Hell Bay

by Kate Rhodes

  ‘Jenna wants me to thank you all; she was too upset to come. It means a lot that you’re all helping to find our girl.’

  The muscles in Matt’s face are working overtime when he sits down again, with people murmuring their support. If this was a press call, his image would be smeared across the nation’s screens already, millions of viewers assuming he’s guilty. It’s a proven fact that most murder victims are killed by a family member, or someone they know well. I silence the thought before it takes root. All of my instincts are telling me to help the uniforms organise the crowd, even though the kid’s likely to be hiding somewhere, brooding about some secret grievance. Silence settles over the room when the DCI speaks again.

  ‘The island will be divided into quarters, one group sweeping each area. My officers will co-ordinate the search.’ He scans the room again. ‘Laura went up to her room around ten-thirty on Sunday night. Her mum heard her leave yesterday, Monday the first of March, around 6.15 a.m. She was due to start the breakfast shift at the hotel by seven. We know for a fact that she couldn’t have left the island by boat; the sea was too rough for crossings until midday. If anyone has any information about Laura, please talk to me or a member of my team.’

  Madron’s statements make me grit my teeth. If I was in charge, I’d hold immediate interviews with the family to rule out suicide; the girl may have been facing pressures we know nothing about. Ray and I are first out of the hall when the meeting ends, Shadow in the distance, sheltering by a gorse bush. The island’s population is emerging into the fresh air, expressions ranging from gloom to determination. The DCI wastes no time in dividing us into groups. My heart sinks when I see that my team includes the Hordens. My old teacher’s eyes look even more disturbing from a distance; one pale as ice, the other dark and focused as a laser. When I turn round, the brunette from the pub is ten metres away, circled by a pool of cold sunlight. She’s taller than I imagined, long legs clad in tight jeans and red wellingtons, dark hair glistening. This time she catches me staring. She returns my gaze, unsmiling, before walking away.

  The young PC leading my group is called Eddie Nickell. He looks like a sixth-form prefect, his face surrounded by a crop of blond curls, cheeks shiny with pride at being given special duties. He instructs us in slow monosyllables, as though he’s calming a gang of unruly five year olds. It sounds easy enough: search the beaches, lift manhole covers, check buildings and paths. When I look up again, Shadow is slinking into the distance, and for once I’d like to keep him company.

  The only saving grace is that Zoe is in my team. We haven’t seen each other since her visit to London at Christmas, when she dragged me from one music venue to the next, ending our day riotously pissed in a tequila bar. She’s one of the few people I know who manages to stay consistently upbeat, her laughter always the loudest in the room, unwilling to let disasters dent her optimism. She looks as good as ever, with that Amazonian build, shock of white-blonde hair, almond-shaped dark eyes and freckles dusted over glowing skin. The wild curves of her figure would set my pulse racing if I hadn’t known her since I was three. She flings her arms round my neck to give me a hug. It’s been so long since anyone touched me that I make the most of it, then have to remind myself not to cling.

  ‘How are you, big man?’

  ‘Alive, last time I checked.’

  ‘What’s that on your face?’

  ‘A fashionable beard.’

  ‘What’s wrong with a decent close shave? You should have told me you were coming home, I’d have hung out the flags.’

  ‘It wasn’t planned.’

  She narrows her eyes. ‘You travelled all night on a whim?’

  ‘Pretty much.’ Shadow appears at my side, unwilling to be left out.

  ‘That’s one hell of a dog. Is he yours?’

  ‘By default, yeah.’

  ‘I wouldn’t fancy meeting you in a dark wood.’ The dog responds ecstatically to Zoe’s petting, with a frenzy of tail-wagging. ‘But you’re a cutie, aren’t you?’

  ‘Keep him, please. I can’t stand dogs.’

  ‘You’re mean. He just needs some love.’

