Hell Bay

by Kate Rhodes

  5

  My libido can’t seem to accept that physical contact is so unlikely, it may as well give up the ghost. I wake up aroused again this morning, even though my sex life has dwindled to a handful of one-night stands over the past year, days too full of work to allow anything more. I take a cold shower, then head for the boatyard. The texture of the sea has changed; small, choppy waves, scudding closer as the tide rises. Drizzle wets my face as I walk inland, with the dog at my heels.

  Ray looks unsurprised when I reach his workshop at eight thirty, as if my arrival was inevitable. I don’t bother to ask if the girl has been found; he’d say if there was news. It’s beginning to look like the kid slipped into the sea, either by accident or design. Rain clatters on the tin roof of the covered yard, loud as fingertips on a cymbal. The work he gives me is back-breaking. Splinters spike through my gloves as I lift the boards, hours spent doubled over, forcing strands of wool greased with lanolin between the planks. In the past I could master any new skill, but now my hands feel weakened, fingers failing to keep up. A low buzz of sound drifts from the radio, melody drowned by hammer blows. The smells are familiar too: white spirit, varnish, Ray’s bitter French coffee stewing on the burner. It takes me forever to remember how to hold the caulking iron, but my teenage summers labouring in the yard must have lodged in my memory alongside the island’s geography. By midday the knack has returned. I hold the caulk loosely in my hand and tap it lightly with the hammer, to avoid jarring my wrist.

  ‘Time for a break,’ Ray says, as I drive wool into another seam.

  It’s one o’clock, the morning gone in a blur of physical labour. I study the structure again to see what we’ve achieved, yet it looks no stronger than before. It’s still just a few raw lengths of wood, braced together by twine, but it beats staying at the cottage blaming myself for a tragedy I can’t fix.

  ‘Want a sandwich?’ Ray pulls out a grubby package wrapped in greaseproof paper.

  ‘Not now, I need some stuff from the shop. I’ll be back in an hour.’

  He gives a crisp nod. ‘Leave the dog with me then.’

  Shadow curls deeper into a pile of wood shavings, nose buried under his paws. The rain is falling more heavily when I head for the shop, so I jog fifty metres north along the shore. From the outside, Moorcroft Stores is a typical Scilly Isles cottage, with a low-slung slate roof and miles of shingle beach for its front garden. But Pete and June Moorcroft have turned their front room into a well-stocked grocery, with a tidy desk in the corner for Post Office business. It’s clear the place is still their pride and joy, postcards arranged in decorative rows either side of the door, Rose Austell’s sachets of herbs and jars of honey displayed on a high shelf. The couple are drinking tea at the kitchen table that doubles as a sales counter. They’re as neatly groomed as mature models in an expensive clothing catalogue, both in their early fifties. Pete and June escaped from London twenty years ago, where he worked as an accountant and she was a chef in a top city restaurant, but they still look too smart for island life. Pete is a portly figure in a striped shirt, deck shoes and well-pressed jeans, ginger hair thinning. His skin is a little too florid, as if he’s been overindulging in the good red wine he always keeps in stock. The shopkeeper’s wife rises to her feet before him, her silvery hair cut into a chic crop. June has always been the outgoing one, compensating for her husband’s shyness with a kiss of welcome. She looks thinner than before, dark circles under her eyes, probably because she moonlights as Zoe’s cook most evenings in low season.

  ‘How’s the big smoke been treating you, Ben?’

  We slip into conversation about the last time they visited relatives in Putney and how glad they were to return to Bryher. June does most of the talking, in her gentle west-London drawl, her husband nodding in agreement but never meeting my eye. Their range of stock has widened considerably since I was a teenager. The room holds everything a household could require, from tins of sardines to knitting yarn, local cheeses and luxury Belgian chocolate. They’ve even invested in a fancy new refrigeration unit. I wander around, taking care not to trip over sacks of potatoes and a pile of day-old newspapers. Once my groceries are piled on the table, Pete scribbles the total in his notebook, then offers an awkward smile.

  ‘Pay us later if it’s easier, Ben.’

  ‘It’s okay, I’ve got money on me.’

