Hell Bay

by Kate Rhodes

  The boy fumbles with his phone, face pale as bleached cotton. It’s tempting to fire out questions, to discover exactly what he knows, but I have to remind myself that it’s none of my business, unless the DCI includes me in his team. I focus on keeping the kid warm instead, banking more logs on the fire. Ten minutes later there’s a loud rap on the door.

  The man standing in the porch is wearing expensive jeans and a designer woollen coat. Jay Curnow appears to have grown younger in the past year. He must be in his sixties, but there’s no grey in his chestnut-brown hair, skin oddly free of wrinkles. It looks like he’s paid for more than one surgical intervention since he attended my mother’s funeral. His smile is artificial too, several kilowatts brighter than the situation requires. I could be reading him wrong, but the expression on his face appears to be relief.

  ‘Thanks for looking after my son,’ he says.

  ‘He’s very shaken, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Never mind, I’ll take care of him now.’

  Danny’s body language speaks volumes when his father strides into the lounge. Even though he’s falling apart, he flinches when Jay’s hand skims his shoulder.

  ‘Come on, son, let’s get you home.’

  ‘Happy now, dad? You hated her guts, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s not true. We want the best for you, that’s all.’

  The boy’s voice rises to a shout. ‘You don’t give a shit about what I need.’

  Danny’s face is rigid with anger as he barges past, the front door slamming. I expect his father to pursue him, but he stays put, sighing heavily. ‘Another bloody disaster.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘We tried to keep them apart, for his own sake, but the boy wouldn’t see sense. First he quits school, now this happens.’

  ‘I don’t suppose his girlfriend chose to end up dead on a beach.’

  ‘Of course she bloody didn’t. That’s not what I meant.’ His stance changes, hands balling at his sides, ready to throw a punch.

  ‘Your son’s had the shock of his life, Mr Curnow. He needs your help.’

  ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ he snarls. ‘Keep out of my family’s business from now on.’

  I watch him march away, torn between pity and judgement; anyone with common sense would know that obstacles only strengthen teenage love affairs. Curnow’s aftershave lingers on the air, strong enough to leave a sour taste in my mouth.

  The thoughts rushing at me are so exhausting, I lie down on the sofa without removing my trainers. My sleep is troubled by blank-eyed mermaids, swimming through my dreams. It’s pitch dark when I wake up, my phone buzzing loudly, Shadow whining to be let out. There are half a dozen texts from Maggie, threatening to send out a search party. I swear quietly as I pull on my coat, but human company and a square meal are what I need. I fill Shadow’s bowl with food and this time he takes the sensible option, staying behind, instead of facing the cold.

  The pub is almost full when I arrive. The atmosphere reminds me of the night my father’s boat capsized, when I was fourteen. People waited for news from the coastguard with the same quiet anxiety. Faces turn towards me, full of questions, hoping I’ll explain the girl’s death. The afternoon’s events will have circulated from house to house, but I’m in no mood for a public broadcast.

  The only free seat is at Dean Miller’s table. The artist is wearing his usual paint-spattered clothes, hair shaved to a grey stubble. I don’t know whether he chooses to be solitary, or people have made the decision for him. He glances up from his beer to study me. His face is keen-eyed and oddly youthful, even though he must be sixty-five, deep vertical lines bracketing his mouth, like he’s forgotten how to smile.

  ‘Okay to sit here?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure. But I’m not in the best mood.’

  ‘Me neither. I won’t disturb you.’

  I take off my coat then head for the bar. Maggie raises her eyebrows when I ask for lager, levering the top from a bottle of orange juice without saying a word. She’s single-handed tonight, doing a brisk trade while the islanders numb their shock. I make an effort not to catch anyone’s eye. If one person asks a question, there’ll be a free-for-all. I carry my drink back to the table and absorb Dean’s silence, as he stares blank-eyed at his crossword puzzle. Billy is dressed in chef’s whites when he delivers a plate of fish and chips to the table. The chef is still walking with a limp, the look on his face concerned.

  ‘You all right Ben? You’ve had one hell of a day.’

  ‘It wasn’t my best. How’s the foot?’

