Ruin Beach

by Kate Rhodes

  The Kinvers have left their boat at anchor, protected from the rising tide. When I climb on board, it seems they’ve been enjoying themselves – empty beer cans stacked in a bin, this morning’s breakfast plates left on their table – but when I try to go below decks, the door is locked. It can’t be a coincidence that they’ve returned the day after the killer made contact again. The couple could easily have sailed to Tresco at night, then come ashore unnoticed to leave their message. I scan the water for a sign of their dinghy, but see only the mouth of the cove, enclosing the sea in a perfect horseshoe, its surface glittering. The scene looks tranquil enough to adorn a postcard, but my frustration is reaching boiling point.

  47

  Tom is alone when his eyes blink open again. Pain throbs above his temple, a line of blood dripping down his cheek, the cold weakening him. The woman hasn’t bothered to retie his blindfold and he can see the cave slowly filling, water lapping at his waist. A fresh surge of panic hits him as he scans the surface. Soon it will pass his chest and he will have to strain his neck to keep his head above water.

  ‘I can’t die like that,’ he mutters.

  His hands are still tied behind his back, the rope saturated. He tries to loosen the knots by rubbing his wrists against the stone, with no success. Frustration makes the boy take a deep breath then yank one of his fists upwards. The pain is bad enough to make his vision blur. He makes repeated attempts to free his hand, not caring about the pain as his knuckles are bruised to the bone. Waves are rising higher when he finally drags his right hand clear, muscles aching from being bound for so long, but his relief is temporary. A chain still binds his ankle to the rock, and the sea is inching nearer all the time.

  Tom looks around for anything that could help, but finds only a fist-sized rock. After days without movement, his fingers are too stiff to flex effectively. Once he can grasp the stone, he smashes it against the links of the chain. He carries on using the rock as a hammer, the action producing a tinny sound that echoes back from the roof of the cave.

  48

  There’s no time to look for the Kinvers, but I drag my phone from my pocket and alert the coastguard, asking them to impound the couple’s boat. I need to ensure they don’t escape before being questioned again. I’ve just circled Tean’s rocky coastline when a dilapidated fishing boat chugs across the water, a telltale plume of black smoke spewing from its engine. It’s a relief to catch sight of Denny Cardew, who wears a tense expression when he pulls up beside my launch, two waiters from the New Inn peering at me from the bow. Cardew squints into the sun, his tar-stained fishing overalls full of holes.

  ‘Eddie asked me to pick up some helpers from the quay. What can we do?’

  ‘Check Ganilly and the islands east of there please, Denny. The boy could be at the mouth of a cave, like Jude Trellon.’

  A spasm of anxiety crosses his weather-beaten face. ‘But he’s still alive?’

  ‘I hope so. We’ve got less than an hour to find him.’

  The fisherman gives an abrupt nod before spinning his boat east, cutting a broad line of wash across the waves. It’s reassuring to know that men like Denny, Mike and Ray are all involved in the search. The old-timers have spent their lives on local waters, giving the boy his best chance of survival.

  St Helen’s is less than half a mile to the west, but its atmosphere is darker than Tean’s. The island was once a quarantine; sailors with infectious diseases languished in its Pest House 300 years ago, to keep the inhabited islands free from contagion. The place spooked me as a boy, and it still looks haunted today. St Helen’s is the bleakest island on the archipelago, shores strewn with huge boulders, hardly any trees or vegetation to disguise the barren rock. The ruins of the Pest House are still visible as I approach the southern shore, stones blackened by time and the elements. Ray told me once that the Romans used the island as a cemetery. It’s easy to see why the place has often accommodated the sick and dying; with no fresh water supply, castaways would soon lose their battle to survive, in the days before powerboats existed. My vision blurs as I focus on the shore, hunting for signs of Tom Heligan, and it feels like I’m getting closer. The island is riddled with historic graves; its dark past would appeal to the type of vicious killer who could choke a woman to death, or leave a teenaged boy to drown. But it’s home only to rats and shearwaters now, the birds cawing louder at my approach. It doesn’t take much imagination to picture sailors dying here of leprosy and cholera, with no medicine to ease their suffering. The birds’ cries grow shriller as my boat hugs the shore, a few terns dive-bombing the deck, intent on scaring me away.

