by Kate Rhodes
‘Let me come and see Billy first.’
Billy Reese is one of the island’s stalwarts, preparing pub grub with occasional flashes of brilliance for the past decade. Appetising smells hit me when I enter his kitchen: fish frying, lemon juice, the sharp reek of garlic. He’s sitting at the stainless-steel counter, chopping parsley at a hectic pace with a red-handled knife, one heavily bandaged foot resting on a stool. He’s a tall, baldheaded man in his fifties, who wears a bandana when he cooks, like the elder statesman of a motorcycle gang. His sombre face creases into a grin when he sees me.
‘Come to arrest me, Ben?’
‘Depends how many laws you’ve broken.’ I clap him on the shoulder. ‘What happened to the ankle?’
‘I tripped going home, Saturday night.’
‘Nine sheets to the wind?’
‘Eight, maybe.’ His smile reveals rows of tobacco-stained teeth. ‘Help yourself to grub.’
‘Maggie’s sorting me out.’
By the time I return to the bar she’s produced a bowl of fish chowder, French bread and a glass of apple juice. Not asking what I want is her way of showing she cares. Maggie’s only fault is assuming she knows everything, from the island’s history to the dietary needs of every regular. When she answers the phone, her thin hand races across the pad as she scribbles down a fish order. The Rock isn’t just a pub; fishermen store their catches here, in the kitchen’s huge industrial fridges, leaving Maggie to broker deals with restaurants on the mainland. Over the years, she’s developed a winning technique: charm alternating with contempt. The chowder’s even better than I’d remembered, a smoky tang of haddock laced with cream, a hard kick of salt. The bowl soon empties, which returns the smile to my godmother’s face. She props both elbows on the bar, chocolate-brown eyes watching me.
‘What’s new, Ben?’
I attempt a relaxed shrug. ‘Not much. I’m just taking a break.’
‘I don’t see you for six months, and that’s all you’ve got to say?’
‘You know me, Maggie. Conversation’s not my best skill.’
I’m not ready to explain that my DCI has given me three months to decide whether my ten-year career as an undercover officer with the Murder Investigation Team should come to an end. The boss refused to accept my resignation, insisting on a cooling-off period, when I would rather have walked away. Maggie’s stare is so clear and unblinking, she seems to have guessed my predicament without being told.
‘Did you hear Laura Trescothick’s missing?’ She leans closer, elbows resting on the bar. ‘The kid didn’t show up for work this morning. No boats have sailed all day, except the Bryher Maid. She must be on the island somewhere.’
‘With some lad, probably.’
‘Her boyfriend hasn’t seen her. She’s not the type to let people down.’
An odd feeling crosses the back of my neck, as if someone has let in a blast of cold air. When I turn round to locate the chill, a woman is sitting alone by the fire, hands folded in her lap. Her face is a pale-skinned oval, sleek brown hair falling to her jaw, neat as a medieval pageboy. I turn away before she catches me gawking.
Maggie carries on talking about the missing girl. It’s a reminder that in a community of a hundred everyone knows your crises, whether you like it or not.
‘There’s a meeting at the community hall tomorrow,’ she says.
Her gaze is a direct challenge, but I don’t reply. The kid’s probably hiding in a mate’s attic to give her family a scare. After an awkward moment, the conversation switches to her son Patrick, a close friend when we were kids. He’s a vet now, in St Ives, married with a family, running a smallholding. An hour passes before she slides a single shot of rum across the bar.
‘One for the road, young man,’ she says, turning away to load the dishwasher.
I’m eternally grateful that she hasn’t asked how I’m coping. I toss the drink back, then fetch my coat, taking care not to stare at the brunette again. Dean Miller is still buried in his paper, a fresh beer at his elbow, oblivious to his surroundings. The dog falls into step by the door, giving a bark of irritation, as if I’ve dragged him from more important pursuits. The sound of the wind rises from a whisper to a shout as the door shuts behind me.