  ‘Standing on it’s not helping. The bloody thing looks like a puffball, but her ladyship needs me here.’

  I gaze at my plate. ‘That’s your idea of health food?’

  ‘Cornwall’s finest, mate.’

  He gives my shoulder a light punch then hobbles back to the kitchen. I’m halfway through the meal before Dean speaks again.

  ‘Are you going to finish those chips?’

  ‘I doubt it. Help yourself.’

  ‘Don’t tell my cardiologist.’ His fingers are covered in faint blue and yellow stains as he reaches for a chip. ‘Sorry I’m not the best dinner companion. Laura was a friend of mine, it’s hard to believe she’s gone.’

  ‘You saw her often?’

  ‘She came by every few weeks to pump me for information about LA, after she heard I grew up there. The girl dreamed of being in the movies.’ His voice is a slow Californian drawl as his eyes swim out of focus. I can’t guess why a teenager would befriend a man of retirement age with few social skills, but unlikely bonds develop on a small island, when choices are limited.

  ‘Do you know much about acting?’

  ‘My first job was painting backdrops in Hollywood, before special effects took over. I got to see plenty of stars misbehaving. Laura didn’t care that Tinseltown has a million bartenders waiting for a break; kids don’t hear negatives. We often chatted about it when she sat for me.’

  ‘You painted her?’

  ‘I do portraits sometimes, to take a break from the sea.’

  ‘Did her parents know?’

  ‘That was her concern, not mine. We did a straight trade: I paid her a few pounds, she picked my brains.’ Another chip dangles from his fingers, as though he’s forgotten it’s there. ‘Laura was so full of life.’

  The thought of her waterlogged body kills my appetite, food still heaped on my plate. ‘What else do you know about her, Dean?’

  ‘Something had her scared. She said my studio was the one place where she felt safe.’

  ‘Was it boyfriend trouble?’

  ‘I’m the wrong person to ask.’ His lips seal in a hard white line.

  Dean may be an incomer, but he understands the island’s rules. If people speculate about each other’s problems in a place this small, it would tear itself apart. By now I’ve had enough of the artist’s tense company. I scan the room for the brunette, but there’s no sign of her, which is a mixed blessing. A glimpse of that serene face would be a reward after a horrible day, but complications won’t help me. When I look back, Dean seems relieved to be alone, picking through my leftovers. I give Maggie a quick salute then hurry out into the cold. My frustration builds as I check my phone. I’ve been hoping for a text from Madron, but nothing’s arrived.

  The sea is at low tide on the way home, water whispering to the land. I stand still, absorbing silence and cold, the last molecules of London atmosphere lifting from my skin. When I start walking again, a figure sways out of the mist. At first it looks like a man’s lumbering outline, but it’s my old teacher’s wife, Emma Horden, wearing a black anorak, shambling over the rough ground. She’s muttering to herself, round face marked by tears.

  ‘Let’s get you home, Emma. Tom’ll be worried.’ I touch her arm, but she jerks free, her hand battering my chest. For someone with reduced mental capacity, there’s surprising force behind her punch.

  ‘The girl was on the beach. Is she still there?’ Her words are as quiet as
a prayer.

  ‘Laura, you mean?’

  A look of fear crosses her face. ‘Was it you that hurt her?’

  ‘I’m a policeman, Emma, one of the good guys. Come on, I’ll take you home.’

  ‘Maybe you’re lying.’

  ‘It won’t take us long. You’ll be fine, I promise.’

  Now her outburst is over, she lets me lead her along the path, docile as a child. Tom Horden is waiting at South Cottage. The teacher’s expression is so furious, I remember how he used to yell at us to finish our work, but this time his anger is directed at his wife, one of his eyes ice-cold while the other burns.

  ‘Where’ve you been, Emma? I hope you haven’t been causing trouble again.’ She crosses the threshold, stumbles upstairs. ‘Thanks for bringing her back. She slipped out through the back door; I’ve spent the past hour searching.’

  ‘Does she go wandering often?’

  ‘All the time. I’m afraid she’s getting harder to control.’

  ‘What did you mean about Emma being in trouble before?’