  The routine never changes. I chuck fifty quid into the cash box on the way out and help myself to change. My box contains shampoo, razor blades, coffee, milk, a bag of vegetables and a hunk of frozen steak; enough staples to last all week. Something about the transaction reminds me why I’ve missed the island. It would be easy to cheat, but the system works because people play fair. I feel calmer on my way home, even though rain has seeped under the hood of my jacket, dripping down the back of my neck. The dog appears out of nowhere as I cross the beach, scenting the possibility of food.

  Back at the cottage I eat my sandwich at the kitchen sink. It feels better to stay on my feet than sit down for a solitary a meal. Over the years, Clare and I must have eyeballed each other over a thousand grubby tables in McDonald’s, Subway, run-down pizza joints and curry houses, always taking care not to be seen. How did I screw up so badly? I brace my hands on the counter until her face fades from view. The truth is, Ray’s doing me a favour by providing me with enough hard labour to switch off my guilt.

  Rain is falling in horizontal sheets when I leave the cottage again, the sea spitting its contempt at the land. Kittiwakes bawl overhead, the roar of the shingle deafening as the tide drags it away. I’m about to turn onto the footpath when something catches my eye. A black-clad figure is running across the beach, his movements jerky. He’s approaching at speed, arms flailing like he’s running a race, the dog’s ears pricking as he draws closer. It’s a boy not a man, wet fringe plastered to his forehead, dressed in sodden jeans and a thin shirt. He stops two metres away, panting for breath.

  ‘You have to help me, please.’ Danny Curnow has grown up since we last met; thin-faced and handsome, his boyband haircut dripping with rain.

  ‘What’s wrong, Danny?’

  ‘Laura.’ The word spills out in a sob. ‘I can’t leave her there.’

  The boy turns and sets off again, feet dragging on the sand. My only option is to follow. Lights from the hotel beam down as I jog past, rain half blinding me. The building looks pristine against the cliff’s backdrop, and I’d rather be locked inside one of Zoe’s luxury rooms than facing the elements. We scramble over the rocks and drop down into the next bay. My brother and I spent our summers swimming here, but there’s nothing welcoming about it now. The boulders are sharp as broken teeth, surfaces slick with sea moss. Abruptly the boy comes to a halt, breathing ragged as he points ahead.

  ‘Over there.’

  Her blonde hair is unmissable, standing out against the cliff’s dark face. The girl is lying face down, the tide dropping her at the point where shore meets land. Instinct surfaces fast and in a heartbeat I’m an investigator again. I put my hand on the boy’s shoulder as tears stream down his face, a trail of snot dangling from his nose.

  ‘Take some deep breaths, Danny. Then tell Zoe to call the police, and bring Matt and Jenna here. Can you do that?’

  He’s wide-eyed with shock. I’d rather escort him back to the hotel, to make sure he doesn’t keel over, but the girl can’t be left alone. Shadow seems to have understood the gravity of the situation for once. He stays at my side rather than chasing ahead, waiting for instructions. Danny clambers back across the rocks, running again as soon as he hits the shore, but my own pace slows. Sprinting won’t help the girl now. Her limbs sprawl across the sand, letting the rain wash her skin clean, not much bigger than a child. The boy has covered her torso with his jacket and when I pull it back, the sight stops my breath. I don’t know whether she went into the sea naked, or the tide has stripped her bare. I’ve seen drowned victims’ bodies before, their bloated skin a dull grey, but the cold water has preserved
Laura’s beauty. One of her arms is raised high, the other at her side. Apart from some raw grazes on her shoulders, she’s a perfect life-sized doll, a bluebird tattoo at the base of her spine. The opening at the back of her skull is deep enough to reveal fragments of bone. Otherwise no serious injuries, or ligature marks. The only saving grace is that the kid hasn’t been locked in a basement somewhere. With a wound like that, her life must have ended before she could scream for help.

  ‘Go home now,’ I snap at the dog, then point at the horizon. Shadow slinks away, tail between his legs.

