Hell Bay

by Kate Rhodes

  ‘Got time to see Lily and Noah?’

  ‘I’d love to, mate, but another day. Let’s have that drink soon.’

  Some of the tension slips from his face. ‘I promise to be better company then.’

  He returns to work immediately, so immersed in collecting eggs he’s forgotten me already. I whistle for the dog as I leave, waving goodbye to Angie as Shadow barrels down the path. The couple’s reactions prove that Laura Trescothick’s death is having a ripple effect, with even Bryher’s happiest families feeling the impact.

  Ray is waiting for me in the yard, spooning coffee into the battered pot he’s used since I was a kid. He gives me a sober glance, but doesn’t mention the drone still buzzing overhead. There’s no way of knowing whether his solemn expression is a response to my lateness or Laura’s death. His silence is a saving grace, although it makes me wonder where his emotions have been hidden all these years. Maybe a lifetime of hammering copper nails into decking board has helped to vent them. He leans down to scratch the dog’s ears, then hands me a mug of black coffee, strong as battery acid.

  ‘Jesus, that’s foul.’

  ‘Only way to drink it.’ He looks amused. ‘Help me with the steamer, can you?’

  We spend the next hour lifting wood from the coffin-shaped metal box. Ray tests each piece for pliancy with the flat of his hand before deciding whether to return it to the heat. The wood needs to be supple, but not so saturated it will splinter when it’s shaped. He examines each plank closely, checking it’s absorbed enough moisture. My phone buzzes loudly in my pocket as I close the lid. It’s Zoe, inviting me for a lunchtime drink. I fire off a quick acceptance, then text Madron to request a meeting. The dead girl is still at the front of my mind, so I may as well repeat my offer. With any luck, the DCI will buckle under pressure. When I glance through the open doors, a delivery boat is mooring on the quay.

  ‘That’s the oak,’ Ray says. ‘Want to bring it in for me?’

  ‘What did your last slave die of?’

  At least the rain’s stopped, the sea as flat as sheet metal, etched by a ripple of waves. It takes an hour to haul the strakes and planks inside. I’ve always loved the smell of untreated oak; heavy as tar, not sweet and cloying like cedar. The task makes my shoulders ache, the back of my neck slick with sweat as I regret cancelling my gym membership. Ray produces his usual greaseproof lunch, which is my signal to leave. Shadow trots ahead, tail wagging; he’s adjusting to island life more easily than me, happy to roam where he pleases. The curtains in Matt and Jenna’s windows are still drawn as I pass through the village. Laura’s younger sister Suzanne must be sitting in darkness with her parents, too fragile to return to school. Tupperware boxes are stacked by their front door, as if the islanders believe that food is the antidote to grief.

  I call at the cottage to clean up, selecting a fresh T-shirt and my only decent jacket. At the hotel, I leave Shadow on the patio, giving him a stern warning to behave. Zoe’s behind the bar, charming the last few guests of the season, while another group eats lunch by the panoramic window. It’s easy to see why visitors spend a fortune to wake up here, beside acres of uninterrupted sea. From the seating area there’s a view of the bay where Laura was found. I’m still wiping the image from my mind when Zoe appears at my side. She’s wearing black trousers and a glittering silver blouse, hair slicked back from her face. She looks calm enough, but on closer inspection I can tell she’s preoccupied.

  ‘Look at you, handsome.’ She runs a fingertip along my newly exposed jaw.

  ‘What are you after, Zoe?’

  ‘You’re the hero of the hour, that’s all. Like the old Ben, all dominating and in control. I almost fancied you.’

  ‘Careful,’ I say. ‘You’ll break the habits of a lifetime.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m off relationships.’

  ‘Pity, I chose my best clothes, just to seduce you.’

  She wrinkles her nose. ‘If those jeans are your best effort, you’ll be single a long time.’

  ‘You do wonders for my ego.’

  We find a table by the window, a waitress bustling over with glasses of beer. The routine between us has lasted all our lives, affectionate insults strengthening a friendship that becomes more ingrained each year. After teasing me about my shoddy clothes for another few minutes, Zoe’s face turns serious.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asks, her eyes glistening. ‘I feel like crap and I didn’t even see Laura’s body.’

