by Kate Rhodes
It’s relaxing to let her boss me around on the five-minute walk back to Larsson’s cottage, neither of us discussing her plans to work abroad. She’s raided the hotel’s kitchen to provide a high-class picnic. Her hamper contains smoked salmon, potato salad, quiche, a punnet full of ripe strawberries and a bottle of Prosecco.
‘You deserve it, Ben. Tom Heligan would have drowned without your help.’
‘I was feeling pretty good about it until Ivar was taken.’
Her dark gaze is unblinking. ‘You’ll find him.’
‘How come you’re so sure?’
‘Because you’re smart, Ben, you always have been.’
‘So I’m ideal boyfriend material?’
‘Not with that beard.’ She looks amused. ‘Only Ryan Gosling is allowed facial hair.’
The rest of the evening passes in a flurry of conversation. She listens to my story of finding the missing boy floating a mile from shore, even though the islands’ gossip factory will already have circulated every detail. Our talk returns to childhood exploits, when we used to canoe around Bryher’s coves, forgetting to go home for meals, until our parents sent out search parties. When she gets up to leave at midnight, her job in India still hasn’t been mentioned.
‘I’ve been meaning to say well done, Zoe.’
‘Is that your sad attempt at congratulations?’
‘I’m proud of you, but it’s all you’re getting.’
‘How come it’s okay for you to leave the island for years, but when I go travelling, you act like I’m deserting you?’
‘I’m a selfish bastard, obviously.’
‘You’ve got plenty of friends here.’
‘Have you signed the contract yet?’
‘I’ve got three more days to make up my mind.’
‘If I kissed you, would you stay?’
Her gaze locks onto mine. ‘We agreed that would never happen, remember? You made a promise.’
‘That was twenty years ago, Zoe.’
‘Nothing’s changed.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘And that’s my cue to say goodnight.’ She gives one of her lightning grins that sends sparks around the room, then heads for the door.
We trudge back to the harbour in silence, and I settle for a hug, before she steps back into the boat. She could be right about a kiss being a bad idea, because it would cross a line we drew to protect ourselves long ago. It preserved our friendship through our teens and twenties, as our friends fell in and out of love, sometimes doing each other brutal damage. I’ve kept my relationships short and sweet, and so has she, but the bond between us only gets stronger. Now that we’re adults the attraction is harder to ignore. Maybe by the time we hit our forties it will fizzle out, if it hasn’t driven me crazy by then.
I stand on the quay, staring across 500 metres of water to the island where I was born. Bryher looks mysterious in the dark, even though I know every inch of its terrain. The steep hill of Shipman Head looms in the distance, and the light inside my uncle’s living room pulses above the entrance to his boatyard. I could follow Ray’s example and spend the rest of my life alone, but permanent solitude doesn’t appeal. My only option is to remain on Tresco until I find Ivar Larsson, forgetting about personal concerns until Frida is reunited with her father.
54
It’s midnight before I bunk down again on Larsson’s settee, but sleep seems unlikely. Starlight floods through the thin curtains, and when I look outside, there’s an unbroken view of the galaxies. Stars are visible here from dusk till dawn because there’s so little light pollution, the Milky Way wreathing the horizon. But the long view can’t help me tonight. My mistake could cost Larsson his life; I should have ignored his objections and put a permanent guard outside his door. The girl will be inconsolable if she’s orphaned.
My body feels stiff with tension as I twist and turn. I can’t forget Frida telling me that she heard a woman’s voice as well as a man’s when her father was taken, but the Kinvers may be innocent, even though few people on the island have reason to behave with such violence. I flick through the names of couples I’ve interviewed during the investigation: the Polrews, Mike and Diane Trellon, Sophie and Shane. Only the historian and his wife seem likely candidates, keeping their daughter trapped in their stultifying house, imprisoned like Tom Heligan, yet no hard proof links them to the crimes, unless the forensics officers find evidence on their boat. It’s a relief when exhaustion finally forces me into a shallow sleep.