  At last we set off to search the north-eastern quarter of the island. We’re a motley bunch, ages ranging from late teens through to seventies, representing every local family. Dean Miller is traipsing behind us, a white streak of paint marking the sleeve of his jacket, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The artist seems more interested in finding inspiration for his paintings than looking for the missing girl. The party walks north at a snail’s pace. It falls to me to lift the manhole cover behind the shop, then lower myself into the black hole until my feet hit the concrete storm drain at the bottom; my torch reveals nothing except a stream of black slurry, and a few rats vanishing into the distance. I hold my breath, trying not to inhale the ripe stench of sewage. Zoe’s smile has vanished when I climb out again, as if the girl’s absence has finally hit home.

  ‘Do you really think Laura’s been hurt?’

  ‘Let’s hope not, but it gets more likely as time passes.’ I lower the manhole cover back into place. ‘How long has she worked for you?’

  ‘Since last July. She’s saving to do a drama course this autumn.’

  ‘A star in the making. What’s the kid like?’

  ‘Great, actually. I thought about laying her off with the other casuals, but she was desperate for cash, so I found bits of cleaning and decorating, to pay her a few quid over the winter. She’s got this wicked sense of humour, imitating people all the time.’

  ‘Has she got a boyfriend?’

  ‘Danny Curnow, but his parents don’t approve.’

  I raise my eyebrows. The Curnows are the island’s wealthiest family, made welcome because they invest in local businesses. Jay Curnow owned a building company on the mainland, then got a divorce and married a woman twenty years his junior, had a late child. It seems unlikely that the pampered son of a millionaire would resort to violence, even though young women are more likely to be attacked by their partners than anyone else.

  We’ve reached a row of fishing huts. There’s nothing inside except nets and crab pots, air still tainted by last season’s catch. We progress slowly along the footpath, sweeping the beer garden behind the Rock, grass rough underfoot as we head north. Cromwell’s Castle looms over the coast of Tresco; it looks impregnable, high grey turrets protecting it from attack. Hangman Island almost fills the narrow channel between the islands. No one knows how it got its name, but the locals think it was used for executions. It certainly looks ghost-ridden today, a raw outcrop of granite jutting from the sea.

  ‘I used to swim out there with Steve Parfitt for crazy teenage sex,’ Zoe says.

  ‘You minx.’ I carry on scanning the ground, not telling her that it’s old news. Her boyfriend bragged about it to every lad at school. ‘What happened to Steve?’

  ‘Bank manager, in Truro.’

  ‘I seem to remember you hating his guts.’

  ‘Ancient history.’ She smiles widely. ‘I’m off men, since my last romantic disaster. Singlehood suits me better.’

  ‘Each to their own. Celibacy isn’t my idea of fun.’ I pick up a carrier bag but find it empty, the plastic billowing like a streamer in the wind.

  ‘It beats dealing with the misfits I always choose. Come back to the hotel later; I’ll tell you how I’ve been channelling my energies.’

  After another hour, we reach the island’s northernmost point, Badplace Hill rearing over us. Our search has provided a tour of sites famous for shipwrecks and smuggling. We’ve turned over stones, checked potting sheds and empty holiday cottages, but the return journey reveals nothing except the fading light. PC Nickell’s face has lost its veneer of excitement by the time he commends our efforts then sends us on our way.

  ‘Come for that drink.’ Zoe grabs my sleeve then grinds to an abrupt halt, staring up at me. ‘Why not tell me what’s bothering you on the way?’

  ‘There’s nothing to report.’

  �
��I’ve got eyes, Ben. Is work getting you down?’

  ‘Just something that can’t be changed.’ I’ve grown so used to lying about my job, it’s easier to stay quiet.

  ‘You’re still as open as a razor clam.’ She prods a finger at my chest. ‘I know you, remember? Sooner or later you’ll have to talk.’

  ‘Later, preferably, but thanks for the offer.’

  Describing a hole in your life doesn’t make it vanish, it just makes it deeper than before. She threads her arm through mine as we carry on walking.

  Zoe updates me about life at the hotel as we leave the search party. It’s been a profitable year, but her dreams of becoming a professional singer are still out of reach. Soon the hotel will close for two weeks of refurbishment, before the spring rush, leaving her free to contact agencies on the mainland and persuade them to offer her gigs. Now she’s blathering about interior design styles she’s keen to try in the hotel bedrooms. I zone out when she waxes lyrical about distressed woodwork and modernist furniture.