  There’s no sign of Tom Heligan as I circle the island. The tide will soon reach its peak, and none of the search parties have found a trace of him yet. The coastguard’s helicopter buzzes low overhead, flying over the island at its slowest speed, then hanging motionless before sweeping away to the west. Waves almost cover the shore, and the boy may have lost his battle already. If the killer tied him to the rocks closest to the sea, he will be a metre underwater already, but I let the tide carry me further inland. I want to search the island’s caves before rejoining the main search party.

  It’s a hazardous journey to bring the launch ashore, with a vicious riptide straining the boat’s engine. My father brought my brother and me to these caves as children, thrilling us with their murkiness and slime-covered walls, but they’re a tough proposition at high tide. I steer the launch between two high outcrops, until a wall of granite shelters me from the worst currents. The entrance to the widest cave is already flooded as the passage recedes underground, the temperature dropping to a subterranean chill once the light fades. I’m about to admit defeat when my torch beam catches a piece of rope resting on a ledge. My eyes blink wider when I approach for a closer look. Blood is smeared across the rock, beside a piece of broken chain. For the first time since the search began, I can see clear evidence that Tom Heligan was held here; the blood looks fresh, so he may still be alive.

  49

  After so long without food, Tom has little energy left to fight the currents. They’re threatening to pull him below the surface, cold water numbing his skin as the turning tide drags him out to sea. The sunlight is blinding after so long in the dark, the islands rising ahead no more than blurred outlines. Tom’s diving training echoes in his mind. Instinct tells him to use his last reserves of energy to swim towards land, but it’s best to float until a passing boat spots him. He recognises familiar landmarks: the lighthouse on Round Island, and the black coastline of Tean. Their positions tell him that the current is bearing him past the Eastern Isles towards open sea. It requires effort to remain above water, his limbs are barely moving, the broken chain around his ankle weighing him down. Suddenly a tall wave crests over his head, and he rises to the surface, spluttering for air. The open sea may finish his life faster than if he’d stayed in the cave.

  Tom struggles to roll onto his back, arms lolling uselessly at his sides. He concentrates on staying afloat, sun beating down on his face, even though the water’s chill makes him shiver. Gulls wing overhead, considering him as a new source of prey, and from the corner of his eye, Tom sees the yellow outline of the rescue helicopter. His arms are too weak to lift, his panic replaced by exhaustion. It’s tempting to let the sea’s endless rocking take him under at last. When he shuts his eyes, he can picture the wrecks waiting for him on the seabed below: frigates, Victorian freighters, high-masted schooners that lost their bearings.

  The islands are smaller now, as he’s carried east. He can feel the sea wrapping him in its tight embrace, his eyes refusing to stay open, until something nudges against his side. A big piece of driftwood is bobbing on the surface. He conjures enough strength to climb onto it, before passing out. His face is shielded from the waves as he drifts further out to sea.

  50

  I call the coastguard again, to summon the rescue helicopter back to St Helen’s, but there’s no sign of it as my launch clears the mouth of the cave. I scan
the sea’s face in every direction as the high tide retreats, looking for a sign of the boy. The only way he could have escaped the flooded cave is by swimming, and there’s no sign of him on the beach, so the riptide may already have ended his life. I turn off the engine and let the boat drift, hoping the sea will have dragged the boy in the same direction, even though there’s little hope of finding him alive. The undercurrent is so powerful, it would be impossible to swim back to shore. The boat is being carried past Round Island, towards the edge of the archipelago. If the boy is still alive, he’s at the mercy of the Atlantic; he could already be miles away. There’s a chance the rescue helicopter will spot him, but finding a single body in an ocean full of waves is a tall order.