Back at the cottage, I pull off my boots in the porch and try to ignore the ghosts that press in from the walls. Instead I think about Laura Trescothick. She was on the verge of teenage beauty last summer, flying a kite on the beach with her friends, long hair streaming in the breeze. The cold in the bedroom makes me shiver as I undress, then the place suddenly plunges into darkness. I grope through the black air for candles. The generator should kick in immediately, but nothing happens. The island is reminding me that even basic amenities like heat and light can’t be trusted out here. It’s harder than ever to silence the questions that flood my head, as the candle gutters in the draught.
2
Rose Austell’s cabin lies on the far side of the island, closer to the sea than any other building. It’s no larger than a wooden caravan, but she could never leave it behind, despite floods and vicious draughts, the holes appearing in its corrugated-iron roof. She’s alone in her kitchen when the lights flick out. Shock makes her release a muffled scream. Darkness scares her almost as much as visits from strangers, and official letters from the world outside. At fifty-five, she has only left Bryher a handful of times. She scrabbles for matches, and soon the space is lit by the orange glow from her paraffin lamp. The kitchen is lined with boxes of seeds and roots that she forages for all year. Sachets of valerian, sea-spurrey and bittersweet lie on her table, waiting to be made into ointments for muscle pain and arthritis. Rose pushes the ingredients aside, too distracted to work. She stares at the mobile phone her son Sam gave her, willing it to ring.
The news about Laura Trescothick has upset her all evening, a toxic cocktail of guilt and anxiety burning the pit of her stomach. Sam dated Laura for the best part of a year, but it ended badly. Rose can’t help picturing the girl’s face under the water, blonde hair shimmering, her beauty a fierce reproach. When her eyes blink open again, the ocean is battering the shore outside, grey and relentless. She has seen the granite coastline in all weathers, fifteen-foot waves somersaulting across the beach. Rose understands that the sea steals more than it gives. When she was a girl, her father told tales of Bryher’s wild history and the lawless men who ruled the Isles of Scilly for three centuries. Their fearless spirits seemed romantic, until she realised that her island still lay in the smugglers’ grip. She has good reason to hate them now.
Rose peers from the window again, praying that Sam will return, but seeing only Tresco’s dark outline, the moon blinded by clouds. She presses her fingers over her lips to stifle another cry. Laura is missing, and so is her only child, but there’s nothing she can do.
3
Terns are squealing when my eyes open. My headache has made a comeback, the day starting with a stream of curses as I haul myself into the cold, but at least the power supply is working again. The cottage looks worse by daylight: cork tiles on the bathroom floor curling at the edges, the generator in need of a service, and weeds covering the allotment where my mother grew spinach and potatoes. The waves outside hiss like playground bullies, slapping and jeering as they assault the beach. Shadow’s doing his best to trip me up, a blur of excitement whirling at my feet, barking at full volume, desperate to greet the day.
‘Bloody hound,’ I mutter, yanking up the zip on my coat.
It’s clear no ferries will sail this morning. The tide is battering the shore, reminding me that Hell Bay was named for good reason. For nine months of the year the water is tranquil, but winter’s infernal storms blow in from the west until it requires muscle to wrench open your front door. Hell Bay Hotel glitters with prosperity at the end of the sweeping beach. A night in an ocean-view room in high season retails for a small fortune, with the guarantee of impeccable food and accommodation. If I screw up my eyes I can see Zoe Morrow standing on the terra
ce, small as a stick figure in the distance. She’s dressed from head to toe in electric blue, short hair dyed platinum since we hit our teens. I shade my eyes to view her more clearly. She’s giving an enthusiastic two-handed wave, beckoning me over. In her glory days at college she planned to join a rock band and conquer the world, but her talent has been reduced to a hobby. After her dad’s heart attack, she put her singing career on hold. Her parents retired to Mevagissey, while her two brothers pursued careers on the mainland, leaving her to run the hotel alone. It would be polite to trot over to give her a hug, but I set off in the opposite direction. Shame, I suppose. I’d rather my best mate from school didn’t see me in a foul mood.
