by Kate Rhodes
‘You don’t have to do my chores,’ he says.
‘I like to keep busy.’ When I turn to him again, he’s sitting at the table, head in hands. ‘Do you want a drink?’
‘More than oxygen.’
There’s a bottle of Merlot on the counter, so I pour him a large glass. He holds it between both hands, as if the liquid is warming them, then knocks the wine back in a couple of swallows.
‘Frida keeps asking about Jude,’ he says. ‘It seems like she’s understood, then she rejects the idea, and the questions start all over again.’
‘It’s a lot for a four-year-old to digest.’
‘She’s not the only one.’
‘This could explain what happened.’ I point at the bank statement. ‘Do you know why someone paid Jude five grand, just after she died? It’s from a foreign bank account.’
His tone sharpens. ‘You went through her papers without my permission?’
‘We’re on the same side, remember? If you tell me everything, you could save Tom Heligan’s life. Jude was leaving valuable objects with people she trusted; she must have had a reason.’
‘If I knew, I’d say.’
‘Tell me what’s scaring you, Ivar.’
He hesitates before replying. ‘Jude had been getting death threats. They were left on the boat, in plastic bottles, with her name on them. She thought someone was playing a stupid joke at first.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘The messages said all three of us would be killed if the police found out.’
‘Did you keep them?’
‘Jude burned them. They were these odd rhymes, full of threatening words about the sea. Then she got a note telling her to put everything she’d found on her dives in the highest grave on Tregarthen Hill. She refused of course – Jude never backed down. She said the less I knew, the safer we’d all be.’
The highest peak on Tresco would be an ideal place to collect a package in secrecy at night. The killer could check for onlookers in every direction while hiding in one of the graves below.
‘Whoever killed Jude must think you know the location of the Minerva. I want you to take Frida to the mainland, or back to Sweden for a while.’
‘I told you before, this place is all my daughter knows. I’m not uprooting her.’ He drains his second glass of wine, then goes upstairs in silence, dismissing my efforts to keep them safe. I breathe out a string of expletives, but at least I know more than before: Jude understood that her family’s lives were under threat, yet still dived in Piper’s Hole late at night, despite the risks. She must have had a good reason to court that kind of danger.
It’s only 9 p.m., so I spend the next hour checking Jude’s papers. Her credit card statements are a reminder that she spent every penny she earned, with the mortgage, bills and a few treats for Frida consuming her monthly wage. No wonder she clung so tightly to the dream of a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I’m still studying the documents when the priest’s face appears at the window, his skin white with panic. When I open the door, he stumbles across the threshold.
‘What’s wrong, Justin? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘Are Ivar and Frida safe?’ The man’s breathing hard, as if he’s run a race.
‘They’re upstairs, in bed. Try to calm down, then tell me what’s wrong.’
Bellamy takes a long time to relax. He rubs his hands across his face, then sits opposite me, doing his best to look composed. ‘You’ll think I’m mad, if I explain.’
‘Try me anyway.’
‘I fell asleep after evensong. I had a dream that blood was running down the walls of this place, body parts on the floor. I couldn’t do anything . . .’ His voice ebbs away.
‘That sounds more like a memory than a dream. I can ask Ivar to come down if you want reassurance.’
His eyes blink shut. ‘My nightmares are sometimes so vivid, it’s hard to tell where reality starts and finishes. I made a mistake coming here.’ He reaches for his jacket. ‘I apologise for wasting your time, Ben. I’d better get back.’
‘Don’t rush off. Why not stay for a glass of wine?’
‘I should sleep. A good night’s rest will sort me out.’
The man hurries away before I can explain that he’s not interrupting anything except my attempts to unpick Jude Trellon’s past. His odd speech is a reminder that plenty of people seek emotional stability on the islands, but peace is a rare form of treasure; past troubles are often too deeply engrained to shake off, like the priest’s PTSD.
