by Kate Rhodes
I switch off the computer and head outside. All I can hope is that Shadow is keeping Ivar and Frida safe, while I set off for Merchant’s Point to give Linda Heligan an update. I opt for the long walk round the coast, rather than the short cut inland, hoping some exercise will clarify my thoughts. When I follow the track through Dolphin Town, Justin Bellamy stares out from his office window at the vicarage, scrutinising me before he raises his hand in greeting. When I was a boy, it felt like the walls had eyes, the smallest misdemeanour reported back to my parents, and nothing has changed. People are still observing my every move, waiting to see whether I’m capable of finding the killer.
I pause on Ruin Beach to watch the Kinvers’ boat. When I pull my binoculars from my pocket, it’s anchored further offshore than yesterday; Stephen Kinver is standing on deck, no doubt brooding about being confined to local waters, reminding me that the warrant to search his boat is tucked in my pocket. I’m about to continue my journey when a large wooden-framed dinghy cruises past, with its lugsail folded against its mast. The slim, grey-haired woman at the tiller is unfamiliar until the binoculars bring her features into focus. Miriam Polrew, the historian’s long-suffering wife, wears a rapturous look on her face as her boat powers along, its outboard motor whining, clearly enjoying her moment of freedom, even though the open vessel gives no protection from the elements. She sails past the bay at speed, cutting a shallow line in the water as I reach Merchant’s Point.
Linda Heligan’s house looks bleak even on a sunny day, alone on a wide plane of granite, no other houses in sight. The beach below is rarely used by tourists because it’s too exposed for sunbathing, even though the view is majestic. On a clear day the vista seems limitless; you can trace the Atlantic back to the horizon for a hundred miles. I expect to see Linda in her wheelchair when I ring the bell, but Elinor Jago opens the door – the postmistress looks awkward, but soon recovers her composure.
‘Good to see you, Ben. Linda’s having a nap. Shall I wake her for you?’
‘I wanted to give her an update, but I can come back later. Is she okay?’
Elinor’s smile fades. ‘It’s a hellish time for her. I’ve popped in each day after work, to keep her company.’
‘Linda’s lucky to have your support.’ My eyes scan the living room, catching on a sideboard with its doors hanging open, papers and envelopes stacked in piles on the floor, reminding me of the chaos at Larsson’s house.
‘We’ve been having a clear-out. Linda needs to keep her mind occupied.’
My eyes skim the piles of brown envelopes and old notebooks. ‘If you come across any letters to Tom, can you keep them for me?’
Elinor looks puzzled, but nods her head. There’s an outside chance that the boy may have received a note from Jude, sharing information about the Minerva that I’m struggling to access.
When I return to Ruin Beach, the Kinvers have saved me the trouble of using the police launch. Their boat, Golden Diver, is moored to the jetty, and Stephen Kinver is mopping the deck. He’s dressed more conservatively than on previous occasions, in black shorts and a white T-shirt. It’s only when I come to a halt three metres down on the quay that he finally abandons his mop.
‘Are you giving us permission to leave, Inspector?’
‘I’ll come on board and take a look around first.’
‘Get that search warrant, did you?’ The man lounges against the rail, working hard to look nonchalant.
I pull the document from my pocket. ‘This gives me the right to seize any item that could be linked to Jude Trellon’s death. Feel free to read the small print.’
Kinver snatches the document from my outstretched hand. He scans the details thoroughly, before speaking again. ‘If you break anything, I’ll call my lawyer.’
‘Your valuables are safe with me,’ I reply pleasantly. ‘Where’s your wife today?’
‘At the shop. Lorraine likes being on dry land, occasionally.’
‘But you’d rather stay at sea?’
‘Of course. Shit like this never happens on open water.’