  He looks embarrassed. ‘Last summer a tourist accused my wife of harassing her on the beach. She said Emma threw stones, but I’m sure she was mistaken. She gets confused sometimes, but she would never hurt anyone deliberately.’

  ‘Your wife said she’d seen Laura Trescothick’s body on the beach.’

  Horden shakes his head firmly. ‘That’s not possible, Emma was indoors with me when she was found.’

  He barks out a quick goodnight as I turn away. His wife’s behaviour is a reminder that the islands are home to some vulnerable souls, living on the margins. I remember reading that patients with Alzheimer’s can grow violent as their illness worsens, making me wonder if Emma ever lashes out at her husband. I spent my school years fearing and disliking Horden in equal measure, but the only emotion he triggers now is pity.

  7

  Rose hasn’t slept since hearing of Laura Trescothick’s death. Anxiety has driven her from the cabin at dawn, to the last place the girl visited. Now she’s standing on Gweal Hill, watching the sea race inland, the pink sky speckled with gulls. The earliest women on the island must have stood on the same spot, waiting for the fishing smacks to return, with the cold north-easterly breeze tugging their clothes. She needs some of their resilience now, but it’s centuries out of reach. Rose stares down at the yellow spume coating the rocks. Its lacy texture can’t disguise the granite’s raw edges, capable of tearing a drowning man’s skin to shreds. The image destroys her reverie. Suddenly her son’s face floats above the waves, his dark stare pursuing her. If he’s met the same fate as Laura, her life will be impossible to mend. The boy has been her world for nineteen years.

  She sinks onto a boulder, limbs weakened by anxiety, shutting her eyes tight to picture where Sam might be hiding. If the police find him first, he’ll go to prison. The boy has always been delicate, for all his rough good looks; locking him up would break his wild spirit. It would have nowhere to run, the prison’s concrete walls stunting his dreams.

  There’s no information Rose could report, if she contacted the police. The men who haunt the island’s coastline may have caused the girl’s death and Sam’s absence, but they arrive in rusting boats as dusk falls, anonymous as the tides. It terrifies her that soon they will demand payment for the package she found, even though she can give nothing in return. She’s still staring down at the sea when footsteps crunch across the gravel. Danny Curnow is approaching the peak of the hill, hands buried in his pockets, his expression desolate. She rises to her feet, falls into step beside him.

  ‘You should be at home, love. Have you been out all night?’

  He keeps his face averted. ‘I have to keep my eyes open, Rose. The nightmares are killing me.’

  ‘Laura wouldn’t want you to suffer like this, would she?’

  ‘It’s my fault she’s dead. If I’d stayed away, she’d still be alive.’

  Rose rests her hand on his arm. ‘Come back to the cabin. I’ll give you herbs to help you get some sleep; there’s no need to talk, unless you feel like it.’

  The boy hesitates, then follows her down the path at a slow pace, too broken to argue.

  8

  Thursday morning starts in front of the bathroom mirror. I’ve always hated shaving, even though it’s a necessary evil; the skin I’m scraping clean is winter pale after months under wraps, but the ritual steadies me. It feels like I’m returning from a spell in the wilderness as my beard disappears down the plughole, until a whirring sound sets my teeth on edge. The sound builds to a grating motorised roar as I leave the cottage, a drone buzzing twenty metres overhead. Madron has placed an embargo on press visits, so the hacks have bought themselves an alternative. Shadow howls at the unwelcome noise, but it will make no difference. Aerial shots of the beach where Laura was found will soon fill every front page. I feel like shaking my fist at the sky, but turn up my hood instead, following the dog towards the boatyard.

  There’s no such thing as a solitary walk in a place this small. Time-lapse photography would show islanders constantly meeting as they go about their business. The first person I bump into is Angie Helyer, pushing a buggy loaded with shopping bags. She looks different from the sassy waitress I saw at the hotel, dressed now in an ancient duffel coat with her three-year-old son Noah clinging to her sleeve. She was always popular at school, one of those kids who never made enemies. Her copper-coloured hair is cut in the same pixie-like crop she wore then, fine-boned face a little too pale. It’s still hard to believe she’s married to my oldest friend on the island, mother to a baby and a toddler, even though I was best man at their wedding. She grins at me, but the pale blue smudges under her eyes show she’s running on empty.