I carry on sifting records of Jude’s life: old passports, letters and final demands. It’s late by the time I lie down on the rock-hard sofa, searching my brain for images to lull me to sleep. Oddly enough, it’s Zoe that springs to mind, standing behind the hotel bar, laughing at me. I wipe my hand across my face to erase the picture, but it stays there, even when I shut my eyes.
44
Monday 18 May
Shadow whines loudly when I leave him at Larsson’s house early next morning. I can tell he’d rather be chasing seagulls across Pentle Beach than performing guard duties again.
‘I’ll take you for a run later,’ I promise, but he whines in disgust.
Eddie is waiting when I reach the New Inn. Our makeshift incident room looks tidier than before, as if he’s spent hours wiping grime from the walls, but his expression is tense.
‘This was hanging from the door when I arrived,’ he says.
A bottle stands on the table. It’s smaller than the last one, probably used originally for vinegar or cooking oil, and made of glass. I curse under my breath as I hunt for sterile gloves, then shake the slip of paper onto the table. The message is written in black ink, in crude block capitals.
SINCE ROMAN DAYS WE’VE SAILED THESE SEAS,
FULL OF PIRATES, ROGUES AND SLAVES.
MEN THAT ROB FROM US WILL DIE IN CAVES,
WITH THE OLD GRAVES LOOKING DOWN.
WHEN THE TIDE’S HIGH WE’LL FINISH THEM
AND THEY WILL SAIL NO MORE.
The killer must have been in a rush this time, taking less care to disguise his handwriting, and his message is more overt. I could be clutching at straws, but for the first time he seems to be giving a direct clue to where Tom Heligan is being held: in a cave, near ancient graves, due to drown with the next high tide.
‘Ask Will for a tide table, can you, Eddie?’
My deputy sets off at a sprint, even though the message could be leading us in the wrong direction. I’m prepared to scour every beach while there’s a chance that Tom Heligan’s alive, but it’s clear that we’ll need help. I swallow my pride and call Madron to request every available officer to search Tresco’s coast by boat and land.
‘Shall I tell the boy’s mother we’re looking for him, boss?’ Eddie asks when he reappears.
‘Not yet. There’s no point in worrying Linda until we’ve got an outcome. The next high tide is at midday: I want all the caves searched on foot, we’ll use boats to check the shoreline.’
It’s just before ten o’clock, leaving two hours before the tide peaks at noon. The island is only two miles long, so the search should be an easy task, whether the boy is dead or alive. I pull on my jacket and collect a torch from the table, then hurry back downstairs. Will Dawlish is whistling to himself while he polishes the mirror behind the bar, movements slow and deliberate as he brings the glass to a high shine.
‘Someone left a message for us upstairs, Will. Who could have reached the top floor last night?’
‘We don’t lock the fire escape until closing time, so someone could have sneaked in the back way without being seen. Then there’s me and the kitchen staff, of course.’ His small eyes blink at me. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘There’s no time to explain; I need you to take me out in your boat. Bring a jacket and binoculars, we’ll have to move fast.’
The innkeeper looks startled but seems glad to be involved. We’ll need plenty of boats to scour the island
’s inlets and caves, even though more officers are coming from St Mary’s to search on foot. Setting off early will give me a head start.
Dawlish is panting hard as we jog to the harbour, bald head gleaming with perspiration by the time we reach New Grimsby Sound. His boat is a modest thirty-foot cabin cruiser made of white fibreglass, with curtains obscuring its small portholes, the name Anna May printed on its side. When I ask him to head round the coast, staying close to the shore, he runs the motor hard to clear brine from its system before setting off. Dawlish is surprisingly adept for a man who claims to spend little time on the water. He eases his boat between vessels that pack the small harbour, then lets the tide carry it into the sound. We don’t speak much as he picks up speed to chase the coastline south. It infuriates me that some bastard is using this idyllic place to commit terrible acts. Sunlight glints from the sea’s face as we pass the sandbanks of Saffron Cove, with Abbey Hill rising in the background, seamed with narrow pathways. The landscape looks incorruptible, yet the killer is staining it with his deeds. There’s nothing unusual on Appletree Bay’s long stretch of sand when I peer through the binoculars, except some middle-aged holidaymakers rekindling their childhoods by flying a massive kite.