He gives me another fierce glare before allowing me on board, but once I begin to search, he lets me work in peace. The guy may hate external intervention, but he’s smart enough to know that the faster I work, the sooner I’ll leave. Kinver and his wife have done a comprehensive job of cleaning the boat since my last visit. Ropes and equipment are stowed in storage boxes under seats at the helm, and their living quarters are spotless. I take my time searching cupboards and drawers, peering into the recess behind their bed. My interest rises when I pull up the trapdoor and stare into the hold. The space is confining for a broad man of six feet four, forcing me to bow my head to complete the search. Most sailors fill their holds with junk, but a single storage box in the corner contains fishing rods, nets and twine, a large oxygen tank propped beside it. The smell of fish lingers behind a tang of fresh bleach.
‘Something’s missing,’ I mutter, scanning the hold for a final time, but there’s no reason to prevent the Kinvers from continuing their ocean journey. I’ve found no proof that the couple used their boat to attack Jude Trellon at Piper’s Hole, or that they are responsible for Tom Heligan’s disappearance, yet discomfort lingers like a bad smell when I grant Kinver permission to leave.
‘About bloody time,’ he grumbles. ‘We’ve been waiting for days.’
‘I apologise if Jude Trellon’s murder has slowed you down.’
Kinver ends the conversation by throwing his bucket of water overboard, filthy liquid splashing the jetty. I’d have preferred to be doused from head to toe, then I could lock him up for assaulting an officer. It requires effort to force my dislike of the man back into its box before turning inland.
I’ve only been walking for a few minutes when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
‘Can you go to the Polrews’ house, sir? Sophie Browarth’s not answering her phone. It’s an emergency, their daughter’s ill.’ Eddie’s voice sounds panicked, so I set off at a rapid jog.
Fields pass in a blur of green, a few locals pausing to watch my progress. The spectacle of a big, ungainly man dressed in funeral clothes sprinting through a meadow is what passes for entertainment in a place this quiet. No doubt my haste will prompt a fresh round of gossip about the case before the day ends. When I reach the historian’s home, the front door hangs open. David Polrew drops his mobile onto the hall table when he sees me. There’s no sign of his usual arrogance; the man’s face is as pale as candle wax today.
‘Thank God,’ he mutters. ‘Gemma’s sick. I can’t bring her round.’
‘Where is she?’
Polrew paces up the stairs ahead of me. When the girl’s bedroom door swings open, I see her sprawled across her desk, long hair obscuring her face. I make her father stand back, to let me check on her condition. A thin pulse is beating in her wrist, but when I pull back one of her eyelids, her pupil is too wide, a line of saliva running from her mouth. There’s only one obvious reason why a healthy young girl would slip into a dead faint, so I haul her to the bathroom. She releases a moan as I force her to vomit, producing a froth of white liquid, a few tablets floating on the surface. I push my fingers down her throat again, until her stomach’s empty.
‘Call emergency services again,’ I yell at her father. ‘She’s taken an overdose.’
Polrew shakes his head in disbelief before striding away. By now his daughter is coming round, still limp as a rag doll as I lay her on the bed. There’s an empty pill bottle on her bedside table bearing her mother’s name, the word Diazepam printed on its label. A few words filter from the girl’s lips.
‘You should have let me go.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, you’re just getting started. What made you do it?’
A few tears slide down the girl’s cheek. ‘I can’t face my exams. He’ll never forgive me.’
‘None of that matters.’ I give her hand a squeeze. ‘Promise not to do anything that stupid again.’
Her gaze slips out
of focus. ‘Tom said they’ll go back to Piper’s Hole. They never stay away long.’
‘Who, Gemma? What do you mean?’
The girl’s eyes are closing again, the sedatives she’s taken rendering her unconscious. I splash her face with cold water, barely managing to keep her awake until the flying ambulance’s engine roars above the roof. The helicopter lands on the Polrews’ wide lawn, two paramedics jumping out with a stretcher to take the girl to hospital on St Mary’s. There’s a look of calm determination on their faces as they enter the room. They must deal with this kind of crisis often: medical needs can turn into emergencies fast on a small island with limited access to healthcare. They listen in silence to my explanation as they check Gemma’s vital signs then lift her onto the stretcher.