Fresh air is reviving me by the time I reach Droppy Nose Point, the rocky spur that juts into the Atlantic from Bryher’s southern point. It was my favourite place as a kid, for its daft name and huge granite outcrop that resembles an elephant’s head, trunk raised. The rocks here are bright green with algae, mussels clinging to them like clusters of grapes. It crosses my mind to search the beach to look for the missing girl. Maybe some boy brought her here, a row between them escalating into violence, but I have to remind myself that someone else is in charge. Cutting round Samson Hill brings me to the eastern side of the island, sheltered from the fierce breeze. The channel is calm as a mill pond, revealing the island’s split personality, the lush green outline of Tresco visible across New Grimsby Sound. The dog vanishes into a field of bracken as I skirt past South Cottage, hoping to avoid being spotted, but a man’s harsh voice calls out, loud as a drill sergeant’s.
‘Who’s that skulking behind my hedge?’
‘Ben Kitto, Tom.’
After twenty years, it still feels odd to use his first name, instead of Mr Horden. He was my form teacher at secondary school until he resigned in a hurry, for reasons unknown. His feet crunch rapidly on the gravel, but his appearance has changed. He stands with shoulders back, wearing a shirt and tie under his V-necked sweater, his face carved with deep lines. One of his eyes is as cloudy as milk, the other giving me the fierce grey stare that could reduce kids to tears in his maths lessons. The man’s house is uncompromising too, a block of raw stone, window frames painted black.
‘Come inside, boy. Say hello to my wife.’
‘I can’t today. Ray’s expecting me at the boatyard.’ It’s a lie, of course, but the bloke has always given me the creeps.
‘Let him wait.’
Horden seizes my elbow and propels me inside. A stream of unpleasant smells greets me: cabbage from last night’s dinner, bleach and overheated air. The odour reminds me of hospital corridors and suddenly I’m longing for a quick exit. He leads me into a kitchen lined with floral tiles that must have clung to the walls for decades, pots and pans gathering dust on the shelves.
‘Someone to see you, Emma. You remember Ben Kitto, don’t you? Mark and Helen’s youngest.’
Emma Horden used to be a smartly dressed woman with a placatory smile, always rattling a bucket for good causes outside Tresco church. She vanished for a few months after her husband’s resignation, and now she’s almost unrecognisable, overweight and stoop-shouldered in a drab pinafore, grey hair in rats’ tails. She looks me up and down, taking in my five o’clock shadow and ancient leather jacket, then shakes her head firmly.
‘Benesek sings in the choir. He’s the only boy that can hold a tune.’
‘That was a while back, Emma.’
‘Leave me alone, I don’t want strangers stealing my treasures.’ She seizes a ceramic bowl from the window ledge and cradles it against her chest. ‘Whoever you are, go home before the storm comes.’
‘That’s good advice. I just wanted to say hello while I was passing.’
The bowl she’s holding is filled with objects that glitter in the light filtering through the curtains; key rings, coins and seashells. Mr Horden looks awkward when we return to the hallway, his kitchen door closed to protect Emma from more confusion. ‘You’ll have to forgive her, she’s having a bad day.’
‘We all get those sometimes.’
‘Are you still fond of reading? You always had a book under your desk in my lessons.’ It’s hard to tell whether he’s joking, or blaming me for poor classroom behaviour twenty years ago.
‘Guilty as charged.’
His milky eye rolls in my direction. ‘Come by one evening, there’s a fine collection of novels here. No one uses them now.’
‘I’ll do that, Tom.’
‘Have you resigned from the police force?’
I shake my head. ‘Just taking a holiday.’
‘Pressure got too much for you, did it?’
‘I’m on leave, that’s all. I’d better get on.’
My ex-teacher’s questions leave me brooding. A fatal error has pushed me from my job, not the pressures of work. Most of my colleagues have forgiven me, but acceptance is a milestone I’ve yet to reach. Memories of school catch up with me as I follow drystone walls along the winding path towards the quay. We used to laugh at Horden’s expense, pupils spinning ridiculous stories because of his razor-sharp voice and the girls’ claims that he leered at them. It’s a relief to escape the loneliness emanating from the couple like a bad smell, Shadow at my heels as I walk north along the shore. The view of Tresco banishes my bad mood, its fields and gardens stretching out like miles of crushed green velvet.
Ray’s workshop doors are wide open, but there’s no sign of him. Sunlight is leaking through holes in the tin roof when I find him in the covered yard. The frame he’s building is twenty feet long, a traditional fishing boat, with keel and bass boards already in place. He looks up from his bandsaw to offer a smile of greeting.