  I follow my instinct and motor at full speed in the same direction as the current, over endless ragged waves. There’s nothing marking the horizon ahead except the low outline of White Island, a grass-covered mound that breaks the surface for a final time before the Atlantic unfolds for 2000 miles. If the boy has lost his battle, it seems the loneliest death imaginable, like being catapulted into outer space with no hope of return. I’m about to abandon my search when I see something floating on the water, and my heart thuds against my ribs. The dark spot on the field of green liquid is unmistakeable; a human head cresting the waves. But when I get closer, a grey seal swims up to inspect my boat. It’s only as I swing the wheel in the opposite direction that another bump appears on the horizon. I keep my hopes in check; a colony of seals could be circling me for entertainment. But this time I’m in luck. The boy is fifty metres away, draped across a plank of wood, his body motionless. I yell out to him as the boat draws nearer, but there’s no sign of movement, making me curse out loud. I don’t want to find Tom Heligan’s corpse lying on a piece of driftwood after so much effort. When I get close enough to haul him onto the deck, his skin is freezing; there’s a deep gash on his back, and a line of midnight blue bruises running from his temple to his jaw. His only item of clothing is a ragged pair of jeans, a piece of chain looped around his ankle.

  Tom Heligan doesn’t respond when I pummel his stomach, sending a stream of brine gushing from his mouth, then lie him in the rescue position. When I press two fingers against his throat, his pulse is faint, but at least he’s alive. I grab the boat’s emergency pack and wrap him in a thermal blanket, before calling search and rescue again. The boy is hollow-cheeked with exhaustion when I look down at him, swaddled in silver plastic that billows in the breeze. The rattling sound in his chest increases my panic, until the chopper reappears. The sound is deafening as it hovers overhead, the downdraught flattening the waves, but it only takes a few minutes for a paramedic to strap the boy into a harness, then disappear back into the sky. For some reason, I feel hollow as the helicopter buzzes west, carrying him to St Mary’s hospital. Relief almost levels me when I think of my old English teacher retreating into stories ever since her son was taken. I blink hard to pull myself together before circling back towards Tresco. Eddie’s voice is shrill with excitement when I call to explain that Tom Heligan is being airlifted away, even though there’s no way of knowing how long he’s been in the water, or the severity of his injuries.

  A welcome committee is waiting on the quay when I get back to Tresco. Elinor Jago has erected a picnic table outside the post office, where she is handing out mugs of tea to the search team, islanders milling around with broad smiles on their faces. The sight of them makes me relax by a fraction: Tom Heligan is in safe hands, the medics will be pulling out all the stops to keep him alive.

  ‘I called the boy’s mum, boss,’ Eddie says. ‘She’s being taken to the hospital now.’

  My deputy’s face is flushed with excitement, and even Lawrie Deane looks less taciturn. He’s not quite managing to smile, but his scowl is missing for once. The rest of the islanders are in high spirits, people coming forwards to congratulate me. DCI Madron appears to be enjoying the celebration too, but the crowd are ignoring an obvious fact: Heligan may be back on dry land, but the killer that held him captive for five days is still on the loose.

  ‘Have the Kinvers been found yet, Eddie?’ I ask.

  ‘We picked them up near their boat. They said they were out on their dinghy, taking pictures for their website. They’ll be at the station till you want to interview them.’

  ‘Let’s see what they’ve got to say.’ It still seems too coincidental that the couple stayed here after claiming to be desperate to leave.

  I’m about to jump back into the boat when a familiar noise rings across the bay. I’d recognise Shadow’s howl anywhere; the high-pitched sound reminds me of Canadian forests at midnight, when wolves are on the prowl. He’s standing at the edge of the crowd, the fur on his hindquarters so saturated with blood it looks like he’s been caught in a trap. I tell Eddie to wait for me, then head in Shadow’s direction, but the dog skulks away; he’s limping badly, but still moves too fast for me to catch him.

  ‘Come here, you stupid hound.’

  He runs as far as Dolphin Town, scattering drops of blood on the path, only slowing down outside Larsson’s house. He stations himself by the open back door and pants for breath, low growls issuing from his mouth. When I squat beside him, there’s a raw wound on his left flank. I try to grab his collar, but he snarls at me, then runs inside. The house feels too silent; there’s no reply when I call Larsson’s name, and I can sense that something’s wrong. The man is too wary to leave his back door unlocked.