I stand beside David Polrew as the helicopter rises above the treeline, then heads south. With luck, the girl’s cry for help won’t have caused permanent damage. The historian appears to have slipped into a state of shock, shaking his head in numb silence when I ask if he’s contacted his wife. I lead him back into his kitchen to make a hot drink. The man’s hands are shaking when I place a mug of tea in front of him, so I pick up his phone. Sounds in the background reveal that Miriam Polrew is still out on the water, seagulls screeching as she answers, her voice diluted by the wind. When I pass on the news that her daughter is being hospitalised, there’s a crashing sound before the line dies. She must have dropped her phone onto the deck in her hurry to return to harbour. Both mother and daughter have identified ways to evade the historian’s bullying. Miriam swallows tranquillisers and goes sailing alone, while her daughter’s method was more extreme, believing an overdose could provide the ultimate freedom.
35
My head is still full of Gemma Polrew’s attempted suicide when I return to the New Inn. I expect to see Eddie hunched over the table, filing yet another progress report, but Will Dawlish is cleaning the windows, using a duster to shine the glass. Shock sharpens my tone of voice when he meets my eye.
‘You shouldn’t be here, Will. The room has to be kept locked at all times.’
Dawlish blinks at me. ‘Sorry, Ben, I just wanted to tidy up, and bring you some lunch . . .’ His voice tails away as he gestures towards a tray filled with cartons of juice, a thermos of coffee and a platter full of sandwiches.
‘We can order food downstairs, but thanks, it’s a kind thought.’
‘I want to help you, Ben. There was no way to save Anna, but this time’s different. Tom Heligan might still be alive.’
It’s only when I step closer that the tension in his face is visible. The man seems so burdened by his loss, it could have happened yesterday, but sympathy doesn’t remove my suspicions. He could easily have left the tray on the landing without setting foot inside. Eddie will have to confirm whether the evidence folders have been tampered with – I can’t tell at first sight.
‘You’ve done enough by giving us a base. But I’ll need any spare keys until the case closes.’
‘No problem,’ he replies, dropping a key into the palm of my hand. ‘That’s the only one, apart from yours.’
Dawlish retreats, leaving me frowning. Instinct tells me to trust a man I’ve liked for years, but why would he enter a police incident room uninvited? Maybe he was telling the truth about his desire to help, his shock over a murder committed at the site where his wife drowned triggering powerful emotions. Luckily, Eddie has left little information on display, most of it stored on the police laptop which has an encrypted password. Apart from a few interview notes waiting to be entered into the system, there was little to find. Eddie has written me a note saying that Madron called earlier, in a foul mood. There are three voicemail messages from the DCI, which must have arrived while I was helping Gemma Polrew, but answering them will have to wait. If my boss plans to harangue me for breach of protocol, I need to be calm enough not to retaliate. I punch a quick message into my phone, telling Larsson that I’ll be staying at his house again tonight. Another sleepover on a lumpy sofa carries little appeal, but there’s no choice. The man is too headstrong to accept support unless it’s enforced, and there’s a chance that patience will win the day. If I spend enough time in his company, maybe he’ll break his vow of silence and reveal the secret he’s been hiding all along.
My plan is to go home for a quick shower, before returning to perform guard duties. But when I get back to Hell Bay, the hotel lights are sparkling like a Christmas tree, offering a direct invitation. I’ve worked flat out since the case began five days ago; it wouldn’t be a crime to take a short break with Zoe. But Gemma Polrew’s odd statement about Piper’s Hole fills my mind as I cross the shingle. Eddie and I have both searched the place and found nothing; she may have been confused by the effects of the pills she swallowed, but the urgency in her voice makes me consider returning to the cave one more time.