  He could pollute the crime scene by getting too close, churning the sand with his paws. I pull the coat over the girl again, taking care not to touch her skin. Then all I can do is keep the gulls away; they’re circling overhead already, hoping for a free meal. My stomach clutches uneasily. The feeling worsens when Jenna and Matt appear on the beach, running across the sand. From a distance, Jenna looks just as she did years ago, when she starred in the fantasies of every boy on the island. Tall and long-legged, a typical surfer girl, hair the same raw gold as her daughter’s. It’s only up close that shadows of time and anxiety appear on her face.

  ‘Let me see her, Ben.’

  I tell her not to touch, but she snatches the coat away. When she cradles her daughter in her arms the incision at the centre of the girl’s chest is revealed for the first time. I’ve seen enough stab wounds to identify it straight away, but it’s just as well that Jenna hasn’t noticed. Her raw cry of disbelief makes me turn away; it feels intrusive to watch. Matt’s expression is blank as a new sheet of paper. My experience of murder scenes has taught me that grief comes in all shapes and sizes. Some people keep it battened down, while others put their heads back and wail. There’s something pure about the way Jenna’s crying, distress pouring out at high volume, while her husband remains glassy-eyed, arms rigid to his sides.

  ‘Like a mermaid,’ he mutters.

  It’s an odd comment, yet it makes sense. Even in death the girl’s form is perfect, long hair rippling down her back. I’m still standing with them when a stone skitters down the cliff face. My head jerks back in time to catch sight of someone too close to the edge, peering down through binoculars, gone before I can identify him. Part of me wants to chase up the stone steps cut into the rock. If it’s the same bloke that was hanging around on Gweal Hill on the day of the search, I want to know why he’s spying on a murder scene. But I can’t leave until the investigators arrive. Jenna is still holding her daughter, whispering so quietly her voice is drowned by the waves. She no longer looks like a high-school sweetheart as the wind batters us. Her hair’s shorter, frown lines bisecting her forehead. Matt is on his knees, not moving a muscle, while his wife croons over their daughter’s body.

  6

  A procession of islanders arrives to offer help. Zoe comes first with umbrellas, a flask of brandy and a dark blue bedspread covered in fine embroidery. Only she would choose something so beautiful for a shroud, the gesture a reminder of her kindness. My godmother and Billy Reese appear next. The chef’s limp is still pronounced as they cross the beach, his bulky form wrapped in his old biker’s jacket, but he’s first to put his arm round Jenna’s shoulders. Maggie manages to persuade the couple to wait for the police at the hotel. By now Jenna is too broken to refuse. Rain has soaked us all to the skin, but her strength seems to have melted away, even though she’s flanked by supporters. She leans heavily on her husband’s shoulder as they cross the beach, Zoe’s arm supporting her waist.

  Then it’s just me, guarding Laura’s body. At least her face is covered now. I don’t have to confront those empty china-blue eyes. My godmother stands at my side, trembling in the breeze.

  ‘Go back, Maggie. I’ll be fine.’

  She hooks her arm through mine. ‘I’d rather stay.’

  ‘You’ll catch your death out here. Get on home.’

  ‘God, you’re hard to help,’ she mutters. ‘Promise you’ll come for a meal later?’

  ‘There’s no need to keep feeding me.’

  ‘You’re not superman, Ben. Accept some support for once.’

  ‘Stop fussing.’

  I drop my head to kiss her goodbye, and she touches my cheek, brown eyes holding mine. ‘Life will get easier. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Can I have it in writing?’

  ‘Be at the pub by eight, or there’ll be hell to pay.’

  I nod my agreement, then watch her stride away, bright red waterproofs blazing a trail across the dingy sand. It still seems odd that such a powerful persona is trapped inside that tiny physique. Now that I’m alone, thoughts reposition themselves inside my head. It’s time to stop feeling sorry for myself; this is my chance to make amends.

  DCI Madron surprises me by attending the scene himself, instead of sending a minion. He looks different out of uniform – a small, neat figure, sheltering under a striped golf umbrella, watching the pathologist kneel beside Laura’s body. Two female paramedics hover close by, ready to take her to St Mary’s morgue.

  ‘My granddaughter’s the same age,’ he murmurs, then turns to me. ‘What’s your name, young man?’

  ‘Ben Kitto.’