  ‘I’ll survive.’ After ten years of murder investigation, death no longer seems shocking, just sad and wasteful. ‘Danny got there first, not me.’

  ‘How is the poor kid?’

  ‘Desperate to get his hands on the killer, rowing with his mum and dad.’

  ‘That’s no surprise.’ Her face tenses. ‘Laura’s sister must be in a bad way. She and Suzie were like twins.’

  ‘Nothing can help the family right now, except time passing.’

  She gazes down at her drink. ‘We should all seize the day, if something like this can happen to someone so young. It sounds selfish, but it’s got me thinking about the future.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Maybe I should get mum and dad to sell the hotel, chuck myself into singing, body and soul. It’s the one thing that really makes me feel alive.’

  ‘You’ve made a start, contacting agencies. It’s a good way to test the water.’

  ‘It’s high stakes, Ben. If they reject me, I’ll be in bits.’

  When I look at her again, it’s impossible to imagine Zoe’s confidence waning. She faces every situation with her chin up, ready for battle. She carries on chatting at high volume about her musical plans, the overload of information distracting me from brooding about finding the girl’s body. The next time I glance through the window Shadow is chasing a stick through the air. The tall brunette is standing on the shingle, making me wish she’d turn round and show her face.

  ‘You’re not listening,’ Zoe complains.

  ‘Who’s that woman?’

  She peers out as the dog bounds after the stick again. ‘Forget it, sunshine, she’s married. I was asking you whether I should do a press release for my new album.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Nina Jackson, but leave well alone.’

  ‘Give me a minute, can you? I’ll just check on Shadow.’

  My friend’s mocking laugh follows me to the exit. The dog races across the beach in my direction, but the slim woman is already vanishing into the distance, leaving me with mixed feelings. I wanted a close-up of that fine-boned face, but I’m no position to act. My phone rings as I prepare to face Zoe’s ribbing. DCI Madron’s voice addresses me with calm authority.

  ‘Are you free for a meeting today, DI Kitto?’

  ‘The last ferry left at two, sir.’

  ‘Be on the quay in half an hour, our launch will collect you.’

  He rings off before I can reply. It crosses my mind that he may just be agreeing to meet me out of politeness; he’s probably appointed someone already to lead the case, the battle far from won. I turn to wave a quick goodbye to Zoe, then take Shadow back to the cottage and collect my thickest coat.

  It’s a bumpy ride through the Tresco channel on the police launch – an old speedboat with a grinding outboard motor. The skipper is the young PC who led the search party two days ago, Eddie Nickell. He explains that he’s new to the job, pink-cheeked with excitement as the boat scuds into St Mary’s harbour.

  My last trip to the station on Garrison Lane was twenty years ago, to be cautioned for tombstoning off the sea wall. The small grey building appears unchanged; an empty desk in the reception area and a rubber plant wilting in the corner. I wait by the door while Nickell dashes ahead to announce me. Judging by the photo board, DCI Madron has just six full-time officers to administer law and order to the entire Scilly Isles; four on St Mary’s, two more on Tresco. Time seems to be winding backwards to the days when bobbies knew every local’s name. I can�
�t help thinking about the station in Hammersmith, crammed with state-of-the-art computers, a high-end café and a gym used by two hundred officers.

  The DCI’s office is ten-foot square, the phone on his desk antique. His pinboard holds pictures of community events, including one of him opening the Tresco gig race, rowing boats lined up at the starting point. It’s impossible to imagine myself in his shoes, being the friendly face of law enforcement. Madron sits behind his desk, giving me a shrewd grey stare, his blue tie tightly knotted. The word dapper was invented for men like him, making me feel huge and dishevelled by comparison.

  ‘Tell me why you’re so keen to be involved, Inspector Kitto.’

  ‘I thought your team might have a skills gap in murder investigation.’

  ‘That’s certainly true,’ he says with a brief smile. ‘Your DCI’s worried about your mental health.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I called Sarah Goldman today. She says you were awarded a Queen’s Medal for the undercover work you did with your partner, before she died. Your boss thinks you should spend your time here recuperating, not working on another murder investigation.’

  ‘I’m fully recovered. The counsellor signed me off with a clean bill of health.’