  ‘What happened to that solicitor you were seeing, on St Mary’s?’ I ask.

  ‘The guy was way too keen. Pity, he was a brilliant cook.’

  ‘That was his biggest virtue?’

  She releases a quick laugh. ‘Your mind’s still in the gutter, Ben.’

  I feel a pang of guilt. For the first time in weeks I’m teasing someone and letting myself be teased in return. Laughter activates unused muscles, an ache in my chest when I try to speak. Something catches my eye as we trudge back to Hell Bay. On top of Gweal Hill a thin figure stands alone, looking out to sea. He slips a pair of binoculars into the pocket of his dark coat, the light spilling from his torch quickly extinguished.

  ‘Who’s that on the hill?’

  Zoe looks up quickly, but the figure has vanished. I’m left to wonder who would stare out at the empty waves late on a winter afternoon, when the wind’s strong enough to lift you off your feet.

  The hotel’s panoramic windows are lit up to greet us, around a dozen guests visible inside the Atlantic Bar. Zoe rushes inside to check that the reception area is running smoothly while the hotel operates on skeleton staff. A gaggle of punters is grouped round a single large table, Angie Helyer serving drinks from a silver tray. She must have dropped her kids at the farm then raced back to start her waitressing shift. It’s a fact of life that most of Bryher’s inhabitants need two jobs to survive. Angie bounces over, her frame as diminutive as a pixie, features delicate when she peers up at me.

  ‘It’s good to have you back. Jim wanted to come on the search, but someone had to mind Noah and Lily.’

  ‘You still look like a sixth-former, Angie. They can’t be your kids.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘You old charmer. What’s your poison these days?’

  ‘Grolsch, please. But I can’t stay long, my brother’s skyping later.’

  ‘Have you heard Zoe’s new songs yet?’

  ‘She’s been saving them for me.’

  ‘Find yourself a table and I’ll put on the CD. You’re in for a treat.’

  There’s still no sign of Zoe when music filters through the speakers at low volume. Her voice is always a pleasure to hear, a smoky version of Adele, tugging at the heartstrings, but the new melody beats anything she’s written before. It sounds like she’s tapped into the island’s frequency. When I close my eyes I can see the cliffs at Shipman Head pleated in granite folds, and the treeless face of Samson, pitted with ancient graves. She’s conjured the islands’ moods perfectly, the rocky headlands silhouetted against an infinity of sky. It’s so absorbing that I’m still lost in the music when Zoe reappears.

  ‘Trust Angie to embarrass me,’ she mutters. ‘I never play my own stuff in the bar.’

  ‘Your voice sounds better than ever. It’s the first time you’ve written about the islands, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m not all froth and nonsense, you know.’ Her smile widens with relief. ‘Thank God you like the songs. I’ve already sent them out to agencies.’

  ‘How would you juggle gigs with running this place?’

  She shrugs her shoulders. ‘I love it here, but this place has taken enough years of my life.’

  We carry on talking about her escape plans until I drain the last of my beer, then lean over to kiss her cheek. ‘I’d better move. Catch up soon, Zoe.’

  When I scan the bar again, Angie is busy chatting to a guest, so I wave goodbye across the half-empty bar then launch myself into the cold. The light from the hotel weakens as I trudge home. There’s no sign of Shadow, even though I whistle for him; maybe he’s cut his losses and found a better place to stay.

  My brother skypes at precisely eight o’clock, a ritual he’s followed twice a week since our mother died. It’s always a jolt to see his face; a healthier version of mine with the same black hair, except his is carefully groomed. He leans forwards to study me.

  ‘Jesus, you look like shit. What have you done to yourself?’

  ‘Thanks for the reassurance, bro.’

  ‘Exercise and get some sleep, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Is this your famous bedside manner?’

  ‘Just being honest. How’s the old place holding up?’

  ‘Take a look.’ I circle the room, letting the camera on my laptop pick up details.

  ‘It could be worse. Anna wants to bring Christy over soon, to check out her Cornish roots. You’ll have to decorate the bedroom.’