Our journey becomes more treacherous as we reach a notorious shipping hazard; the Chinks are needle-fine spikes of granite that are invisible at high tide, but this morning their tips stand proud of the water as we reach the island’s southernmost point. Oliver’s Battery looms over the headland, even though its glory days of firing cannons during the English Civil War ended centuries ago; the rock-strewn beach below is littered with masonry from the ruined building, but no signs of the missing boy. I keep hoping to see a figure bobbing on the waves, but all I can make out is a cluster of dinghies rising and falling with the currents. An old man fishing from one of the boats gives us a jaunty salute, as if we’re day trippers enjoying a pleasure cruise.
By the time we reach Pentle Bay, my eyes are throbbing from scrutinising every detail. Will remains focused on steering his boat near to the shore, without running it aground. He’s an unlikely skipper, portly in his smart trousers and Oxford brogues, windcheater zipped high to protect himself from the elements, but his expression is determined. We skim the eastern coast of Tresco at speed, with the Heligans’ house rising from its rocky foundation on Merchant’s Point. When we reach the northern tip of the island, conditions worsen. The breeze rolling in from the Atlantic is producing ragged waves that threaten to push the boat off course. I ignore its hectic rocking, keeping my spyglasses glued to the coast, where the beach is being consumed by the tide.
Eddie is no bigger than a toy soldier when he emerges from Piper’s Hole, to give me a thumbs down, his search party following behind. I don’t know whether to be angry or relieved that the killer hasn’t left Tom Heligan’s body in the same cave as the last two victims. My heart sinks as we pass Kettle Island, where currents boil across the rocks. It feels like a rerun of events from exactly a week ago, when Denny Cardew took me to Jude Trellon’s body. The boy could be anywhere, but all I can do is scour each beach in turn.
45
Water is lapping over Tom’s feet. The temperature feels colder than before, his skin icy. His system is shutting down, fever and thirst conquering him at last. The woman’s voice swims at him, softer and less frightening than before.
‘You look feverish, Tom. Do you want a drink?’ She presses a bottle to his lips and he tastes the sweetness of lemonade, the liquid easing his parched throat.
‘Let me go, please. Don’t let me die here.’
‘Tell us about the Minerva, then you can go home.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
Tom purses his lips, to stop words slipping out. If he says the names of people guarding the pieces Jude found, they’ll be killed too, and it will make no difference. The sweetness in the woman’s voice is too saccharine to be real.
‘If I knew where it lay, I’d never tell you.’
‘You arrogant little bastard.’
The blow comes without warning, an explosion of pain against his temple, then the sound of glass fracturing. When his head lolls back, the blindfold falls away, and he sees his captor clearly for the first time. Surprise overwhelms him as his vision dies: the woman’s face is familiar. The shock lingers, even as he loses consciousness, and the tide rises further up his body.
46
I jog back to the incident room after circling the island with Will Dawlish. My stress levels are skyrocketing after wasting an hour on a fruitless search. If the boy is alive, my mistakes are condemning him to a slow drowning. I have under two hours to find him, but the men searching the coastline on foot have had no luck. Lawrie Deane arrives just as I’m about to call Eddie for another update. The sergeant offers a sneer instead of a smile, his red hair neatly combed, top button fastened despite the warm weather, as if he’s hoping for a neatness award from DCI Madron.
‘I’ve searched all the inlets and caves, from Gimble Point to Rushy Porth, and found nothing,’ he says. ‘Looks like you made another wrong call.’
‘Leave your problems with me out of this, Lawrie. An eighteen-year-old boy will be dead by noon if we don’t find him.’
‘The same age as my son,’ he mutters. ‘Can I see the killer’s note?’
‘It’s pretty cryptic; he’s a man of few words.’