When I wake up, a ray of moonlight has pierced the curtains, illuminating the room, while Shadow barks at the top of his voice. I curse out loud when I check my watch and see that it’s 4 a.m., Shadow’s recent heroics forcing me to my feet. The creature often indulges in random fits of barking when he hears cats prowling at night, but experience has proved that his alarm calls are sometimes valid. Shadow is scratching the back door when I go into the kitchen dressed in boxer shorts and a T-shirt, my arrival silencing him. I peer through the window, but Dolphin Town seems to be sleeping peacefully, the lane empty. The vicarage and neighbouring houses are all in darkness.
‘You’re imagining things,’ I say, but the dog refuses to lie down.
It’s only when I open the back door that the reason for his alarm call becomes clear. A plastic bottle is suspended from the porch beam by garden twine at eye level, fresh sand still crusting its surface. The killer probably collected it from the rubbish that washes ashore with every high tide, using gloves to keep it free of fingerprints. I carry the bottle inside, desperate for information about Larsson. It dawns on me that the killer’s latest taunt puts the Kinvers in the clear; they may be smuggling goods between countries, but whoever left the latest message is still wandering the island at liberty, having the time of his life. Anger rises in my throat when I read the words printed on the usual slip of white paper:
WHERE THE WIND CARRIES US, YOU WILL NOT KNOW,
ACROSS OCEANS WIDE, WHERE BREEZES BLOW,
WE ARE FREE AS THE GULLS IN THE HEAVENS ABOVE,
WHERE THE WIND CARRIES US, YOU WILL NOT KNOW.
I screw the paper up, then hurl the bottle at the wall. The killer is literally free as a bird while I flounder in mistakes, and it’s clear that he’s a risk-taker; he was prepared to rise before dawn to leave his message, despite the danger of being caught. The gesture echoes the recklessness of his other attacks. But which islander is fearless or angry enough to assault a police officer and drag his lifeless body into the sea, or abduct a grieving father from his home? He must be physically strong to carry out such violence. Shane Trellon seems the most likely suspect. The man’s temper and physical strength make him the right type to perform the attacks, but why would he and Sophie want to hurt Jude, when they both claimed to love her?
It’s still dark outside, but sleep is impossible now the killer has paid his visit. There’s no point in chasing across the island looking for the culprit; he’ll be back in his home by now, reliving his latest exploits. I make a pot of coffee, then sit at Larsson’s kitchen table going through evidence files on my laptop until my eyes blur.
I open David Polrew’s book and stare at an illustration of a Roman longship built in the same era as the Minerva. It was a navis oneraria, a merchant ship with a square main sail. There’s something familiar about its curved prow and high mast rising from the centre of the deck, with dozens of long oars protruding from its sides. I have to concentrate hard before remembering where the image comes from.
When I open the encrypted photographs from Jude Trellon’s autopsy, the same boat is inked on her upper arm: the tattooist must have used the illustration as a template, but it’s the vessel jostling beside it that catches my attention. Jude chose to have the Minerva drawn on her skin beside her father’s boat, the Fair Diane, and there must be a reason. Mike has spent his life diving in the local waters, so passionate about his hobby that he set up his own school, teaching his kids to scuba while they were small. Jude had the image of the Minerva et
ched on her body alongside her father’s boat because it was him that found the wreck, not her. The theory would explain his guilt on the day of Jude’s death, when he claimed that he could have prevented it, without saying why.
55
Tuesday 19 May
It’s still early when I set off for Ruin Beach, with Shadow limping behind. Despite my best efforts to lock the creature indoors, he managed to sneak past me, and I don’t have time to drag him back to the house. Mike Trellon looks like he’s dressed in a hurry when he appears at the door, his shirt unbuttoned, eyes bleary.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d found the Minerva?’ Tension makes me fire the question at him.
His face is sober as he leads me inside. There’s no sign of Diane in the kitchen when Mike settles on a stool, keeping his back as straight as a soldier on parade, his expression defiant.