  It would never occur to Ian to lift a paintbrush. While I was chasing girls and staring out of the window, my brother applied himself to every lesson. He met his American wife at medical school, then relocated to upstate New York. We talk for another ten minutes about football. Even though he’s two thousand miles away, he still obsesses over the FA Cup. Ian’s face softens when he mentions that his daughter is enjoying playschool, then he looks embarrassed, like he’s spoken out of turn.

  ‘Give Christy a kiss from me.’

  I assume he’s about to say goodbye, but his face looms closer. ‘Did they hold the inquest for your work partner yet?’

  ‘The coroner needs another week.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  I nod. ‘Getting there.’

  ‘Remember the best way to survive: sleep, eat, exercise.’

  ‘Really? I’ve been existing on thin air.’

  ‘And have sex, if you can find someone desperate enough.’

  My brother’s grin fades from the screen, and I imagine him in his lakeside house, feeling guilty about revealing his happiness. I’m about to rummage in the cupboards for some of Maggie’s food when a sound stops me in my tracks. The keening is so desolate it makes me fling open the door. Shadow is sitting on the beach, head back, baying at the sky. Random fits of barking without any obvious cause are his most annoying habit. I’m certain the creature does it for the sheer pleasure of pissing me off.

  ‘Pack it in, drama queen,’ I say, as he slinks inside.

  The conversation with my brother has turned my mind back to Clare’s death six weeks ago. The thing that hurts most is that I could have prevented it. Judgement hung in the air at the station; voices falling silent when I reported for work. If it had happened to someone else, I’d have felt the same, torn between pity and blame. More than anything, I miss her raucous laugh, the kindness she preferred to hide, endless, crude one-liners slipping from her mouth. I wrench the front door open again and step outside, cold air scouring away my frustration. A half-moon hangs overhead, hazed with brightness. I taught myself the names of the shadows on its face during my stargazing phase: the Sea of Tranquillity, Ocean of Storms, Sea of Clouds. Except they’re illusory, of course. The lunar surface is arid, marked by lava fields or impact craters after shielding Earth from countless fatal collisions with asteroids. The moon looks ghostly tonight: a paper semicircle, cut out and pasted to the sky. Light spills down like alchemy, turning the ocean silver. A pulse of anger sends me back indoors. It’s too late to help Clare, but Laura Trescothick may still be alive.
I flip open my notebook and scribble a list of islanders’ names until the words start to blur.

  4

  Rose keeps her torch switched off, eyes slowly acclimatising to the moonlight. There’s been no word from Sam since Laura went missing, but she’s too scared to approach the police. Her only option is to hunt for him herself. Up ahead, the outline of Badplace Hill blocks out the stars. Drystone walls lead her across open fields to the island’s northernmost beach. The sea’s beauty is undeniable – miles of black water, glittering like onyx – but the history of the place burdens the air. Smugglers and seamen fought terrible battles here, until it was named ‘bad place’, for countless massacres. Blood has soaked every stone. Wreckers set false fires on the hillside, luring ships to founder on the rocks. The survivors were slaughtered as they swam ashore, smugglers claiming their bounty.

  Rose forages here by day for oarweed and bladderwrack, but at night the shore is haunting. She wishes she could return the island to a time of innocence, before her son was snared by promises of easy money. A plastic bag lies hidden in the place he described, under a white boulder by the path. She’s tempted to hurl it into the sea, let the waves swallow it, but loyalty makes her hide the package inside her coat.

  She feels even bleaker when she gets home. Sam confessed weeks ago that missing a collection would put him in danger. She’s tempted to unwrap the parcel and discover what he’s been carrying to the mainland, but whatever it contains, her home isn’t a safe enough hiding place. The wind is rising to a gale as she digs a hole in the sand, sheltered by the ramshackle walls of her cabin. Placing the package at the bottom, she tamps the surface flat with her boot, then marks the spot with a piece of slate.

  Rose calls her son again once she’s back inside, but the only reply is silence. Anxiety makes her pull open the door to his room. The familiar football posters line the wall, nothing out of place, but her breath falters when she sees a small, silver item on his bedside table. He never leaves his phone behind, its flat battery explaining why her calls have gone unanswered. The window reveals acres of cold black sky, the sight of so much emptiness making her shiver.