The hotel looks like a different world when I stand on the decking. I catch sight of my reflection in the panoramic window of the Atlantic Bar; a shambling giant in a cheap suit, black hair unkempt, with a ragged beard. On the other side of the glass, the holidaymakers look glossy with health, couples sitting at tables, sharing pre-dinner cocktails. Zoe gives me a wide grin, then holds up three fingers. It’s a familiar signal, but it always takes her longer than three minutes to find a staff member to cover her at the bar.
The door to her flat is unlocked as usual, so I make myself at home and grab a beer from her fridge. I’m about to flake out on her settee when I spot the yellow folder she’s been hiding. It’s full of papers, with Post-it notes sticking out from the cover, proving that she’s gone through each page with a toothcomb. Curiosity threatens to get the better of me, but I manage not to look. Reading Zoe’s private documents would be almost as bad as entering a police incident room without authority. I’m still staring down at the folder when she arrives. My friend’s reaction is like a greeting in reverse, her smile slowly souring.
‘Have you been snooping, Ben?’
‘I resisted, by the skin of my teeth.’
‘Just as well. I’d have had to torture you as punishment.’
‘That would be fine, if it includes whips and leather.’
Zoe rolls her eyes. ‘I suppose everyone has to know, sooner or later.’ She hesitates before handing me the folder, but the information inside doesn’t make sense. There are some official documents waiting to be signed, the second set of papers covers health insurance, malaria risks and inoculations. I’m still gawping at them when she speaks again. ‘Don’t just stand there, big man. Say something.’
‘You’re going to India for a year?’
‘I’ll be teaching music at a school for street kids in Mumbai, and helping to run the place.’
‘You’re serious?’
‘I need a break from mixing cocktails. All I have to do now is sign the papers.’ She takes back the folder. ‘How come you’re not congratulating me?’
‘You planned all that without saying a word.’
‘I couldn’t tell anyone. The decision has to be mine.’
‘Go ahead and leave then. I won’t stop you.’
‘Why are you angry?’
‘We used to talk to each other. We never had secrets.’
‘Until you suddenly buggered off and left me here for years. I’m due a bloody adventure.’ Her words come out as a sob, her eyes welling.
‘Don’t cry, you know I hate it.’
‘People have emotions, Ben. Deal with it.’ She pulls a tissue from her pocket to blot her eyes.
‘You’ve always loved living on Bryher.’
‘This place is amazing, but I need to see the world before I die of old age.’ She makes a wild gesture with her hands. ‘Let’s not talk about it anymore.’
‘Do your parents know?’
‘I’m telling them tonight. Mum’ll be upset, but she’ll understand. An interim manager can cover for me while I’m away.’
Zoe’s face crumples into tears, so I pull her into my arms. An od
d sensation shifts in my chest when she returns the embrace, my feelings repositioning. I should dig deep and find the generosity to admit that she’s doing something admirable, but it’s easier to keep my mouth shut.
36
Hours have passed since Tom last heard the woman’s voice. He’s determined not to break down; he will need all his strength to fight, if the chance comes. The boy keeps trying to guess where he’s been taken. He’s still lying in the hull of a dinghy, the boards pressing against the wound on his back, but at least he’s out in the open. He can taste salt on the air, and the boat must be moored somewhere sheltered because it has stopped rocking, protected from the fierce currents. Before he can take another breath, the tarpaulin is yanked back, strands of light penetrating his blindfold.
‘Enjoying the change of scene?’ The man’s harsh voice addresses him.
Tom has no time to reply before the man hauls him from the boat then over jagged granite that tears his skin. The man grabs a clump of his hair, yanking it until his eyes smart.
‘Let me go, please. I can’t help you.’
‘Mark the places where Jude hid things on this map when light comes. It’s your last chance.’
Tom keeps his mouth shut as the man ties his hands in front of him, then drags the blindfold from his eyes. When the torch beam falls on the hand-drawn map, he sees Tresco’s curved outline, with every house and field marked in place, and feels a stab of homesickness. The beam of light hits his face again, making his eyes stream until the brightness is extinguished. He can hear the man’s footsteps battering across the rock, producing a dull echo, as the shadowy figure disappears.