‘It’s a lapstrake,’ he says. ‘For a lobsterman on St Mary’s.’
‘You’re using cedar?’
‘Built to last,’ he replies, nodding. ‘Finish it with me, if you like.’
I can’t find a reply. When I was a teenager, Ray offered to take me on as his apprentice; I loved spending time in the yard, but lacked his patience. It still bothers me that I left Bryher at eighteen without apologising properly for letting him down. The work he’s offering would take a month at least, but it’s impossible to imagine the boat’s hull forming under my hands after neglecting my skills for so long. Shadow seems to be waiting for my decision, pale eyes alert to every movement. I pick up a broom to gather wood shavings while my uncle carries on working. Sweeping was my childhood punishment for getting under his feet, but I do it willingly now, the flow of movement clearing my mind. It amazes me that Ray has coped here alone since his last workman retired. I spend an hour sorting materials into drawers: tacks, twine, half a dozen caulking irons. When I look at the quay again, the sky is a solid wall of cloud. Fishermen have brought their vessels round from the west to shelter, clinker boats lining the jetty. Some of them are familiar, names unchanged for generations: Clara Belle, Destiny, Scilly Lass. All I want is to close my eyes until the world settles again. But the boats are soothing to watch, floating in a shoal, colourful as children’s toys. It crosses my mind to tell Ray my dilemma, but personal chat has never been his forte.
After a few hours, my uncle switches off his saw and removes his goggles. I assume he’s breaking for lunch, but he reaches for his padded jacket.
‘Coming to the meeting? The police are over, from St Mary’s.’
‘I think I’ll skip it.’
He holds my gaze. ‘Everyone’ll be there.’
Avoidance isn’t an option; ignoring the meeting would be like announcing that I don’t give a damn whether a young girl lives or dies. I trudge after him reluctantly, Shadow chasing ahead of us on the cinder path.
The community hall looks smarter than when I was a kid, a large one-storey barn with new windows, Day-Glo-yellow walls even uglier now the clouds have lifted. Like most things on the island it’s multi-purpose, serving as scout hut, wedding venue, bingo hall and theatre. The interior smells of dust and floor polish, new blinds hanging at half-mast. Its high
windows and pine floor resemble a school gymnasium, folding chairs laid out in ranks, but today there’s standing room only. I recognise most of the people here: Zoe’s a few metres away, spiky blonde hair ruffled by the wind, chatting to Maggie and Billy. Angie Helyer, a pretty, doll-faced redhead, flashes me a wide smile from the other side of the hall. She was a couple of years below me at school, but now she’s the owner of a small goat and chicken farm, the latest baby slung across her chest in a sling, her toddler crawling at her feet. Her husband Jim, one of my oldest friends, must be tending their animals. Even Rose Austell has emerged for the occasion, standing apart from the crowd, her face half hidden by a veil of witch-like black hair. Everyone looks expectant, waiting for instructions.
When Matt Trescothick takes the stage you could hear a pin drop. He was so much cooler than my older brother when I was a kid, his football skills and ease with girls filling me with envy. Even now there’s a glimpse of his teenage charisma, when he used to swagger down to the quay with Jenna on his arm. His rangy build, dark eyes and strong features would suit a movie star, mid-brown hair cropped close to his skull, but today he’s gaunt with exhaustion. It feels wrong to be sitting in the audience when I’d rather be next to him, observing the crowd for suspicious behaviour, even though I’ve known most of them all my life. The cop at his side is close to retirement age, showing his respect by wearing full uniform, epaulettes slick with gold brocade. He’s small-framed, with a narrow intelligent face, expression grave as he surveys the crowd.
‘I’m DCI Alan Madron, I’ll be co-ordinating today’s search. I’m sure the family are grateful so many of you have turned out. Is there anything you want to say before we get started, Mr Trescothick?’
Matt’s gaze skims the crowd without connecting. I know that blank-eyed stare too well; concentration is the first thing parents lose when they realise a missing child might not return. His voice is deeper than I remembered, roughened by cigarettes or booze.