  ‘Need a hand with those bags?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, Ben. That would be great.’

  ‘You’re saving me from hard labour at the boatyard.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ Her smile fades. ‘It must have been terrible for you, finding Laura like that.’

  ‘Her parents are the ones that are suffering. I’m trained to deal with it.’

  ‘Jim’ll be so pleased to see you, he’s not been right since we heard she was missing.’

  Her husband was a loyal mate at school; a scrawny, tow-haired lad, too sensitive for his own good. He was bullied mercilessly in the playground, despite my efforts to defend him. Things improved when he fell for Angie on prom night and never looked back.

  ‘Did you spend much time with Laura?’

  Angie nods vigorously. ‘We did shifts at the hotel together, when the place was hopping. She babysat for us sometimes too, to give us a night at the pub. Such a lovely girl.’ She stops speaking abruptly. ‘Jim’s under a lot of pressure with expanding the business, I worry about him sometimes. We’ve borrowed so much money for the new building, he hasn’t been sleeping right.’

  ‘Lily must keep you awake too.’

  ‘You can say that again. My back’s killing me from lifting her; sciatica, I think.’

  ‘Sounds nasty.’

  ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t moan. I’m not exactly a yummy mummy, am I?’

  ‘You look pretty good to me.’

  She shoots me another tired smile as we approach North Farm. It’s a typical Scilly Isles farmhouse: pale stone ringed by granite walls extending to the field behind. The Helyers have grown their stock along with their family. There must be fifty goats tethered in the field, a brand-new outbuilding behind the farm. I stop by the porch to help Angie carry her shopping inside, but she touches my arm instead.

  ‘Go and see Jim. He’s in the chicken shed.’

  ‘Can you mind the dog? Chasing birds is his favourite hobby.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Sounds like a typical male.’

  Shadow follows her eagerly, no doubt hoping for food. When I open the barn door, dozens of chickens are pecking the dusty floor, early light spilling through the windows. Jim’s kneeling by the roosting house, carefully placing eggs in a straw-lin
ed box, so focused on his task that he doesn’t see me arrive. I can’t help smiling at the sight of him scrabbling in the straw. He’s filled out a little since the old days, but his untidy hairstyle is still more suitable for a poet than a farmer. My mind fills with the long days of summer, when we used to scour the beaches in his canoe, looking for girls and adventures. When he finally swings round, his face breaks into a grin.

  ‘Trust you to creep up on me.’ He rubs loose straw from his hands, then slings his arm round my shoulder. ‘How’s life, Ben?’

  ‘Mustn’t grumble.’

  He studies me again. ‘You’ve been overdoing it.’

  ‘Works been tough lately, that’s all.’

  ‘Let’s go to the pub one night, drown our sorrows.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’ The sympathy on his face makes me smile, it’s always been his default reaction. ‘This place has grown, man. I need a tour of your new enterprise.’

  I should be at the yard by now, but the pride on his face won’t let me walk away. He shows me round the newly built barn, then the cheese house. An industrial churn stands beside a steel table and refrigeration unit, dozens of round cheeses stacked on a shelf, wrapped in muslin.

  ‘Smells great in here,’ I say. ‘Makes me want to sample the produce.’

  ‘Take some with you. Local restaurants buy our stuff now; any more orders and we’ll be taking on staff.’

  ‘You’ll be the island’s richest tycoon.’

  ‘I doubt it. We’ve borrowed cash from everyone with money to loan, and we’ve got the mother of all mortgages.’ The anxiety in his voice grows clearer with each word.

  ‘It must have hit you and Angie hard, about Laura.’

  He shakes his head. ‘She was so young, sweet-natured too. The kids loved her. How could something like that happen here?’

  ‘Someone must know. It has to be an islander.’

  ‘Who’d hurt a girl that age?’ He studies me again as if I should have the answer at my fingertips.

  Even though he’s a family man running his own business, Jim’s face is childlike, hazel eyes round and questioning. He and Angie rarely leave the islands; Laura’s death must feel like losing a relative.