  ‘Goldman warned me you can be obsessive.’ He flips open his notebook. ‘ “Arrogant at times, inclined to ignore procedure.” If you worked for me, I’d remain in full control of the case.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘The island community is so small, every arrest happens in plain sight.’ He gestures round the room, which contains only a filing cabinet and a shelf full of manila files. ‘You probably couldn’t cope with our primitive facilities anyway.’

  ‘That’s not a problem. I was born here, remember.’

  ‘I suppose that would be an advantage. The islanders need someone they can trust; a stranger might make them close ranks.’ He gives me an expectant stare. ‘Are you serious about leading the investigation into Laura Trescothick’s death?’

  ‘You’re offering me the job?’

  ‘I haven’t decided.’

  ‘Has the pathologist filed his report?’

  ‘The post-mortem’s later today. If you want to be SIO, you should attend. His initial findings suggest foul play.’

  The memory of Jenna weeping over her daughter’s body and Matt too broken to speak makes me give a brisk nod. ‘I’ll go, if you give me the case.’

  ‘We’ll talk about that after the autopsy. I need to phone the hospital first – let Dr Keillor know you’ll be attending.’

  It’s only when Madron lifts his phone that I realise I’ve been manoeuvred. His expression is calm as he speaks into the old-fashioned receiver in his quiet West Country burr. He probably expected just this outcome. Not only has he offloaded the investigation, he’s saved himself the trauma of watching a young girl being sliced apart.

  The post-mortem takes place in St Mary’s hospital. The humble building looks like a row of Portakabins, a middle-aged receptionist pointing me down the corridor with a look of distaste, as if she recognises me as the type of man who enjoys ogling dead bodies. In reality, the thought of seeing Laura Trescothick’s corpse again is inducing a cold sweat.

  Dr Keillor is mumbling to himself as I push open the door. He looks well past retirement age, sparse grey hair barely covering his bald patch, a shirt and tie under his brown corduroy suit, as if autopsies are just another day at the office. His black-rimmed spectacles magnify his eyes so powerfully, his gaze feels like being placed under a microscope.

  ‘I can’t dawdle today, Inspector Kitto. I’m booked on the six o’clock ferry.’ His voice sounds regretful, as if he’d rather spend all night dissecting the girl’s body. ‘You can ask questions when the procedure ends.’

  ‘Fine by me.’ I take up my position, leaning against the wall opposite.

  He smiles as he slips on his white coat. ‘A man of few words, I see. That’s good, I prefer to work uninterrupted.’

  Keillor seems to forget my presence when he removes the sheet from Laura’s body. The girl’s golden hair is the only bright thing left in her possession. Her lips are a deep blue, reminding me again of mermaids. I blink rapidly, clearing away my flight of fancy; she’s just a slender teenager lying dead on a slab, cloudy eyes stretched wide open. Scratches on her ribcage and legs show where the sea has handled her too roughly, dragging her across the rocks.

  It’s only when Keillor cuts open her chest to perform the Y section that my legs feel unsteady. I’ve attended dozens of post-mortems without embarrassing myself, but this girl is little more than a child, fingernails coated in chipped red varnish. I breathe slowly to stop my head spinning, focusing on details. Now that the girl’s hair is pulled back from her face, I notice a bright pink, heart-shaped earring dangling from her left earlobe, the other one missing. Keillor is still hunched over her torso, using a probe to measure the wound in her chest, his movements deft and methodical. I try to remember how she looked when she was alive, while he removes her heart, liver and spleen. Last summer she was just a young girl playing on the sand, like summer would never end. By the time he’s weighed her organs and sewed up her chest cavity, my breathing steadies again. The pathologist frowns as he peels off his gloves, washing his hands thoroughly with surgical soap that stains his skin yellow.

  ‘This young woman met a savage death, Inspector. She was stabbed through the thorax, the blade piercing her intercostal muscles, then the left ventricle of her heart. There’s a massive impact wound to the back of her head and most of her ribs are shattered, but the knife wound alone would have killed her. The cuts on her right palm suggest she tried to remove the blade, before falling a considerable distance.’

  ‘Could she have stabbed herself?’