‘It’s been a curse, not a blessing,’ he says quietly. ‘Some marine biologists booked a deep-sea dive last autumn; I took them past the Eastern Isles, and we went down to forty metres. I saw an outline on the seabed, but it was too deep to reach without specialist equipment.’
‘You didn’t tell anyone?’
‘The other divers didn’t notice, and I wasn’t even sure it was a wreck, but I took photos on my next visit. When I enlarged them on the computer, I knew it was a Roman longship straight away.’
‘How could you tell?’
‘From the width of the deck and curved prow; it’s incredibly well preserved. Once I figured it out, I was frozen in the headlights. The discovery might change our lives, but my hands were full, raising capital to keep the business going. It was November before I told Diane, Shane and Jude. They agreed we should keep it quiet. By then it was too late in the season to dive again; we decided to wait until spring.’
‘Who else knew?’
‘No one, it was our secret. The Minerva’s part of diving folklore, and there’s serious money attached to marine salvage. Two guys got killed in Greece last year when a gang thought they knew the location of a valuable wreck.’
‘Could the Kinvers have guessed?’
‘Jude was too smart to tell anyone.’
‘Did you know she’d been getting death threats?’
He gives a slow headshake. ‘She never said.’
‘Anna Dawlish and Jude both lost their lives because of the Minerva. We can’t let Ivar die as well. Tell me exactly what happened.’
He grimaces. ‘I planned to do it all legally. I was going to call the Maritime and Coastguard Agency, then go down with a salvage team in a hired submersible. I didn’t tell my family the exact location, but Jude found it in one of my notebooks. I warned her not to tell anyone, even Shane.’
‘That’s why they argued in the pub?’
Mike screws his eyes shut. ‘She was afraid someone would beat us to it. Jude knew my business was in trouble and thought the wreck could save it; she believed the profits were ours by right, because divers like us take all the risk. I refused to let her use the boat, but that didn’t stop her.’
‘How did she get down there?’
‘I don’t know. It drove a wedge between us; I hated her diving there and selling what she found. She gave Diane money for the business, because she knew I wouldn’t accept it.’
‘How much did Jude give her?’
‘A couple of grand, in cash, to buy stock for the shop.’
‘Some of the things she found were hidden in her house, the rest given to friends for safekeeping; Jude even left pieces at the vicarage. She told Justin to take them to you if anything bad happened.’
His hands rise to cover his face. ‘I wish I’d never seen the bloody wreck.’
‘How would she have made such a deep dive?’
‘By breaking all the rules. The sea’s a hundred and fifty metres deep at the wreck site; she couldn’t have done it alone. She’d have needed a rebreather and circular bailout equipment, to avoid narcosis.’
‘Tell me what that means in layman’s terms, Mike.’
‘If you dive below thirty metres, nitrogen builds up in your bloodstream; you have to stop regularly on your way back, to acclimatise. Hundreds of divers die each year by surfacing too fast. The rebreather gives you a mix of compressed gases that helps the pressure in your body stabilise. You need someone on the dive boat monitoring you every step of the way.’
‘A friend would have been above water, giving her technical backup?’
‘She should have had a diving buddy too, but Jude didn’t care about safety.’ His voice contains a mix of bitterness and regret.
‘Whose boat could she have borrowed, Mike? Whoever lent it to her knew what she’d found; I think we’re looking for a couple.’
‘I refused and so did Denny. No one in their right mind would let someone take that much risk.’
‘What if they didn’t fully understand the dangers?’
Mike stares back at me, and for the first time since Jude’s death, his gaze is animated. The prospect of finding his daughter’s killer is bringing him back to life.
56
Tom is lying on his side in a hospital bed when he comes round. The mattress seems to rock from side to side, like a ship fighting a hard storm, and it’s worse when he shuts his eyes. Memories carry him back to the cave, where sick echoes return to taunt him. But at least the room is reassuring. It smells of medicine and detergent, the electronic bleep of his heartbeat echoing through a monitor. His mother’s blue overcoat is hanging from a hook on the wall, yet there’s no sign of her wheelchair.