  ‘Not you too,’ I mutter under my breath.

  There’s no sign of the father and daughter, apart from two long smears of blood on the kitchen floor. Shadow could have left a trail from his wound, but my tension increases when I spot a red-stained handprint on the living room door. Apart from that, the downstairs rooms look undisturbed. The sheets on Ivar’s bed lie in a tangle, his duvet heaped on the floor, suggesting that he sprang up suddenly sometime after I left this morning. There are dried smears of blood on the bathroom sink, as if the attacker stopped to rinse away evidence. I call Frida’s name when I enter her room, but my only reply is silence. The bastard must have taken both of them. I slump onto the edge of the child’s bed and let my head drop into my hands. The killer can have no conscience at all: he struck again during the rescue mission, while many of the islanders were hunting for the lost boy. I’m still sitting motionless when I hear a noise that sounds like mice scrabbling under the floorboards. I keep my voice as calm as possible when I address the empty room.

  ‘It’s safe to come out now, Frida.’

  There’s a soft click, then a section of the floor rises, and the child steps into the open. Her pyjamas are covered in dust, her face tear-stained. When I hold out my hand, she runs straight to me, her small face pressed against my shoulder while she sobs.

  ‘I hid, where Mummy puts her things.’

  ‘Clever girl. Will you show me?’

  She rubs tears from her face, then leads me to the opening. It’s a metre wide and about half as deep; plenty of clear space concealed under the floorboards. The house must be almost as old as Smuggler’s Cottage; it makes sense that it would also have a false floor, at a time when smuggling contraband was the islands’ main source of income. I find a small lever by the skirting board, and another section of flooring lifts to reveal a box packed with items of the kind Jude’s friends have been safeguarding: figurines, coins and pieces of jewellery. Frida must have curled up beside the Minerva’s treasures to escape the killer, but the objects are unimportant compared to her safety. When I look at the child again, her eyes are wide with shock.

  ‘Let’s go downstairs, Frida, I bet you’re starving. We’ll get you some food, then go and see grandma.’

  ‘Where’s Daddy?’

  ‘He’ll be back soon, sweetheart.’

  When we return to the kitchen, Shadow has finally calmed down. He’s lying on the blanket Larsson found for him, carefully licking his wound. He shoots me a sceptical look, reminding me to listen next time he’s accused of crying
wolf. I make toast and jam for Frida, then pour her a glass of milk. Diane Trellon says little when I make my call, before begging me to bring her granddaughter round straight away. My next call is to Eddie, who appears a few minutes later. He looks amazed when he sees the box concealed under the bedroom floorboards, before carting it back to the incident room. There’s no way of knowing how many hours Frida spent hiding under the floorboards, too terrified to lift the hatch.

  When I sit down at the kitchen table again, the kid has abandoned her snack.

  ‘What’s wrong, Frida?’

  ‘Can I take my crayons to Granny’s house?’

  ‘Of course. I bet she’d love one of your drawings.’ She manages a smile, before taking another bite of toast. ‘Did you see who came here this morning?’

  She shakes her head. ‘A man was yelling at Daddy, so I ran away.’

  ‘Did you hear his voice?’

  ‘The lady was shouting too. Daddy told them to go away.’ The girl’s eyes are full of fear.

  ‘Let’s pack some stuff, then get moving; Granny’s going to spoil you rotten.’

  I fill two carrier bags with toys and clothes, then lead the girl outside, considering her statement. If she really heard a man and a woman, it could have been the Kinvers, intent on finding out what Ivar knew about the Minerva.

  The dog makes no attempt to follow us, too weak for another excursion. Frida accompanies me to her grandmother’s house with a coat over her pyjamas to keep her warm. Apart from her tight grip on my hand, there’s no sign that she’s distressed, humming quietly as we follow the track to Ruin Beach. She even stops to pick wild flowers for her grandmother, but I can’t guess how much psychological damage has been done. I hope her grandparents can steer her thoughts away from her father’s absence, limiting any trauma that could emerge later.