  ‘Not in this case. Suicides rarely inflict chest wounds, because they research methods and learn that cardiac wounds are agonising. The blade penetrated her body by eighteen centimetres. Her assailant probably had to run at her to drive it that deep.’ Keillor looks apologetic, as if he’s embarrassed by such unpleasant news.

  ‘Can I take her earring?’

  Keillor looks startled but places it in my hand, a questioning look on his face. I’m not sure why it seems right to keep one of the girl’s possessions, but I drop it into my pocket, before thanking the pathologist for his help and making a quick exit. The blast of cold wind that greets me feels like a blessing, scouring away the last hour. Madron has played a good hand by challenging me to attend the autopsy. Now I’m committed, whether I like it or not, a piece of Laura Trescothick’s jewellery burning a hole in my pocket. Someone used a long blade to put a sixteen-year-old girl through agony, and the bastard’s still wandering around the island. The severity of her injury makes me certain that she was killed by someone she knew intimately. Such terrible crimes normally occur when a relationship sours, in a moment of madness. When I call at the station again, Madron confirms my position as his SIO. He advises me to hold a public meeting bright and early tomorrow, to inform the islanders of the state of play.

  ‘I can only spare one officer from my team,’ he says quietly. ‘We can bring more uniforms over from the mainland.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’

  A gang of officers scouring the island would send the community into blind panic. I need to start by interviewing everyone who was on Bryher on Monday morning; talking to a familiar face might relax the killer enough to make a mistake. I lean forwards to catch Madron’s eye.

  ‘Where do I send forensic evidence, sir?’

  ‘The lab in Penzance.’

  ‘That could slow us down.’ The only transport to the mainland is the passenger ferry, or the Sky Bus from St Mary’s to Land’s End, both journeys taking time and effort to co-ordinate.

  ‘You’re on Scilly Isles time now, Inspector,’ Madron says, observing my reaction. ‘One piece of advice; treat the family with respect. You probably know that Matt Trescothick won a bravery award, just like you, a
few years ago.’

  ‘No, sir. I’m out of touch with island news.’

  ‘He’s had his troubles recently, but he’s a volunteer captain on the local lifeboat. Matt saved a father and son from drowning, when they were swept from the rocks at Shipman Head.’

  ‘You want me to treat him with kid gloves because he’s a local hero?’

  His face blanks. ‘You’ll get nowhere by placing his family under immediate suspicion. I’m asking you to meet them regularly, and respect the islanders’ loyalties.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ I feel like reminding him that murder investigation is my speciality, but his advice is sound, and it’s best to humour him.

  A different officer ferries me home, middle-aged and calmer than Nickell. The journey is silent, apart from the boat’s motor labouring through the waves as Bryher’s rough outline appears. It dawns on me that the work I should be ignoring has followed me home. A twist of fate has made me senior investigating officer on a murder case I never anticipated, but there’s no other choice. People I care for are at risk until the killer’s found.

  When I unlock the cottage door, Shadow emerges like a high-velocity bullet. He tears across the beach in a wild break for freedom, barking at high volume, while the knot in my stomach twists like a steel hawser. The case has got me hooked already. It fascinates me that someone living inside such a tiny community could suddenly turn murderous, after the island has been crime-free for decades. Pictures of Laura on the internet news sites don’t help me relax. Some idiot’s posted one of her sunbathing in a white bikini, more like a pin-up than a murder victim. I’m still working on constructing a timeline at midnight, but my progress is slow. On my last murder case I had a team of thirty detectives, crime scene officers and the chance to hit the ground running. This time nothing’s pinned down. The girl’s body spent forty-eight hours in the brine, most of the forensic evidence washed away. The pathologist says there was no rape or molestation, just a stab wound to her heart and a massive impact injury. I close my eyes and picture the scene. Someone dragged Laura to the top of the cliff or she went there by choice. Why would a young girl climb a hill at dawn on a cold and blustery day, except to meet a boy? Danny Curnow’s shock looked genuine when he was shivering in my kitchen, but he’s keen to study drama; he could be a consummate actor. One thing I know for sure is that frontal stabbings are normally carried out by angry male killers. It takes rage, physical strength and bravado to look someone in the eye then stab them to death. Laura’s injury is the kind you see after a pub brawl, fuelled by booze and testosterone, not on a small island on a sober winter morning.