He takes a deeper breath, then there’s a sudden crushing pain in his side and an alarm bell shrills in his ear. When a middle-aged nurse rushes through the door, her expression is panicked. He sees her hit a button on the wall before pain sears his ribcage, as if someone is pressing a branding iron to his skin. The boy doesn’t notice when two medics strip the blankets away to examine him. His eyes focus on the nurse when she leans over him, her face kind but careworn. It’s her gentle expression that makes him recall his captors’ desire to see him drown. He whispers the name of the woman that kept him locked up, but the nurse doesn’t respond. She just squeezes his hand and tells him not to panic.
57
Mike frowns as we study the list of islanders who own boats sturdy enough to carry Jude out to the Minerva. The Kinvers are languishing in holding cells, so they couldn’t have left the latest message. Only a small number of islanders own vessels powerful enough to withstand being battered by the Atlantic while Jude made her dive: Elinor Jago, Sophie Browarth, the Polrews, Denny Cardew, Will Dawlish and Jamie Petherton. But it’s the sequence of events that I need to understand. Mike spotted the wreck in November last year, and Anna Dawlish died a week later, her body found in Piper’s Hole. The next victim was Jude Trellon, then Tom Heligan’s abduction, and now Ivar Larsson’s disappearance, straight after the boy was found. I rub my hand across my eyes, longing for more clarity, when an idea shifts into place. Jamie Petherton’s devotion to Jude means that he would have done anything she asked. His obsession with her may have turned to violence towards the other victims, for reasons that remain unclear.
‘Shane or Jude must have told someone,’ Mike mutters. ‘There’s no way Diane would breathe a word.’
Trellon still looks distressed when I say goodbye, as if he can’t forgive himself for discovering the Minerva. The idea that Petherton could be the killer nags at me. The other names on the list are less convincing. Elinor Jago has spent her life helping people, alongside working at the post office, and Will Dawlish’s heartbreak over his wife’s death would be hard to simulate. My phone rings while I’m crossing Ruin Beach.
‘I’ve got more details about Jude’s bank account,’ Eddie says. ‘The five grand came from a holding account in the Cayman Islands. I’m trying to trace it back to the Kinvers, but it’s been through a money-laundering service.’
‘Keep going till you find the source, Eddie. That’s the evidence we need.’
&nbs
p; ‘There’s bad news about Tom Heligan. He’s in intensive care, with pneumonia and a collapsed lung. They say it’s touch-and-go.’
I stuff my phone back into my pocket, then stare out at the sea. The ocean knows exactly where Ivar Larsson is being held, but it’s guarding its secret, waves battering the shore while my investigation staggers from bad to worse. The wind is growing more intense, whitecaps cresting on the horizon when I drop down onto a breakwater to gather my thoughts. I’ve believed all along that whoever killed Jude Trellon was motivated by powerful emotions. Now that Larsson is missing, the only other islander she had been romantically involved with is Jamie Petherton, who hated her current boyfriend for ending his relationship with Jude. It’s worth confronting the museum manager one more time, for the truth about what happened.
Morning light is strengthening as I head for Abbey Gardens, and the island looks incongruously peaceful. There’s no sign of Shadow; it’s likely that he’s found a quiet spot to sleep in, rather than being confined indoors. The fields are lush green, the landscape dominated by rounded hills as I pass the Great Pool, its surface reflecting acres of uninterrupted sky. The museum’s grounds are empty when I arrive, apart from ranks of figureheads offering me ghostly stares. When I look through the window, Jamie Petherton stands in the middle of his empire, peering into a display cabinet. His expression clouds when he sees me, his gaunt face marked by a frown, as if he’s still dwelling on our last meeting at the station.
‘Put the closed sign on the door, will you, Jamie?’
His movements are jerky as he follows my instruction, as if he’s already guessed what I’m going to say.
‘Why did you take Jude out to the Minerva? You must have known the dive could kill her.’
He flinches, but his gaze remains steady. ‘She begged me, and I wanted to spend time with her.’
‘Jude would never have left Ivar for you. Is that why you killed her, then attacked him?’
‘I never touched either of them.’