Deane frowns at the slip of paper. ‘It doesn’t make sense. The old graves on Tresco are dug high into the hills, not directly above the shore.’
‘Maybe we should look elsewhere.’ I scan a map of the Isles of Scilly on my computer, hundreds of islets and rocky outcrops littered across the screen. Many of them are riddled with tiny bays, making them a smuggler’s paradise, and ideal for a killer’s purposes. The boy could be hidden somewhere too remote to find. The only factor narrowing the field is the killer’s reference to old graves, but a quick scan of the internet shows that many of the islands contain burial sites from Neolithic times onwards.
When I look out of the window again, the other officers from St Mary’s are returning, with a gaggle of islanders in tow. Eddie’s call for volunteers has drawn dozens of people to the inn, including Mike and Diane Trellon and Elinor Jago, the island’s families turning out in force. My uncle has made the crossing from Bryher too, which lifts my spirits. Ray can always be relied on in a crisis, his constitution as solid as the fishing boats he builds, designed to roll in a hard storm, then bob back to the surface.
I jog downstairs to speak to the search party, with Deane keeping pace. For the time being the sergeant seems prepared to shelve our differences and focus on the missing boy. The small crowd looks expectant when I reach the hotel’s yard, which often happens, whether or not I’m in uniform. Being the biggest man in a crowd always makes people turn to me for leadership, even when I’m grasping for solutions. I conjure a calm smile to address them.
‘Thanks for helping us again. We still think Tom Heligan’s being held near an ancient gravesite, but I need you to search the other four inhabited islands. Look in every cave, as well as on the beaches. Call me please, once you’ve finished.’
It takes Eddie and I moments to sort the group into teams that know each island intimately. I watch them set off in an assortment of dinghies and sloops, like the rescue boats of Dunkirk, each with a mission to fulfil. The only person left on the quay is my uncle Ray, and the cedar lapstrake boat he built himself is still moored on the jetty. His vessel is a thing of beauty, but it has no cabin to protect him from the elements, so I’m reluctant to send him too far from Tresco.
‘Where would you hide someone, near an old burial ground?’ I ask.
Ray’s reply arrives faster than his usual drawl, as if the pressure of time is affecting him too. ‘The Eastern Isles all have them. He could be on Round Island, Northwethel, Tean or St Helen’s.’
‘Can you check Northwethel? I’ll take the rest.’
Ray gives a brisk nod, before stepping into his boat and cas
ting off.
I can feel the minutes passing as I fire up the motor on the small police launch, then set off at maximum speed. I wish I had a more powerful boat at my disposal, but will have to make do with an ancient speedboat, its white polymer sides turning yellow with age, only the police crest on its prow distinguishing it from the boats kids mess around in at St Mary’s harbour all summer long. Its low plastic screen fails to protect me from the surf, leaving me soaked by the time Round Island rises on the horizon. The origin of its name is easy to understand as my boat scuds closer: a lighthouse stands at the centre of its domed outline, like a candle on a birthday cake. I use my binoculars to study its rocky coast, then steer the boat ashore, beaching it on the sand. The island has just one deep cave, with an entrance wide enough to admit a dinghy. Like Piper’s Hole its floor drops downwards as it narrows, the fissure extending for ten metres. But all it contains this morning is an assortment of torn plastic bags, piles of seaweed and flotsam delivered by the last tide.
My next destination is Tean. The island’s craggy outline looks stark as it juts from the water. I know little about its history except that a religious order lived there centuries ago, the remains of St Theona’s chapel still visible at the centre of the island. When I pull out my binoculars again, I can see the decaying walls of ancient farmhouses and barns. All the island contains now is overgrown brambles that choke its fields. I test the boat’s motor to its limit as I sail closer, until something catches my eye: a boat is moored in a cove, bobbing on the water. When I draw closer, it’s the Kinvers’ yacht, but there’s no sign of them on board; the couple’s dinghy is missing from the bow, and my suspicions are rising. Why did they lie about their plans to cross the Atlantic? They must have been hiding here ever since I gave them permission to leave.