  His gaze sharpens. ‘I know your uncle. An inspector with the murder squad, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not for the time being. I’m on extended leave.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  Something about his direct manner demands the truth. ‘I resigned, but my DCI asked me to reconsider.’

  ‘Yet you stayed here alone, guarding the girl’s body?’

  ‘Her parents are in no fit state. It’s clear she was attacked.’

  ‘That’s conjecture.’ He shakes his head sternly. ‘The post-mortem will confirm cause of death. Debris in the sea may have cut her, or she could have fallen from the rocks.’

  There’s no point in arguing, but I know he’s wrong. Deep stab wounds always look the same; a clean incision, then puckered skin where the blade exits. ‘The press’ll be on this like jackals, sir. Dead blonde teenagers sell papers, don’t they?’

  ‘I won’t let them past St Mary’s.’

  ‘If you need more officers, let me know.’

  He gives me a sharp look. ‘Is that a serious offer, Inspector Kitto?’

  ‘I’ve got the right experience.’ There’s no point in twisting his arm; I can tell he’s the kind to make every decision himself.

  ‘Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.’

  He taps my number into his phone, then nods goodbye. When I turn back, all four adults are clustered round the girl’s body, screened by a blue plastic windbreak. It goes against the grain to walk away, my concern growing as I trudge back across the beach. The post-mortem may not happen for days. Until then, Madron seems happy to pretend the kid died by accident, leaving whoever stabbed her on Monday morning wandering around Bryher at liberty. I’m certain that no one on the island force has experience of murder investigation, so the chances of the girl getting justice are slim to none. My anger is still bubbling when I see Danny Curnow, curled in a ball inside my porch, arms clasped round his knees, Shadow hunkering beside him. I’ve never been great at giving comfort but now there’s no choice.

  ‘You’ll freeze out here, Danny. Come inside.’

  The cop in me is curious to observe the boy’s behaviour. It seems too neat that he found his own girlfriend murdered on the beach, when statistics say that he could have put her there. The kid doesn’t move a muscle, forcing me to pull him to his feet. Once we’re indoors I sit him at the kitchen table. If he’s pretending to be in shock, he’s doing a good job. His teeth are chattering, pupils pinhole small, hands jittering in his lap. Conventional wisdom calls for sweetened tea, but I offer him two fingers of vodka in a tumbler instead.

  ‘Get that down you.’

  Danny throws the drink back, then gives a rasping cough. I notice the watch on his wrist when he lowers the glass: TAG Heuer, top of the range, with a wide silver face. The expensive timepiece is the only sign tha
t he’s a millionaire’s child – the rest of his clothes are low-key. After five minutes his eyes come back into focus. He’s watching me build a fire in the grate to get him warm.

  ‘Want me to call your family?’

  He shakes his head in silence. Shadow’s taken a liking to my guest, sitting at his feet while tears leak from the kid’s eyes. I steer Danny towards the hearth, throw on another couple of logs. He starts talking in a raw monotone while I’m collecting more wood from the basket by the door.

  ‘Someone killed her, didn’t they?’

  ‘We’ll have to wait till she’s been examined to know for sure.’

  ‘I’ll kill him.’ His jaw clenches as he stares at me. ‘I won’t rest till I find who did it.’

  ‘That won’t help Laura now. What were you doing, when you found her?’

  His eyes blink rapidly. ‘I’ve been looking for her, at every high tide.’

  ‘When did you get together?’

  ‘A year ago.’ He wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve. ‘She could have had anyone, but she chose me.’

  Her parents’ charisma must run in the genes. ‘Did she get on with your family?’

  A dull laugh slips from his mouth. ‘My parents tried to stop us seeing each other.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘They say she’s holding me back.’

  ‘She wanted to act, didn’t she?’

  ‘We both do. We’re starting a course in Falmouth in September.’

  His use of the present tense worries me. The boy hasn’t begun to accept his girlfriend’s death, even though her corpse lay right in front of his eyes, but that could be part of his charade. ‘When did you hear she was missing?’

  ‘Zoe rang on Monday morning. I was waiting for a ferry to work on Tresco, I’m a groundsman at the Abbey Hotel.’

  ‘You should call your folks, Danny. They’ll be worrying.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I’ll text them.’