Don’t worry, I never had the knack for it.’ I scan the array of flowers blooming at her feet. ‘You’re performing miracles out here, but I’m sorry you’ve been ill. Denny says you’re having a hard time.’
‘It’s a stupid disease.’ She gives a fierce headshake. ‘But it won’t defeat me. I’ll beat it in the end.’
We carry on talking a while longer, anxiety in her voice when she asks whether Tom Heligan has been found, so I do my best to reassure her. When I leave the house, the couple’s eccentricities linger in my mind. Sylvia doesn’t strike me as the type to cheat anyone out of money, but her easy-going confidence has disappeared. Denny seems to spend his spare time comfort eating, while his wife tries to dispel her fears by dressing in the brightest colours of the rainbow.
26
Shadow races ahead when we get back to the New Inn. He’s barking at full volume as I round the corner, jaws snapping at someone cowering against the wall. Even from this distance I can identify Stephen Kinver’s bulky figure. The boat owner looks like a different man on dry land; there’s no sign of his brash confidence as he flattens himself against the bricks.
‘Come here, Shadow,’ I call out. The dog slinks towards me, teeth still bared. ‘Sorry about that, he’s got no manners.’
Kinver glowers at me, his eyes hidden by opaque sunglasses. ‘That dog’s a menace. It should be muzzled.’
‘He’s never bitten anyone yet, Mr Kinver. How can I help you?’
‘I want to discuss your investigation.’
‘Come inside, we can talk more easily there.’
Shadow is still agitated, so I tie him up in the hotel’s yard, his barks pursuing us upstairs. Kinver appears tenser when we enter the incident room. His rigi
d body language seems at odds with his relaxed clothes; the hemline of his denim shorts drops past his knees, coupled with a bright green T-shirt, his sun-bleached curls in need of a comb.
‘Is this the best accommodation you can find, Inspector? Your headquarters need an upgrade.’
‘The inn’s just a temporary base. Would you like to sit down?’
‘I just want to know when we can leave.’
‘Not yet, I’m afraid.’
His mouth sets in an ugly sneer. ‘Our website depends on us doing new dives. We have to keep moving; the Florida Keys are our next destination.’
‘The case is ongoing, so I can’t—’
Before my sentence ends, Kinver rounds on me. ‘Jude’s death is nothing to do with us. We’d be halfway to Key West by now, if you hadn’t hauled us back.’ The words hiss from his mouth, dark eyes snapping with anger.
‘This is a murder investigation, Mr Kinver. Everyone who spent time with Jude Trellon recently must stay here until her killer’s found. And now that Tom Heligan’s missing too, the case is even more urgent.’ My stern tone has an immediate effect, his voice softening.
‘Look, Inspector, if me and Lorraine waste any more time, our finances are screwed. Why not just search our boat then let us go? We’ve got nothing to hide.’
‘I may do, Mr Kinver. In the meantime, stay within a three-mile radius.’
‘How come you’re taking so long to catch the killer?’
‘Murderers are good at covering their tracks. It may surprise you to know that they don’t enjoy being caught.’
His hard gaze levels with mine. ‘What was Jude’s bloke doing the night she died?’
‘Sorry?’
‘She seemed uptight about something. In cop shows it’s always the boyfriend, isn’t it?’
‘I suggest you go back to your boat, Mr Kinver. I’ll call you if another interview is required.’
He marches out, slamming the door for good measure. When I watch from the window, Shadow barks furiously as he passes, straining at his leash. The dog’s behaviour proves he’s smarter than he looks, able to spot an idiot from fifty metres. Kinver’s thin veneer of charm evaporated during our conversation, angry statements spilling from his mouth; his reaction makes me wonder if some grievance could have made him sail his boat back to Piper’s Hole after parting company with Jude, forcing his wife to cover for his violence. The only statement that rang true during his tirade was his claim that she seemed unhappy. Whether Kinver is guilty or innocent, finding out who killed Jude will lead me to the truth about Tom Heligan.
